Miss Farrow's Feathers

by Susan Gee Heino

  And should she have any worries about traveling alone after dark, she’d soon have Mr. Shirley with his broad shoulders to protect her. Although, her sensible side warned her that this was most likely the very thing she most needed protection from. While Mr. Shirley had only ever behaved in the most respectable way toward her, she was beginning to wonder if she ought to be worried for her own respectable behavior. The involuntary thoughts she kept having of the man were not respectable at all!

  But now there he was, waiting for her, waving as if he were nearly as happy to see her as she was to see him. Despite the shadows of the posting house yard she could see that his smile lighted his eyes. And what kind, expressive eyes they were, too. Even after sharing her home with the man for nearly a week she’d not quite gotten used to their earnest blue intensity.

  She would have to school herself carefully to keep from showing that she appreciated—very much—that these expressive blue eyes were fastened clearly on her. By no means did she approve of her unwelcome attraction for the man; she certainly was not about to let him catch wind of it. He’d be gone in just a few days, after all. She had no eagerness to allow him to take even the tiniest bit of her heart with him.

  “Did you have a productive visit?” he asked as he swung himself easily up into her little gig.

  “Er, yes, Thank you.” Good gracious, how can someone so large move so gracefully?

  “And your elderly friend is well?”

  “She is, thank you.” And you are looking very well, too.

  “And her little dog?”

  “He is well, also." How sweet of you to ask after her dog. But wait...

  "Er, how did you know she has a dog?”

  He shrugged, his smile not fading though he hadn’t looked at her once since climbing into the carriage with her. “She’s an older woman who lives alone, I gather. It stands to reason she must have a dog. Or sixteen cats, perhaps.”

  “A dog. His name is Chester. He’s usually quite well behaved, but tonight he seemed intent on barking after some invisible rabbits out in the garden.”

  “Ah, those invisible rabbits. Wiley creatures, I’ve heard. Best to use care around them.”

  “Well, he was quite proud of himself for chasing them off." And if you don't stop being so charming this very instant, I'm likely to drive us into the ditch.

  "I'm just happy someone was there to defend you," he said and finally turned one of those dazzling smiled directly on her.

  Don't drive into the ditch. Don't drive into the ditch.

  "As I told you and Papa it would be, my journey was purely uneventful. Miss Bent and I ended up having a lovely little visit and now I am safely on my way home.”

  “Little visit? You were gone well over an hour, I think. It makes me wonder what you would consider a long visit.”

  How kind of you to worry for me!

  Or was he suspicious? She glanced at him, afraid she might find a brooding, glowering man just waiting to accuse her of all manner of things. She found, however, that he was still smiling. Her insides fluttered.

  “I… I’m sorry if I kept you waiting overly long, sir,” she said.

  “I am teasing you, Miss Farrow. Of course I did not mind waiting. After all, it was my notion to begin with, wasn’t it? I had my letters to write.”

  Thank heavens! She hoped her sigh of relief wasn’t too obvious.

  “And did you get all your letters drafted and sent off?”

  He nodded. “I did, thank you. It would appear a most successful evening for both of us.”

  “Er, yes, I suppose it has been.”

  “Your father will be happy to hear of it. I’m sure Miss Bent will tell him how glad she was to have you stop by.”

  “Er, yes, I suppose she will.”

  “Such altruism must make you very much like a saint, I should think.”

  “That’s overstating it a bit, sir. I merely visited a friend, nothing more especially saintly about that.”

  “What? You put yourself to great trouble, Miss Farrow. You left the security of home and hearth to travel into the fading light for no greater purpose than to bring comfort and happy conversation to a lonely soul. Isn’t that what you did?”

  Now she gritted her teeth. If he had any idea how such praises grated inside her! It was all she could do not to unburden her conscience here and now. But she was strong. She took it all with a wan smile and a weak nod.

  “Thank you, sir, but I am sure you credit me too much.”

  She made the mistake of glancing at him again. This time his eyes were indeed boring into her and she was certain they held some deeper meaning that was tantalizingly out of her reach. What did the man have going on in his head? The way he gazed at her was… she had no words for the heat she felt, nor the way her breath suddenly left her.

  “No, Miss Farrow,” he said, slow and soft. “Until tonight, I fear I did not credit you enough. But now I see there is much more to you than I thought.”

  She barely managed to squeak out a thank you. He grinned, appearing overly happy to have offered his praise. She felt a bit queasy accepting it, knowing how undeserved it really was.

  “Such altruism is indeed rare,” he said, rambling on to make her misery even worse. “I dare say, after your gracious outing tonight you will sleep easy, Miss Farrow.”

  Drat. Until now she had thought her meeting with Mr. Perkins would leave her at ease and let her sleep without worry, but now this unearned admiration from Mr. Shirley stood to undo all of that. He thought she was selfless and kind, when really her motives had been purely conceit. If not for her need to protect herself, Miss Bent would have gone completely uncared for this evening.

  Mr. Shirley was beaming in raptures, thinking kind thoughts toward her that she could not allow. What made it even more unbearable was the fact that she found she truly wanted him to think all this of her—and more. She was already wondering which gown she should wear down to breakfast tomorrow. Would he prefer seeing her in the yellow, or the lavender with the fine lace?

  Drat such thoughts! Her vanity and self-interest were disgusting. When had she become so shallow and petty? Such pride did not even deserve the good favor of a simple parrot trainer. She ought to be fully ashamed of herself.

  She wasn’t, though. She was already picturing how to wear her hair with the lavender gown and praying Mr. Shirley would find the effect fetching. What a giddy sap she was! Whatever would come of such thoughts?

  Indeed, though, the thoughts were persistent and try as she might, she could in no way banish them. Mr. Shirley had taken up firm residence in her imagination and no manner of guilty conscience or common sense could seem to roust him. No, she would not sleep easy tonight. Not at all.

  Max had noted that Miss Farrow was distinctly uneasy by the time they arrived back at the parsonage. He was sure he could detect a thick layer of ice forming over her words and she was perceivably short with him. Her father expressed relief that they’d returned before the sky got any darker, and she was cheerful enough toward him, but her words were few and she excused herself for her chamber as quickly as possible.

  Quite obviously her visit to Glenwick Downs had upset her. Max could well understand that, but he’d rather hoped that since it appeared her search had turned up little that might prove discrediting her attitude would be one of jovial liberation. Clearly the outcome of her visit was proving otherwise. He worried perhaps he knew why.

  She must still care for Nigel. Clearly whatever transpired in the past was not entirely resolved, despite her words to the contrary. He would definitely have to keep an eye on things to be certain his blackguard cousin didn’t hurt her. Again.

  In the meanwhile, he’d do well to make certain none of his concerns were detectable to his hosts. It was time to put himself whole-heartedly into training Bartholomew. Or more accurately, decoding him. He was more convinced than ever that the bird held some sort of key, and it would seem Nigel believed the same.

  He made his polite
good-nights to Mr. Farrow, then went up to his room. Bartholomew waited on his well-worn perch, poking his head out from under his wing and then fluffing his feathers when Max entered the room.

  “Sleeping as if you’ve no care in the world,” Max said, tossing his coat over the bedstead. “Lazy bird.”

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

  Max snarled at him. “Go twist your own pole. I’ve got bigger problems.”

  Ridiculous creature. He’d recited that same phrase all morning long, over and over. It was to the point Max would have welcomed if he'd at least recited the rest of the vulgar rhyme that went with it.

  Oh yes, Max knew all of the rhymes, even though Bartholomew seemed to repeat only certain phrases. The rhymes were contained in a book. Grandfather's book.

  He’d been rather surprised when the book arrived with what turned out to be Grandfather’s final letter to him. Grandfather had never been known to be a lover of great literature and frankly, neither was Max. But this book he knew—he'd stolen glances at it hundreds of times as a boy. And what boy wouldn't have poured over that volume? Nothing of any virtue at all could be found within the pages.

  Grandfather's book came from pirates. Or so he had said. It had sailed around the world, entertaining all who dared open its pages. Max had most certainly dared.

  The mismatched pages within the book—some of them handwritten, some in print—were indeed verse, but nothing that could be confused with Shakespeare or Byron. They were transcriptions of bawdy sea shanties. The book had been in the Glenwick collection for years and apparently Grandfather felt the need to pass it on to Max. How unfortunate that he’d obviously also shared it with Bartholomew.

  “Climb on my pole. Climb on my pole.”

  Ugh, the demmed creature was still at it. Max sighed, and reached—once again—for the Bible he kept close at hand now. For all the good that it did. Oh, certainly he himself must in some way be prospering from these repetitive readings, but the flood of gentle inspiration clearly had little effect on the bird. He took a deep breath and let the book fall open to the familiar twenty-third psalm.

  “The Lord is my shepherd,” he read, making eye contact and praying this time his words would sink in. “I shall not want.”

  “You’ll want what she’s got,” the bird interrupted. “Just visit dear Dot.”

  Another damn rhyme. Max recognized that one from Grandfather’s book, as well. He growled in frustration and tossed the Bible down on the bed.

  “I’m sure my father would disapprove of your treatment of God’s word,” a stern feminine voice spoke from the doorway.

  Damn. He’d left the door open a bit and Miss Farrow had just caught him pitching the Holy Bible as if it were nothing more than a cricket ball. He was lucky she spoke up before she’d had opportunity to watch him strangle a helpless parrot, as well. Although, he had a feeling her father wouldn’t be so very disapproving of that.

  “Miss Farrow! Er, I was just having another go at convincing Bartholomew to replace his current vocal repertoire with something a bit more inspirational.”

  “Not having much luck, I take it.”

  “No. Not so much.”

  He assumed at this point she’d simply roll her nut-brown eyes at his incompetence and walk away, but she did not. She did, in fact, walk right in over his threshold and stand delightfully close to him as she studied the offending bird. Bartholomew cocked his yellow head, squinted his orange eyes, and studied her right back.

  “Perhaps he does not like Scripture?” she suggested.

  “I am quite inclined to believe that is the case.”

  “Have you any other material? Perhaps he might like something else.”

  “I’ve tried several volumes of your father’s sermons, some improving lessons, and even a bit of The Ladies Monthly Museum.”

  “He would not learn from it?”

  “Rejected my every word.”

  Now her eyes settled on something across the room and she darted over to the little night table to pick it up. He did not see immediately what it was or, by God, he’d have found some way to stop her. Too late, she turned to him with a book open in her hands.

  “But here is a collection of poetry! Perhaps he might like something from this.”

  The air vacated Max’s lungs and he couldn’t even croak out a warning before she started reading aloud from a randomly chosen verse. And random fate was cruel. She chose a particularly meaningful verse. Worse, she was a fast reader. She was halfway through the verse before the particular meaning of it struck her.

  “A vicar and lass fell down into a hole,” she read. “Said he, ‘I’ve a mind for a tussle and roll. Since we’re trapped in a well, nearly halfway to hell…’ What on earth…? Oh! But this isn’t poetry, it’s… Oh, heavens!”

  Apparently Bartholomew could not stand to let the rhyme go unfinished, so he completed it for her. “Perhaps you should climb on my pole.”

  “Er, yes. Not exactly poetry,” Max said.

  He should probably begin packing his belongings right now. Miss Farrow’s expression was a worrisome blend of shock and disgust. Max was ready to pull the book from her hands, to rescue her from its offensive content, but she surprised him by retaining it. Her expression shifted from distress to something more in the neighborhood of curiosity as she flipped through the pages.

  “The whole book is that way, one rhyme after another,” she noted. “And some pages are not print; they are handwritten and bound with the others. What is this book, Mr. Shirley?”

  “It is.. I mean, I came by it when… that is, I found it. Yes, it is a collection I found.”

  She frowned. “Not in our house, you didn’t.”

  “No, I found it elsewhere and didn’t realize what it was.”

  “But then how did Bartholomew become familiar with it?”

  “I… er, I believe it to be a collection of sea shanties and bawdy songs. Very likely they are widely known among low peoples, which must be where Bartholomew learned his patterns.”

  She cocked a dubious eyebrow at him. “Are you saying the Earl of Glenwick was a low person?”

  “Certainly not. But surely the earl is not the one who taught this bird. You told me yourself Bartholomew had owners prior to him.”

  “Yes, that’s true. He lived aboard ship for many years, raised by sailors on a merchant line. The earl had some investments in shipping, I believe, and somehow that is how the bird came to eventually be in his possession.”

  A brief yet accurate summation. Max nodded, as if taking in the information for the first time. Primarily, though, he was digesting the fact that Miss Farrow was still skimming through pages in the book, stopping here and there to read over a passage more than once. As he was familiar with most of those passages himself, he could barely contain his amazement at her calm demeanor.

  What an enigma this miss was turning out to be! Was she the virtuous vicar’s daughter she appeared, or was there something simmering beneath the surface, after all? How on earth could she not be blushing and balking or swooning, even, as she read through those crude rhymes? At a few of them Max himself had not been able to hold back an uncomfortable snigger.

  “You know, Mr. Shirley, I am noticing something in this collection,” she said, as primly as ever.

  “Er, you are?”

  “Yes. Bartholomew seems to speak some of these lines over and other, yet never in connection with any of the other lines from the same rhyme.”

  “I suppose that is true…”

  “Well, I wonder at that.”

  “You wonder at that?”

  Truly? Of all the things implied and quite plainly described in those rhymes, that is what she was wondering at?

  “Why would he not recite several lines from the same rhyme? Presumably he repeats what he hears. Why should he not repeat the whole rhyme? Why only parts of it? Who recites rhymes without any of the rhyming?”

  “He’s an animal, Miss Farrow. He ha
s no notion of rhyme or reason. Certain things stick in his little brain and certain things do not, I suppose.”

  She did not seem to accept that as an adequate answer. She did, however, keep turning pages in the book. He was becoming most uncomfortable with that. How could he explain this to her father should he find them like this, alone in Max’s bedroom with Miss Farrow deep in a very inappropriate volume of filth!

  “I suppose you are right,” she said at last, and finally pressed the book shut. “Perhaps it is just a matter of patience. With all of your efforts at training, surely eventually he will have more on his mind than corruption.”

  Max wondered how long it would be before he could get his own mind onto something other than corruption. By the devil, Miss Farrow’s wide-eyed interest in that book was doing the most unexpected things to his imagination. And the rest of him, too. He could barely recall what a parrot was just now, let alone think how to train one.

  “I should go,” she said, and reached to hand the book back to him.

  He took it. When her skin brushed his it was like the woman had been made of flame. He pulled the book back more abruptly than intended, but it was purely for self-defense. Prolonged nearness to Miss Farrow was proving ducedly bad for his system.

  She didn’t wait for his reply—which was a good thing since he wasn’t exactly prepared to give one—but turned on her heel and left. The door shut behind her as she glided away on the swish of crisp muslin and the scent of fresh lavender. Max drew in a long, deep breath, refusing to exhale until the room spun around him. By God, what was wrong with him?

  “You’ll want what she’s got,” Bartholomew squawked out another blasted line from another blasted rhyme.

  Max threw the cursed book at him. Of course he hadn’t really aimed well, and of course Bartholomew flapped his wings and rose up into the air long enough to be safe from the book if it had happened to have gone near him, but the action felt good. Max needed some sort of outlet for whatever it was that had built up inside him. There was no way he’d stop to examine it any further.