Max was contemplating what Perkins must have done or said to tempt her in the first place when he suddenly realized footsteps from inside the room were coming toward him. Damnation! He gathered his wits just in time to jump away, back toward the stairs, and pretended to have just entered the area as the door to the drawing room opened.
A well-dressed—but very middle-aged—gentleman appeared in the doorway. Behind him, Max could see that Miss Farrow was surprised to find someone so nearby. He smiled casually as if he knew nothing and nodded toward the gentleman.
"I beg your pardon, I had no idea there were guests."
With a courteous bow he stepped backward, up onto the bottom step to allow ample room for Miss Farrow and her gentleman to proceed past him toward the front door. They did not. Mr. Perkins understandably narrowed his eye and studied Max. No doubt he had good reason to wonder what Miss Farrow was doing with yet another gentleman in her personal orbit.
She detected the quandary and cleared her throat. "Mr. Perkins, this is Mr. Shirley. He is here assisting my father with, er, a project."
Max bowed once again. “I am the parrot expert, sir. I am assisting with the parrot.”
Mr. Perkin’s brows went upward. “Assisting with the parrot? I was unaware there was anything wrong with the bird.”
“Bartholomew’s fine,” Miss Farrow informed. “But it’s his language, of course. Papa decided we needed to bring in a trainer to reform him.”
Mr. Perkins actually seemed interested. “I see. And have you had much success, Mr. Shirley?”
“Some,” Max replied.
“Very little,” Miss Farrow chimed over top of his reply. “Bartholomew spouts his rubbish all hours of the day and we are yet to make heads or tails of any of it.”
“But we are trying,” Max finished, determined not to let her malign his competence, despite the fact he admittedly had none—in the area of parrot training, at least. “These things take time.”
“Well, I’m sure that his lordship appreciates all your effort,” Mr. Perkins said. “He will undoubtedly be happy to reunite with the bird once he’s arrived back at the manor.”
Even Miss Farrow seemed surprised to hear this. “Reunite at the manor? Do you suppose Ni—the new earl will wish to keep his grandfather’s parrot for himself?”
Mr. Perkins shrugged. “It would stand to reason he might. The bird was very dear to his grandfather, after all. True, his language is abhorrent, but for sentiment’s sake, I would imagine the new earl will want the bird back.”
Miss Farrow chewed her lip. “Right away, do you suppose?”
"I don't see why not, especially if Mr. Shirley has not been achieving success with his training."
"But I have," Max argued, pointlessly. "Some."
"Then his lordship will undoubtedly thank you," Mr. Perkins said cheerfully then headed for the door. "I will inform my employer of these new developments."
His employer? Ah, so Mr. Perkins worked for cousin Nigel. Max wondered what Nigel would do if he knew just how closely his associate was attending his duties.
"I'm sure we will be happy to see the new earl reunited with Bartholomew," Miss Farrow said, following her guest to the door. "And thank you so much for your visit today, Mr. Perkins."
"Indeed it was my pleasure," the man said, turning to face her and give Max a dismissive nod. "And a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Shirley. I must be about my business now, but I look forward to seeing you again, Miss Farrow."
She gave no hint of looking forward to the same as she returned his nod. "Yes, thank you, Mr. Perkins."
Once again Max was impressed by her coolness. She actually showed more emotion at the mention of the offensive parrot being dislodged from her home than she had at the veiled reference to her scheduled liaison with the bland Mr. Perkins. Who was the fellow that he should presume to know what Nigel would or would not wish to do with their grandfather's prized parrot? Especially if it the good reverend had been specifically entrusted with the bird by the old man himself?
It was all very odd. Max would most definitely be interested in learning more about Mr. Perkins and this entire situation.
"Mr. Perkins is steward at Lord Glenwick's estate," Miss Farrow kindly informed Max once the door was shut behind the man and they were alone.
Ah, that explained things. Somewhat. But whatever happened to Mr. Hastey, the steward Max remembered from his own days at Glenwick? He very nearly asked, but of course that would have enlightened Miss Farrow that he had some connection to the place and he most certainly was not ready for that. Not now, when he was only just getting some solid evidence to prove his suspicions.
"Ah, I see," Max said, although of course he truly didn't.
Miss Farrow didn't seem to care one way or another, though. "If you'll excuse me, Mr. Shirley, I have, er, things to tend."
He bowed politely and stepped aside to allow her access to the stairway. "Yes, I'm sure that you do, Miss Farrow."
She frowned at him, then shrugged and scurried past, trotting upstairs to tend whatever it was she needed to tend in preparation for her evening's plans. He almost felt sorry for her, knowing things were not very likely to go as expected. After all, he intended to interrupt them.
Meg absently tapped the table and glanced—for the hundredth time—at the clock. Was it her imagination, or was dinner taking interminably long tonight? And could Papa possibly chew any slower? Heavens, but she was becoming more and more agitated every minute. Surely Mr. Perkins was going to give up on her, to think she was not coming.
And of course she really shouldn't go. Indeed, anything that required her to lie to Papa could surely not be a proper thing to do. Then again, it would certainly not be proper if these papers Mr. Perkins mentioned were to turn up in the wrong hands, their horrible accusations and assumptions coming into public knowledge! No indeed, that would not be proper at all, either.
She had no choice but to slink over there and help Mr. Perkins look for them. She simply had to find them, or at least be convinced they'd been destroyed years ago. It was wrong to lie and to go sneaking around, of course, but she comforted herself with the knowledge it was for a worthy cause. It would protect Papa, of course.
"You've hardly eaten, my dear," he said from his place at the head of the table.
She started. "What? Oh, but I find I'm not terribly hungry, Papa."
"Perhaps this meal is not to your liking," Mr. Shirley suggested. "Could it be you have an appetite for something else?"
"No, of course not. It's just... I have recalled that I had promised to look in on Miss Bent today. You know Miss Bent, Papa. She's been ill, the poor thing. She's really quite elderly now and her niece has had to go into Town for a time. We know times are tough for them and I do worry so. I feel simply awful that I've not been to see them and after I had promised and all... so perhaps I should go over there now. Yes, I should, don't you think? Of course you do. You always tell me to do what is right, Papa, and I did make a promise..."
Mr. Shirley was watching her intently. What was that look in his eye? Condemnation. It was almost as if he could detect that that she lied! Could he? No, surely not. How could he? She was merely imagining things. He wasn't condemning her at all. He was smiling, in fact.
"It's refreshing to hear a young lady so dedicated to good work, Miss Farrow," he said. "Too often young ladies seem to care only for fripple and finery and beaux. How pleasant to see you are nothing at all like those pretty packages with nothing inside them but cotton."
"Thank you, sir," she said, but wasn't quite sure that he merited it. Had that been a compliment? She wasn't at all certain.
"You want to go visiting now?" Papa asked. "But it will be dark in two hours."
Oh, bother. She was going to have to elaborate on her lies to convince Papa. Drat. How she hated that! But what other option did she have?
"Perhaps I could accompany you?" Mr. Shirley offered unexpectedly. He smiled again at her, then turned his attention to Papa. "Th
at is, if you think such a thing might be appropriate, sir. I agree that it is not wise for Miss Farrow to be out on her own as evening wears on, but she did give her word to this Miss Bent, and the poor old woman must need visiting. I could surely see that Miss Farrow is safe on her errand of mercy."
Good heavens, this was the last thing she needed! But surely Papa would never allow it. To send her off alone with Mr. Shirley would be even more inappropriate than allowing her out on her own, of course. No doubt she could trust Papa to be sensible about this, at least.
But Papa's sense of propriety failed her.
"You would do that, Mr. Shirley? How very considerate of you," he gushed.
"It is the least I could do, sir, after you and Miss Farrow have been so gracious toward me."
"But Mr. Shirley," she protested, hoping she didn't sound quite as desperate as she felt. "As Papa noted, it's getting on toward dark, and I'm afraid you don't know it, but Miss Bent lives almost a mile out of town. It's nearly as far as Glenwick Downs. I can't possibly prevail on you to put yourself out for such a distance on my account."
But it seemed her argument had the opposite effect as she'd hoped.
"What, so far out of town?" Mr. Shirley exclaimed. "Then I flatly insist, Miss Farrow. You must let me accompany you."
"Most definitely!" Papa said. "And you should take the carriage. It is worth it in this instance, my dear. "
She franticly searched for a way out. "But Papa... it's such an imposition for Mr. Shirley and... and you know how timid Miss Bent has gotten in her old age. Just think what a fright it might be to have a carriage arrive with a strange gentleman."
Papa countered easily. "But you would be there to reassure her, my dear."
If she had been a child she would have stamped her foot and pouted. As it was, she had to settle for a disappointed frown.
"I don't know, Papa. Perhaps I should not go."
Drat. She could hardly not go, so it appeared she truly would have to sneak away. Perhaps she could claim a headache and retire to her room early. Would Papa discover her gone if she then tiptoed away? Would he even believe a headache story after she made such a fuss about leaving? Likely not. She wasn't sure what she could do.
"But you must go," Mr. Shirley said. "I can see your concern for your friend and you are to be commended for it. Surely you will not rest well if you have not looked in on her."
"Yes, but—"
"But you are concerned my presence will upset the frail old dear. Yes, I can very well understand that. I am a stranger here, after all. But she lives out of the village, you say? Is it, perhaps, in the direction of the posting house?"
Meg wasn't sure of his intent, but she nodded in confirmation. "Yes, it is, actually. Just a slight ways beyond."
"Excellent. Then perhaps, if your father agrees, I could ride with you that far and you could drop me off at the posting house. I have some letters I should send and can post them from there. Perhaps the distance from there to Miss Bent's house is not too great and your father will not worry of you traveling alone. When you are done, you can simply retrieve me on your return."
Meg was a bit dubious of this suggestion, but Papa latched right onto it.
"Capital! Indeed, a most excellent solution, Mr. Shirley. You are resourceful, indeed. Don't you agree, Meggie?"
"Indeed, it does seem to suit all our needs..."
"Then it is settled," Papa said. "Thank you, Mr. Shirley. I'll send for the carriage immediately and I suggest you set off right away, the sooner the better, to make use of what daylight there is."
"But you know how Miss Bent likes to talk, Papa," Meg said, giving one last half-hearted effort at dissuading Mr. Shirley. "I could be there quite a while."
"No need to worry on my account," Mr. Shirley said. "I've got a book I can bring. Once my letters are done, if you are not back, I can read. Feel free to take your time. Even if after dark, you'll be quite safe with me, Miss Farrow."
"Wonderful!" Papa exclaimed, giving Meg no opportunity to quarrel.
"Fear not, Miss Farrow," Mr. Shirley said with a dashing grin. "I'm an excellent watch dog, you'll find."
Drat him, but that's what she was afraid of.
Chapter 7
His companion was uneasy. Just as he hoped. She was perched nervously beside him in her father's carriage—which turned out to be nothing more than a very modest gig—and her apprehension was palpable. Max was going to enjoy this little drive.
“You’ll tell me the way I should go, won’t you?” he asked, although he knew it quite well. “You are much more knowledgeable about it than I am, and I’d hate to proceed in the wrong direction.”
“I doubt that will happen. There is but one road leading north out of Richington.”
“Yes, but if you’re not on alert, I might go too far, Miss Farrow.”
He watched her expression, wondering if she noticed he intentionally chose phrasing that could have been interpreted more than one way. Amazingly, she seemed completely innocent—or at least quite oblivious. How could she possibly be on her way to an illicit liaison and not recognize his most eloquent double entendres? What was he to make of this chit, anyway?
“I will alert you when we have gone far enough, sir.”
Indeed, he had no doubt she would. Miss Farrow might be prepared to go entirely too far with her friend Mr. Perkins, but Max had no reason to expect her attitude toward him to be similarly accommodating. What was it about Perkins that appealed to her?
She gave no indication of passion or honest affection for the man. From all he could see, she was mostly indifferent toward him. So why go to all this trouble to meet him this way? Why risk public scandal and shame? There could really only be one logical answer—her interest must have something to do with the man's position.
Mr. Perkins was steward at Glenwick Downs. He had been managing things for Max’s grandfather. Obviously, if anyone would know the old earl’s secrets, it would be his steward. And since Mr. Perkins expressed special interest in Bartholomew, there was one conclusion Max could draw.
The steward must know of his grandfather’s hidden treasure and Miss Farrow must be in league with him to find it. That had to be why she would put up with the annoying bird in her home when clearly she would rather have not, and that was why she would waste her time with a lowly steward. She wanted that treasure and she needed Mr. Perkins to help her find it.
“So you are certain you do not need me to accompany you to your friend’s house?” Max asked her after a few moments of uncomfortable silence.
“No! That is, I would hate to worry her, as I said. If you don’t mind waiting at the posting house, that would be best.”
“Of course. If you’re certain.”
“I am.”
“And you’ll be safe on your own?”
“Of course I will. It isn't as if Richington is overrun with highwaymen and the like. Besides, we still have some hours of daylight. I’ll hardly be alone on the road but for a few minutes.”
Indeed, she was likely correct about that. If Perkins was any sort of a man, he’d be waiting at the front gate for her and wouldn’t waste a minute getting to their business. But this caused Max to wonder. What—other than the obvious—was their business tonight? Surely Miss Farrow expected more than a quick tussle. Did they have some promising clue, some evidence gained to lead them on to the treasure?
He himself had been less than successful at gaining that knowledge. His grandfather’s last letter had indicated quite plainly how the information was to be got, but so far all Max’s efforts had come up empty. It seemed, despite his grandfather’s conviction that he had passed his secrets along to his trusted pet, Bartholomew was not inclined to share what he knew of the whereabouts of any treasure. Try as he might, Max had not got him to spout off anything but low-minded drivel.
So what clues did Miss Farrow and her uninspiring lover have? Max could hardly wait to find out. He only hoped his grandfather hadn’t done much renovation on the
aging manor house in the years since Max had last visited. He was counting on the secret passages he’d played in as a child still being passable and, well, still secret.
Meg glanced over her shoulder, not for the first time. Was someone following her? She saw nothing, just the long, evening shadows on the familiar road. Her horse plodded along peacefully, unaware of any potential danger.
Meg's heart pounded, though. She'd left Mr. Shirley at the posting house not half a mile back. He'd seemed content enough, hauling his leather bag containing the writing supplies he'd need to catch up on correspondence. It actually seemed he was looking forward to a couple quiet hours without Bartholomew. Not that she could blame him for that...
She glanced around again, seeing nothing but trees and farm fields and the occasional sheep in the distance. The hairs pricked at the back of her neck, though. Why should she be so on edge? Indeed, if there was anything to fear here, it was Meg's own conscience, clearly quite unsettled by her lies and deceit. This sort of thing was not at all her usual manner and her stomach churned over and over because of it.
She had lied to Papa, lied to Mr. Shirley, and was now heading off to meet Mr. Perkins to work at concealing yet something else. Heavens, how had she come to this? It was no wonder her nerves were frayed and she felt quite a wreck. It would serve her right to develop digestive spasms after this.
But now the horse's ears did flick. Indeed, Meg had heard a twig crunch in the brush behind them, and the animal heard it, too. She glanced back. Again, there was nothing and no one. It appeared she and her horse were alone on the road.
Well, the little creek bed that had been running along near the road veered off toward the east and with it the undergrowth. For the next mile, Meg would have nothing but open farmland on either side. If anyone was following, she would certainly see them, and hopefully be able to avoid any confrontation. She slapped the horse into a more rapid trot and soon left any tree, creekbed, or possible hiding place far behind her.
Miss Farrow's Feathers Page 6
