Miss Farrow's Feathers

by Susan Gee Heino

  “How have you observed it?” she asked.

  Again, he was helpless against her gaze. He had to give her some sort of explanation quickly or, by the devil, he was likely to fall under her spell and confess all.

  “I… that is, it would seem… I believe that if most of the phrases the bird utters can be found in this book, then perhaps there are other phrases—less offensive phrases—from it that he is equally familiar with.”

  Yes, this was as good an explanation as any. He took a deep breath, tore his eyes from her earnest expression, and lied as if his life depended on it.

  “I think you will agree that it appears Bible verses are entirely foreign to him. This likely explains why we’ve had no luck at all getting him to recite them rather than his usual fare. So, if it is rhymes from this book he has come to know, then it might stand to reason there are some—however few—less offensive phrases in it that he already knows. I was hoping to simply refresh his mind of them and perhaps he will be content reciting those, rather than the more colorful ones.”

  By God, he was proud of himself. What a perfectly logical explanation! Rubbish, of course, but quite clever. He might have even believed it himself, if he didn’t already know better. Now all he could do was hope Miss Farrow might be equally gullible.

  “So that is why you’ve been studying these horrible rhymes?” she asked.

  “Yes. Though I hate them, I have suffered in silence for the sake of the bird.”

  “How noble of you.”

  He wasn’t completely sure he didn’t detect a fine layer of sarcasm behind her words. But her eyes were still huge, and trusting, and warm, so he decided he must have imagined it. She believed him and he thrilled at the notion. She trusted him; he’d won her over. It was a feeling of triumph he rather enjoyed.

  “So what is your plan?” she asked after a moment.

  “My plan?”

  “Have you found the phrases you think might refresh Bartholomew?”

  “Well, of course it all takes time…”

  “But he doesn’t have time! Here, let me see that book.”

  She practically ripped it from his hands. It was all he could do to keep from pulling it back. What was she doing, corrupting herself with such material? Didn’t she worry what it might do to her immortal soul? Worse, didn’t she know what it might do to him, watching her read through what he knew she must be reading?

  “Here’s something,” she said, pulling open a passage and studying it. “This does not seem so bad. It's a song, I believe, though I don't know the tune.”

  She started reading aloud.

  “A lonely old sailor forlorn and distressed, Forever alone on his island way West.” She paused to glance over at Bartholomew, who simply stared back had her. So she continued. “I never will go, to stay is the best. I'll guard with my life the old man's chest.”

  At that last line, the bird ruffed up his feathers. He cocked his head toward her, though, as if something in her words was familiar. She glanced at Max, gave a shrug, then continued. He wished she wouldn’t. Whether Bartholomew knew the rhyme or not, Max did.

  “No wenching or ale, he would not take his rest; Year after year, his cock all repressed.” Now she winced, the word having escaped her lips before she realized what she was saying. “Forgive me. I was already reading ahead past the chorus.”

  "I'm not certain this is a good idea..."

  But she had already gone back to reading.

  “A buxom young maiden of soft, flaxen tress, Called the sailor one night for to come be her guest.”

  Again she cringed, the context of the story becoming clear. Max thought to step in here, to stop the reading, but she forged bravely ahead. This time, however, she was not alone. At the last line of the stanza, Bartholomew joined in with her.

  “I never will go, to stay is the best. I'll guard with my life the old man's chest.”

  She beamed up at Max now.

  “Did you hear that? He does know this verse! And I’ve never heard him speak that line before!”

  “I’ll guard with my life the old man’s chest,” Max said, repeating it.

  Could it be there was meaning here beyond merely the obvious? He could not help but think so. The old man’s chest… what could that mean besides what it seemed to mean? Grandfather really did have a treasure and he really did put Bartholomew over to guard it. By God, the bird did know something.

  Max had to admit he was rather intrigued by their efforts here—and not just for the most obvious, inappropriate reasons. Miss Farrow seemed excited by their progress, as well. Unfortunately, her interest seemed to be mostly for the damned book.

  “Here, let me continue: But the maiden was greedy to see herself blessed, she appeared there before him in a state of undress!”

  “I don’t know that you ought to keep on with—“

  She ignored him and kept on. “I never will go, to stay is the best. I'll guard with my life the old man's chest.”

  As predicted, Bartholomew recited the chorus again with her. And now he left his perch to fly toward them, landing on the nearby bedpost and gazing expectantly up at Miss Farrow. It seemed he expected reward for reciting that one particular line.

  Max forced himself to take his mind off the situation, to forget that a beautiful young woman was reading bawdy verse in his presence with considerably more enthusiasm than he would have ever expected, and focused on Bartholomew. Clearly the bird knew the verse, yet he kept silent as she read on. When she got to that one repetitive line, he was right on cue with her.

  Indeed, he knew the verse well. Someone, for some reason, had drilled this into the bird’s tiny little brain. But how? And perhaps more importantly, why? It didn’t make sense. Grandfather’s letter had indicated that Bartholomew knew the whereabouts of the Glenwick fortune. So far all it seemed the bird knew was how to offend.

  “He certainly does know the contents of this book,” Miss Farrow said.

  Indeed, her suspicion was evident. Max would have to come up with some better explanation for how the book got into his possession, and how the bird was so familiar with it. He rather wished he knew the truth of that last part himself.

  “It is a book of very common bawdy songs.”

  “Does he know them all?”

  She turned to another page and began reading. She paused at the repetitive refrain, but Bartholomew remained silent. She continued, this time getting all the way through to the end. Still the bird made no sound.

  “It would appear he doesn’t know this one.”

  “No, it would appear not.”

  “Is it less common than the others?”

  “Er, no, I’m sorry to say it is not. I daresay most boys know it front to back by the age of thirteen.”

  “I see. Then what about this one?”

  And she flipped some pages and started on another. It was the same story—she read, and Bartholomew did nothing more than preen his green feathers. Max forced himself to ignore the suggestive words tripping over Miss Farrow’s perfectly pink lips and concentrated instead on the bird’s actions. It was clear this rhyme—like so many others—meant nothing to him.

  When Miss Farrow turned to another page and began reading there, however, the change in the bird was immediate. He left off his grooming, cocked his head, and refolded his wings. He sat rapt, listening carefully like a trained actor awaiting his time on the stage. It was most fascinating and Max knew beyond all doubt that there had to be some reason to this madness.

  “When your fortune has long since been missed, lad, And your coffers have long since been pissed, lad,” the prim miss enunciated eloquently. “Then go visit Dear Dot, ‘Cause you’ll want what she’s got, You need just give your old pole a twist, lad.”

  This time not only did Bartholomew join in for the last part of the rhyme, but he accompanied her quite loudly on the whole second portion. It was the first time Max had heard him put all of those lines together, though he realized he’d heard pieces of them repe
ated separately on multiple occasions. It seemed this was apparently one of the bird’s favorites.

  He also realized—and felt rather foolish that he’d not noticed it before—that Dot was mentioned by name. He’d previously assumed that “Dot marks the spot” was some sort of term for a sailor’s mark, a dot rather than the more typical X. He should have noticed the connection before now. Perhaps Dot did indeed mark the spot, but instead of it being some mysterious code, Dot was a person.

  “This is most interesting,” Miss Farrow declared.

  “Indeed it is,” he replied, although he suspected he might be finding it just a bit more interesting than she was. For the wrong reasons, of course.

  “There’s most definitely a pattern. Have you not noticed it?”

  “A pattern? Well, yes… he seems to know some of the rhymes and is oblivious to others.”

  “Exactly! But the ones he knows… where did they come from? They are not like the others.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He’d already acknowledged the verses Bartholomew favored were hardly well-known in other settings. Why was the girl leafing through pages as if she expected to find the answer there, spelled out before her?

  “I mean, where did these pages come from? They are not printed like the others—they are written by hand, yet bound in the book with the others.”

  Max shrugged. “I don’t know. I assumed all the pages were taken from other collections and compiled here by my… by whomever felt he needed a compilation of this detritus.”

  “But why is it only the handwritten pages that Bartholomew seems to understand?”

  Max had no answer for her. He moved around to her side, looking over her shoulder to see that, indeed, the words that Bartholomew had just quoted along with her were written in the same long, scrawling hand that several of the other pages were written. Of course Max had noted them before, but it had never struck him that only the handwritten pages were the ones familiar to the bird.

  “Are you certain of this?” he asked.

  “I believe so. I read several of these others and Bartholomew ignored me. It was not until I turned to this page that he seemed to have something to say. And these others,” she turned through the pages again. “See? Here is one that he knows, and here is another…”

  “By Jupiter, it appears you are correct, Miss Farrow. He recites from only the handwritten rhymes, not the printed ones."

  “What do you suppose it means?”

  He had a very good idea what it meant—that somehow Grandfather had taught the bird these particular phrases and then hid them in plain sight here in this book. Obviously this was the very bit of information he had been searching for; this was the code to the hidden Glenwick treasure. Max simply needed to decipher it all.

  To do that, however, he needed to get Miss Farrow off the track she had so thankfully been following.

  “Er, I suppose these were the favorite rhymes of someone the bird had once been close to.”

  “But that would be the old Earl of Glenwick, and how on earth should he have knowledge of these?”

  “They must be more common than we assumed, that’s all.”

  “But why only the handwritten ones? It makes no sense.”

  Clearly she would not be easily dissuaded from contemplation of this. He could hardly blame her, it was quite a tantalizing puzzle and she was a clever woman. Surely she would want to understand, to reason this out. And she would reason it out, would realize the only explanation for how he came to possess the book. She’d likely think him a thief and a villain. Then he’d have no choice but to unmask himself.

  He could not allow that! It was too soon. If word of his identity went out prematurely, the treasure might be lost forever and Nigel would get away with murder. Even worse, Miss Farrow would feel sorry for Nigel and hate Max for deceiving them. That would be losing a treasure indeed. He simply needed more time.

  Meg stared at the book, forcing herself to overlook the bawdy content and focus only on what it must mean—how could Mr. Shirley’s book contain these obscure passages that Bartholomew seemed to know so very well? If she did not know better, she would have to assume he’d been the one to teach the bird, but of course that couldn’t be. Some of these phrases she’d heard the bird utter as long as she’d known him, and Mr. Shirley with his book had turned up less than a week ago.

  There had to be an explanation. How could the bird know these things if they only existed in this book? Unless… this was not the first time Mr. Shirley encountered the bird. She had not thought of that, but perhaps she should have. Bartholomew had taken to the man almost immediately, hadn’t he? She’d never known him to be particularly friendly with strangers. And there was still the matter of the man’s missing references, wasn’t there?

  Indeed, all this required investigation. She glanced up at him to find him eyeing her worriedly.

  “Tell me again how you came upon this book?” she asked. “I believe you said that you found it. Where, exactly, did you find it?”

  He appeared very worried now, indeed. He fumbled a bit, his words sluggish and overly careful. “Well, I found it… that is, I could see it was an unusual book but I really gave it no mind and knew little of it until you so kindly pointed out the bird’s familiarity with it.”

  “Yes, so you’ve indicated. But where did you find it?”

  “I… er, where?”

  "Yes. Where?"

  She waited for him to answer. Really, why should this be such a difficult question? Could he not recall where he came upon this book? More likely he knew exactly how he found it and was hesitant to explain. Why, though? Was the story so very shocking—she could hardly imagine it would be any worse than the rhymes they’d already been reading together—or did he have some more nefarious reason to keep the information from her?

  What was really going on here? She had so many questions! Who was this parrot trainer and why did he have so very many secrets? Was the thrill of electric reaction that coursed down her spine as she met his eyes nothing more than her pesky response to those dratted wide shoulders of his, or were her instincts warning her against him?

  She jumped when Papa cleared his throat from the doorway behind her.

  “Mrs. Cooper informed me of his lordship’s decision regarding the parrot,” he said. "I take it you and Mr. Shirley are planning what to do about that?"

  “Yes, Papa,” Meg answered, closing the book silently and praying to God her father did not ask about it. “We are both hoping to convince him to change his mind.”

  "I doubt there's little hope of that," Papa replied. "Poor bird. Seems his wicked ways are coming home to roost, as they say."

  "That's dreadful, Papa. You can't really agree with his lordship that the best thing to do is to destroy poor Bartholomew? Where is your mercy?"

  "Oh, of course I don't believe it, pet. But the new earl does have a claim, and the bird is his to do with as he sees fit."

  "The old earl wanted Bartholomew to come to us, Papa," she protested. "Surely that means something. He went to his grave expecting us to keep the bird safe. How can we betray our old friend with such an injustice?"

  "Such words!" Papa said, eying her. "How very unlike you. I should think you'd be pleased to have an end to our struggles, to know that life will finally return to sober normalcy."

  She realized he ought to be right. Sober normalcy. Isn't that what she wanted? Indeed, she thought she had wanted that these past years with her heart locked up tightly and nothing allowed to upset her carefully crafted tedium. Until very recently she had been well pleased with herself for it, too. But now... to realize peace would only be regained by Bartholomew's death and Mr. Shirley's departure... how could she be in any way pleased with that?

  She couldn't. She hated the very notion of it and wanted to say so. She had half a mind to order Nigel to abide by his grandfather's wishes and to inform everyone in town that he'd been a heartless bounder seven years ago and clearly still was. Heaven
s, but she might even admit that despite everything she knew to be wholesome and proper, she found some of Bartholomew's rhymes highly amusing. Especially now that Mr. Shirley supplied her that book.

  "I do hope you come to your senses quickly about this, Meg," Papa went on, deflating her. "His lordship is highly respected in town and you must think of his sensibilities. He cannot allow such a silly thing as a bird to upset his standing."

  And there it was. The burden she'd carried for seven years now—her standing. The reason she had let her own neighbors whisper behind her back and assume even the worst of her. She didn't dare speak up, not even to save a life. She'd be labeled and condemned all over again—the jilted little ninny who had tried to reach beyond her station.

  The old emotions washed over her and compressed her insides like a vice. Anything she said against Nigel would be dismissed, would be considered proof of her past indiscretion. She could not let herself suffer that humiliation again. Ever.

  "Perhaps you're right, Papa. The old earl put nothing in writing that he wanted Bartholomew to come to us, so I suppose the new earl does have a legitimate claim."

  She drew in a slow breath and tried to keep calm. It did not help that she was so acutely aware of Mr. Shirley's presence, his disapproving gaze.

  "That's a sensible attitude," Papa said. "Perhaps when you are out driving with his lordship this afternoon you might find out when he intends to retrieve the bird."

  Meg felt Mr. Shirley's inquisitive eyes on her. Indeed, she'd not mentioned to him that she'd agreed to go driving with the new earl. Not that it was any of his business, of course, but he'd very likely have an opinion on the matter. No doubt he'd think her quite the hypocrite, claiming to worry for Bartholomew while at the same time planning for a pleasant outing in his lordship's new Phaeton. Not that it really be would pleasant, considering how nervous she was about it. Still, it did seem a bit like fraternizing with the enemy.