Miss Farrow's Feathers

Miss Farrow's Feathers

by Susan Gee Heino

Copyright © 2013 Susan Gee Heino
Laughingstock Publishing

Cover design by Lewellen Designs

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from the author. This book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are products of the author's imagination and are fictional or used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended
by the author.

To Chirp.

You fell into our lives just when we needed you most
and you fluttered your way into our hearts.

Other Regency Romance
by Susan Gee Heino

Yuletide Lies

Miss Wheaton's Whiskers

Passion and Pretense

Temptress in Training

Damsel in Disguise

Mistress by Mistake

Hampshire, England, 1818

Meg
Farrow choked on a feather. Handy, since she needed one just now. She’d heard that passing a feather through flame provided just the right odor to rouse an insensible swooner. Poor insensible Mrs. Sedley-Stone certainly did need rousing just now. She’d swooned—but good—and the smelling salts hadn’t worked.

It was just as well, though, considering that the very uproar that had sent
the woman into hysterics was still roaring along. Or
soaring
, rather. Papa lunged about the drawing room waving a net while the large, yellow-headed parrot squawked loudly from atop the window cornice where it had come to rest. Their usually unflappable housekeeper screeched from the far corner, flapping her arms twice as much as the bird.

Meg’s head was beginning to throb. Two weeks of this had been more than any of them could take.

“Bartholomew! Come down here right now,” Papa ordered, shaking his fist—his fist!—at the bright-eyed parrot.

The bird cocked his head, ruffled his feathers, then let Papa know exactly what he thought
of that idea. Heavens, but this creature knew words Meg had never even heard before—and she spoke three languages. On the settee, Mrs. Sedley-Stone had just begun to stir. Apparently she
did
know some of these words, because they made her swoon all over again.

“
Watch your ruddy language, you bone-headed devil,” Papa shouted at the bird.

“Papa
, for heaven's sake,” Meg chided.

Gracious
, now even Papa had been corrupted by the parrot's influence. What were they to do? The whole village was talking about it. Innocent passers-by could not come within a hundred yards of their house but they were accosted by the most egregious verbiage, uttered loud and clear in a high-pitched raspy voice. It filtered through the doors, through the windows, out into the street. Anyone who didn't know better would think this was not the parsonage, but a common wharf-side alehouse.

Those who did know better would likely not have bothered coming so near to begin with. Sadly, Bartholomew's saucy tongue was well known in the community. Even sadder, it used to be contained to
Glenwick Downs, a good two miles out of town. Now that their dear old friend, the Earl of Glenwick, had passed from this life and gone to his reward, Bartholomew had passed into the Farrow’s possession and into the confines of the parsonage.

With him came the language.
And the squawking. And the random feathers strewn all about the house. And other miscellaneous unfortunate things, the least of which was the swooning Mrs. Sedley-Stone. Meg was doing what she could to remedy all of these.

The insistent pounding at their front door did not help matters. When it was clear their housekeeper was far too preoccupied with being terrified of the parrot to tend to the arduous task of answering the door, Meg took a deep breath and abandoned Mrs. Sedley-Stone. It wasn't as if she would notice, after all,
considering she was unconscious again.

Meg left the small drawing room and the chaos it contained. Of course the sound of Papa's bellowing and the bird's corresponding profanity were little diminished by the
distance between her and the entry way. It would take far more than fifteen feet and one simple wall to stifle all that.

Most likely
this was the very reason for all the pounding. She expected to find the local magistrate at their door, here to fine them for causing such a disturbance. Or perhaps word of their new house guest's unchristian-like behaviors had reached a higher authority and this pounding was to bring word from the Archbishop, threats against Papa if he didn't reform the dreadful bird right away. Most likely, though, it was one of their long-suffering neighbors with a hatchet and a sudden craving for exotic poultry. At this point, she would half welcome that.

In
any case, it would be of little benefit to keep the insistent pounder waiting on the other side of that door. She patted her hair back into place, took a deep breath to calm her frayed nerves, then opened the door. Wisely, she took care to step back just in case there truly should be a hatchet involved.

There was not.

Nor was there a magistrate, Archbishop, or any close neighbor. There was, in fact, no person she'd ever seen before. The gentleman she found at her door was quite clearly a stranger.

Not that he looked strange; quite the opposite, in fact. This particular gentleman looked
perfectly ordinary. He had all the requisite features, arranged in what most would consider a pleasing manner, and he wore very adequate clothing. They suited his elegant form quite well, as a matter of fact. His hat perched just right atop his head, which Meg couldn't help but notice was a good six feet off the ground, and his eyes were very much an agreeable shade of blue. Indeed, nothing at all strange about this man.

What was strange, however, was that he stood at her door appearing completely
unruffled by all the ruckus in the background—as well as by her unseemly staring. In fact, while the housekeeper screeched and Papa sermonized behind her, this gentleman gave her a smile. Then he surprised her by speaking her name.

"Miss
Farrow, I presume?"

Maxwell Shirley knew from the young lady's eyes
—rather fetching brown eyes, as a matter of fact—that he'd guessed correctly. Miss Farrow, indeed. Then again, it was hardly a guess. He'd been told the Reverend Mr. Farrow lived at this home with a small staff and an adult daughter. And the parrot, of course.

Since the
fresh-faced, demure young woman who answered the door could hardly be the staff—or the parrot—he felt it safe to presume she was Miss Farrow. She was just as he’d been told; well-dressed, lovely, and perfectly proper from top to bottom. Or so she would seem.

Max
gave her a warm smile that had served him well with proper-seeming young ladies before. She responded by blinking those wide nut-brown eyes at him. Excellent. Perhaps this part of his journey would prove every bit as productive as he hoped. He was about to launch into the carefully benign greeting he had prepared.

His speech, however, was interrupted. A
most distracting uproar came from the rooms behind her. Except for the slightest twitch in her left eye, she did a remarkable job of ignoring it, though.

"Er, yes.
I am Miss Farrow," she answered him sweetly. "May I help you, sir?"

He cleared his throat, ready to get on with what might prove to be an uncomfortable interaction.

"Yes, I hope so, miss. I'm here to see..." he glanced at the paper in his hand and tried to appear charmingly awkward. "Mr. Farrow, I believe."

A crash sounded from somewhere inside.
This time Miss Farrow appeared concerned and glanced over her shoulder. "I'm afraid he's—"

But a man's voice called from behind her.
"I'm right here. Is there someone at the door?"

"Yes, Papa," she said, turning
and pulling the door open wider as she did so.

Max could now see the parts of Miss
Farrow's delightful form that had been hidden by the door. Delightful, indeed. He could also see the modest but carefully polished woodwork of an average-sized entrance way, along with a rather stiff, red-faced gentleman who, for some reason, was clutching a net. The unnatural shrieks and squawking from the interior of the house continued, though with slightly less fervor than at first.

"May I help you, sir?" Mr.
Farrow said, puffing his way through the house to stand beside his daughter.

Max decided he'd do well to forget
—at least for now, anyway—the young lady's delightfulness. It was time to be merely charming and eloquent. Perhaps he might find opportunity for delightfulness later on.

"
I hope you may help me," he said to the man. "I am here to speak with you on a most important matter."

It was likely a waste of breath. Mr.
Farrow wrinkled his brow in confusion. The man clearly had not heard a word Max had said, thanks to the uproarious squawking that echoed throughout the interior of the house. A stream of impressive profanity accompanied the squawking. Max's ears perked to the chaotic din and it might just be about time to ask after it—as any normal person probably would—when a middle-aged woman in an apron came running out of a doorway and into the entrance hall, hands flailing over her head in a most Methodist manner. Quite unconventional, to say the least.

Indeed, though, it was quite welcome. All of this
further convinced Max he'd come to the right place today. Miss Farrow clearly possessed the attributes to do what he suspected she’d done, while the good Reverend Farrow was obviously in possession of what Max had been seeking. Now Max was going to find out just what else these questionable clerics possessed… or how honestly they'd come by it.

"I have some questions for you," Max continued
loudly, once the profanity had waned and the moaning Methodist had disappeared into the rear of the house.

"
Questions about what?" the gentleman asked, leaning in toward Max in an effort to hear him clearly.

"I was told you were the person I needed to speak with about
—" Max began to explain, but had to stop.

A
large green and yellow bird suddenly sailed through the doorway that had just produced the flailing woman. It landed gracefully on the older man's shoulder and cocked his head, gazing with round, red eyes at Max. A parrot. By God, it was
the
parrot. Max smiled.

"Er, was that your parrot making all th
e fuss, sir?"

Miss
Farrow blushed. Mr. Farrow cleared his throat.

"What? Oh, er, well... yes, and I apologize if
—"

The bird slapped him in the face with his wing as he leaped off the
reverend's shoulder. It was too sudden for Max to do anything but stand stock still as the bird aimed straight for him and settled itself onto his shoulder, digging in his claws and brushing up against Max’s hat. It slid downward over his eyes.

Max
reached for the bird, pushing him aside just enough to right his hat, The bird uttered a moderately tame curse. Max tried to hide his pleasure. So the old bird remembered him, did he? Good for him. Now if Max could but trust that his only nice coat would not suffer some unlaunderable defacement.

As it turned out
, however, his ear was the item in most immediate danger. The bird nibbled it and Max swore involuntarily. Damn. Not the best way to ingratiate himself into the good minister's favor. It did, however, seem to garner some sympathy from Miss Farrow. She waved her hand at the bird, trying to distract him from his very intent ear nibbling.

"I'm so sorry, sir," she said. "He has a preoccupation with ears, I'm afraid."

"I assure you," Max said, gently swiping at the bird. "I'm not opposed to a little ear nibble every now and again."

But
he had little time to consider how Miss Farrow might take his admission. Instead of his swipes succeeding in removing the bird, they merely served to gain its attention. Max was rewarded by a two toed grip around his finger. The bird stepped up onto his hand and allowed Max to bring him round to eye level.

Miss
Farrow gasped. Mr. Farrow cleared his throat again. The bird cocked his head in the opposite direction and stared into Max's eyes.

Good old Bartholomew. How long had it been?
A dozen years at least. And clearly the bird's vocabulary hadn't improved one bit.

"Good gracious," Mr.
Farrow exclaimed. "You've tamed him!"

"Er, he's not actually a bad creature," Max said, then wondered if it was wise to give so much away already. "At least, so he would seem."

"You know parrots?" Mr. Farrow questioned.

In truth, Max knew nothing of parrots in general. He did, however know
this
one. Hell, he'd learned much from old Bartholomew in his younger days. After a bad night at the gaming table or a disappointing day at the races, he was rather thankful for the colorful descriptors he'd gained from conversing with the creature in his youth. Just now, however, he opted for a more vague answer.

"I know a bit of them, sir."

His words seemed to have a profound effect on Mr. Farrow. The reverend grasped Max by the free hand and pulled him into the house. The sudden movement upset Bartholomew, sending him into screeching and flapping and the repetitive recitation of two damnable lines of what Max knew to be the mildest part of an even more damnable rhyme.

Miss
Farrow blushed again. How interesting. Max would not have guessed her to be the type to own familiarity with the rhyme in question.

His curiosity about Miss
Farrow's various knowledge, however, was quickly diverted by Mr. Farrow's barrage of questions.

"Can you help us, sir? Have you experience with this sort of thing? How long do you expect it to take?"

Perhaps if Max had been able to make heads or tails of the man's rambling he could have answered intelligibly. As he could not, and as he had found Miss Farrow's warm brown eyes with their mixture of innocence and admiration to be somewhat of a distraction, Max rather babbled his response.