Miss Farrow's Feathers

by Susan Gee Heino

  "Er, what?" Mr. Shirley asked, obviously not much of a Bible scholar.

  "A prick was used to goad oxen,” Meg informed him. “A stubborn ox would kick against it.”

  “I see. In that case, yes, you are correct. Bartholomew is certainly kicking the prick.”

  She bit her cheek and forced herself not to comment.

  Papa, however, did not appear to see anything comment-worthy about the situation. He simply shook his head and gave a sad smile.

  "I'm sure your influence is having some positive effect on him, Mr. Shirley. We must all remain patient."

  Mr. Shirley—of course—agreed. "Indeed, sir. Bartholomew's patterns did not develop overnight. He was attended by sailors for many years, and I daresay the old earl did very little to curb the bird's ramblings."

  Obviously Papa had been thorough in explaining to Mr. Shirley many details from Bartholomew's history. Yes, the bird had been carried all over the world on a ship full of merchant sailors. It was there he had learned his abhorrent vocabulary, and when he'd passed into Lord Glenwick's possession, the earl had thought the bird horribly amusing. He'd encouraged the outbursts and the endless recitation of one bawdy ballad after another. It was no wonder retraining was proving so difficult.

  Not that she was defending Mr. Shirley. She still had her suspicions about his abilities, as well as his non-existent references. There was no question, however, about his familiarity with the profane. Bartholomew spouted off a surprisingly tame verse and Mr. Shirley chuckled under his breath. Apparently he knew the rest of the rhyme which, sadly, was not nearly so tame.

  "When you smile at him that way," she warned the gentleman. "It only serves to encourage him."

  "What he said was not so very bad."

  "Perhaps not, but the words that come after it are."

  "Ah, so you are familiar with that particular stanza?"

  "Not by choice, I assure you. Bartholomew has several favorites that we've been repeatedly subjected to."

  To prove the point, the bird recited one of these—a thankfully mild phrase Meg had heard far too often. She sighed and waited for the bird to finish, but Mr. Shirley seemed not to mind. He seemed, in fact, to be interested in the mindless chatter.

  "I heard him say that yesterday, the same phrase," he noted. "Dot marks the spot. Does he repeat this very often?"

  "Too often. And several others that are equally nonsensical. Plus, of course, the various bouts of profanity."

  "As I've noticed. However," Mr. Shirley said and was clearly quite engrossed by the subject matter. "He does seem to favor certain phrases from rhymes, but not the entire rhyme. I wonder why that is?”

  "He's a parrot, sir. I hardly think he can be credited for having deep reasoning behind his words."

  As a self-professed parrot trainer, she wondered that Mr. Shirley did not already know this. She'd make certain to point it out for Papa later on. More and more she was convinced Mr. Shirley was not at all what he alleged.

  But he gave no indication of being put off by her suspicion. "Of course Bartholomew does not understand the words he speaks, but he certainly understands our reaction to them. He knows what gets him attention and what does not."

  "Obviously he cares very little what sort of attention he gets from us," she noted. "Quite often he gets something thrown at his head."

  Mr. Shirley tsked at her but she felt no guilt whatsoever. Anyone would be held blameless for such action after weeks of living with the bird. Especially since they never actually hit the bird with their projectiles. So far.

  "I've not seen any violence from you, Miss Farrow," the would-be trainer pointed out. "But I have seen you deliver him biscuits to buy a moment of solitude. Oh yes, I've seen you do it. Don't tell me that does not encourage the bird to misbehave."

  Papa nodded somberly. "Indeed, you are right, Mr. Shirley. I'm afraid we've been unwittingly rewarding his reprehensible behavior. Meg, have you considered this? No, I daresay neither of us have. We've been so desperate for anything that might buy us a moment's peace we haven't stopped to think what we might be actually teaching him."

  "I'll not take any credit for the little monster," Meg declared. "He was corrupted long before he got here."

  "The earl certainly did get a chuckle from some of the bird’s more colorful sayings,” Mr. Shirley said, then quickly amended his words. “At least, I can imagine that was the way of it. Likely it is the explanation for why the bird still persists even after years away from the sailors who initially trained him.”

  “Your instincts are correct,” Papa said with an approving nod. “That was indeed the case. Lord Glenwick did enjoy a bawdy lyric.”

  “But we do not,” Meg was quick to add. “So if there is something we ought to be doing to help curb Bartholomew’s enthusiasm for the improper, please instruct us.”

  Mr. Shirley cocked his head as he seemed to consider this. Bartholomew did the same from his perch above them. Meg wondered who, in fact, truly was the teacher there. Mr. Shirley’s words did little to resolve her confusion.

  “Perhaps the bird’s persistence in repeating these phrases that he clearly no longer hears on a daily basis are a result of his feelings of insecurity.”

  “His what?”

  “Insecurity. He’s lost a beloved caregiver, the home he knew for many years… it stands to reason the poor creature feels insecure.”

  Papa nodded knowingly. Apparently he thought Mr. Shirley's drivel was perfectly reasonable. Exactly when he had become an expert on the sensitivities of parrots she really had no idea.

  “The poor thing," Papa said with an empathetic sigh. "He has suffered great loss, indeed. What can we do to comfort him?”

  Now Mr. Shirley did something Bartholomew could not. He smiled. It was a distinctly roguish smile, too. Meg wondered that Papa did not scold the man for giving her such a look.

  “You should sing to him, Miss Farrow.”

  “Sing to him? I? What, lullabies and nursery rhymes?”

  “Most certainly not. Those things would be meaningless to him. No, I should think the only hope of comforting dear Bartholomew is to give him the things he is comfortable with. Sea shanties and ale songs.”

  She could scarcely believe her ears. Was the man demented? He couldn't be serious.

  “Sea shanties and ale songs?”

  “But of course.”

  Papa was actually rubbing his chin in pensive agreement. "It would stand to reason that might be seen as comforting for the poor animal..."

  "Honestly, Papa! You cannot encourage such things!"

  "Mr. Shirley does have a point, my dear," Papa said, to her amazement. "And you do have such a sweet, soothing voice."

  "Not when singing sea shanties and ale songs, I don't," Meg grumbled.

  How could Papa possibly be in favor of such a thing? He seemed even more smitten with Mr. Shirley than she was. Not that she was smitten. Certainly not.

  "Perhaps I should clarify: you must only select the songs and verses that are not particularly, er, offensive, Miss Farrow."

  As if she would do anything other than that! Honestly, the nerve of this man.

  "And which lines would those be, sir? You've heard for yourself the sorts of things that bird articulates."

  He nodded. "Indeed. But surely not every line familiar to Bartholomew is offensive.”

  Meg snorted. She hoped Mr. Shirley might mistake it for a ladylike sneeze, but of course it was likely he did not. What could he expect? These were not nursery rhymes spewing from Bartholomew all day long.

  "It is true," Papa said, judiciously ignoring her snort. "That there are occasionally phrases that do not seem to be a part of some coarse verse."

  "Good! Excellent. Then those are the words Miss Farrow should use for comforting him."

  She held back the snort this time. "Well, don't expect that to take very long. I'm afraid I will run out of comfort in a matter of minutes."

  "But surely not everything the bird utters includes vi
le reference," Mr. Shirley persisted. "Although, perhaps you know more about these things than I do."

  "I most certainly do not! I simply know that certain seemingly inauspicious phrases he employs fit with the particular rhyme scheme of some others that are a bit more... indelicate."

  "Yet not everything can be connected to a greater whole?"

  "Oh, who knows?" she snapped. "He is always natting on about something and, quite frankly, I try not to hear it."

  "Well, I think we could all help the bird if we do hear it," Mr. Shirley said. "The more we can understand about his habits, the more we can hope to break him of them."

  Meg frowned. She wasn't at all certain she liked this line of reasoning. Papa, however, seemed to find it encouraging.

  "I say, Shirley, you do know your business. The apostles spoke in other tongues to be understood by the alien, so clearly we must do the same. Yes, we will do all that we can to learn the bird's tongue, as it were, so we can then expect to begin teaching him ours."

  "Quite so, sir," Mr. Shirley said, beaming. "You understand my method completely. Now, Miss Farrow, if you'd be so kind as to take out a clean paper. I'd like to create a list of some acceptable, unconnected phrases Bartholomew says."

  "Excellent," Papa said. "Your method seems productive indeed."

  Meg pushed her letter aside. Apparently her afternoon would be spent not in gentle correspondence with her sister, but in recording the litany of Bartholomew's odious banter. Perhaps Papa might approve, but she did not. Mr. Shirley's so-called "method" was all too clear to her.

  The man's intent was to charm Papa and make them do all his work for him. No doubt when Bartholomew remained corrupt, Mr. Shirley would still pocket his fee and claim they were the reason for his failure. He would be gone and no worse for the wear. They, however, would be left a few shillings lighter and still stuck with a foul-mouthed bird.

  She was just about to announce they'd not fall prey to his foolishness when Mrs. Cooper interrupted. The housekeeper cleared her throat and came into the room, delivering a newly arrived letter into Meg’s hand. Meg recognized the bold, masculine handwriting immediately.

  Ah, but this was a welcome interruption indeed.

  Max watched her blush. What an interesting turn of events. Who might be sending letters to Miss Farrow that would put such an enchanting glow into her fair cheeks? From where he stood he could not see the writing on the letter so he had no hope of determining the author's full identity. There was little doubt, however, as to the person's gender.

  So Miss Farrow had an admirer, did she? And if the tell-tale patches of rose in her cheeks were any sign, she returned the sentiment. The fact that she tried so hard to keep from displaying her reaction—as well as the subtle way she tucked the letter into the drawer of her little writing desk—seemed to indicate that her sentiments were not widely known in the household. At least, not especially known to her father.

  Hmm. Perhaps Max could find some way to make use of this knowledge. If Miss Farrow had secrets, surely she'd be eager to keep them. Whatever he might do to push her toward focusing on that rather than on his non-existent references she was so ruddy interested in would surely work in his favor.

  The stars seemed in his favor as Mr. Farrow gave his unwitting assistance.

  "Come, Meg, Mr. Shirley asked you to help him compile a list," the man said.

  She startled, so lost in thought it appeared she had momentarily forgotten them.

  "Oh... yes, Papa, but I..."

  "Miss Farrow has just received a letter," Max said. "Perhaps she ought to take a moment to read it before we continue."

  Now she blushed deeper. "No! That is, no need to take time away from our business just now. I can get to that later."

  "Are you certain it is not a pressing matter?" Max asked with the sweetest of tones. "I would not like for you to miss out on something important."

  "Is it important?" Mr. Farrow questioned. "Is it from Mary? Are the children well?"

  "They are fine, Papa. I received a letter from her just yesterday and everyone is quite well. No, this is nothing. Indeed, let us focus on aiding Bartholomew. Tell me, Mr. Shirley, just what sort of list had you in mind? I'm happy to act as secretary for us. Perhaps you had a lyric in mind that you think we should examine?"

  Perfect. Miss Farrow seemed ready to do anything to take their attention off of her letter. He could certainly work with that. In fact, he'd be more than happy to help her.

  Do anything.

  Chapter 4

  He'd watched her all evening, but Miss Farrow hadn't gone after that letter. She seemed perfectly content not to know its contents. Max, on the other hand, was getting quite impatient about it.

  Why was the girl not more persistent in finding a moment out of company to go back to that desk and retrieve the letter? Did she not worry it might be found there? Or had he guessed wrong and the contents did not contain something incriminating?

  He hated to think the later. For one, it fit nicely with his suspicions if indeed Miss Farrow was receiving secret letters from some mysterious quarter. For another, his rational mind simply could not fathom that a young, attractive woman might not have an admirer or two tucked away somewhere. That she was not married and instead lived alone with her father just made him wonder all the more at her reasons.

  If she had admirers, why had she not married any one of them? And why would this particular secret admirer need to remain a secret? The obvious answer was because he was in some way inappropriate for her. If Miss Farrow was up to anything inappropriate, Max most definitely wanted to be in on it.

  But why had she gone all afternoon and most of the evening without fretting over that letter? It seemed unnatural. A lady with secrets to hide should, as a matter of course, be more eager to tend to them. By the time dinner was finished and Mr. Farrow excused himself to his study, Max was finding himself quite agitated.

  "I must meet with Mrs. Cooper to plan the meals for tomorrow," Miss Farrow said, excusing herself and indicating it was high time Max went back upstairs to be tormented by Bartholomew.

  "Thank you for a very lovely dinner," he said before she could exit the room.

  "You are welcome," she said, and that was all.

  There was nothing he could do but politely rise and wait as his hostess took herself off to the kitchen. What an infuriating woman! Did her blushes this afternoon mean nothing? Was that letter so unimportant to her that she would leave it unattended for days and days while he drove himself mad over it? No, surely he could not have misread her so dramatically.

  She must simply be proficient at hiding her desires. With that assumption, he left the dining room and started up the staircase. At the landing, however, he paused. Did he hear footsteps? Yes, he believed he did. Perhaps Miss Farrow did not remain in the kitchen with the housekeeper after all.

  He pressed himself against the wall and waited. In moments he was rewarded. Miss Farrow did, indeed, emerge from the dining room and crossed the entry hall below him. She did not glance his direction but silently let herself into the drawing room. Ah, but he'd clearly been right all along.

  Now the question remained, was she so eager to see the letter's contents that she would read it there, or would she take it up to the privacy and leisure of her own room? He strained to listen. Returning footsteps or rustling paper?

  Paper. Good. So she had not been as indifferent to this letter as he'd begun to fear. She was reading it straight away, the very moment she thought she was alone. Most excellent.

  He went back down the steps, moving quietly to avoid detection. She would be irked when he interrupted her, of course, but he could see no way around it. The only way to find out just how he could make best use of her spurious actions—and the guilty conscience that no doubt went along with them—was to find out more about that letter. And it's author.

  She was at her desk, letter in hand. He could just make out the curve of her lip; a secret smile for her admirer, he supposed. He disl
iked the man already. Surely anyone who was not suitable for public acknowledgement did not deserve such a sweet smile from a good woman. He did not feel one pang of guilt for interrupting her.

  "Finally reading your letter, I see," he said, stepping into the room.

  She started. "Er, yes... I had nearly forgotten it."

  Ah, so she was a liar and a secret keeper. He could work with that.

  "I suppose we kept you too busy to get to it," he said. "I hope it has not turned out to be any matter of great urgency."

  "No, it is just a note from a friend. Nothing urgent."

  "That is good to hear. The way you were pouring over it when I came into the room made me worry it might be of great import."

  "My friends are of great import to me, sir. Now, is there something I can do for you, or would you mind if I excused myself to my room?"

  "The list," he said quickly, before she could make an escape. "I came back to get the list we made earlier."

  "Of course. I have it right here."

  She pulled up a sheet from the desk. The three of them—four, counting Bartholomew—spent a good hour making a very exhaustive list of phrases spoken by the bird and determining which were fairly innocent and which were, well, not. The first part of the list focused on the most common phrases and Miss Farrow had become quite the expert at blushing as they went through that. Max and Mr. Shirley had been as tactful as possible, of course, but there was no hiding the fact that Bartholomew was a heathen.

  The second part of their list was of more interest to Max. This focused more on the phrases that seemed not to be part of any known rhyme or song lyric. These phrases were enigma—no one knew what they meant or where they came from. Max couldn't recall hearing them before, not from school friends, drinking lads, or any of his father's merchant sailors. And more importantly, not from Bartholomew, not in the years gone by when he'd spent happy visits at Glenwick Mannor.

  So where had the bird learned these cryptic phrases in recent times while Max had been gone? And who had been teaching him? And just what part did all of it play into the old earl's untimely death?