Miss Farrow's Feathers

by Susan Gee Heino

  "I'm sorry you had to spend so much time on such an unpleasant task," Max said, accepting the page she offered. "Especially when you had this much more pleasant letter waiting to be read. Your friend is well, I hope."

  "Yes, thank you."

  He'd stepped close to retrieve his list and she'd shifted the letter so he might not see it. The minx.

  "Is she a friend from the village, or perhaps an old school chum?"

  "It's... yes, someone who once lived in the area."

  "Ah, the absent friend. It's good you can keep up correspondence. Have you and she been friends long?"

  He enjoyed watching her discomfort as she struggled not to correct his supposed misunderstanding that her friend was a female.

  "Er, well... we became acquainted shortly after Papa and I came to live here."

  "When you were a mere girl. But she lives elsewhere now. Recently?"

  "Not very. Several years now."

  "Ah. Once out of the schoolroom. Your friend left to get married, I suppose."

  Oh, but she didn't much care for that statement, he could tell. He was more intrigued than ever about Miss Farrow's deep, dark secrets. To be corresponding with a married man! But this was even better than he had hoped.

  "Yes," she replied hesitantly. "But sadly, my friend suffered some recent losses and is in mourning now."

  "Losses? How tragic. No wonder you are so eager to read her words and respond. I'm sure your kind affections will help soothe her, Miss Farrow."

  She blushed again and held the letter closer to her, just in case he might peer over and notice the writing. He had, of course, and his first impression was solidly confirmed. Masculine script, and quite a lot of it, from what he could see. Whoever this grieving, distant friend was, he had much to say to Miss Farrow.

  "Thank you, Mr. Shirley. But if you wish to work on your list now, perhaps I should retire to my room. I wouldn't want to disrupt your efforts."

  "No need, Miss Farrow. Bartholomew is upstairs and I should return to him. I will study the list there and you may reply to your dear friend in private."

  She seemed most relieved at the thought of his departure. Of course he'd much rather stay and continue his questions, but clearly she was on edge regarding her secret letter writer. He'd do well to let the matter drop for now, leaving her to think she'd protected her secret. Perhaps she might even think him a friend, responding, as he had tried to appear to, with interest and compassion.

  Indeed, it seemed Miss Farrow was a good woman to be friends with.

  "Thank you, Mr. Shirley," she said.

  He gave a polite bow then simply moved toward the doorway. She called him just before he was gone.

  "And thank you for your work with Bartholomew. I am hopeful we will all be rewarded by your efforts."

  So she hoped for reward, did she? It was hard to know just how much he should read into those words. He decided it might be best to let them be for now. It might not be prudent to let his imagination get carried away—at least not until he had more definite proof of his suspicions. What this moment called for now was nothing more than a warm, brotherly smile.

  That is what he gave her.

  "Thank you, Miss Farrow. Your kind assistance makes my task that much easier. And infinitely more enjoyable."

  She blushed again. Ah, but she was fetching with that pink in her cheeks. He was more than pleased to have been the one who inspired it this time.

  Finally he was gone. She breathed a sigh of relief. Good heavens, he'd asked so many questions! It had been all she could do to guard her tongue and keep from revealing things she had no wish to reveal. Why had he been so inquisitive?

  At first she thought perhaps he suspected. But of course that was ridiculous. How could he? Why would he? The man was simply being sociable. Was she so very anxious about things that she could not even recognize friendly conversation? Yes, perhaps she was, and she refused to contemplate what that might imply.

  Nigel Webberly was coming back to Richington. Of course she should be feeling some anxiety. Perfectly natural. After all, she hadn't seen the man for seven years—not since he broke her heart and went off to marry that heiress.

  Not that she had any reason to blame him, of course. She was barely out of the schoolroom—just a starry-eyed girl and he'd never promised her anything. It had always been expected he'd marry well. He was the grandson of Lord Glenwick, after all. Of course she should never have fancied herself suitable for him, never have felt betrayed when he took her off alone and, instead of a proposal, she was given a good-bye.

  It had been all Meg could do not to let her father see how devastated she'd been. How awful it would be even now if he came to suspect how she had felt for the man, what she had assumed he'd intended, how she'd regretted the kisses she'd let him steal! Indeed, Papa must be kept in the dark at all costs.

  But years had passed and slowly she'd begun to think herself healed from her heartbreak. She'd seen him for what he was; a man who had wealth, position, and more than enough charm to get nearly anything he wanted from anyone he chose to get it. In the end, he simply chose not to get it from her. She'd vowed to never again be swayed by any other smooth-talking, fine-featured gentleman.

  Then how on earth had she allowed Mr. Shirley to end up as their houseguest? And she'd been actually civil toward him just now. This was certainly not a good sign of her recovery. The last thing she wanted—the last thing she would allow—was to be on friendly terms with another charming, good looking man with nothing on his mind but taking his ease and then taking his leave. Everything about Mr. Shirley said he fit that description most perfectly.

  Yet he had been applying himself to the cause of bettering Bartholomew, hadn't he? She did not believe it at first, but the gentle way he handled the bird and the insight he seemed to have... he did seem to truly care for the creature. Apparently her time spent discussing the situation with the man as they compiled their list this afternoon had altered her impression of him.

  She was still not ready to give up on her quest to see his formal references, though, but it was harder and harder for her to completely dislike him. And she had to admit, it might not be a bad idea for Nigel to see her in company with Mr. Shirley when he returned to Richington. Purely for her own vanity's sake.

  Not that Nigel was likely to notice. He was indeed deep into mourning. His grandfather, the earl, had died one month ago, and just four months before that he'd lost his young wife. Papa had insisted they send him plentiful words of comfort and condolence, and to Meg's surprise, Nigel had replied with warm appreciation. He continued the correspondence beyond that and over the past weeks he'd been especially friendly. Not that he gave any hint of rekindling the sort of relationship she'd once thought they'd had. That was entirely in the past.

  At least, she thought that it was. But on reading this letter from Nigel today, she must admit to some little doubts. Why had her heart sped up a beat when she read that he'd be returning? Why had his tone seemed so much more intimate in this letter than in his letter last week, or the week before that? And what was this nagging flutter that had settled into her belly? It vexed and perplexed her.

  Well, she had three days to purge it—three days before Nigel Webberly returned to Richington to claim his title and ownership of Glenwick Downs. How could she pass the time without seeming a nervous wreck? How could she make certain he would not turn up to find her as wide-eyed and love-struck as before?

  She could devote herself to assisting Mr. Shirley, to rehabilitating Bartholomew as much as possible. Indeed, that would certainly keep her mind far, far from matters of love and tender emotion. She'd likely be ready to throttle the first man to turn his eyes upon her after surrounding herself with Bartholomew's filth and Mr. Shirley's conceit and false charm.

  If the man's charm were indeed false. It had not seemed counterfeit when he found her here a few moments ago... the way he spoke with such interest and earnest concern about her friend—whom he gratefully assumed
was a female—it was more than expected from him. Almost endearing, in fact. And that smile he'd given as he left her alone...

  Gracious, but was she actually entertaining such thoughts? Clearly not in her right mind. Nigel's imminent return must have her quite rattled. Indeed, that must be it. Even after all this time, Nigel Webberly could still addle her brain. She'd even begun to consider making friends with Papa's reference-less parrot trainer.

  Oh, she was addled indeed and had very little notion what she could do about it.

  Chapter 5

  “Give your old pole a twist, lad,” the blighted bird chattered.

  Max did what he could to shush him. Damn the feathered rascal! If some progressed wasn’t achieved soon, even the ever optimistic Reverend would start to question Max’s ability. Not that he actually had any, of course. Over the past days it had become clearer by the minute he was out of his depth when it came to retraining an obstinate parrot. Bartholomew’s language seemed to be getting worse rather than better.

  “There once was a sailor named Tuck…”

  “Not that one again, please.”

  “…who asked a young wench for a—“

  “Cease, for God’s sake!”

  He grabbed for the parrot, determined to hold its beak shut, if that’s what it would take to stop the flood of vulgarities. Bartholomew was too quick. He leapt off the huge, rag covered tree-trunk someone had brought indoors for use as a perch and sailed around the bedroom, flapping and squawking loudly. By God, if the fluent profanity didn’t alert the Farrows to Max’s failing, this sort of racket surely would.

  He gave up, letting the bird settle atop the dressing table mirror and smugly rearrange his feathers. That's how the creature seemed to feel about everything Max did; smug. It was as if Bartholomew truly did know something Max didn't and was perfectly happy to keep it that way.

  But just what did the blasted bird know? In nearly a week of Max's efforts to make sense of Bartholomew's random ranting, he was no closer to having an answer to that question than when he'd first arrived at the Farrow's front door. Had the old earl's death truly been the natural consequence of a long, peaceful life, or were Max’s suspicions correct? Had Bartholomew been witness to something devious, or was he just an idiot bird who'd spent too much time in low company? The old earl’s final correspondence had seemed to indicate the later. He worried something sinister was afoot, and he directed Max to the bird.

  Bartholomew knows. He'll tell you what to do.

  Indeed, that's what the letter said, along with a few other things that still didn't make a lot of sense. But so far, Glenwick had been wrong. Bartholomew might, indeed, know something, but he sure as hell wasn't telling any of it to Max.

  "Come, bird," Max said, drawing a deep breath and maintaining a herculean grasp on his temper. "Tell me where it is. Where's the old man's treasure?"

  Bartholomew cocked his head. Was he contemplating Max's words? Had something Max said sparked recognition within the bird's miniscule brain?

  "Treasure? Is that familiar to you, bird?"

  He could have sworn the bird nodded. Max was almost ready to cheer when the creature spoke.

  "Old man's chest. Old man's chest."

  By God, perhaps he'd hit on it at last! For one heart-stopping moment Max dared to hope. Perhaps he'd gotten through, at long last.

  "Yes, yes! The treasure chest. Where is it?"

  "Forever alone on his island fair West."

  West. An island! By Jove, finally the bird was making some sense. Max tried not to let his excitement show. It would not do to get the bird all worked up again, would it?

  "An island in the West? Is that where the treasure is?"

  "I never will go, to stay is the best."

  Oh, hell. Now he recognized these words. Bartholomew wasn't giving him some secret directions for finding the fabled Glenwick treasure, he was reciting another bloody sea shanty.

  "I'll guard with my life the old man's chest," Max finished, chorusing along with the bird.

  Damnation. What sort of fool was he, thinking to carry on meaningful conversation with a blasted bird? Of course Bartholomew couldn't answer his questions. He was a parrot, for God's sake. All he could do was blithely repeat lines he'd heard over and over aboard the merchant ship where he'd lived for a good 20 years. When Max mentioned "treasure", all that did was bring to mind the words of a song—a fairly bawdy one, at that—about a sailor who let a busty female seduce him into losing his treasure.

  “Wretched creature,” Max grumbled.

  He kicked the heavy perch. It wobbled only slightly on its substantial base.. The bird squawked as if in real terror for his life and flapped around the room again, leaving a well-aimed deposit on Max’s shoulder. Max swore.

  All this was just in time for Mr. Farrow to appear in the doorway.

  “Everything well in here?” he asked, though clearly he must have seen for himself the answer to that question.

  “Well indeed, my good vicar,” Max replied cheerfully, as if he were particularly fond of bird droppings on his coat.

  “A vicar and lass fell down into a hole—“ Bartholomew began.

  Damn it all, not that one! Max stepped in front of the bird and raised his voice, hopefully enough to drown him out. He smiled at the vicar and opted for mindless—but loud—conversation.

  “So, it must be getting on toward supper, I should think. Must say, I’m getting rather famished. Are you? Oh, but is it late? I hope I’ve not kept you all waiting. Whatever is the time, anyway?”

  He ran out of inane things to babble about and was, sadly, silent when Bartholomew delivered his last line of the rhyme.

  “Perhaps you should climb on my pole?”

  The Reverend cleared his throat. Max loosened his cravat. Bartholomew repeated the last line, for good measure.

  “He certainly has a vast repertoire,” Mr. Farrow said.

  “Indeed he does. I’m working to replace the most, er, colorful phrases with things a bit more universally acceptable.”

  “Yes, as you’ve had my daughter singing and chanting to the bird at odd hours during the day.”

  Yes, he had, hadn’t he? And she’d hated it; likely hated him for it. Clearly nothing useful had come of it, but Max had no intentions of allowing her to stop. It was the best amusement he’d had for quite a long time, actually.

  “If he hears things that are familiar to him—things that we have deemed unoffensive—my hope is that those are the phrases he’ll make free use of.”

  “Make free with whatever she’s got, lads.”

  Oh, good grief. Would the bird never stop?

  “He seems to use that phrase quite often,” Mr. Farrow noted. “Surely it isn’t one you’ve been reciting of late.”

  “No, definitely not. It seems there are several phrases he employs more frequently than others. I’m not certain what to make of them.”

  “Well, old Glenwick had his own way of things. He never minded the bird’s vulgarities, I’m afraid.”

  "No, he was more likely to encourage— er, that is, it would appear the bird was encouraged to be as inappropriate as possible."

  Mr. Farrow nodded. "I fear that is the case and there is no hope for poor Bartholomew."

  Well, that didn't sound good. Was the vicar already decided to let Max go? What would become of the bird? Blast it all, but somehow he would have to convince the Farrows progress was being made.

  "You mustn't lose hope, sir. Remember, it took years for Bartholomew to develop these patterns. Clearly he is not going to replace them in a single day."

  "Or five," the vicar pointed out.

  "Yes, it does seem things are slow going, I'll admit to that."

  "Yet you truly believe there's hope for him yet?"

  "I do, yes. Most assuredly."

  "Well, he does seem to enjoy your company..."

  Max tucked his bandaged hand behind his back. No sense alerting the good reverend to the fact that Bartholomew had tried to en
joy Max's index finger this morning.

  "I suppose it would not be charitable if we were to abandon the bird after such a short time," Mr. Farrow said after a decisive pause. "Indeed, if you are convinced he is worth the effort, Mr. Shirley, then I will bow to your greater wisdom and experience in the matter."

  Max tugged at his sleeve to make certain it covered the marks on his arm where Bartholomew had tried to "enjoy" that, too.

  "Thank you, sir. I am convinced you will not regret your trust in me."

  "I'm pleased to hear such confidence. As it turns out, we will rely on you heavily over the next days. It will be most imperative that Bartholomew keeps a steady tongue... or beak, or whatever he has there."

  "Oh? Why is that?"

  "A guest, Mr. Shirley. My daughter informs me we are expecting a rather important guest. He should be arriving tomorrow."

  "How pleasant for you."

  "Indeed, it will be. We've not seen him for years, although he was once very dear to us."

  "An old relative, perhaps?"

  "He was formerly a resident of our village."

  Ah, so this was a part of the reason for Miss Farrow's blushes over her mysterious letter. Her gentleman friend—after his recent losses—was now coming back to her. How very interesting. Max was careful to keep the full measure of his curiosity out of his voice.

  "How nice for you to meet with an old friend again. Does he still have family in the village?" he asked.

  "No, I'm afraid not. When his grandfather passed away last month, that was the last of his nearby relations."

  "Last month?"

  "Yes. His grandfather, in fact, was Bartholomew's previous owner. The Earl of Glenwick."

  "Glenwick was his grandfather?"

  By God, he'd not expected that. Miss Farrow's secret beau was none other than Nigel Webberly! Damn. This was going to be sticky. Max had not intended to encounter the man so soon after his arrival in town.

  He should have expected him to turn up right away to claim his inheritance, though. After all, that's what one did when one's grandfather died. No one knew that better than Max.