Currently, however, his shoulder was serving as a perch. Bartholomew left the post he’d been gnawing at and came to rest on Max’s coat. He could fairly hear the bird’s clawed toes snagging and tearing at the fabric.
“Oh, so now you think you are free to climb all over me?” he asked, digging in his pocket to find a few of the morsels he’d tucked in there for the creature.
“Climb on my pole!” Bartholomew replied, repeating the phrase until finally Max was able to distract him with his thumb.
By God, the bird was incorrigible. The least little thing seemed to trigger his outbursts. How was anyone ever to retrain him when he seemed so utterly untrainable? Perhaps it would be easier to train every human in the village which words to avoid in hopes of eliminating any of the prompts that usually sent the bird into bawdy banter.
The thought hadn’t been intended as anything to seriously consider, yet even as the words passed through his mind Max found himself pondering them. Could it really be possible to identify phrases in particular that set Bartholomew into chatter? He hadn’t considered this, but perhaps he ought to. Sometimes it seemed the bird railed on for no reason, but other times there was clearly some impetus, something spoken that resonated with the bird and moved him to speech. What were these things?
“Climb all over me,” he said aloud, testing his theory.
“Climb on my pole. Climb on my pole,” the bird responded as if by rote, despite the fact he was working at detaching Max's thumb.
Well, clearly the trigger there was obvious. Max used the word climb, and that produced a response. Bartholomew knew that word and reacted. But what sort of phrase was that for him to have learned? Why not, “Climb up the rigging!” or “Climb down in the hold,” or any other more common phrase that he’d have been likely to hear over and over aboard a ship. Why only these bawdy phrases?
“Climb on my pole,” he said, watching the bird for response.
“Give your old pole a twist, lad.”
So, the word pole appeared in multiple phrases. Not really a surprise, given the tone of the bird’s repertoire, but again, why should it be that phrase and not hundreds of others he had to have heard year after year? The more he thought of it, the more he was convinced something more was at play here, some reason the bird said what he said and would not be swayed.
“What the devil is your fascination with twisting poles, anyway?” Max asked him.
He really hadn’t expected an answer, but the bird piped up eagerly.
“Rub her down, twist your pole!”
Well, that was just nonsense from another rhyme, of course, and he would have easily ignored it, except that something suddenly struck him. Those two phrases together that way… he’d seen it recently. Yes, he was sure of it. In that book but...oh, hell and damnation. Could it really be so very simple? He stared at the bird and the bird stared at him.
“Bartholomew, it’s time you and I had a little discussion.”
Bartholomew simply cocked his head and blinked one bright, orange eye. Apparently he had no response for that. Just as well. Max had a fair notion he knew what the bird would have a response for.
“Come on. Let’s go take a look at something.”
Offering the bird something actually edible to work at as he clung to his human perch, Max let himself back into the house. There was a narrow servant’s stair close at hand so that there was no need for him to use the one in the main part of the small home, risking an encounter with Miss Farrow and her guest. It was tempting to aim that direction and interrupt whatever smarmy attempt Nigel was making at winning yet more of Miss Farrow’s favor, but for now Max forced himself to focus on the bird.
He could not shake the feeling that the solution to all of this lay close at hand. Up the stairs they went, ducking silently into Max’s room. Bartholomew chattered as the door brushed past him, Max shutting it tightly. There, on the table near the bed, sat the object he was beginning to realize was much more than it seemed.
The damned book of bawdy poetry. He took it up and scanned a few pages, finally finding the one he was searching for. Ah, there it was. The handwritten rhyme he’d recalled.
A lovely young lass named Dear Dot Likes to boast of her grand treasure spot.
Rub her down, twist your pole, Find her sweet hidey-hole, And make free with whatever she's got.
By all accounts, it was vile; nothing more than a verse for adolescent boys to snigger at. Max proudly did not snigger. He read through it again, making a mental note of the various phrases he was certain he’d heard Bartholomew utter more than once. To be sure about this, he decided to read aloud for the bird.
“A lovely young lass named Dear Dot,” he began.
Bartholomew cocked his yellow head and blinked. Max continued.
“Likes to boast of her grand treasure spot.”
Bartholomew blinked again. Then he proceeded to continue the rhyme.
“Rub her down, twist your pole; Find her sweet hidey-hole,”
“And make free with whatever she’s got,” Max finished in perfect unison with the bird.
Ah ha! So that was a rhyme from the book, and Bartholomew knew parts of it he didn’t often spout out. What else was locked in that parrot brain, accessible only with the right inducement? It appeared payment was required to find out. Bartholomew reached his foot out, scratching against Max’s face and clearly demanding some recompense for his labors.
Very well. Max could certainly play this game. He gave the bird another treat—a stale piece of bread this time—then placed him back on his rag-wrapped perch. Flipping to another page in the book, Max began reading.
Last Saturday night young Nancy lay a-sleeping And into her bedroom young Johnny went a-creeping
He waited, but Bartholomew did not join in. Even as Max read through the familiar and repetitive chorus of fol-the-riddle-i-do, it was as if the creature had never so much as heard the rhyme—any of it. So Max moved onto another.
Now you bishops and deacons, priests, curates and vicars…
Know that Nottingham Ale, it's the best of all liquors…
No reaction again. How could Bartholomew not know any of these? Max had heard them again and again as a lad off at school, with his mates on a binge, and surely aboard ship on his journeys to and from the Americas. Not all of the rhymes in the book were well known to him, of course, but why on earth should it be that Bartholomew had not picked up even the most common among them?
Damn. He thought he’d come on the source of the bird’s inspiration, but it seemed apparently not. Whatever had provided Bartholomew’s education, it seemed the book was not it. Max would have to come up with some other method of getting to the root for his obsession.
He stepped back to study the bird who stood effortlessly on one twiggy foot as he used the other to hold the hard piece of crust. His sharp, hook-like beak chiseled at it and tiny crumbs fell like powder onto the floor, to join the gathering pile of feathers, gravel, dust and other undesirable refuse. Honestly, whoever decided a bird was an exceptional pet had never met this one.
Still, Max had to admit being with Bartholomew again after all these years was like rejoining and old friend. Indeed, filthy and objectionable or not, Bartholomew was an old friend. There was no way Max was going to let Nigel get his fool hands on him. He’d simply have to find a way to keep that blackguard away from the bird and from Miss Farrow until such time as he felt it was safe to reveal himself.
With Nigel dropping in for visits here and traipsing about town calling himself the new earl, that was going to prove harder and harder to do. Max had best get busy solving his riddle if he didn’t want circumstances to play his hand for him. Grandfather’s letter had indicated Bartholomew knew something of the hidden treasure, so Max needed to get back to the business of figuring out if that was true, or if Grandfather had been off his cockloft.
It seemed Max would not be doing that now. A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Bartholomew dropped his bread crus
t and complained by making repeated door-knocking sounds. Max gritted his teeth and went to see if perhaps Mrs. Cooper was come to beg him to go rescue Miss Farrow from the lecherous grasp of Nigel.
But it was not Mrs. Cooper. It was Miss Farrow herself, safely out of any lecherous grasp and appearing fully unmolested. For now.
As he opened the door she batted huge eyes at him and chewed her lip in the most fetching way. “Er, may I speak with you?” she asked.
“Of course. Certainly. Come in,” Max replied a bit too eagerly, realizing he still held the book in one hand and hiding it behind his back.
She slipped past him into the room and stood there, wringing her skirts in her hands so that the fabric bunched and gathered tightly against her. That also was most fetching, though Max tried for decency’s sake not to notice. He was not very successful.
“I have just spoken with the new Glenwick,” she began.
“He is gone already?” He should not sound so very happy about that, he knew, yet it was impossible not to be.
“Yes. He only just now got into town and must be on his way to the estate to oversee things there. He merely wanted to stop and give regards to my father.”
The ruddy liar. He'd been in town since at least yesterday. What game was he playing now? Max imagined how pleasant it would be to rip Nigel's arms off, but kept his expression bland.
“I see. What a shame he did not wish to linger. Surely your father will be home soon and would have enjoyed seeing him.”
Not nearly as much as I would enjoy strangling him.
“I’m sure we are much honored that he took time to visit at all," she said with far more benevolence than the scoundrel deserved. "There will be other opportunities to reacquaint ourselves, of course.”
“Of course. So… why do you seem upset, if I may be so bold as to notice your obvious agitation, Miss Farrow?”
She dropped her bunches of skirt, taking a deep breath and schooling her face. It did little to relieve the tension he could still see around her eyes, at her lips. Damn his fool cousin for leaving her in such a state!
“I… yes, I suppose I am a bit out of sorts. It’s just… well, he said…”
“He said what?” By God, Max would make sure that he’d never say it again.
“He said that… oh, I hate to even think it.”
“If he was in any way inappropriate, or unpleasant with you, Miss Farrow—“
“No, nothing like that. He was… well, he told me his intentions."
"Intentions? Good lord, isn't it a bit soon for that?"
"His intentions for Bartholomew,” she clarified.
“Oh. Of course. And what are they?”
Her wide eyes fairly glistened with tears and Max had to struggle to keep from putting his hands on her to comfort her. At least, that’s what he hoped he’d be doing with his hands. His conscience felt the tiniest niggle of concern that he might possible have just a bit more than comfort on his mind right now.
She was practically weeping when she found her voice to speak.
“The new earl says Bartholomew is to be put down!”
Chapter 11
“But he cannot do that,” Max protested. “I thought the old earl made it clear he wished for your father to keep him?”
“Yes, that was our understanding, but Nigel… er, the new earl says the bird is a part of the estate and should have gone to him.”
“Then why by heaven’s name should he want to have him put down?”
“He feels that since the bird is… well, he worries Bartholomew’s behavior might reflect poorly on the family name.”
“A silly parrot is going to tarnish his fine family name?”
“I know. I tried to convince him he was worried for nothing, be he is quite sensitive about this. It is his place to be concerned about such things, after all. He is the last of his line. So much hangs on him to preserve family honor.”
Max nearly snorted aloud at her mention of that imaginary item. As if Nigel had—or cared about—family honor! Indeed, this only added to his burden to find his incriminating proof quickly. More than ever he needed to unlock the secrets that Bartholomew had pent up in his feathery head.
“Does this heartless young earl expect you to wring the bird’s neck for him, or will he sent for the poor thing later?”
She cringed at his words. “He suggests Bartholomew be readied for return to him as early as tomorrow. And…”
“And led to the gallows? Or does he plan to borrow from the French and employ Madame Guillotine?”
“Don’t joke about such things! Heavens, I hate to think of it. He said he will give Bartholomew a chance. If he does not show signs of being rehabilitated by the time we deliver him tomorrow, the earl will be forced to put him down.”
“Forced? I don’t see anyone forcing him to do this, do you?”
“I’m trying to see this as he does. He truly believes it is the only way to protect his family name.”
“To drag his family name through mud as pet murderers, you mean. Surely you’ve no intention of giving the bird to him.”
“What else can I do? I can’t very well hold his bird hostage here, can I?”
“What would your father tell you to do?”
She frowned. “He would probably say we must turn the other cheek, to give unto Caesar what is Caesar’s and let fate do what it will.”
“And what do you want to do?”
“I want you to stay! That is, I want you to continue the training, to complete Bartholomew's correction and then allow the earl to take him back if he wants him, when there would be no need to be embarrassed for the things that he says.”
“So you don’t think he’s a hopeless case and that the earl should put him out of his misery?”
“Of course not! Only a heartless fiend would be so unmerciful.”
Well, he certainly was pleased to hear her speak this way of his cousin. She had a good head on her shoulders. Perhaps she was not likely to be swayed by the coldblooded snake after all. He wondered what his chances of swaying her were.
“You speak rather harshly of your friend the new earl,” he said, taking half a step closer.
“It has been a number of years since he and I were acquainted,” she replied, not retreating at his nearness.
So he took another step. testing the waters. “Still, he did feel the need to stop here on his very first day in town.”
“Only to discuss the business of the bird.”
“Only that? I must admit, Miss Farrow, that is a rather thin reason. After a journey of any duration, that a man should feel compelled to stop for a visit before reaching his home speaks that he must have a very strong motive for it. Are you certain it was the bird that was foremost on his mind… and not a certain young woman?”
She blushed. “I… you are mistaken in that, sir. He was here only on business.”
“For a man such as that, business can always wait. It seems to me that perhaps you are his business, Miss Farrow. Have you always wanted an earl of your own?”
“Heavens, sir! You misunderstand my opinion of him.”
“Do I? It certainly explains all your nerves and your color.”
“There is nothing remarkable of my color, sir. If you please, we’re discussing Bartholomew, not his earl.”
“Your earl, you mean.”
“He is not my earl! Who have you been talking to? I swear I have no interest in the man.”
“You’ve not fancied yourself mistress of Glenwick Downs?”
“No, of course not.”
“You’d do it justice, you know.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. What do you know of the place?”
“Er, I know that you’d be a remarkable Lady Glenwick.”
Now her blushes were practically scarlet. He thought she might slap him, in fact, though he remained just where he was, well within arm’s reach.
“Stop teasing me, sir. I’ve not set my cap for the man, nor has he any designs upon
me. It’s Bartholomew we should both be concerned for just now.”
“I’d rather concern myself with you.”
And now he was very close to her. He could see the rise and fall of her chest, her breaths coming in quick little gasps, yet she did not back away. Her eyes were huge and round when she blinked at him. He wondered what would happen if he touched her. Would she welcome it? Shove him away? Be unaffected entirely? He decided to find out, giving a gentle brush of her velvet cheek with his thumb.
Another chest rise, another little gasp.
“You had a spot of dust,” he lied.
“Dear Dot marks the spot!” Bartholomew cackled.
Damn that bird! The moment was ruined. Miss Farrow came to her senses and stepped back, safely away from whatever Max might have been planning to do next.
“I can’t imagine why he continues to repeat that,” she said quickly. “What unusual rhymes he must have heard aboard ship.”
“It isn’t from a rhyme,” Max said, then wondered if he ought to have kept silent. He would never want to give Miss Farrow the impression he was particularly well-versed in such things. Then again, he was sure it was true. He could not recall any lines he had ever heard or had read that contained that particular phrase.
She seemed doubtful of his expertise. “Surely you are not very familiar with every song or bawdy lyric employed by common sailors, sir?”
“Er… no, happily, I am not.” Not all of them, anyway. “What I mean to say, I’ve noted that Bartholomew’s other common phrases seem to be found within that volume of, er, poetry that you discovered last night. This phrase does not appear to be among them.”
“And you feel this is significant?”
“It just… it’s merely something I observed.”
He couldn’t very well tell her the book came from his grandfather and he believed somehow it was related to a hidden treasure that only Bartholomew supposedly knew about but that had gotten the old man murdered, could he? Of course not, even as much as he was convinced she could be trusted with knowledge of such things. It was for her own good he kept quiet, though. Miss Farrow should be protected from such unpleasantness, not dragged into it.
Miss Farrow's Feathers Page 11
