Miss Farrow's Feathers (5 page)

Well,
she had three days to purge it—three days before Nigel Webberly returned to Richington to claim his title and ownership of Glenwick Downs. How could she pass the time without seeming a nervous wreck? How could she make certain he would not turn up to find her as wide-eyed and love-struck as before?

She could devote herself to assisting Mr. Shirley, to rehabilitating Bartholomew as much as possible. Indeed, that would certainly keep her mind far, far from matters of love and tender emotion. She'd likely be ready to throttle the first man to turn his eyes upon her after
surrounding herself with Bartholomew's filth and Mr. Shirley's conceit and false charm.

If the man's charm were indeed false. It
had not seemed counterfeit when he found her here a few moments ago... the way he spoke with such interest and earnest concern about her friend—whom he gratefully assumed was a female—it was more than expected from him. Almost endearing, in fact. And that smile he'd given as he left her alone...

Gracious, but was she actually entertaining such thoughts? C
learly not in her right mind. Nigel's imminent return must have her quite rattled. Indeed, that must be it. Even after all this time, Nigel Webberly could still addle her brain. She'd even begun to consider making friends with Papa's reference-less parrot trainer.

Oh,
she was addled indeed and had very little notion what she could do about it.

“Give your old pole a twist, lad,”
the blighted bird chattered.

Max did what he could to shush him. Damn the feathered rascal! If some progressed wasn’t achieved soon, even the ever
optimistic Reverend would start to question Max’s ability. Not that he actually had any, of course. Over the past days it had become clearer by the minute he was out of his depth when it came to retraining an obstinate parrot. Bartholomew’s language seemed to be getting worse rather than better.

“There once was a sailor named Tuck…”

“Not that one again, please.”

“…who asked a young wench for a—“

“Cease, for God’s sake!”

He grabbed for the parrot, determined to hold
its beak shut, if that’s what it would take to stop the flood of vulgarities. Bartholomew was too quick. He leapt off the huge, rag covered tree-trunk someone had brought indoors for use as a perch and sailed around the bedroom, flapping and squawking loudly. By God, if the fluent profanity didn’t alert the Farrows to Max’s failing, this sort of racket surely would.

He gave up, letting the bird settle atop the
dressing table mirror and smugly rearrange his feathers. That's how the creature seemed to feel about everything Max did; smug. It was as if Bartholomew truly did know something Max didn't and was perfectly happy to keep it that way.

But just what did the blasted bird know? In nearly a week of Max's efforts to make sense of Bartholomew's random ranting, he was no closer to having an answer to that question than when he'd
first arrived at the Farrow's front door. Had the old earl's death truly been the natural consequence of a long, peaceful life, or were Max’s suspicions correct? Had Bartholomew been witness to something devious, or was he just an idiot bird who'd spent too much time in low company? The old earl’s final correspondence had seemed to indicate the later. He worried something sinister was afoot, and he directed Max to the bird.

Bartholomew knows. He'll tell you what to do.

Indeed, that's what the letter said, along with a few other things that still didn't make a lot of sense. But so far, Glenwick had been wrong. Bartholomew might, indeed, know something, but he sure as hell wasn't telling any of it to Max.

"Come, bird," Max said, drawing a deep breath and maintaining a herculean grasp on his temper. "Tell me where it is. Where's the old man's treasure?"

Bartholomew cocked his head. Was he contemplating Max's words? Had something Max said sparked recognition within the bird's miniscule brain?

"Treasure? Is that familiar to you, bird?"

He could have sworn the bird nodded. Max was almost ready to cheer when the creature spoke.

"Old man's chest. Old man's chest."

By God, perhaps he'd hit on it at last! For one heart-stopping moment Max dared to hope. Perhaps he'd gotten through, at long last.

"Yes, yes! The treasure chest. Where is it?"

"Forever alone on his island fair West."

West.
An island! By Jove, finally the bird was making some sense. Max tried not to let his excitement show. It would not do to get the bird all worked up again, would it?

"An island in the West? Is that where the treasure is?"

"I never will go, to stay is the best."

Oh, hell. Now he recognized these words. Bartholomew wasn't giving him some secret directions for finding the
fabled Glenwick treasure, he was reciting another bloody sea shanty.

"I'll guard with my life the old man's chest," Max finished, chorusing along with the bird.

Damnation. What sort of fool was he, thinking to carry on meaningful conversation with a blasted bird? Of course Bartholomew couldn't answer his questions. He was a parrot, for God's sake. All he could do was blithely repeat lines he'd heard over and over aboard the merchant ship where he'd lived for a good 20 years. When Max mentioned "treasure", all that did was bring to mind the words of a song—a fairly bawdy one, at that—about a sailor who let a busty female seduce him into losing his treasure.

“Wretched creature,” Max grumbled.

He kicked the heavy perch. It wobbled only slightly on its substantial base.. The bird squawked as if in real terror for his life and flapped around the room again, leaving a well-aimed deposit on Max’s shoulder. Max swore.

All this was just in time for Mr. Farrow to appear in the doorway.

“Everything well in here?” he asked, though clearly he must have seen for himself the answer to that question.

“
Well indeed, my good vicar,” Max replied cheerfully, as if he were particularly fond of bird droppings on his coat.

“
A vicar and lass fell down into a hole—“
Bartholomew began.

Damn it all, not that one! Max stepped in front of the bird and raised his voice, hopefully enough to drown him out.
He smiled at the vicar and opted for mindless—but loud—conversation.

“So, it must be getting on toward supper, I should think. Must say, I’m getting rather famished.
Are you? Oh, but is it late? I hope I’ve not kept you all waiting. Whatever is the time, anyway?”

He ran out of inane things to babble about and was, sadly, silent when Bartholomew delivered his last line of the rhyme.

“Perhaps you should climb on my pole?”

The Reverend cleared his throat. Max loosened his cravat. Bartholomew repeated the last line, for good measure.

“He certainly has a vast repertoire,” Mr. Farrow said.

“Indeed he does. I’m working to replace the
most, er, colorful phrases with things a bit more universally acceptable.”

“Yes, as yo
u’ve had my daughter singing and chanting to the bird at odd hours during the day.”

Yes, he had, hadn’t he? And she’d hated it; likely hated him for it. Clearly nothing useful had come of it, but Max had no intentions of
allowing her to stop. It was the best amusement he’d had for quite a long time, actually.

“If he hears things that are familiar to him—things that we have deemed unoffensive—my ho
pe is that those are the phrases he’ll make free use of.”

“
Make free with whatever she’s got, lads.”

Oh,
good grief. Would the bird never stop?

“He seems to use that phrase quite often,” Mr. Farrow noted. “Surely it isn’t one you’ve been reciting of late.”

“No, definitely not. It seems there are several phrases he employs more frequently than others. I’m not certain what to make of them.”

“Well, old Glenwick had his own way
of things. He never minded the bird’s vulgarities, I’m afraid.”

"No, he was more likely to encourage
— er, that is, it would appear the bird was encouraged to be as inappropriate as possible."

Mr. Farrow nodded. "I fear that is the case and there is no hope for poor Bartholomew."

Well, that didn't sound good. Was the vicar already decided to let Max go? What would become of the bird? Blast it all, but somehow he would have to convince the Farrows progress was being made.

"You mustn't lose hope, sir.
Remember, it took years for Bartholomew to develop these patterns. Clearly he is not going to replace them in a single day."

"Or five," the vicar pointed out.

"Yes, it does seem things are slow going, I'll admit to that."

"Yet you truly believe there's hope for him yet?"

"I do, yes. Most assuredly."

"Well, he does seem to enjoy your company..."

Max tucked his bandaged hand behind his back. No sense alerting the good reverend to the fact that Bartholomew had tried to enjoy Max's index finger this morning.

"I suppose it would not be charitable if we were to abandon the bird after such a short time
," Mr. Farrow said after a decisive pause. "Indeed, if you are convinced he is worth the effort, Mr. Shirley, then I will bow to your greater wisdom and experience in the matter."

Max tugged at his sleeve to make certain it covered the marks on his arm where Bartholomew had tried to "enjoy" that, too.

"Thank you, sir. I am convinced you will not regret your trust in me."

"
I'm pleased to hear such confidence. As it turns out, we will rely on you heavily over the next days. It will be most imperative that Bartholomew keeps a steady tongue... or beak, or whatever he has there."

"Oh? Why is that?"

"A guest, Mr. Shirley. My daughter informs me we are expecting a rather important guest. He should be arriving tomorrow."

"
How pleasant for you."

"Indeed, it will be. We've not seen him for years, although he was once very dear to us."

"An old relative, perhaps?"

"He was
formerly a resident of our village."

Ah, so this was a part of the reason for Miss Farrow's blushes over her mysterious letter. Her gentleman friend
—after his recent losses—was now coming back to her. How very interesting. Max was careful to keep the full measure of his curiosity out of his voice.

"
How nice for you to meet with an old friend again. Does he still have family in the village?" he asked.

"No, I'm afraid not. When his
grandfather passed away last month, that was the last of his nearby relations."

"Last month?"

"Yes. His grandfather, in fact, was Bartholomew's previous owner. The Earl of Glenwick."

"Glenwick was his
grandfather?"

B
y God, he'd not expected that. Miss Farrow's secret beau was none other than Nigel Webberly! Damn. This was going to be sticky. Max had not intended to encounter the man so soon after his arrival in town.

He should have expected him to turn up right away to claim his inheritance, though. After all, that's what one did when one's grandfather died.
No one knew that better than Max.

Lord Glenwick
was
his
grandfather, as well.

Everything in the house was just as it should be
—or at least as close to that as it could be—so Meg forced herself to take a deep breath, pick up a book, and retire to a comfortable chair in the quiet of her own room. Nigel Webberly would be here tomorrow. He'd be back at his grandfather's estate, back in their village, and he'd be coming here to her home.

To see
her
.

Her heart
twisted in her chest at the thought of it. How would it feel to see him again? Had he changed in these past years? Would he think she had changed very much? She'd been a fresh little miss when last he'd seen her. She was hardly so fresh now; would he notice? Would she care if he did?

She wasn't in love with him. That infatuation faded after he left, after he misled her then broke her silly, girlish heart to go marry another. It had been ages, in fact, since he'd even crossed her mind. She had no reason to fear their reunion would be anything but
pleasant and friendly. At least, she hoped that it would be.

For Nigel, it would more
likely be bittersweet, putting him in mind of a happier time. Since his last visit to Glenwick Downs, much had changed in his life. He'd lost his wife and his grandfather was gone. Perhaps being back here would prove difficult for him.

Indeed, she could imagine
it would. Along with memories of happier times, his return would surely remind him of an unhappy time, too. His leaving had been sudden and his grandfather had not been very pleased with him over it. That was why he'd never been back in the seven years since. It was so sad. The old man had died never really reconciling with Nigel.

She would simply have to do her best to see that his return was as peaceful and amicable as possible
. Not something that would be easy given Bartholomew's behavior. What would Nigel think when he saw the bird again? As she recalled, he'd not been particularly enamored of him in the past. No doubt time had not made his heart grow fonder.

At least he'd be relieved to find they'd taken that burden on for him and he was not stuck with the creature
. He'd probably applaud their efforts at reforming him, even if it did mean they'd brought an unreferenced stranger into their home. She hoped he'd applaud them, at any rate, rather than wonder at Mr. Shirley's presence, especially since no improvement would be detected in Bartholomew and since Nigel—more than anyone else—knew all about Meg's weakness for smooth-talking gentlemen.

But she had no weakness for Mr. Shirley. Indeed, she was very proud of herself for the cool manner she'd maintained toward him, even after five days of facing his smiles and suffering his friendly conversation and unruffled demeanor. And the man's appearance... well, surely she should be highly commended for sustaining indiffere
nce when up against
that
. On his best day, even Nigel Webberly had never presented so well.

So deep in thought on the subject matter was she that the housekeeper had to knock at her door three times before she was aware the woman was trying to summon her.