Miss Farrow's Feathers (9 page)

He should let
the courts go about the work of finding proof to convict Nigel, and that damn, slimy steward along with him. All Max needed to do was present himself as the true heir and call for Nigel to be slapped in chains. Hell, that ought to cure Miss Farrow of any
tendre
she still felt for the man. She would do well to forget Nigel and set her sights toward someone more deserving of her esteem. Someone with a legitimate claim to a title, perhaps.

As if he could pass for someone like that just now, though. He slunk down into the brush as her carriage rattled by. He'd encountered some nettles along the way and his hands stung from the contact. His clothes were coated in leaves and grass and soot from the old chimney. He could only imagine what his face must look like. Oh yes, he was a fine gentleman indeed. He doubted he could even pass for a parrot trainer right now.

Good thing she could not see him. She concentrated on the road before her, guiding the carriage with a firm hand, clearly eager to be about her business and clearly deeply in thought. The last rays of sunlight were golden and cast a warm glow over her features. They were good features, too. Max took advantage of his position to stare, appreciating her form, the graceful movements of her hands, the light breeze tossing a stray curl that dangled at her cheek.

Yes, he could
readily see what Nigel might find to interest him in the woman. She was easy on the eyes. She’d been close to their grandfather, as well. Did she possess information that Nigel was hunting? Could she even, unknowingly, have been given clues that might lead them to Grandfather’s treasure? Max could not rule out the possibility. He didn’t want to rule it out, either. To give up on that possibility would mean he had no further reason to study Miss Farrow. And he intended to continue that as long as he could.

For now, though, she was rounding the next bend. He would have to hurry if he meant to be waiting at the posting house when she arrived there to get him. Unless, of course, she did not intend to go back there directly.

He crossed the road silently behind her, darting behind a long hedgerow. He had a suspicion and hoped he would not turn out to be wrong. Letting her get farther ahead of him might be problematic if she did, indeed, arrive at the inn to find him gone. How could he explain his absence and his disheveled state without giving away that he knew what she’d been up to?

But as he watched, his suspicions proved to be justified. Instead of continuing on, she pulled the gig into the yard of a small cottage that sat near to the road. Max smiled. He should never have doubted. The woman was honest to a fault. This must be Miss Bent’s house.
Miss Farrow was visiting her elderly friend, after all.

He crept up behind the house and fully intended to lurk outside a window, just for the amusement of eavesdropping and seeing more of Miss Farrow when she was not intentionally ignoring him or purposefully making herself as unpleasant as possible. However, when Miss Farrow was let into the home by a round little woman, a fluffy white dog came out into the yard to yap incessantly in his direction. He had to leave, disappearing beyond the low stone wall that flanked the cottage and making tracks toward
an apple orchard nearby.

It was an easy walk to the posting house from there.
He kept out of view from the road and remain undetected, arriving in time to use water from the pump to right his mussed clothing and wash his stinging hands. The little red welts were beginning to fade. He retrieved his small writing box that he’d left hidden behind a pile of timber stacked just out of view from the road and found a safe place to wait.

Just as Miss Farrow, he hadn't completely lied about his need to come here today.
He had indeed posted a letter and was glad when the innkeeper assured him it had gone out in the last post. He could expect to have a certain friend of his arrive here in Richington tomorrow. Then the fun would begin.

He made himself comfortable on a bench
outside the posting house and opened his writing box. Why look, he even had ink on his fingers, just in case Miss Farrow should have reason to question his alibi. Lord knew he was going to question hers.

Miss Bent was overly glad to see Meg. Chester, her little dog, seemed rather more interested in whatever rabbit must have been hopping about Miss Bent’s back garden, but he settled down eventually. It was good to see that other people had trouble with their pets, too, at times. Perhaps Bartholomew wasn’t such a freak of nature, after all.

Then again,
Chester didn’t screech out a full dozen verses to “Roll Your Leg Over” every blessed day.

Meg kept her visit as brief as possible, but of course Miss Bent had much to say. Her
widowed niece generally lived with her but was currently away at her sister's home in London. Miss Bent was quite happy to share each and every detail from each and every letter she’d received from her during her absence. As Meg discovered, the niece was exceptionally prolific. Fortunately the niece promised her visit to London would end soon and she’d return home to Richington so Meg would likely be spared another recitation of the letters.

Finally she said her good-bye
s. The sun had fully set, but she knew the roads well and was not worried about traveling such a short distance after dark. Besides, she’d be meeting Mr. Shirley soon. Of course she shouldn’t be quite as pleased to think of reuniting with him as she was, but she worked to convince herself it was simply relief that she was feeling. Her scheme had worked as planned and soon she would be done with these lies and deception.

And should she have any worries about traveling alone after dark, she’d soon have Mr. Shirley with his broad shoulders to protect her.
Although, her sensible side warned her that this was most likely the very thing she most needed protection
from
. While Mr. Shirley had only ever behaved in the most respectable way toward her, she was beginning to wonder if she ought to be worried for her own respectable behavior. The involuntary thoughts she kept having of the man were not respectable at all!

But now there he was, waiting for her, waving as if he were nearly as happy to see her as she was to see him.
Despite the shadows of the posting house yard she could see that his smile lighted his eyes. And what kind, expressive eyes they were, too. Even after sharing her home with the man for nearly a week she’d not quite gotten used to their earnest blue intensity.

She would have to school herself carefully to keep from showing that she appreciated—very much—that these expressive blue eyes were fastened clearly on her. By no means did she approve of her unwelcome attraction for the man; she certainly was not about to let him catch wind of it. He’d be gone in just a few days, after all. She had no eagerness to allow him to take even the tiniest bit of her heart with him.

“Did you have a productive visit?” he asked as he swung himself easily up into her little gig.

“Er, yes, Thank you.”
Good gracious, how can someone so large move so gracefully?

“And your elderly friend is well?”

“She is, thank you.”
And you are looking very well, too.

“And her little dog?”

“He is well, also."
How sweet of you to ask after her dog. But wait...

"Er, h
ow did you know she has a dog?”

He shrugged, his smile not fading though he hadn’t looked at her once since climbing into the carriage with her. “She’s an older woman who lives alon
e, I gather. It stands to reason she must have a dog. Or sixteen cats, perhaps.”

“A dog. His name is Chester. He’s usually quite well behaved, but tonight he seemed intent on barking after some invisible rabbits out in the garden.”

“Ah, those invisible rabbits. Wiley creatures, I’ve heard. Best to use care around them.”

“Well, he was quite proud
of himself for chasing them off."
And if you don't stop being so charming this very instant, I'm likely to drive us into the ditch.

"I'm just happy someone was there to defend you," he said and finally turned one of those dazzling smiled directly on her.

Don't drive into the ditch. Don't drive into the ditch.

"As I told you and Papa
it would be, my journey was purely uneventful. Miss Bent and I ended up having a lovely little visit and now I am safely on my way home.”

“Little visit? You were gone
well over an hour, I think. It makes me wonder what you would consider a long visit.”

How kind of you to worry for me!

Or was he suspicious? She glanced at him, afraid she might find a brooding, glowering man just waiting to accuse her of all manner of things. She found, however, that he was still smiling. Her insides fluttered.

“I… I’m sorry if I kept you wait
ing overly long, sir,” she said.

“I am teasing you, Miss Farrow. Of course I did not mind waiting. After all, it was my notion to begin with, wasn’t it? I had my letters to write.”

Thank heavens! She hoped her sigh of relief wasn’t too obvious.

“And did you get all your letters drafted and sent off?”

He nodded. “I did, thank you. It would appear a most successful evening for both of us.”

“Er, yes, I suppose it
has been.”

“Your father will be happy to hear of it. I’m sure Miss Bent will tell him how glad she was to have you stop by.”

“Er, yes, I suppose she will.”

“
Such altruism must make you very much like a saint, I should think.”

“That’s overstating it a bit, sir. I merely visited a friend, nothing more
especially saintly about that.”

“What? You put yourself
to great trouble, Miss Farrow. You left the security of home and hearth to travel into the fading light for no greater purpose than to bring comfort and happy conversation to a lonely soul. Isn’t that what you did?”

Now she gritted her teeth. If he had any idea how such praises grated inside her! It was all she could do not to unburden her conscience here and now. But she was strong. She took it all with a wan smile and a weak nod.

“Thank you, sir, but I am sure you credit me too much.”

She made the mistake of glancing at him again. This time his
eyes were indeed boring into her and she was certain they held some deeper meaning that was tantalizingly out of her reach. What did the man have going on in his head? The way he gazed at her was… she had no words for the heat she felt, nor the way her breath suddenly left her.

“No, Miss Farrow
,” he said, slow and soft. “Until tonight, I fear I did not credit you enough. But now I see there is much more to you than I thought.”

She barely managed to squeak out a thank you. He grinned, appearing overly happy to have offered his praise. She felt a bit queasy accepting it, knowing how undeserved it really was.

“Such altruism is indeed rare,” he said, rambling on to make her misery even worse. “I dare say, after your gracious outing tonight you will sleep easy, Miss Farrow.”

Drat. Until now she had thought her meeting with Mr.
Perkins would leave her at ease and let her sleep without worry, but now this unearned admiration from Mr. Shirley stood to undo all of that. He thought she was selfless and kind, when really her motives had been purely conceit. If not for her need to protect herself, Miss Bent would have gone completely uncared for this evening.

Mr. Shirley was beaming in raptures, thinking kind thoughts toward her that she could not allow. What made it even more unbearable was the fact that she found she truly wanted him to think all this of her—and more. She was already wondering which gown she should wear down to breakfast tomorrow. Would he prefer seeing her in the yellow, or the lavender with the fine lace?

Drat such thoughts! Her vanity and self-interest were disgusting. When had she become so shallow and petty? Such pride did not even deserve the good favor of a simple parrot trainer. She ought to be fully ashamed of herself.

She wasn’t, though.
She was already picturing how to wear her hair with the lavender gown and praying Mr. Shirley would find the effect fetching. What a giddy sap she was! Whatever would come of such thoughts?

Indeed, though, the thoughts were persistent and try as she might, she could in no way banish them. Mr. Shirley had taken up firm residence in her imagination and no manner of guilty conscience or common sense could seem to roust him.
No, she would not sleep easy tonight. Not at all.

Max had noted that
Miss Farrow was distinctly uneasy by the time they arrived back at the parsonage. He was sure he could detect a thick layer of ice forming over her words and she was perceivably short with him. Her father expressed relief that they’d returned before the sky got any darker, and she was cheerful enough toward him, but her words were few and she excused herself for her chamber as quickly as possible.

Quite obviously her visit to Glenwick Downs had upset her. Max could well understand that, but he’d rather hoped that since it appeared her search had turned up little that might prove discrediting her attitude would be one of jovial liberation. Clearly the outcome of her visit was proving otherwise. He worried perhaps he knew why.

She must still care for Nigel. Clearly whatever transpired in the past was not entirely resolved, despite her words to the contrary. He would definitely have to keep an eye on things to be certain his blackguard cousin didn’t hurt her. Again.

In the meanwhile, he’d do well to make certain none of his concerns were detectable to his hosts. It was time to put himself whole-heartedly into training Bartholomew. Or more accurately, decoding him.
He was more convinced than ever that the bird held some sort of key, and it would seem Nigel believed the same.

He made his polite good-nights to Mr. Farrow, then went up to his room. Bartholomew waited on his well-w
orn perch, poking his head out from under his wing and then fluffing his feathers when Max entered the room.

“Sleeping as if you’ve no care in the world,” Max said, tossing his coat over the bedstead. “Lazy bird.”

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

Max snarled at him. “Go twist your own pole. I’ve got bigger problems.”

Ridiculous creature. He’d recited that same phrase all morning long, over and over. It was to the point Max would have welcomed if he'd at least recited the rest of the vulgar rhyme that went with it.

Oh yes, Max knew all of the rhymes, even though Bartholomew seemed to repeat only certain phrases. The rhymes were contained in a book. Grandfather's book.

He’d been rather surprised when the book arrived with what turned out to be Grandfather’s final letter to him. Grandfather had never been known to be a lover of great literature and frankly, neither was Max. But this book he knew—he'd stolen glances at it hundreds of times as a boy. And what boy wouldn't have poured over that volume? Nothing of any virtue at all could be found within the pages.

Grandfather's book came from pirates. Or so he had said. It had sailed around the world, entertaining all who dared open its pages. Max had most certainly dared.

The mismatched pages within the book—some of them handwritten, some in print—were indeed verse, but nothing that could be confused with Shakespeare or Byron. They were transcriptions of bawdy sea shanties. The book had been in the Glenwick collection for years and apparently Grandfather felt the need to pass it on to Max. How unfortunate that he’d obviously also shared it with Bartholomew.

“
Climb on my pole. Climb on my pole.
”

Ugh, the demmed creature was still at it. Max sighed, and reached—once again—for the Bible he kept close at hand now. For all the good that it did. Oh, certainly he himself must in some way be prospering from these repetitive readings, but the flood of gentle inspiration clearly had little effect on the bird. He took a deep breath and let the book fall open to the familiar twenty-third psalm.

“
The Lord is my shepherd,”
he read, making eye contact and praying this time his words would sink in. “
I shall not want
.”

“
You’ll want what she’s got
,” the bird interrupted. “
Just visit dear Dot
.”

Another damn rhyme. Max recognized that
one from Grandfather’s book, as well. He growled in frustration and tossed the Bible down on the bed.

“I’m sure my father would disapprove of your treatment of God’s word,” a stern feminine voice spoke from the doorway.

Damn. He’d left the door open a bit and Miss Farrow had just caught him pitching the Holy Bible as if it were nothing more than a cricket ball. He was lucky she spoke up before she’d had opportunity to watch him strangle a helpless parrot, as well. Although, he had a feeling her father wouldn’t be so very disapproving of that.

“Miss Farrow! Er, I was just having another go at convincing Bartholomew to replace his current vocal repertoire with something a bit more inspirational.”

“Not having much luck, I take it.”

“No. Not so much.”

He assumed at this point she’d simply roll her nut-brown eyes at his incompetence and walk away, but she did not. She did, in fact, walk right in over his threshold and stand delightfully close to him as she studied the offending bird. Bartholomew cocked his yellow head, squinted his orange eyes, and studied her right back.