Miss Farrow's Feathers

by Susan Gee Heino

  "I'm afraid now we will have to rely on the book," Mr. Shirley said.

  Er... she meant the earl. Heavens, but when would she ever get used to thinking of him as anything other than that?

  The magistrate handed him the book and he studied it, then walked around the perch, studying that. Bartholomew climbed along the waves of carved hair billowing from the figure's head. Every now and then he would lovingly nibble at the wood and make soft, cackling sounds. It was the most calm Meg had ever seen the bird.

  If she'd have known just how much he loved the ugly thing, perhaps she would have left it uncovered. Since the earl had taken it off his wall a couple years ago and mounted it on this thick pole, Meg could have perhaps found a place to keep it out of view. She could have turned the pole to face the wall, even.

  The phrase snagged in her mind. Turned the pole. That sounded remarkably like... Good heavens, perhaps she had it figured out!

  In her enthusiasm she nearly ripped the book away from the earl and started flipping through pages.

  "Look, my lord," she exclaimed. "They aren't just clues, but they're instructions!"

  Max was only too happy to let Meg grab the book from him and rummage through it. He felt warm and electric every time she read through those lewd rhymes. Not that she seemed in any way affected by them just now. She frowned and chewed her lip in the most studious fashion as she hunted through the verses, clearly seeking something specific.

  "Ah, here it is," she said brightly, and began reading.

  "When your fortune has long since been missed, lad, and your coffers have long since been.... well, I'll skip that bit...

  Then go visit Dear Dot, 'Cause you'll want what she's got.

  You need just give your old pole a twist, lad."

  Nigel snorted. "The vicar must be so proud. What a demure little miss you are, my dear."

  "Shut it, Nigel," Max warned. "She's searching for clues; nothing more."

  Mr. Farrow cleared his throat loudly. "This is highly irregular. I can't say I approve of it."

  "I'm sorry, Papa," Miss Farrow said. "I don't mean to distress you. But as we're all adults here, and since I have already read through this book and seen the worse that it offers, perhaps you'll allow me to continue."

  The reverend sighed and gave her a nod.

  "Very well, my dear. I'm sure the Lord will forgive you since there's so much at stake. I must go on record as saying, though, that familiarity with sin hardly make us immune to its consequence."

  Meg nodded, all prim and proper. "Indeed. Thank you, Papa. That is an excellent point and I hope we will hear it in one of your sermons on some Sunday quite soon."

  Now the older man turned his sermonizing scowl onto Max. The usually docile minister could be quite formidable when riled, it would seem. Max's collar felt decidedly tight and he resisted the urge to tug at it.

  "I'd much rather pursue further discussion on the topic in more private fashion," Mr. Farrow said pointedly. "I hope his lordship will indulge me at his earliest possible moment."

  And that, Max recognized, was an angry father calling him onto the carpet for what he perceived as inappropriate behavior toward his daughter. Max could hardly dispute the man, either. He had behaved most inappropriately toward Miss Farrow. Given his growing fondness for her, it was only by the grace of God he had not found opportunity to behave even more inappropriately.

  "Of course, sir," he replied.

  Miss Farrow, however, seemed oblivious to the meaning of that exchange. She was still studying the book, turning pages and making comparisons. Suddenly she looked up at Max.

  "Do you still have those lists that we made of the most common of Bartholomew's phrases?"

  "I do, " he replied and went to the drawer where he had stashed them.

  Laying them out, he looked over Miss Farrow's delicate shoulder as she compared them to the various pages in the book. She pointed to lines here and there as a means of holding her place and before long Max could see what she was doing.

  The rhymes in the handwritten pages were clues, that much he could see now. All of them pointed to the figurehead and insisted that something dear could be found by encountering it. The phrases Bartholomew uttered in particular, well those were instructions. They referneced the rhymes in the book, but beyond that they gave specific directives. All they needed to do now was follow them.

  "I wonder what order we should proceed?" Miss Farrow asked, clearly at the same conclusion as he.

  Max knew exactly what order he'd like to proceed, but letting his mind wander off in that direction would bring them no closer to the treasure. If there was a treasure. Then again, perhaps if the clues were taken from bawdy rhymes about carnal activity, Max's thoughts weren't so far off from the mark.

  Perhaps in order to get to the treasure, he ought to consider the usual course.

  "The bird says, 'Go visit Dear Dot.' What does one do first when one visits a bawd?" Max asked as he stood before the figurehead and contemplated.

  "Well, you've already stripped her near naked," Nigel taunted.

  "Mind yourself, Webberly," the magistrate warned.

  "You would knock at her door," Miss Farrow offered. "At least, that is the first thing I do when I pay a visit to anyone proper."

  It sounded reasonable. Since Dear Dot did not actually have a door, Max knocked on the pole she was hanging on. It sounded as one might expect a knocked pole to sound.

  Nigel groaned. "Cart me off to jail now if this is the way the rest of the evening will go."

  "If you don't have anything productive to offer, keep your mouth shut," Max demanded.

  But Miss Farrow was still deeply in thought. "Hmm. Bartholomew says, 'Climb on my pole'," she announced. "Knocking doesn't seem to do anything, so you don't suppose you are to climb the thing, do you?"

  Well, if the lewd analogy of attaining sexual treasure held true, there would very likely be some form of climbing at some point. Max decided not to mention that just now. The woman's father was already glaring daggers at him.

  "Not sure climbing it will have the hoped for result," Max said simply.

  Miss Farrow nodded. "What about twisting it? Perhaps now is when you ought to give your old pole a twist?"

  Nigel snorted again and the other men in the room shifted nervously. Mrs. Cooper gazed on in the doorway and Max thought he heard a slight snicker from her direction. Perhaps it would be best, after all, if the females found something else to do with their time while the men continued at this.

  "I'm not sure if that means what it says," Max offered, reaching to take the book from her and end the torment of such suggestive phrases falling from her innocent lips.

  "But Bartholomew says that repeatedly," she insisted, keeping the book. "And this is a pole. Why not try twisting it?"

  "Very well," he sighed.

  He put his hands on the pole and tried to twist, but of course nothing happened. He moved slightly to the side so he could reach around the figurehead to make a better grip. Still nothing. Miss Farrow was flipping through the book and the pages laid out before her.

  "Go from behind!" she exclaimed.

  "Excuse me?" Max choked loudly.

  "Thank God for the view from behind," she recited. "That's one of Bartholomew's phrases. Try from behind it."

  Nigel was not even attempting to hide his lascivious laughter. "That's right, Cousin, do as the lady asks. Try her from behind."

  It took everything Max had to pretend he hadn't heard that. Keeping his mind on his business, he moved to the rear of the figurehead's stand and put his hands on it. He found he could get a much better handle on the large pole, so he gave a good twist. To his surprise, he felt it shift. The pole turned on its base, accompanied by an audible click. Clearly he'd done something.

  "Something's happening!" Miss Farrow exclaimed. "Whatever you're doing, do it some more."

  Now Mr. Henning was clearing his throat loudly, adding to the uncomfortable noise of Mrs. Cooper's snickers and
Nigel's guffaws. Max ignored all of it and put some muscle into his twisting. The pole had stopped, though. He detected no further shifting.

  "Seems you've ended too early," Nigel scoffed.

  Max shot a hateful glance at him.

  "Perhaps there is something more you can do," Miss Farrow suggested.

  "There is always something more I can do," Max replied, making sure Nigel knew exactly what he meant by that.

  "What other instructions are there? Surely the bird repeats more phrases than those," Mr. Farrow said.

  Meg held up a paper and waved it. "The heart is the key! Look, carved into her bodice..."

  And Max knew that was it. The heart. He reached around to feel for it, the rough outline of a heart, carved into the figure years ago. It was nearly smoothed out from layers of paint, but he could still feel it. He'd seen it from a distance, wondered at it for years, assuming some drunken sailor had carved it. Gingerly now, he pressed it.

  It gave. The heart was not merely carved into the figurehead, it was actually a separate piece. With a faint click, Max felt something unlock. The heart-shaped piece came loose, protruding just slightly from the figurehead's form.

  "It came undone!" Miss Farrow cried.

  She was so excited, so fetching with her wide eyes, pink cheeks, and innocent enthusiasm in the face of these appalling rhymes, Max thought he just might come undone, too. Surely his heart already had.

  Chapter 20

  Meg watched breathlessly as the earl carefully extracted the little heart-shaped piece of wood that served as a plug for a small opening into the body of the figurehead. She was not particularly thrilled to be watching the man run his hands over the fantastically huge, round bosoms of the wood carving, but she forced herself to remember Dot was not an actual woman.

  It didn't help very much. She still wanted to file the flirtatious little moue right off the tawdry tart's painted face.

  "There's an opening there!" Papa declared.

  "Can you feel if there's anything inside?" Meg asked.

  The earl seemed oddly hesitant to poke his fingers inside, but after a long, deep breath he finally did. She watched his face, watching a smile come over him. He drew his fingers out slowly.

  "There's something inside," he said.

  He withdrew a small bag, just large enough to fill the palm of his hand.

  "That's it?" Nigel complained, craning his neck to see. "That can't be much of a treasure."

  "Perhaps our great-grandfather wasn't much of a pirate," the earl replied.

  But he opened the bag and carefully tipped the contents into his hand. It was treasure, indeed! A fortune in glittering gems of all sizes and colors made a beautiful pile. Meg had to blink her eyes a few times to really see all of it.

  "Or perhaps he was ruthless," the earl added.

  "Jewels!" she exclaimed.

  "All unset, too," the magistrate commented. "No way to know where any of them came from."

  "I'm sure they are all stolen, just the same," the earl said.

  "Half of them are mine!" Nigel insisted. "Give them over. I'll buy my way out of jail."

  "You don't really believe I'll do that, do you?" the earl asked.

  Nigel shrugged. "You are rather a stickler for justice. Perhaps you might give me my share now in the interest of fairness."

  "Perhaps first we'll determine if these stones can be considered legitimately part of the Glenwick estate or if they need to be returned to someone."

  Mr. Barrelson took his turn leaning in to see the treasure. "Don't see how anyone could possibly know who to return them to. No charges were actually ever levied against your great-grandfather, as I recall. All those piracy tales could be just legend, for all we know."

  "We'll see that the matter is fully investigated," the earl assured.

  Meg couldn't have been prouder of him, both for figuring out how to locate the treasure as well as for being willing to verify his claim to it. He may have spent the past week lying to her face every day, but he really was an honorable man. All the more reason she should be ashamed of herself for getting caught up in the treasure hunt and being so free with those dreadful rhymes. That could not have presented her in the very best light.

  But Nigel was a bit less than pleased with his cousin's actions.

  "You cannot be serious. After all this, all these years of hunting that damn treasure, you're just going to try to give it away? That's shameful, it is. You're probably not even going to properly debauch the Farrow chit either, are you?"

  "That's enough, Nigel," the earl growled.

  "You're damn right it is. I've had enough of all of you!"

  And suddenly Nigel bolted from the room. During the excitement of the treasure hunt everyone had moved in closer to see what was happening. Nigel, on the other hand, had inched closer to the door. Now he had violently shoved poor Mrs. Cooper out of the way and run off, Mr. Perkins trailing desperately after him.

  Mr. Barrelson swore then sprinted out, too. Hugh gave the earl a questioning look and the earl's shrugged reply seemed all that was needed to send Hugh tearing out after them. Papa and Mr. Henning followed, with Mrs. Cooper behind them yelling for everyone to have a care on the stairway and watch out for the loose tread near the bottom. Bartholomew screeched from his perch.

  Meg would have followed the noisy troupe, but the earl caught her arm.

  "Wait," he said calmly. "Let them manage this."

  "But he's getting away!"

  "Where will he go? He's penniless, family-less, homeless, and unloved. He won't get far, I assure you. Besides, we have some unfinished matters between us, I believe."

  She lowered her eyes. "Yes... and I'm sorry."

  "Sorry? Whatever for?"

  "For the dreadful way I've treated you, my lord. I've been so very rude, and then I read through that book in the most hoydenish way, and I accused you of being a criminal, and I behaved like a... like a very loose woman with you!"

  "And I would not for the world have you apologize for any of that. In fact, is there any chance I could get you to commit more of that last reprehensible transgression?"

  She was confused by his words. "Last reprehensible transgression?"

  "The one where you behave like a very loose woman with me."

  Clarifying his words, he pulled her into his arms. Heavens! It was the place she most wanted to be so she folded herself into him instantly. And then he was kissing her.

  His lips were much more insistent than before. Or perhaps it was hers that demanded more than just a simple taste of his essence. She pressed her body into his and gave in to the urgency growing inside her. This might be her last chance for the rapture of his kisses, his embrace, so she was determined to take all that she could.

  She was weak from the feel of him—and perhaps lack of oxygen—when he finally pushed himself slightly away.

  "My God, Miss Farrow, you are a very loose woman, indeed."

  "I'll apologize again for it, if you like."

  He tipped his head and eyed her suspiciously. "I think not. I'm worried that any more apologies might get us both into trouble."

  "Perhaps your cousin is a good runner and they'll have to chase him halfway through the village," she suggested, eager to make the best use of whatever time alone they had left.

  "I do not mean to limit my kisses to the time it takes Nigel to evade capture," he said. "Miss Farrow, I intend at the earliest possible moment to kiss you without any worry for pesky interruptions."

  "I rather like the sound of that, Mr. Shirley."

  He frowned at her. "And I'll thank you not to call me that. Shirley is my mother's name, as a matter of fact."

  "It's going to take me some time to get used to calling you Glenwick, I'm afraid."

  "Then don't call me that, either."

  "What, then?"

  "Well, my mother calls me Max and my grandfather called me Web. Once I was presumed dead I took to signing my letters to him with X..."

  "You wrote tha
t letter!" she exclaimed. "They lied to me about it."

  "They did. I'm fairly certainly the lied about all of it. I'm sure when we look into things further, we'll find that no document exists at all that will tarnish your reputation, my dear. How could it? Nigel failed in his efforts with you."

  "Indeed he did, Mr. Shir... oh, what did you tell me to call you?"

  "I think I prefer Darling. Definitely Darling."

  Whether he expected more pesky interruptions or not, he pulled her tight and kissed her again. Ah, but if he kept this up all the practice was going to make her very, very good at this sort of thing. Perhaps if she displayed enough expertise he would welcome further opportunities for more of it. She'd have to think of as many excuses as possible to visit at Glenwick Downs once he was installed there.

  This training session, however, was called to an abrupt halt when Papa's violent throat clearing could be heard from the doorway. Her face burned as she pulled herself away from Max and stared shame-faced at the floor.

  "Has Nigel been captured?" the earl asked, his voice as calm and assured as if he'd been caught reading his Bible.

  "He has," Papa replied, not quite so calm and assured. Definitely winded. "And some men have arrived from London looking for him."

  Max nodded, as if he'd been expecting this turn of events, too. "I see. Very well. Let us get the unpleasantness over with. I'm sure there will be countless reports to write and people to talk to. Everyone will have plenty of questions for me."

  "I know I certainly do," Papa grumbled.

  Max piled the last of his things into his little bundle. The evening had dragged on and it was well into night. Candlelight flickered against the walls, sending grotesque shadows over the figurehead in the corner. Bartholomew slept peacefully on it.

  Max almost hated to go. By God, he'd miss this tidy little room here at the parsonage, but Mr. Farrow was right. It would be most improper for him to remain under this roof now.