Miss Farrow's Feathers

by Susan Gee Heino

  "I'll not fall into such fancy again," she said to a vacantly staring deer head displayed on the wall. "I learned my lesson seven years ago and I'll not be repeating it."

  She was likely imagining things, but it seemed that the deer rolled his eyes.

  Chapter 8

  Max could see her plainly from his hiding place. He was getting a cramp in his leg, however, from crouching so long. Indeed, he’d been considerably smaller and more flexible when he and his cousin had made use of this crumbling old chimney to spy on their grandfather while he worked in his study. He’d never been doing anything of interest, but they’d been so proud of themselves for their stealth and cleverness. In reality, Grandfather had probably known all along what they were up to. Max had to smile now at those memories.

  His smile faded quickly, though. Things were entirely different now. Those carefree, peaceful times he had known here in childhood were gone. Everything was changed.

  He could not see the whole study from where he spied, but he could see enough. The room was in utter disarray—Grandfather would never have left it this way. Had Mr. Perkins destroyed it? Someone had, certainly. Papers were jumbled everywhere, drawers were pulled out... even the vulgar old ship's figurehead of a buxom maiden that had hung on the wall over Grandfather's desk was now gone.

  Clearly someone had not been merely rearranging. A concerted search had been conducted and Max doubted it was merely for those incriminating papers for Miss Farrow. Not that he himself wouldn't have liked to get his hands on them.

  So, that's what her business with the steward was about. She was not shagging him, she was using him to save herself from public scandal should those documents come to light. She had been shagging Nigel.

  At least, that's what it seemed those documents would reveal. Clearly Grandfather believed it, too. Given the warm reception Max had seen on her face at the reception of Nigel's correspondence, all the evidence seemed to concur. Grandfather likely had good reason to think Nigel's bastard child might be on the way. He'd done the honorable thing, drawing up papers to see to the welfare of the child, even as cowardly Nigel had run off to marry for money.

  Poor Miss Farrow. Max should probably not feel so charitable toward her, knowing the truth of her character now, but it was exactly that truth that touched his compassionate side. She'd been young and impressionable. Nigel had used her abominably then abandoned her. The fact that Miss Farrow managed to hold her head high and go on with her life after that was a testament to her strength of will. Max could not fault that.

  She'd not been lying and conspiring with Mr. Perkins to find Grandfather's treasure, she was trying to salvage what she could of her reputation. It was no more sordid than that. Clearly if she had been privy to any secrets from his grandfather, she would have revealed them now. Her desperation was obvious.

  Also obvious was her declaration to avoid falling prey to Nigel again. Yes, Max had heard that statement loud and clear. He doubted the deer head on the wall had paid it much mind, but Max certainly had. He respected Miss Farrow all the more for it.

  He considered leaving now, heading back to the posting house to await Miss Farrow's return and to pretend he had been there this whole time, when voices below him ended all thoughts of removal. Voiced he recognized.

  The chimney where he huddled served several rooms. He had positioned himself in an upstairs chamber, leering into the ancient—and filthy—opening just enough to see through the tiny slit of chink between bricks that allowed an astute spy to see into the study below. However, the chimney also served the small anteroom just off of the study. It was there that the voices were emanating.

  He could not see into the anteroom from here, nor could someone in the study hear the voices from there. The thick walls of the manor would deaden the sound down below, but the hollow flue running between rooms provided a perfect conduit for the voices to travel up here. He listened carefully.

  “She claims to know nothing,” the first voice spoke in a tense, quiet whisper. It was the Perkins fellow.

  “Did you ask the right questions?” the other voice inquired.

  Max strained to hear it. A man. Did he know the voice?

  “I asked everything that I could. If she truly doesn’t know about it, I don’t want to tell her,” Perkins snapped back. “I'm inclined to believe her. She doesn’t know anything.”

  “She came out here readily enough, didn’t she? She must know something.”

  “No. She’s worried her little dalliance with you will come to light, that’s why she’s here.”

  The second speaker laughed. Hellfire. Max knew that laugh. Nigel Webberly, the new Earl of Glenwick.

  “If she’s worried about that, she must have a much better recollection of things than I do. That chit was cold as December, laced up tight as a drum and locked together at the knees. I assure you, Perkins, she’s got nothing to worry about for her precious reputation. There's no way she could believe that rubbish about my grandfather thinking I'd got her with child. It would have taken the angel Gabriel to make that happen, I'm afraid."

  "She seems to believe it."

  "Well, she doesn't," Nigel insisted. "No, if she’s here now it’s because she knows about the treasure.”

  “Everyone knows about the treasure.”

  “No, everyone has heard about the treasure but my damn grandfather told us all it was a myth, just a legend. No one believes that it’s real.”

  “Whoever sent that letter to the old earl knows it’s real,” Perkins pointed out.

  “And you went and showed it to her! If she didn’t know about it before, she does now, damn your eyes.”

  “I smudged out the date. She thinks that letter was referring to your grandfather’s suspicions about her possible condition. I told her the mention of treasure was nothing more than a euphemism. She has no idea what it really meant.”

  “Or so she let you believe. Maybe she knows who that X is and now she’ll go warn him we’re onto things. What did you find out about the parrot? How does he figure into this?

  "I'm not sure," Perkins replied. "But they've hired a trainer for it.”

  "A what? Who?"

  "I don't know. He seems harmless, though."

  "Damn them all. Do you suppose they've learned anything from the bird?"

  "They've learned to keep their fingers away from its beak, I suppose. The creature's a menace. I'd say if they'd have gotten anything useful out of it, they'd have done away with it already."

  "I need to know what they know."

  “And that’s why you’re going to put the girl into your pocket again,” Perkins said. “Isn’t that what you said? Make her your friend until you know what she knows?”

  Nigel laughed again, a low, dusky rasp that didn’t sound pleasant at all. “Indeed, I said that. Been sending her letters, you know. She’s going to think I’ve dreamed of nothing but her virtuous countenance for all these past years. She'll be swooning for me when I gallantly present myself to her tomorrow. Who knows, maybe by now that chain around her knees has loosened up a bit.”

  “She’s a decent woman,” Perkins said sharply. “You intend to seduce her?”

  “I intend to get what’s mine. And don’t think you ought to go growing a conscience now, Perkins. Your hands are as dirty as mine in this matter. The title, the treasure and very ripe Miss Farrow belong to me and I will have them. If you don’t want to end up swinging on a rope, I suggest you make yourself useful.”

  Perkins muttered something Max couldn’t make out. Perhaps the man simply swore under his breath, or perhaps the rage pounding through Max’s body was drowning everything out. By God, all the horrors that had hounded him, that he’d tried to tell himself were impossible, were laid out undeniably before him.

  The Glenwick treasure was real, Nigel had murdered their grandfather, and Mr. Perkins had his hands on that last letter from X. It was just a matter of time before Nigel realized the handwriting was Max's, and no doubt that date had been smud
ged only after he and Perkins had seen it. The worst of it all, Miss Farrow was innocent and being pulled into something that truly might ruin her. Permanently.

  Of course she’d found nothing of interest in the mess that was Lord Glenwick’s study. She did look around a bit, but things had not only been disorganized, she had the impression someone had truly ransacked it. Of course Mr. Perkins had been looking for things, but he was certainly not the type to toss things haphazardly into corners and dump out drawers. Surely the old earl would never have left it that way. So who had?

  Her whole experience at Glenwick Downs had been odd, to say the least. Perhaps it was just her conscience that pricked, but she had the distinct feeling the whole time she was there someone had been watching her. And the way Mr. Perkins had talked, she expected to find much more information available to her when she arrived. Instead, it was only those few undamning draft copies and that one letter signed only by “X”. None of that could really cause her much worry. Her name was on none of it.

  Of course she appreciated Mr. Perkin’s overblown concern for her, but it had been unnecessary. When he returned from his errand she thanked him, but made her excuse and hurried out to Papa’s gig. It wasn’t until she was halfway down the lane that she recalled none of those papers had actually been destroyed while she was there. Hadn’t that been a main purpose of her visit? Hopefully Mr. Perkins would tend to that for her before the new earl arrived tomorrow.

  It was a relief to know that her name was not actually in those papers, but it would be embarrassing to think Nigel might see them. Not traumatic, though, she was happy to realize as she searched her own heart. There was nothing there that might indicate she had done anything to cause the old earl to fall into his erroneous assumption. And if Nigel did decide to hold her accountable, there was nothing she could do about that.

  It was remarkably freeing to realize she truly did not care one way or the other what Nigel Webberly thought about her. She honestly felt no remaining attraction for him whatsoever. How amazing to realize that!

  It would be good to have Nigel returned just because they were old friends, but for no other reason than that. Perhaps, as Mr. Perkins suggested, Nigel would ask for his grandfather’s parrot back and Meg's house could become peaceful again. And with Bartholomew gone, Mr. Shirley would be gone, too. She would be perfectly happy to watch him leave.

  He'd walk away, taking those blue eyes, dazzling smile and broad, manly shoulders with him. He'd walk right out of their house and out of their lives and she could practically picture it already: his long legs and self-assured gait... the way he might turn his head back to catch one final look at her... the burning regret she might see in those deep azure eyes... the adorable creases at the corners of his lips when she began running after him...

  Oh, good heavens! Any more of this and she was going to require medical intervention. What was wrong with her? She would not run after the parrot trainer. Ever.

  Determined to think no more of Mr. Shirley than was absolutely necessary—and more and more it was becoming painfully necessary—she slapped the reins on the old horse. The sun was just a tiny red glow on the horizon, shadows stretched long over the road. She had just enough time to stop at Miss Bent’s house to say a quick hello then go back to the posting house to retrieve the broad shoulders. Er, Mr. Shirley.

  Max had managed to keep track of her carriage from the moment it left Glenwick Downs. The sun was very nearly gone so he had ample shadows to hide in, creeping out the same secret way he’d crept into the manor, then staying low, unseen behind the lush plantings and rolling landscape until he could follow the road, hidden in the brush of the creek bed.

  Poor Miss Farrow had no clue that his damn cousin was already returned, or that the vile man had some rather unsavory plans for her. Indeed, Max was firmly convinced that Miss Farrow was, in fact, innocent of all his suspicions. Well, most of them.

  She may have not given Nigel any particular liberties with her body, but she'd obviously given him her heart. Judging by Miss Farrow’s determination to lie her way over to Glenwick Downs and hunt through those old papers, she must know that her behavior seven years ago would be enough to give everyone reason to think Grandfather’s concerns must have had some foundation. She'd be labeled guilty whether she'd done anything wrong or not.

  Damn, but this new understanding made Max’s already piqued interest in Miss Farrow all that much stronger. And something else—he felt an annoying need to protect her. As if he wanted that additional burden just now! Nigel would be showing his face around town as early as tomorrow and he’d be most unhappy to find Max here, alive and still breathing. If Max had any sense, he’d take himself back to London and let the authorities deal with this mess. Surely he had enough detail to raise official suspicion by now, plus he was content that Miss Farrow and her father were not involved in any of it.

  He should let the courts go about the work of finding proof to convict Nigel, and that damn, slimy steward along with him. All Max needed to do was present himself as the true heir and call for Nigel to be slapped in chains. Hell, that ought to cure Miss Farrow of any tendre she still felt for the man. She would do well to forget Nigel and set her sights toward someone more deserving of her esteem. Someone with a legitimate claim to a title, perhaps.

  As if he could pass for someone like that just now, though. He slunk down into the brush as her carriage rattled by. He'd encountered some nettles along the way and his hands stung from the contact. His clothes were coated in leaves and grass and soot from the old chimney. He could only imagine what his face must look like. Oh yes, he was a fine gentleman indeed. He doubted he could even pass for a parrot trainer right now.

  Good thing she could not see him. She concentrated on the road before her, guiding the carriage with a firm hand, clearly eager to be about her business and clearly deeply in thought. The last rays of sunlight were golden and cast a warm glow over her features. They were good features, too. Max took advantage of his position to stare, appreciating her form, the graceful movements of her hands, the light breeze tossing a stray curl that dangled at her cheek.

  Yes, he could readily see what Nigel might find to interest him in the woman. She was easy on the eyes. She’d been close to their grandfather, as well. Did she possess information that Nigel was hunting? Could she even, unknowingly, have been given clues that might lead them to Grandfather’s treasure? Max could not rule out the possibility. He didn’t want to rule it out, either. To give up on that possibility would mean he had no further reason to study Miss Farrow. And he intended to continue that as long as he could.

  For now, though, she was rounding the next bend. He would have to hurry if he meant to be waiting at the posting house when she arrived there to get him. Unless, of course, she did not intend to go back there directly.

  He crossed the road silently behind her, darting behind a long hedgerow. He had a suspicion and hoped he would not turn out to be wrong. Letting her get farther ahead of him might be problematic if she did, indeed, arrive at the inn to find him gone. How could he explain his absence and his disheveled state without giving away that he knew what she’d been up to?

  But as he watched, his suspicions proved to be justified. Instead of continuing on, she pulled the gig into the yard of a small cottage that sat near to the road. Max smiled. He should never have doubted. The woman was honest to a fault. This must be Miss Bent’s house. Miss Farrow was visiting her elderly friend, after all.

  He crept up behind the house and fully intended to lurk outside a window, just for the amusement of eavesdropping and seeing more of Miss Farrow when she was not intentionally ignoring him or purposefully making herself as unpleasant as possible. However, when Miss Farrow was let into the home by a round little woman, a fluffy white dog came out into the yard to yap incessantly in his direction. He had to leave, disappearing beyond the low stone wall that flanked the cottage and making tracks toward an apple orchard nearby.

  It was an easy walk to
the posting house from there. He kept out of view from the road and remain undetected, arriving in time to use water from the pump to right his mussed clothing and wash his stinging hands. The little red welts were beginning to fade. He retrieved his small writing box that he’d left hidden behind a pile of timber stacked just out of view from the road and found a safe place to wait.

  Just as Miss Farrow, he hadn't completely lied about his need to come here today. He had indeed posted a letter and was glad when the innkeeper assured him it had gone out in the last post. He could expect to have a certain friend of his arrive here in Richington tomorrow. Then the fun would begin.

  He made himself comfortable on a bench outside the posting house and opened his writing box. Why look, he even had ink on his fingers, just in case Miss Farrow should have reason to question his alibi. Lord knew he was going to question hers.

  Chapter 9

  Miss Bent was overly glad to see Meg. Chester, her little dog, seemed rather more interested in whatever rabbit must have been hopping about Miss Bent’s back garden, but he settled down eventually. It was good to see that other people had trouble with their pets, too, at times. Perhaps Bartholomew wasn’t such a freak of nature, after all.

  Then again, Chester didn’t screech out a full dozen verses to “Roll Your Leg Over” every blessed day.

  Meg kept her visit as brief as possible, but of course Miss Bent had much to say. Her widowed niece generally lived with her but was currently away at her sister's home in London. Miss Bent was quite happy to share each and every detail from each and every letter she’d received from her during her absence. As Meg discovered, the niece was exceptionally prolific. Fortunately the niece promised her visit to London would end soon and she’d return home to Richington so Meg would likely be spared another recitation of the letters.

  Finally she said her good-byes. The sun had fully set, but she knew the roads well and was not worried about traveling such a short distance after dark. Besides, she’d be meeting Mr. Shirley soon. Of course she shouldn’t be quite as pleased to think of reuniting with him as she was, but she worked to convince herself it was simply relief that she was feeling. Her scheme had worked as planned and soon she would be done with these lies and deception.