Dawn of Rosalind's fifth day at Thornfield arrived with the usual rooster's crow and an unexpected downpour that drummed against the cottage roof. She y in bed, listening to the rain and nursing a flicker of hope that perhaps the inclement weather might grant her a reprieve from the endless bor that had defined her exile thus far.

  "Miss Rose?" Agnes appeared in the doorway, carrying a steaming cup of herbal tea. "Mrs. Hawthorn sent word that you're to report to the dairy this morning instead of the garden."

  "The dairy?" Rosalind groaned, burying her face in her pillow. "With the cows? In the rain?"

  "The dairy building is covered, miss," Agnes reminded her gently. "And it's warm inside, what with the animals and all."

  "Marvelous," Rosalind muttered, dragging herself upright. "From royal balls to cow stalls in less than a week. My life is truly an inspiration."

  Agnes wisely said nothing as she helped her mistress dress in the pinest of her remaining gowns—the others already stained or torn from her initial days of bor. The girl had been unfailingly supportive despite the dramatic downturn in their circumstances, though Rosalind had noticed her conversing comfortably with the other servants in a way that suggested Agnes was adapting far more readily to country life.

  "Your hands, miss," Agnes said with concern, examining the blisters that had formed during yesterday's disastrous attempt at gardening. Several had broken open, leaving painful raw spots.

  "They're fine," Rosalind insisted, pulling them away. "Just find me some gloves."

  "Mrs. Bennett mentioned a salve—"

  "I don't need peasant remedies," Rosalind snapped, immediately regretting her tone when Agnes's face fell. "I'm sorry, Agnes. I'm just... tired."

  "Of course, miss." Agnes fetched a pair of worn leather gloves—another item delivered by Mrs. Hawthorn with what Rosalind was sure had been barely concealed satisfaction. "These should help."

  Breakfast was a gloomy affair, taken huddled by the cottage's small firepce while rain continued to ssh against the windows. Rosalind picked at her porridge, dreading what awaited her in the dairy. Four days into her exile, and already she was struggling to remember what it felt like to wake without aching muscles and the knowledge that more physical bor y ahead.

  "Agnes," she said suddenly, setting down her spoon, "be honest with me. Do you think my father truly means for this...this punishment to continue indefinitely?"

  Agnes hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "I believe His Grace hopes you will learn something from this experience, miss."

  "Learn what? How to milk cows? The finer points of bread-making? What possible purpose can any of this serve?" Rosalind gestured at the humble cottage around them.

  "Perhaps..." Agnes began tentatively, "it's not about the specific skills, but about understanding a different way of life?"

  Rosalind stared at her maid, surprised by the insight. "You think my father wants me to—what? Develop sympathy for the common folk? Appreciate my privileges more?"

  "I couldn't say what His Grace intends," Agnes replied diplomatically. "But I do know he's always believed in practical education. Remember how he insisted you learn about estate management from Mr. Simmons, even though your mother thought it improper for a young dy?"

  Rosalind did remember. Her father had overruled her mother's objections, insisting that a Harrington should understand the source of their family's wealth, not merely enjoy its benefits. Those lessons had been conducted in his comfortable study, however, with maps and account books—not knee-deep in mud and manure.

  "Well, he's certainly taking 'practical education' to an extreme this time," she muttered, rising from the table. "I suppose I shouldn't keep the cows waiting. Even they outrank me in the current hierarchy."

  Donning a woolen cloak that Mrs. Hawthorn had grudgingly provided against the rain, Rosalind made her way to the dairy building, a sturdy stone structure situated halfway between the main house and the pastures. The rain had turned the dirt path to mud that sucked at her boots, nearly ciming one entirely when she stepped into a particurly deep puddle.

  "Bsted countryside," she grumbled, retrieving her boot and continuing with squelching steps. "Bsted rain. Bsted cows."

  By the time she reached the dairy, her cloak was soaked through and her hem was six inches deep in mud. She paused at the entrance, trying to compose herself before facing whatever new humiliation awaited inside.

  The interior was warmer than expected, nterns casting a golden glow over the stone floor and whitewashed walls. Several women moved efficiently between the stalls where a dozen cows stood pcidly chewing, occasionally shifting their considerable weight with creaks of wood and straw.

  "There you are," came Mrs. Hawthorn's voice from beside a rge wooden work table covered with various ceramic vessels. "I was beginning to think you'd lost your way."

  "The path is practically a swamp," Rosalind replied, struggling out of her sodden cloak.

  "That's why sensible people wear proper boots," Mrs. Hawthorn observed, eyeing Rosalind's mud-caked footwear with disapproval. "Those city slippers with leather soles are useless here."

  Before Rosalind could defend her choice of footwear—not that she'd been given any choice in the matter—a plump, rosy-cheeked woman approached, wiping her hands on her apron.

  "You must be Rose," she said warmly. "I'm Martha, head dairywoman. Mrs. Hawthorn says you're to learn the milking this morning."

  "Milking?" Rosalind echoed faintly, looking at the enormous animals with undisguised apprehension.

  "It's not difficult once you get the hang of it," Martha assured her. "Though I must say, you're not dressed very practically. Haven't you got a work dress? That pretty blue will be ruined."

  "I wasn't exactly packed for farm bor when I arrived," Rosalind replied stiffly.

  Martha exchanged a gnce with Mrs. Hawthorn, who sighed and said, "I'll have one of the housemaids find something suitable. In the meantime, she can help with the butter."

  Butter-making, it transpired, involved an enormous amount of repetitive arm motion and very little intellectual engagement. Rosalind was positioned at a wooden churn—a barrel-like contraption with a staff running through the lid—and instructed to push and pull the staff continuously until the cream inside transformed into butter.

  "How long does this process take?" she asked after what felt like an eternity but was probably only ten minutes.

  "Depends on the cream and the weather," Martha replied cheerfully from where she was working nearby. "Could be twenty minutes, could be an hour. You'll know it's done when you feel the resistance change."

  "An hour?" Rosalind's arms already ached, and a blister on her palm had reopened despite the gloves.

  "Churning builds character," Mrs. Hawthorn remarked on her way past. "And excellent arms. Keep a steady rhythm."

  Left alone with her task, Rosalind settled into a grim determination to at least avoid giving Mrs. Hawthorn the satisfaction of seeing her fail at yet another basic chore. Up and down, up and down went the churn staff, her thoughts keeping bitter time with the monotonous motion.

  Up—Prince Adrian was probably strolling through the pace gardens with that insipid Sophia. Down—Her so-called friends were likely gossiping about her disgrace over tea. Up—Her mother had probably already redecorated her chambers. Down—She was forgotten, a cautionary tale for other noble daughters with ambitions.

  "You'll break the staff if you keep that up."

  The unexpected male voice startled Rosalind from her dark thoughts. She looked up to find a tall, broad-shouldered young man leaning against one of the stall posts, observing her with barely concealed amusement. His dark hair was damp from the rain, and his blue eyes were startlingly vivid against his tanned skin.

  "I beg your pardon?" she said, immediately reverting to the frosty tone she'd perfected at court.

  "The churn," he nodded toward her hands. "You're attacking it like it personally offended you. Butter-making requires firmness but not violence."

  "Thank you for the unsolicited tutorial," Rosalind replied icily. "I'm sure you're an expert on all things dairy."

  Rather than taking offense, the man ughed—a genuine, warm sound that was utterly out of pce in Rosalind's current misery. "Not at all. I'm hopeless at milking—cows don't appreciate my ck of patience. I'm Thomas Brookfield," he added, approaching and offering a hand that Rosalind pointedly ignored.

  "How fascinating," she said, returning to her churning with deliberate focus. "If you'll excuse me, I'm rather busy."

  Thomas withdrew his hand without apparent concern. "You must be Rose, the new ward everyone's talking about." He leaned casually against the churn, peering at her with undisguised curiosity. "You're not what I expected."

  "I can't imagine why I would be the subject of your expectations at all," Rosalind retorted, irked by his presumption and the suggestion that local gossip had centered on her. Though of course it had—her arrival was likely the most interesting event in this backwater in decades.

  "Fair point," he conceded with a grin that was simultaneously irritating and oddly charming. "Though when Mrs. Hawthorn tells my mother she's been charged with reforming a 'spoiled city girl,' one can't help but form a mental picture."

  "Reforming?" Rosalind's rhythm faltered. "Is that what she's calling this torture?"

  "Is it torture? I've always found butter-making rather meditative myself." His tone was light, but there was something in his eyes that suggested he saw more than he let on.

  "You regurly make butter, do you, Mr. Brookfield?" she asked with exaggerated sweetness.

  "Thomas, please. And no, not regurly. But growing up on a farm, you learn a bit of everything." He studied her for a moment. "Your technique is improving, by the way. Less murderous."

  Despite herself, Rosalind felt her lips twitch toward a smile. She suppressed it immediately. "Did you come to the dairy specifically to critique my churning method, or was there an actual purpose to your visit?"

  "I came to deliver this," he replied, holding up a small cloth-wrapped package she hadn't noticed before. "Salve for working hands. My mother makes it—goose fat, beeswax, and vender oil. Best thing for blisters."

  Rosalind gnced down at her gloved hands, then back at him suspiciously. "How do you know about my blisters?"

  Thomas smiled, not unkindly. "Everyone gets them their first week of real work. And Mrs. Hawthorn mentioned you were struggling."

  "Did she," Rosalind said ftly, imagining the older woman cataloging her failures for the entire countryside's entertainment.

  "She was actually rather impressed you haven't compined," Thomas said, pcing the package on a nearby shelf. "She had a wager going with my mother that you'd be begging to return to the city within three days."

  "How delightful to be the subject of bucolic gambling," Rosalind muttered, then looked up sharply. "Wait—you know Mrs. Hawthorn well enough for her to discuss wagers with your mother?"

  Thomas leaned against a post again, seemingly in no hurry to leave despite Rosalind's clear desire to be rid of him. "Everyone knows everyone in these parts. Mrs. Hawthorn and my mother have been friends since they were girls. They meet for tea every Sunday after church."

  The casual revetion of these interconnected lives was strangely disconcerting. In the capital, Rosalind's social circle had been strictly defined by rank and family connections, with clear boundaries between nobles, merchants, and servants. Here, those distinctions seemed more fluid.

  "Well, you've delivered your package," she said pointedly. "I'm sure you have important farming matters to attend to."

  "Actually, I'm waiting for your overseer," Thomas replied, unperturbed by her dismissal. "Our threshing machine broke, and Mrs. Hawthorn mentioned your estate has a simir model we might borrow parts from."

  "How convenient for you," Rosalind said, returning to her churning with renewed vigor.

  Silence fell, broken only by the rhythmic sound of the churn and the occasional lowing of the cows. Rosalind steadfastly ignored Thomas's presence, though she could feel his gaze on her from time to time. The man was infuriatingly at ease in a way that highlighted her own discomfort.

  "It's changing," Thomas remarked after several minutes.

  "What is?" Rosalind asked despite herself.

  "The resistance in the churn. Feel it? The cream is separating."

  Rosalind paused, realizing he was right. The staff now moved differently through the contents, with a heavier, more solid sensation.

  "Martha!" Thomas called to the dairywoman, who was across the room. "I think Rose's butter is coming along."

  The plump woman hurried over, peering into the churn with an expert eye. "Well done, ss! That's perfect timing. Now we need to drain the buttermilk and work the solids."

  Thomas stepped back, allowing Martha to take over the instruction. "I'll leave you to it, then. The salve is there when you need it." He nodded toward the package. "You might want to apply it before you start milking this afternoon—the cows can sense tension in your hands."

  "I am not milking cows," Rosalind insisted, horrified at the prospect.

  Thomas's eyes crinkled with amusement. "Everyone milks cows their first week in the dairy. It's practically a rite of passage." He offered a small bow that somehow managed to be both proper and slightly mocking. "Good day, Rose. I'm sure our paths will cross again soon."

  As he strode out of the dairy, Rosalind found herself oddly unsettled by the encounter. There had been something disarming about Thomas Brookfield—a directness that bypassed the social niceties she was accustomed to navigating. He'd spoken to her not as a nobleman to a dy, or even as a tenant farmer to a duke's daughter, but as one person to another.

  "He's a good d, that Thomas," Martha commented, noticing Rosalind's gaze lingering on the doorway. "Educated too—spent two years at the Agricultural College in the city. Knows more about modern farming than anyone for fifty miles."

  "How impressive," Rosalind replied, endeavoring to sound bored rather than intrigued.

  "Half the girls in the county are after him," Martha continued, blithely ignoring Rosalind's ck of enthusiasm as she demonstrated how to press the excess liquid from the butter. "But he's got his sights set on improving that farm of his. His father's getting on in years, you know, and Thomas has all sorts of ideas for new methods."

  "Fascinating," Rosalind murmured, wondering why she was being subjected to the romantic status and agricultural ambitions of a man she'd just met and had no intention of seeing again if she could help it.

  Yet as the day progressed—through the butter-working, the promised (and disastrous) milking lesson, and the countless other dairy tasks Martha cheerfully assigned her—Rosalind found her thoughts returning to Thomas Brookfield's easy confidence and perceptive observations. It wasn't until she was trudging back to her cottage that evening, exhausted and smelling distinctly of cow, that she realized she'd unconsciously slipped the small package of salve into her pocket before leaving the dairy.

  The rain continued for three more days, confining most of the estate work to indoor tasks. For Rosalind, this meant an endless rotation between the kitchen, the dairy, and the stillroom where Mrs. Bennett prepared preserves and household medicines. By the fourth day, she had mastered the butter churn (though milking remained a terrifying ordeal), learned to identify various herbs in the stillroom, and produced a loaf of bread that, while oddly shaped, was decred "mostly edible" by Mrs. Hawthorn—high praise indeed from the stern housekeeper.

  "Your hands are improving," Mrs. Hawthorn observed on the morning of the fifth day, as Rosalind kneaded dough with more confidence than her first disastrous attempt.

  Rosalind said nothing, unwilling to admit she'd been using Thomas Brookfield's mother's salve each night, marveling at how quickly it had healed the worst of her blisters. Agnes had discovered it in her pocket that first evening and insisted on applying it, overriding Rosalind's stubborn objections with the practical observation that infected blisters would only prolong her misery.

  "The rain's stopping," Mrs. Hawthorn continued, peering out the kitchen window at the lightening sky. "You'll work in the west field today. The wheat needs harvesting before it spoils."

  "Field work?" Rosalind couldn't hide her dismay. "In all that mud?"

  "The fields drain quickly here," Mrs. Hawthorn replied. "And the wheat won't wait for your convenience. Maisie has found you a suitable work dress. You'll change after breakfast."

  The "suitable work dress" proved to be a coarse, practical garment that had clearly belonged to someone of more substantial proportions than Rosalind. Maisie had taken it in as best she could, but it still hung awkwardly from Rosalind's slender frame.

  "I look like a scarecrow," she compined to Agnes as they assessed the outfit in the small hand mirror.

  "It's practical for field work, miss," Agnes replied diplomatically. "And at least your good dresses will be spared."

  "There's nothing 'good' left in my wardrobe," Rosalind sighed, examining her reflection with dismay. A week in the countryside had already transformed her appearance more than she cared to admit. Her once-perfect complexion was reddened from sun exposure despite her attempts to stay shaded. Her hands, though healing, were noticeably roughened. Even her hair seemed different—less glossy and perfectly arranged, more wild and unmanageable in the country air.

  "Miss Rose!" Maisie's voice called from outside the cottage. "Mrs. Hawthorn says to hurry! The field workers are gathering!"

  With a final despairing gnce at her reflection, Rosalind squared her shoulders and prepared to face her test trial. Field work. In public. Dressed like a farmer's daughter. How much lower could she possibly fall?

  The west field was already bustling with activity when Rosalind arrived, over a dozen workers organized into a system she couldn't immediately discern. Men with scythes worked in a rhythmic pattern, cutting the golden wheat with practiced swings. Behind them, women and younger workers gathered the cut stalks into bundles, binding them with twisted lengths of straw.

  "Rose!" Mrs. Hawthorn beckoned from where she stood with an older man who appeared to be directing the operation. "This is Mr. Finch, our farm manager. He'll assign your duties."

  Mr. Finch, a weathered man with skin like tanned leather, assessed Rosalind with a critical eye. "Ever bundled wheat before, girl?"

  "I can't say that I have," Rosalind replied, trying to keep the sarcasm from her voice. When, exactly, would a duke's daughter have bundled wheat?

  "Figured as much," he grunted. "You'll work with Maisie. She'll show you what to do. Try not to slow her down too much."

  With that less-than-encouraging introduction, Rosalind found herself stationed behind one of the scythe-wielding men, frantically trying to gather the freshly cut wheat as Maisie demonstrated how to align the stalks and bind them into neat sheaves.

  "Not too tight," the housemaid instructed, her hands moving with practiced ease. "But secure enough to hold when they're stacked. Like this, see?"

  Rosalind did not see, but she nodded anyway, determined at least to appear competent. Her first attempts were dismal—either falling apart entirely or bound so tightly they crushed the wheat heads. By midmorning, her back ached fiercely from the constant bending, her hands were scratched from the sharp edges of the wheat stalks, and she had produced exactly three passable bundles to Maisie's twenty-seven.

  "Take a rest," Maisie suggested kindly, noticing Rosalind's increasing distress. "There's water in the jug under that oak tree."

  Grateful for the reprieve, Rosalind made her way to the indicated tree, where several workers were already gathered in the shade, passing around a water jug and conversing in the rexed manner of people who had known each other all their lives. They fell silent as she approached, eyeing her with undisguised curiosity.

  "You're the duke's daughter," said one older woman bluntly. It wasn't a question.

  "I'm Rose," Rosalind replied with as much dignity as she could muster in her oversized work dress and straw-covered hair.

  "Lily," the woman introduced herself with a nod. "That's my son Gil with the scythe you've been following. Sorry if he's setting too fast a pace—he forgets not everyone has his stamina."

  "The pace is fine," Rosalind lied, accepting the water jug when it was passed to her. "It's the technique I'm struggling with."

  "Takes practice," another worker, a gray-haired man with a kindly face, assured her. "Took me three harvests to get it right when I was a d."

  "Three harvests?" Rosalind echoed faintly. "That's... encouraging."

  Unexpected ughter greeted her dry response, and Rosalind found herself the recipient of several sympathetic pats on the shoulder and various bits of well-intentioned advice about hand positions and straw-twisting techniques.

  "Look who's decided to grace us with his presence," Lily suddenly remarked, nodding toward the field's edge where a familiar tall figure was approaching with what appeared to be several other men and a rge piece of equipment drawn by horses.

  "Thomas Brookfield," the gray-haired man expined, noting Rosalind's questioning look. "Bringing his father's new threshing machine to help with the harvest. That'll speed things up considerably."

  Rosalind watched as Thomas directed the pcement of the machine, his movements confident and authoritative despite his retive youth. The other men—including some from the Thornfield estate—deferred to him naturally as he expined some mechanical aspect of the equipment with animated gestures.

  "He's a forward-thinking one, that d," Lily commented. "All these new farming methods from the city. His father thinks he's touched in the head with his talk of crop rotation and soil chemistry, but you can't argue with results. Their yields have doubled since he took over the pnning."

  Before Rosalind could respond—not that she had any particur interest in Thomas Brookfield's agricultural innovations—the break ended, and the workers returned to their positions. She trudged back to her station behind Gil's scythe, casting occasional gnces toward the threshing machine where Thomas was now overseeing its operation.

  As the morning wore on and the sun climbed higher, Rosalind's performance improved marginally—enough that Maisie no longer had to rebind all of her sheaves. The work remained backbreaking, however, and by the time the midday bell rang, she was ready to colpse.

  "Water," she gasped to no one in particur, staggering back toward the oak tree.

  "Here," came a voice from behind her, offering a dipper of water that seemed to materialize from nowhere.

  Rosalind turned to find Thomas Brookfield regarding her with that same amused expression she remembered from the dairy.

  "You look like you're enjoying field work," he observed as she gulped the water gratefully.

  "Immensely," she replied, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand—a gesture that would have horrified her former self. "What woman doesn't dream of spending her days bent double in a wheat field?"

  "You're improving," he said, ignoring her sarcasm. "Your st few bundles were almost properly aligned."

  "You've been watching me?" she asked, immediately defensive.

  "I've been watching everyone," he corrected mildly. "That's my job today—assessing how the threshing machine coordinates with the harvesters."

  "How fascinating," Rosalind muttered, suddenly acutely aware of her bedraggled appearance. Her hair had come loose from its pins, her face was undoubtedly red and shiny with sweat, and the oversized work dress was stained with dirt and pnt matter.

  "It actually is fascinating," Thomas replied, apparently immune to her caustic tone. "The proper coordination between machine and manual bor can increase efficiency by nearly thirty percent."

  Despite herself, Rosalind was intrigued by his enthusiasm. "You studied this? At the Agricultural College?"

  He looked surprised that she knew this detail. "Yes, for two years. You've been asking about me?" There was a hint of teasing in his tone.

  "Certainly not," she replied quickly. "The dairy women gossip incessantly. One can hardly avoid overhearing."

  "Of course," he agreed, his blue eyes twinkling with barely suppressed mirth. "Well, since you've been forced to overhear about my education, I should tell you that my professors were rgely traditionalists. Most of what I know about modern techniques comes from books and correspondence with progressive farmers in other regions."

  "You maintain schorly correspondence about... farming?" Rosalind couldn't keep the surprise from her voice.

  "Is that so difficult to believe?" Thomas asked, his expression growing more serious. "That a farmer might have intellectual interests?"

  Rosalind felt a flush of something that might have been shame. "I didn't mean—"

  "Yes, you did," he interrupted, though without rancor. "You city folk think everyone beyond the capital walls is an illiterate peasant whose only concerns are the weather and their next meal."

  "That's not fair," she protested. "I've never given much thought to country people at all."

  The moment the words left her mouth, Rosalind realized how damning they were. Thomas raised an eyebrow, his point made without further comment.

  "I should return to the threshing machine," he said after a moment. "A word of advice, if you'll accept it? Use your legs more when you bend to gather the wheat—it will save your back. And try wearing your hair in a braid tomorrow. It's more practical for field work."

  Before she could form a suitably cutting response, he had walked away, leaving Rosalind with the uncomfortable sensation that she had somehow failed a test she hadn't known she was taking.

  "He's right about the braid," Maisie said, appearing beside her with a basket of bread and cheese for the midday meal. "I could show you how to pit it tight against your head—keeps it from catching on things."

  "Thank you," Rosalind replied absently, her gaze still following Thomas as he rejoined the men at the threshing machine. "Maisie, do many people here read books? Apart from basic religious texts, I mean."

  The housemaid considered the question as she distributed food to nearby workers. "Some do. The schoolmaster, obviously. The vicar. Mr. Finch has a shelf of agricultural manuals. Thomas Brookfield has more books than anyone, though. Built a whole bookcase for them in his house, so I heard. Even has poetry and histories and such."

  Rosalind accepted a piece of bread and cheese, her appetite returning despite the morning's exertions. As she ate, she found herself reassessing her assumptions about country life. She had viewed her exile as a descent into an intellectual wastend where nothing of importance happened and no one engaged with ideas beyond their immediate survival. Yet here was Thomas Brookfield with his books and schorly correspondence, upending her comfortable prejudices.

  The afternoon brought a shift in duties as the harvested wheat was transported to the threshing machine. Rosalind, deemed too inexperienced for more technical tasks, was assigned to help stack the processed straw. It was marginally less backbreaking than bundle-making, though the chaff in the air made her eyes water and her throat itch.

  From her position, she had a clear view of Thomas directing operations at the mechanical thresher, expining its workings to the estate men with patience and crity. There was something compelling about his confidence—not the entitled arrogance she was accustomed to in noble circles, but a quiet assurance that came from genuine knowledge and ability.

  "He's something, isn't he?" remarked an older woman working alongside Rosalind, following her gaze. "Built that contraption himself from pns he got from some engineer in the Eastern Provinces. Old Man Brookfield thought he was mad, spending good money on metal parts and gears, but it's paid for itself twice over already."

  Rosalind quickly averted her eyes, embarrassed to be caught staring. "I was just observing the equipment. We have nothing like it at—" she caught herself before saying "at my father's estates," "—in the city."

  "Cities," the woman snorted. "Full of fancy carriages and newfangled gas mps, but they still think we country folk plow with sticks and pray for rain. Young Thomas there is showing them different. His wheat yields are highest in three counties."

  The pride in the woman's voice was unmistakable, as if Thomas's achievements belonged to the entire community. It was a sentiment Rosalind found foreign—in her experience, success was individual and rgely measured by one's ability to rise above one's peers, not to elevate them collectively.

  As the sun began its descent toward the horizon, signaling the end of the working day, Rosalind found herself more exhausted than she had ever been in her life. Every muscle ached, her skin felt raw from sun and wind, and her throat burned from the dusty chaff. Yet strangely, there was also a sense of accomplishment as she surveyed the day's work—the neatly stacked bundles, the separated grain, the orderly piles of straw. For perhaps the first time in her life, she had contributed to something tangible and necessary.

  "You survived," came Thomas's voice as workers began gathering their tools and preparing to return to their homes or the estate lodgings.

  Rosalind turned to find him leaning against the fence, watching her with an expression she couldn't quite interpret—something between amusement and assessment.

  "Barely," she admitted, too tired for pretense. "I believe every muscle in my body is staging a revolution."

  He ughed, the sound warm in the golden te-afternoon light. "A hot bath with Epsom salts would help, if such luxuries are avaible in your new circumstances."

  "They are not," she replied ruefully. "A basin of lukewarm water and a bar of harsh soap is the extent of my bathing options at present."

  "The stream behind the east meadow has a deeper pool," he offered. "Local women sometimes bathe there on hot days. It's sheltered by willows—private enough."

  Rosalind raised an eyebrow, momentarily forgetting her exhaustion. "Are you suggesting I bathe in a stream, Mr. Brookfield? How scandalous."

  "Thomas," he corrected automatically. "And I'm suggesting you might find it more refreshing than your basin. Merely practical advice." His eyes crinkled with that now-familiar half-smile. "Though I understand if you consider it beneath your dignity."

  "There's very little dignity left to preserve after today," Rosalind sighed, brushing chaff from her skirts. "I spent hours on my hands and knees in the dirt, following behind a man with a scythe like some medieval serf."

  "And yet," Thomas observed, "here you are, still standing. Still fighting. That suggests a strength you perhaps didn't know you possessed."

  The unexpected compliment caught Rosalind off guard. She had been prepared for more teasing, not this sincere assessment of her character.

  "Are you always this philosophical at the end of a harvest day?" she asked, deflecting with humor rather than acknowledging how his words had affected her.

  "Only when presented with interesting contradictions," he replied. "Like a duke's daughter who would rather work herself to exhaustion than admit defeat."

  So he did know exactly who she was. Rosalind felt a fsh of irritation. "Has everyone in this backwater been thoroughly briefed on my disgrace, then?"

  "News travels," Thomas said with a shrug. "Though not everyone knows the details of what brought you here. There are various theories—some quite dramatic."

  "Oh? And what's the prevailing theory?"

  "That you refused a strategic marriage arranged by your father," he replied. "Or that you were caught in a compromising situation with an unsuitable young man. Or—my personal favorite—that you challenged another noble dy to a duel over some perceived insult."

  Despite everything, Rosalind ughed. "A duel? Really?"

  "With pistols at dawn," Thomas confirmed solemnly, though his eyes danced with humor. "Very scandalous."

  "The truth is less romantic," she admitted. "I behaved badly at court and embarrassed my family."

  "Badly how?"

  "Does it matter? I'm here as punishment either way."

  Thomas studied her for a moment before saying, "I suppose it doesn't. Though I would point out that 'punishment' is a perspective. This could also be viewed as an opportunity."

  "An opportunity," Rosalind repeated skeptically. "To do what, exactly? Develop calluses? Learn to milk cows? Perfect my wheat-bundling technique?"

  "To see a world beyond ballrooms and court intrigue," he suggested. "To understand the lives of people who sustain your family's wealth and position. To discover capabilities in yourself that might have remained dormant in the capital."

  His words echoed Agnes's earlier observation about her father's intentions with uncomfortable precision. Rosalind frowned, unwilling to concede the point but unable to dismiss it entirely.

  "You're very free with your opinions, Mr. Brookfield," she said finally.

  "Thomas," he corrected again. "And yes, I am. Another countryside failing, I'm afraid. We tend to speak directly here."

  "So I've noticed," she replied dryly.

  A call from the threshing machine drew Thomas's attention. "I'm needed," he said. "We're packing up the equipment for transport back to my father's farm. It was... illuminating, speaking with you, Rose." He paused, then added with that infuriating half-smile, "Or should I call you Lady Rosalind?"

  "Rose will do," she replied stiffly. "As Mrs. Hawthorn constantly reminds me, I'm not a dy here."

  "A title doesn't make a dy," Thomas observed. "Neither does its absence unmake one."

  With that surprisingly courtly sentiment, he nodded farewell and strode away, leaving Rosalind to contempte his words as she began her weary trek back to the cottage. The man was an enigma—a farmer who spoke of books and philosophy, who built complex machines and corresponded with farmers,

  who treated her neither with the deference her title traditionally commanded nor with the resentment she might have expected from someone of his station.

  As she passed the stream he had mentioned, Rosalind paused, gazing at the clear water flowing over smooth stones. The idea of immersing her aching body in its coolness was suddenly irresistibly tempting. She gnced around—the area was deserted, the willow trees providing exactly the privacy Thomas had described.

  "This is madness," she muttered to herself, even as she began to unce her work dress. "Bathing in a stream like some wood nymph. What next? Dancing barefoot under the full moon?"

  Yet minutes ter, as she eased her battered body into the surprisingly deep pool, a sigh of pure relief escaped her lips. The cool water soothed her sun-warmed skin and seemed to draw the ache from her muscles. Floating on her back, watching the dappled light filter through the willow branches overhead, Rosalind experienced a moment of unexpected peace.

  Perhaps, she thought reluctantly, Thomas Brookfield wasn't entirely wrong. Perhaps there were things to discover here that had nothing to do with punishment or exile. Perhaps—though she was not yet ready to fully admit it—this unexpected detour in her carefully pnned life might offer perspectives she would never have encountered otherwise.

  As the water worked its simple magic on her exhausted body, Rosalind allowed herself to acknowledge a discomfiting truth: she was curious. Curious about this rural world with its straightforward concerns and unexpected complexities. Curious about the people who inhabited it, with their frankness and resilience. And most disturbingly, curious about a certain blue-eyed farmer who challenged her assumptions with every conversation.

  It was a curiosity that would not have been possible a week ago, when she had viewed her exile solely as an injustice to be endured. Now, as she dried herself with her petticoat and redressed in her wrinkled work clothes, Rosalind wondered what other surprises Thornfield might hold—and whether she might be more adaptable than she had ever given herself credit for.