Miss Farrow's Feathers (10 page)

“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 impl
ied 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 has 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.

Max glared at the bird. “Perhaps Grandfather thought your outbursts were endearing, but I don’t find it so very precious.”

“
More precious than gold. More precious than gold
,” Bartholomew recited, settling back onto his perch.

Max snarled at him, but decided that
line was at least fairly innocuous. It was unfathomable why the bird chose the phrases he chose. Could he have truly heard each and every one of those rhymes so often that all of them were stuck in his brain, just waiting for some innocent word to bring them to recall? If Grandfather had thought he was perpetuating some sort of joke by reinforcing the bird’s knowledge, Max wasn’t finding it so very funny now.

Bartholomew was supposed to be providing something more useful than the bawdy commentary Max had discovered so far. Grandfather’s last letter had alluded quite clearly. Bartholomew held the clue—
even Nigel was aware of it. But what that clue was, Max couldn't guess. He was determined as hell to get it out of him, though.

He simply had to get his mind off of Miss Farrow long enough to do it. Damn, but that was proving a difficult task. He’d found her attractive, of course, and her
petty deceptions toyed with his imagination, but now that he’d seen her digest that book with more interest than shock he could barely contain his curiosity of her. What else might not shock her, or send her away? The possibilities were tantalizing. Miss Farrow with her prim exterior and her secretive ways fairly screamed out to be decoded.

Not until he had more important matters in hand, though
. Grandfather's final letter, his hints about Bartholomew, Nigel’s cagey schemes—all that must be decoded first. Once the truth was known and matters of the estate were all settled, then perhaps Max could focus his attentions onto Miss Farrow. Provided she didn't succumb to whatever Nigel had planned for her.

“I hope to hell I find the key to this soon
,” he muttered aloud, stooping to pick up the book from the floor where it landed.

“
The heart is the key,
” Bartholomew croaked.

“I’ll thank you to leave my heart out of it,” Max said. As if either he or Bartholomew actually had any say in the matter.

Meg woke up early the following morning. Rather, she slept only fitfully
at best so she was glad to see the sunrise when she could legitimately get out of bed and occupy herself with something other than thoughts of Mr. Shirley and her own guilty conscience. Papa would have noticed if she’d begun polishing the handrail or sweeping out the fireplace at three o’clock in the morning and he might have asked why she wasn’t abed.

Even if she told him she was nervous for Nigel—er, the new earl’s visit today, it would have been a lie. Her scattered thoughts last night had hardly been focused on Nigel. Indeed, her mind turned and fretted, but it had all be centered on Mr. Shirley.

Drat him, with those unmentionable shoulders and distracting blue eyes. Why could he not have arrived here an old hunchback with false teeth and dull, uninteresting conversation? Why had fate made him a handsome, witty bachelor with a ready smile and a good sense of humor?

Oh, and that book! Heavens, she should never have looked at it. Worse, having seen it, she should never have read it! And read it, and turned pages to read it some more. What could she have been thinking? Mr. Shirley must
assume her the most shocking of hoydens, a most scandalous tart, reading such things and not swooning or at least condemning them outright.

Instead, it had been all she could do not to laugh aloud, to take actual enjoyment from the clever phrases, the tawdry teasing of each bawdy line her eyes fell on. What could have come over her to make her react that way? Certainly she did not make a habit of it, partaking of other such low entertainments. Never!

Why, she'd spent years priding herself on her virtue. Now to have stood there in front of Mr. Shirley and read such things as she’d seen in that book! Heavens. How could she ever redeem herself?

By pretending it never happened and scrubbing harder at the smudges on her stair rail, of course. So she did, then leaned back to take a look at her handiwork. Drat. It was not perfect.

“Missed a spot,” she grumbled, attacking the bottom-most newel with nearly religious fervor.

“
Dear Dot marks the spot! Dear Dot marks the spot!
”

It was Bartholomew, swooping down the stairway. Meg ducked low, the bird
’s tail feathers brushing her head as he dipped, then soared up to land on the railing knob she had just painstakingly polished. She held back a rather harsh rebuke barely in time to notice Mr. Shirley watching her from the top of the stairs. Good gracious, but he looked remarkable in the morning, his coat perfectly pressed and his cravat tied just right.

Perhaps the man had been a valet in some previous life. Or had
been served by one, maybe. But that was a ridiculous notion, of course. Mr. Shirley was a parrot trainer, a nobody. He was most certainly
not
a gentleman with a valet. Still, for a nobody-parrot-trainer, he was the most gentlemanly one she’d ever laid eyes on.

“Sorry about that,” he said, stepping down toward her. “Bartholomew was getting agitated so I thought he could do with some fresh air for a while.”

She scrambled to stand up from her seat on the lowest step and straightened her attire. My, but he was tall, standing a few steps above her and gazing down. And those shoulders… heavens, but she was going to have to stop staring at his shoulders! Shifting her gaze up to his face was no better, though. Now she had to contend with a sculpted jaw, winsome expression, and those dratted blue eyes.

“Fresh air. Yes. Good idea,” she babbled.

“Perhaps you would like some as well?” he asked. “Surely the banister is polished enough for a visit from the king, let alone a lowly earl.”

So he thought Glenwick’s expected arrival later today was her reason for the obsessive polishing? That was good. She’d much rather have him believe that than to hold any inkling her restless behavior might be in some way due to him.

But to accompany him for some fresh air… that would mean she’d have to prolong her exposure to his eyes and those shoulders...

“I’m not sure I can spare the time
.

“Nonsense. Come out to the garden with me, Miss Farrow.”

He was gazing down at her and she was gazing up at him. Not only were his eyes so very blue, but now she noticed the most entrancing violet rings around his pupils. It seemed she could fall right into those eyes, divulge all of her secrets to them. Why yes… yes, she would go out to the garden with him… or anywhere else he asked her to go...

Good gracious, what was she thinking? Of course she would not go anywhere with him. He was here to train the parrot, nothing more. She needed to keep her mind firmly on that fact, not find herself helpless and distracted by the man’s features. She would
not
fall into his eyes, divulge any secrets, or follow him out to the garden.

Then again
, she couldn’t very well stand here forever, could she? And whether she went with him for fresh air or not, she’d have to move off of the staircase to allow him to pass by. It took another moment before her feet agreed to move and she was able to tear her eyes off of his. He stepped down off the stairs and he came to stand beside her.

He held out his arm. “Come. The sunshine looked quite pleasant outside my window.”

Her resolve crumbled and she took his arm. He was solid and warm and far more pleasant than sunshine had ever been, at least so far as she could recall just now. Her insides went to jelly at his nearness. How on earth could she possibly feel like this over a simple parrot trainer?

He led the way through the house, Bartholomew flapping his way along with them, diving from high places to low and swooping repeatedly close to Meg’s head. She tried to ignore him—which wasn’t all that difficult to do given the fact Mr. Shirley insisted on smiling at her—and by the time they reached the rear door of the house she’d very nearly forgotten there even was such a thing as Bartholomew.

Until the bird slammed into her in his hurry to whoosh out into the open air. Drat the annoying creature! If only she had half a worry he might fly away forever, but no, she did not. Bartholomew had been out in the garden with her plenty of times and never once had he felt compelled to leave. Stupid animal.

Fortunately, the sunshine and fresh air did feel remarkably good on her skin as she stepped out into it. Her bad mood was wiped away despite how tense she had been up to this point. Not that she could fully relax, though. Indeed not; Mr. Shirley was right there at her side, ushering her quite kindly and making her jelly turn to jitters.

“A visit to your charming garden is just what is needed,” the gentleman said, breathing in the outdoors so that his already impressive chest expanded and pulled the crisp fabric of his coat tight against him.

Bartholomew settled onto a post and proceeded to ruin the morning quiet. “
Go visit Dear Dot. Go visit Dear Dot
.”

Meg frowned. “I have no idea who this Dot person is, but he seems to want to visit her overly often.”

“Yes, so I’ve noticed. I assumed she might be a family friend of yours.”

“Not of mine,” Meg assured him. “And as far as I know, not of the old earl’s either.
It’s truly amazing that he will spout off the same words and phrases, day after day, as if these are the things he’s heard repeatedly, yet never once did I know the old earl to speak such things, or anyone else I’ve ever known the bird to be in contact with.”

“He must have learned it all from the sailors.”

“But that was years ago! Why hasn’t he happened to pick up anything more recently? Do you suppose there is something wrong with him?”

He seemed to seriously consider this suggestion. She did, too, quite frankly. It
was clearly the only conclusion to draw; Bartholomew was defective. They were all just wasting Mr. Shirley’s valuable time and he’d be much better off to go train some other, more deserving, parrot somewhere.

It was a very depressing thought. She almost bounced with glee when the gentleman disregarded it.

“No, I don’t think that’s the trouble. I think it is more likely Bartholomew is simply clinging to those things that give him comfort, considering he’s lost his very dear master. Perhaps these phrases remind him of happier times.”

“But surely then he would be repeating the things his old master often said, not these other phrases.”

“Yes, I suppose that does put a twist on my logic.”

“
Give your old pole a twist, lad
!” Bartholomew squawked.

“See?” Meg pointed out. “He is clearly aware of what is being said around him. Why should our casual conversation only trigger the basest of his memories?”

“But he has no concept of that,” Mr. Shirley said, though he watched the bird pensively. “He does not know what is base and what is polite. He merely knows what he has heard repeatedly.”

“But so long ago.”

“Unless…”

And now he stopped speaking and was taken over completely by his pensive observations. Meg watched, waiting for him to complete his thought, but he did not. She ran the conversation over in her mind, wondering what concept had captured his thoughts. Was he re-evaluating his statement that Bartholomew was not defective, or was he perhaps wondering if there had been some influence they were unaware of, some other person who may have interacted with the bird and reinforced these bawdy sayings
?

If she hadn’t known for a fact the bird spoke this way long before Mr. Shirley had arrived, she would have accused him of reading aloud from that awful book she’d found in his room.
Several of the passages she’d read there were every bit as colorful as the ones Bartholomew spouted off upon occasion. Indeed, several of them were very similar to what Bartholomew routinely said.

Very
similar, as a matter of fact. How odd! What an amazing coincidence that Mr. Shirley had shown up here with a book containing some of the very songs and rhyme patterns that Bartholomew had been taught years and years ago aboard ship. It was just a bit too amazing, actually.

The bird screeched on, repeating that dreadful line about twisting a pole. Meg wished to God she had no idea what it could mean.
She cleared her throat and tried to seem unaffected.

“I’ve heard him recite that line before,” she commented.
“And now recently I’ve read it.”

“Read it?”

“In your book. Last night.”

Was she imagining, or did the man’s complexion go pale? Perhaps even a bit pink at his neck, just above the lily-white of his cravat.

“In my book?”

“Yes, the one you claim to have little familiarity with, yet you left it sitting out quite prominently.”

“Oh. Yes… that book. Well, as I said, it’s very likely that is a compendium of bawdy songs that would have been common on ships such as the ones Bartholomew may have been raised on.”

“Yes, it would seem that is likely. What is unlikely, though, is that you should just happen to have such a book at the very moment you take up training our troubled bird. Did you, perhaps, have some notion of where he had gotten his habits?”

“Er, yes. Perhaps I did.”

“Then do you have some sort of second sight, sir, or had you been in contact with someone who might have known our situation?”

He seemed at a loss to answer this. She would have really liked to hear his answer, too, but unfortunately Mrs. Cooper came rushing out into the garden just at that very moment.

“He’s here! He’s come already!” she said in a fluster of nerves.

“What is it? Who’s here?” Meg asked.

“His lordship, the new earl!” the housekeeper replied. “I had no idea he would come so early. What gentleman comes
so early? I thought I’d have hours yet to prepare! Oh, heavens, come inside, Miss Shirley. Your father isn’t even back yet from morning prayer and I’ve got to get tea on.”

Nigel was here? Gracious, it was hardly visiting hours. What could have brought him? The man wasn’t even expected into town until later. Why should he be here so early? Unless, perhaps his journey had been shorter than anticipated and he stopped by church on first arriving. Yes, he may have wanted to visit his grandfather’s grave and perhaps he saw Papa there. But if he was here and Papa was not… well, she couldn’t imagine what he might be about.

Quickly she dusted her hands on her apron and removed it, wishing she’d had on something other than a faded dress suitable only for house cleaning. And her hair! Oh heavens, but her hair must look a fright. Without even thinking she dashed a hand up to pat her cheeks, hoping there might be some rosy color to them.

“You look lovely, as always,” Mr. Shirley said.

She was suddenly frozen. He had called her lovely! Her breath caught at the sound of the words rolling so tenderly, earnestly off his tongue. Oh, but of course he was merely being kind, saying what she would want to help calm her nerves. Surely he meant nothing by it.

Still, she could not look at him lest he realize how deeply it affected her. Their lowly parrot trainer thought she was lovely and her soul danced at the thought of it. Good heavens, she’d best get hold of herself quickly—the ne
w Earl of Glenwick waited in her parlor and she needed to greet him.