Miss Farrow's Feathers (3 page)

"I think Mr. Shirley will work out quite well for us," Papa said when he wandered into the drawing room to interrupt Meg from the letter she was writing.

Oddly enough, she'd just written that very phrase to her sister in Kent. Except for one thing: Meg's phrase included the word
not
. She did
not
think Mr. Shirley would work out quite well for them.

From what she had been able to determine of Mr. Shirley
's character over the past three days since his arrival, was that the man was a sort she knew only too well. He was well-spoken, enchantingly turned out, and completely amused with himself. The only person his sort tended to work out quite well for was, well, himself. She'd had a gullet full of this sort of gentleman.

Still, he did have a way with Bartholomew.
The bird seemed quite comfortable with him, and vice versa. Not that the man's influence had done anything to curb the bird's language or his annoying tendency to sneak up behind Meg and then bark like a dog, or comment on the view. It was more than annoying, actually. Just yesterday she'd poured tea down her front when Bartholomew did that during a visit with the very elderly Mr. and Mrs. Melling, and already this morning her hairbrush had gone flying. The bothersome bird had managed to get into her room while she was dressing! She refused to even contemplate how that had been managed.

Something would have to be done.

"I'm pleased that you like him, Papa," she said carefully. "But doesn't it bother you that the man would arrive here for a position in our home and not bring any references?"

"He explained that, my dear. The parcel containing his reference
s was lost on his journey. He's contacted his previous employer to forward another. It should just be a matter of a few days more. You'll see, pet. All will be in order."

"I hope so, but
—"

"You worry too much. Anyone can see that Bartholomew is quite taken with him.
And frankly, so am I. In fact, I wonder why you seem to be so very cool toward him."

"He is a strange man in our home, Papa. I should expect you might be glad to see
me so very cool toward him."

"He is a fine young man, by all appearances. I should think you'd appreciate that."

"I prefer to appreciate people on something more than mere appearance, Papa. And his appearance is..."

"
It's very fine, isn't it? Yes, I thought you might notice."

"Honestly, Papa! I was not about to say that.
Heavens. I was going to say his appearance is rather... convenient."

"Indeed it is. Miraculous, I might even say."

"And I say it is suspicious. Doesn't it strike you as odd that you barely had that advertisement placed and he should appear at our door?"

"But that's what advertisements are for, dearest. I should think you'd be pleased that the Almighty saw fit to answer our need so quickly. And with someone so charming and attractive."

"Who still has done nothing to disrupt the atrocities coming from Bartholomew's mouth... or other parts. Really, Papa, I hope you insisted those references come quickly."

"The
English post does the best that it can. Be patient. I think we are well on the road to success with our feathered friend."

At that point, Bartholomew came flapping into the room. It was almost to be expected, really. She'd gone for nearly an hour without suffering any indignities from him. This bird would be the death of them all.

And as for Mr. Shirley... well, she could only wonder what sort of destruction he might bring. The man rushed into the room after the bird and came to a jolting halt when he noticed them there. She refused to acknowledge how his dark, glossy hair fell over his brow, tempting her to right it, or how the room brightened from the hint of the smile at his lip when his eyes happened upon her. Despite three days working with the unteachable parrot, the man's coat was still impeccably pressed and his neck cloth elegantly tied.

Papa's description of the man's appearance as "fine" was quite modest, indeed. But no. Meg
would not let herself judge the man on his appearance, no matter how fine it was. Papa might call him miraculous, but she would use other words. Dangerous was certainly among them.

Bartholomew seemed to have no such concerns about the man, though.
He ignored him quite easily, swooping up to his perch on the cornice and squawking away as if a formidable, broad-shouldered gentleman was not bearing down on him. Meg was glad said gentleman had turned his attention from her and back onto the bird.

"I'm so sorry," Mr. Shirley said
, obviously attempting to explain how—once again—he'd lost track of his pupil. "I was reading from the Scripture in hopes Bartholomew might mimic me, but I'm afraid he took umbrage at the story of the Hebrew children devouring quail in the wilderness."

"Perfectly understandable," Papa said
, nodding as if he often experienced the same thing while addressing his own faithful flock. "The unenlightened often times kick against the pricks."

"Er, what?" Mr. Shirley asked, obviously not much of a Bible scholar.

"A prick was used to goad oxen,” Meg informed him. “A stubborn ox would kick against it.”

“I see. In that case,
yes, you are correct. Bartholomew is certainly kicking the prick.”

She bit her cheek and forced herself not to comment.

Papa, however, did not appear to see anything comment-worthy about the situation. He simply shook his head and gave a sad smile.

"I'm sure your influence is having some positive effect on him, Mr. Shirley. We must all remain patient."

Mr. Shirley—of course—agreed. "Indeed, sir. Bartholomew's patterns did not develop overnight. He was attended by sailors for many years, and I daresay the old earl did very little to curb the bird's ramblings."

Obviously Papa had been thorough in explaining to Mr. Shirley many details from Bartholomew's history.
Yes, the bird had been carried all over the world on a ship full of merchant sailors. It was there he had learned his abhorrent vocabulary, and when he'd passed into Lord Glenwick's possession, the earl had thought the bird horribly amusing. He'd encouraged the outbursts and the endless recitation of one bawdy ballad after another. It was no wonder retraining was proving so difficult.

Not that she was defending Mr. Shirley. She still had her suspicions about his abilities, as well as his non-existent references.
There was no question, however, about his familiarity with the profane. Bartholomew spouted off a surprisingly tame verse and Mr. Shirley chuckled under his breath. Apparently he knew the rest of the rhyme which, sadly, was not nearly so tame.

"When you smile at him that way," she warned the gentleman. "It only serves to encourage him."

"What he said was not so very bad."

"Perhaps not, but the words that come after it are."

"Ah, so you are familiar with that particular stanza?"

"Not by choice, I assure you. Bartholomew has several favorites that we've been repeatedly subjected to."

To prove the point, the bird recited one of these—a thankfully mild phrase Meg had heard far too often. She sighed and waited for the bird to finish, but Mr. Shirley seemed not to mind. He seemed, in fact, to be interested in the mindless chatter.

"I heard him say that yesterday, the same phrase," he noted. "
Dot marks the spot.
Does he repeat this very often?"

"Too often. And several others that are equally nonsensical. Plus, of course, the various bouts of profanity."

"As I've noticed. However," Mr. Shirley said and was clearly quite engrossed by the subject matter. "He does seem to favor certain phrases from rhymes, but not the entire rhyme. I wonder why that is?”

"He's a parrot, sir. I hardly think he can be credited for
having deep reasoning behind his words."

As a self-professed parrot trainer, she wondered that Mr. Shirley did not already know this. She'd make certain to point it out for Papa later on. More and more she was convinced Mr. Shirley was not at all what he alleged.

But he gave no indication of being put off by her suspicion. "Of course Bartholomew does not understand the words he speaks, but he certainly understands our reaction to them. He knows what gets him attention and what does not."

"Obviously he cares very little what sort of attention he gets from us," she noted. "Quite often he gets something thrown at his head."

Mr. Shirley tsked at her but she felt no guilt whatsoever. Anyone would be held blameless for such action after weeks of living with the bird. Especially since they never actually hit the bird with their projectiles. So far.

"I've not seen any violence from you, Miss
Farrow," the would-be trainer pointed out. "But I have seen you deliver him biscuits to buy a moment of solitude. Oh yes, I've seen you do it. Don't tell me that does not encourage the bird to misbehave."

Papa nodded somberly. "Indeed, you are right, Mr. Shirley. I'm afraid we've been unwittingly rewarding
his reprehensible behavior. Meg, have you considered this? No, I daresay neither of us have. We've been so desperate for anything that might buy us a moment's peace we haven't stopped to think what we might be actually teaching him."

"I'll not take any credit for the little monster," Meg declared. "He was corrupted long before he got here."

"The earl certainly did get a chuckle from some of the bird’s more colorful sayings,” Mr. Shirley said, then quickly amended his words. “At least, I can imagine that was the way of it. Likely it is the explanation for why the bird still persists even after years away from the sailors who initially trained him.”

“Your instincts are correct,” Papa said with an approving nod. “That was indeed the case. Lord Glenwick did enjoy a bawdy lyric.”

“But we do not,” Meg was quick to add. “So if there is something we ought to be doing to help curb Bartholomew’s enthusiasm for the improper, please instruct us.”

Mr. Shirley cocked his head as he seemed to consider this. Bartholomew did the same from his perch above them. Meg wondered who, in fact, truly was the teache
r there. Mr. Shirley’s words did little to resolve her confusion.

“Perhaps the bird’s persistence in repeating these phrases that he clearly no longer hears on a daily basis are a result of his feelings of insecurity.”

“His
what
?”

“
Insecurity. He’s lost a beloved caregiver, the home he knew for many years… it stands to reason the poor creature feels insecure.”

P
apa nodded knowingly. Apparently he thought Mr. Shirley's drivel was perfectly reasonable. Exactly when he had become an expert on the sensitivities of parrots she really had no idea.

“The poor thing
," Papa said with an empathetic sigh. "He has suffered great loss, indeed. What can we do to comfort him?”

Now Mr. Shirley did something Bartholomew could not. He smiled. It was a distinctly roguish smile
, too. Meg wondered that Papa did not scold the man for giving her such a look.

“You should sing to him, Miss
Farrow.”

“
Sing
to him?
I?
What, lullabies and nursery rhymes?”

“Most certainly not. Those things would be meaningless to him. No, I should think the only hope of comforting dear Bartholomew is to give him the things he is comfortable with.
Sea shanties and ale songs.”

She could scarcely believe her ears. Was the man demented? He couldn't be serious.

“Sea shanties and ale songs?”

“But of course.”

Papa was actually rubbing his chin in pensive agreement. "It would stand to reason that might be seen as comforting for the poor animal..."

"Honestly, Papa! You cannot encourage such things!"

"Mr. Shirley does have a point, my dear," Papa said, to her amazement. "And you do have such a sweet, soothing voice."

"Not when singing
sea shanties and ale songs, I don't," Meg grumbled.

How could Papa possibly be in favor of such a thing?
He seemed even more smitten with Mr. Shirley than she was. Not that she was smitten. Certainly not.

"Perhaps I should clarify: you must
only select the songs and verses that are not particularly, er, offensive, Miss Farrow."

As if she would do anything other than that! Honestly, the nerve of this man.

"And which lines would those be, sir? You've heard for yourself the sorts of things that bird articulates."

He nodded. "Indeed. But
surely not every line familiar to Bartholomew is offensive.”

Meg snorted.
She hoped Mr. Shirley might mistake it for a ladylike sneeze, but of course it was likely he did not. What could he expect? These were not nursery rhymes spewing from Bartholomew all day long.

"It is true," Papa said, judiciously ignoring her snort. "That there are occasionally phrases that do not seem to be a part of some coarse verse."