Miss Farrow's Feathers (2 page)

"I... er, that is..."

Thankfully Bartholomew disrupted things by leaping off his hand and flying up onto the nearby stair rail. He joyfully bobbed his yellow head up and down while he completed the rhyme. Miss Farrow blushed again.

"You can help us, can't you?" Mr.
Farrow repeated. "You did come about the advertisement?"

Advertisement?
Good gracious, were these people trying to sell the bird? Indeed, Max was glad to have arrived when he did. What a disaster it would be if Bartholomew ended up sold off to some stranger. He only hoped he had enough ready blunt to cover the sale. He was hoping not to have need for contacting his solicitor until he had a better idea of the situation here. He needed to know who could be trusted, and who could not.

"Er, yes. Yes I did come about the advertisement," he replied. "What terms are you suggesting, sir?"

Mr. Farrow beamed and shook his hand excitedly. "Excellent! Thank heavens, sir. Come in, come in. We can make whatever arrangements you see fit, considering the urgent nature of things. Meg, go see if Mrs. Cooper has calmed herself enough to get us some tea. She can bring it to the drawing room."

Mr.
Farrow began leading Max toward the doorway where all the hysteria had played out so recently. Max politely removed his hat and followed, giving Miss Farrow a bow and feeling somewhat disappointed to be losing her company already. She, however, appeared in no great hurry to rush off at her father's bidding.

"But Papa
—" she began.

Her father shushed her. "Go along, pet. I'm sure Mrs. Cooper is fine. You know she
's a durable woman."

"Yes, Papa, but
—"

"And perhaps som
e cakes, if she wouldn't mind. It's a bit early, I know, but tell her some cakes for our guest might be just the thing."

"Of course, Papa, but
—"

Mr.
Farrow led Max into the drawing room. Miss Farrow followed but Max had the distinct impression she would rather not have. He soon understood why. There, sprawled gracelessly half on and half off the settee was a large woman in bold, matronly garb. It appeared she had at one point been entirely on the settee, but had slid off. Her garb, however, had not. The thick fabric of her gown had remained affixed to the silk of the settee and was now wrapped unceremoniously about her thighs. The effect was not nearly as enticing as a purely verbal description might lead one to think.

Fortunately, the woman appeared to be sleeping and unaware of her
dishabille. Unfortunately, the sound of their voices woke her. Her eyes popped open as they entered the room and it was clear she was at first confused by her surroundings. Slowly she took stock of things. She blinked at them and gradually her puffy, blotched face was overcome by an expression of mortification, evidenced by more blotches.

"Good gracious,"
the surprised reverend said, clearly as mortified to find the woman this way as she was to find herself. "Mrs. Sedley-Stone!"

"Yes, Papa, that's what I meant to remind you," Miss
Farrow said, rushing past them to go to the aid of the woman.

Max wasn't at all certain what his response to this
vision should be. He knew it would be most improper to stare at the woman whose legs were all but exposed before them, so he looked away. But to look away with so much vigor and enthusiasm might be equally rude. So, rather than turning dramatically around and gouging out his eyes to wipe the image from them, he could only quietly avert his glance in the most gracious, polite fashion possible.

That put his gaze squarely on Miss
Farrow's previously noted form. This time it was the backside of her form, to be precise, as she bent in all innocence and Christian charity to help right the older woman's clothes and return her to a more appropriate, seated position. Whether or not it was rude to stare at this Max really did not care. His eyes were not about to re-avert at this point.

"Forgive us, Mrs. Sedley-Stone," the good reverend said in most formal tones. "I cannot express how sorry I am for any discomfort you may have
—"

His beautiful apology was interrupted. Bartholomew swooped back into the room and landed directly atop Max's
now hatless head. He cringed at the feel of the bird's claws digging into his scalp, while his eyes stung from his hair being brushed down into them. The bird squawked loudly, then most eloquently recited a stanza—in perfect pentameter—declaring what should be done when a woman of dubious morals is found with her skirts up about her this way. It did not involve innocence or Christian charity. Nor did it involve improving the woman's morals. It was, in fact, a line from a song best sung in the company of good friends, aberrant amounts of alcohol, and absolutely no ladies.

N
one of these conditions were applicable at this time. Both ladies were frozen in stunned disgust. Mrs. Sedley-Stone fell back onto the settee, fainted away. Her turban rolled off onto the floor, but this time her gown stayed where it should be. Miss Farrow sighed, then turned helpless to shrug at Max.

"This happens a lot, I'm afraid," she said.

Mr. Farrow slapped Max on the back. Bartholomew's claws dug in deeper.

"
But we have hope now," the older man said brightly. "The Almighty has been gracious, and we have seen our salvation."

Max couldn't quite tell for certain, given that his hair was still down in his eyes and the bird was now turning circles on him which added green and red tail feathers to his visual obstruction, but he got the idea Miss
Farrow's expression was not nearly so hopeful as her father's.

"I knew if I advertised, things would work out,"
the reverend went on. "We needed a parrot trainer, and now here he is. Come, young man. I'll show you up to your room while my daughter handles things down here. You may bring the bird, if you like."

It did not appear as if Max had any choice. Bartholomew was stuck fast to his head and Max could not see to do anything but follow where his new host would lead. So Mr.
Farrow needed a parrot trainer, did he? Apparently they were not selling Bartholomew, after all.

Well,
this was an interesting turn. Perhaps the old man did have some idea what he was about, after all. No wonder they had put up with the bird's unseemly habits despite the obvious hardship they caused.

Mr.
Farrow must know—or at least he must suspect—the same thing that Max did: Bartholomew was the key to a treasure. A treasure, no less, that someone had already killed for. With luck, Max would get the bird to reveal what he knew about both treasure and murder.

Hopefully it would be before the murderer killed again.

So this so-called parrot trainer was to live here, in their home, was he? Meg wasn't certain she liked that idea. Oh, she supposed she
liked
the idea, but that was entirely the point. She
did
like the idea; whether she ought to or not.

The young gentleman was
here to train Bartholomew, for heaven's sake. A parrot trainer. Honestly. What sort of respectable gentleman made his way in life as a parrot trainer? She'd have to keep a close eye on him. And
not
because her eye found his broad shoulders so very easy to keep on.

What did it matter to her that his shoulders were broad and his eyes
as blue as a warm August sky? What business was it of hers to even notice such things? She was all of five and twenty, after all, not some young miss to giggle and blush for any stranger to come cross her path. Never mind that she'd been dangerously close to doing both the whole time she'd been in his presence.

Why on earth should she have such a reaction to this stranger
, this... this parrot trainer?

And now he was to be living
in their home! Gracious, but she'd best get her lingering eyes under control. She was a sensible adult, after all. Her life was devoted to Papa and to looking after the people in their village. She was not about to have her head turned by some stranger who would be here only a short time, just long enough to purge the unpleasantness from poor old Bartholomew. If he could, indeed, do such a thing.

Could he? Was he truly a parrot trainer, or just someone looking to take advantage of Papa's hospitality? She'd best make sure Papa had asked for some references
. Blue eyes or not, the man was a stranger and Papa was far too generous for his own good.

But Bartholomew had acted quite docile around the new gentleman.
Perhaps this stranger could actually do what he said. How wonderful that would be! Of course, even if the man were the greatest expert in his field, she hardly imagined the task could be accomplished over night. Bartholomew was a difficult case. The gentleman would likely be staying a while.

How did she feel about that?
Her life had no room for broad-shouldered gentlemen who made her weak in the knees, or sent prickles up her spine simply by giving a smile. She'd nearly been ruined by such things once; she was not about to let that happen again.

If Papa said this man was to stay here and train the parrot, so be it. The task was quite needed.
She'd simply have to keep her distance and see that his work was uninterrupted. Such instant reaction as she'd had to this man convinced her of one thing for certain: the sooner he accomplished his task and went on his way, the better. She'd make sure nothing came in the way of letting that happen.

Unfortunately, Bartholomew had other ideas. Meg had barely gotten Mrs. Sedley-Stone coherent enough to huff herself out to her carriage and
head off to her home than the bird came sailing back into the drawing room. She grabbed up a fan from the table and tried to shoo him out of the room, to no avail. He perched atop the mantle and demanded Meg fetch him some rot-gut and a nipper of jack. He addressed her as "wench," which had become his particular name for her.

She
glared into his beady, red eyes and was addressing him as a totty-headed cockerel when their gentleman guest came into the room. Meg felt immediately guilty for berating the gentleman's student, but the man seemed to quite understand. He smiled at her and she felt the annoying flash of weakness grab hold of her knees. Drat, but this was going to be much harder than expected.

"Forgive me, Miss
Farrow," he said. "I seem to have lost my new charge."

"Yes, I see that," she said briskly. "Perhaps we should lock him up in your room."

And you with him.

"I'm afraid training is not quite that simple," the man replied. "Especially since this is your bird."

"He isn't my bird, sir. Didn't my father explain? We've only recently inherited him."

"Indeed, yes. Your father told me. My condolences on the loss of your neighbor, by the way."

"Thank you. He was a good friend to us."

“
Was he?” the man asked. “I was rather under the impression the old man kept to himself and had few friends.”

“
He was somewhat elderly and did not go out of his house often, but Papa and I visited frequently. He was always quite gracious.”

“So your father has been vicar here for some time?”

“Just over ten years, sir. Does that have any bearing on your ability to train our parrot?”

“It might. It helps to know how comfortable he is with you, how long he has known you and how well.”

"I see," she said, trying so hard to be casual that she dropped her fan.

Quickly she stooped to pick it up.
Bartholomew burst into another horrible line from another horrible song.

"
Thank God for the view from behind!"

Oh, that dreadful bird! Her face burned
and she wanted to crawl away and hide. She could not, of course, so she tried her best to act as if she had no idea what the bird meant. Obviously she failed miserably. The gentleman knew all too well that she understood.

“I can see why you are so eager to retrain him.”

“It’s been awful, sir," she was forced to admit. "People come visit and they have to endure this… and worse. It’s indecent! We're at our wit's end. You do think there is hope, don’t you, Mr… er, Mr…”

“Mr. Shirley. Maxwell Shirley. And yes, I do think there is hope.”

He moved one step closer to her. She took a step back. Oh, but those eyes! He could likely charm vipers with them. As she had not seen many vipers here lately, she’d best take care that he did not use his talents on her.

“I am quite glad to hear it
, Mr. Shirley. Indeed, how lucky we are that you happened to see Papa’s advertisement.”

“Yes, isn’t it.”

“Quite. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to your work.”

Thank heavens. She could excuse herself before the man had any clear notion of how he affected her. The last thing she wanted was for him to gain any clue of that. A man with brilliant blue eyes was dangerous enough, but for him to realize his own power… well, that would be regrettable.

Max was most careful to hide a smug smile. Miss Farrow liked him; he could tell. This was quite a good thing. He could get her to trust him, to share certain things. His first priority was information, of course, but he'd happily take anything else she might end up wishing to share. He was quite keen for that, actually. For now, though, he'd best tread lightly.

“Er, one question, Miss
Farrow,” he called after her as she tried to scurry from the room, abandoning him with the blasted parrot.

“Yes, sir?”

“I… that is, as I’ll be staying here, it appears, would you tell me when dinner is?”

“What?”

“Unless I am to eat in my room, if you prefer.”

“Er, no, of course not, Mr. Shirley. We dine at six, and you are certainly welcome at our table. Papa would have it no other way.”

“Thank you, Miss Farrow. No wonder my… er, the parrot’s former owner was such a good friend. You are kindness embodied.”

“We are Christian people, sir, and you are our guest. Surely that is not so rare.”

He gave her his warmest smile. “You are quite rare, Miss Farrow, in every good way.”

She blushed again. How charming. Well then, he would lay it on thicker.

“I suppose this must be why your neighbor chose to entrust you with his parrot.”

Now to
ascertain, did she know how valuable the bird might turn out to be?

Apparently not. She gave a distinctly unladylike snort. “If the man had truly been our friend, he’d have left the parrot to
an enemy. Thank you for such flattery, Mr. Shirley, but I have no need for it. I am happy you are here for the bird's sake, and I would hate to delay you from tending to your task.”

Damn. He’d painted it a bit too much. Clearly she had beauty as well as proper gray matter. He’d best take care to remember that for the future.

“I appreciate that, Miss Farrow. You must be eager to see improvement.”

“Y
ou have no idea, sir.”

He tried not to smile. Indeed, he believed he did have an idea how dreadful it had been
cohabitating with Bartholomew. He remembered his youthful visits to the earl's home. All the more reason, though, for him to question their motive for keeping the animal now.

“Obviously this is why your father advertised for a trainer.”

“I told him to advertise for a
buyer
,” she said. “But he would have none of it. So, here you are, sir, and we are thankful for it.”

She was inching toward the door even as she spoke. So she was
impatient to be rid of the bird as well as him, was she? Well, he would not make it easy for her. She might not know the bird's true value, but her words made him suspect her father just might. He would be wise to question her just a bit more. Besides, he was rather enjoying the game.

“I hope I am up to the task, Miss
Farrow. You must realize a case as difficult as this will not be an easy matter.”

“I have no doubt of it, sir.
But just how long do you estimate you might need in order to reform our degenerate bird?”

“
What sort of time frame do you expect?"

"
The sooner the better, Mr. Shirley."

"
Unfortunately, I can't begin to estimate just yet."

"Hmm. I rather expected as much."

"Are you in any great hurry, Miss Farrow? I mean other than the annoyance of the bird's, er, dysfunction, are there any pressing matters I ought to be aware of?"

"Whatever do you mean?"

"I mean, why are you in such a hurry to convert him, Miss Farrow?"

"
Why? Because our house has become a laughingstock. His language is vile, his demeanor is surly, and you saw Mrs. Sedley-Stone. We will never live it down. Of course I'm impatient, Mr. Shirley. Whatever other reason could I possibly need?"

"So you have no incentive of a... financial nature?"

"Oh. I see what you get at. We are not wealthy, sir, but never fear that my father will pay you for your service to us here."

“But of course I didn't mean that... after all, he is a man of the cloth. I trust him implicitly.”

"Do you now? And I suppose you expect us to feel likewise. Well, let me just add that my father will pay for your service as long as you actually provide it. We'll need to see proof that you are indeed making good headway. Soon."

"Certainly, Miss Farrow. I assure you, I'm quite good at what I do."

He paused just a moment to let her think what she would at his words, then
held up his hand to invite Bartholomew to fly to him. The bird did, and then proudly—and loudly—announced himself a right pretty bastard.

Miss
Farrow rolled her brown eyes. "Oh, yes. I can see you've had quite the improving effect on him already."

“
As I said, it will take time, Miss Farrow. I have my work cut out for me.”

“Indeed you do, I’m afraid.”

"But I am quite capable. You'll see."

Yes, indeed, she would see. Max had done a good many things in his life.
Fail
was not one of them. Especially not when a lovely brown-eyed miss was involved.