Miss Farrow's Feathers (4 page)

"Good! Excellent. Then those are the words Miss Farrow should use for comforting him."

She held back the snort this time. "Well, don't expect that to take very long. I'm afraid I will run out of comfort in a matter of minutes."

"But surely not everything the bird utters includes vile reference," Mr. Shirley persisted. "Although, perhaps you know more about these things than I do."

"I most certainly do not! I simply know that certain seemingly inauspicious phrases he employs fit with the particular rhyme scheme of some others
that are a bit more... indelicate."

"Yet not everything can be connected to a greater whole?"

"Oh, who knows?" she snapped. "He is always natting on about something and, quite frankly, I try not to hear it."

"Well, I think we could all help the bird if we do hear it," Mr. Shirley said. "The more we can understand about his habits, the more we can hope to break him of them."

Meg frowned. She wasn't at all certain she liked this line of reasoning. Papa, however, seemed to find it encouraging.

"I say,
Shirley, you do know your business. The apostles spoke in other tongues to be understood by the alien, so clearly we must do the same. Yes, we will do all that we can to learn the bird's tongue, as it were, so we can then expect to begin teaching him ours."

"Quite so, sir," Mr. Shirley said, beaming. "You understand my method completely.
Now, Miss Farrow, if you'd be so kind as to take out a clean paper. I'd like to create a list of some acceptable, unconnected phrases Bartholomew says."

"Excellent," Papa said. "Your method seems productive indeed."

Meg pushed her letter aside. Apparently her afternoon would be spent not in gentle correspondence with her sister, but in recording the litany of Bartholomew's odious banter. Perhaps Papa might approve, but she did not. Mr. Shirley's so-called "method" was all too clear to her.

The man's intent was to charm Papa and make them do all his work for him. No doubt when Bartholomew remained corrupt, Mr. Shirley would still pocket his fee and claim they were the reason for his failure. He would be gone and no worse for the wear. They
, however, would be left a few shillings lighter and still stuck with a foul-mouthed bird.

She was
just about to announce they'd not fall prey to his foolishness when Mrs. Cooper interrupted. The housekeeper cleared her throat and came into the room, delivering a newly arrived letter into Meg’s hand. Meg recognized the bold, masculine handwriting immediately.

Ah, but this was a welcome interruption indeed.

Max watched her blush. What an interesting turn of events. Who might be sending letters to Miss Farrow that would put such an enchanting glow into her fair cheeks? From where he stood he could not see the writing on the letter so he had no hope of determining the author's full identity. There was little doubt, however, as to the person's gender.

So Miss Farrow had an admirer, did she? And if the tell-tale patches of rose in her cheeks were any sign, she returned the sentiment. The fact that she tried so hard to keep from displaying
her reaction—as well as the subtle way she tucked the letter into the drawer of her little writing desk—seemed to indicate that her sentiments were not widely known in the household. At least, not especially known to her father.

Hmm. Perhaps Max could find some way to make use of this knowledge. If Miss Farrow had secrets,
surely she'd be eager to keep them. Whatever he might do to push her toward focusing on that rather than on his non-existent references she was so ruddy interested in would surely work in his favor.

The stars seemed in his favor as Mr. Farrow gave his unwitting assistance.

"Come, Meg, Mr. Shirley asked you to help him compile a list," the man said.

She startled, so lost in thought it appeared she had momentarily forgotten them.

"Oh... yes, Papa, but I..."

"Miss Farrow has just received a letter," Max said. "Perhaps she ought to take a moment to read it before we continue."

Now she blushed deeper. "No! That is, no need to take time away from our business just now. I can get to that later."

"Are you certain it is not a pressing matter?" Max asked with the sweetest of tones. "
I would not like for you to miss out on something important."

"Is it important?" Mr.
Farrow questioned. "Is it from Mary? Are the children well?"

"They are fine, Papa. I received a letter from her just yesterday and everyone is quite well. No, this is nothing. Indeed, let us focus on aiding Bartholomew. Tell me, Mr. Shirley, just what sort of list had you in mind? I'm happy to act as secretary
for us. Perhaps you had a lyric in mind that you think we should examine?"

Perfect. Miss Farrow seemed ready to do anything to take their attention off of her letter. He could certainly work with that. In fact, he'd be more than happy to help her.

Do
anything
.

He'd watched her all evening, but Miss Farrow hadn't gone after that letter. She seemed perfectly content not to know its contents. Max, on the other hand, was getting quite impatient about it.

Why was the girl not more persistent in finding a moment out of company to go back to that desk and retrieve the letter? Did she not worry it might be found there? Or had he guessed wrong and the contents
did not contain something incriminating?

He hated to think the later. For one, it fit nicely with his suspicions if indeed Miss Farrow was receiving secret letters from some mysterious quarter. For another, his rational mind simply could not fathom that a young, attractive woman might not have an admirer or two tucked away somewhere. That she was not married and instead lived alone with her father just made him wonder all the more at her reasons.

If she had admirers, why had she not married any one of them? And why would this particular secret admirer need to remain a secret? The obvious answer was because he was in some way inappropriate for her. If Miss Farrow was up to anything inappropriate, Max most definitely wanted to be in on it.

But why had she gone all afternoon and most of the evening without fretting over that letter? It
seemed unnatural. A lady with secrets to hide should, as a matter of course, be more eager to tend to them. By the time dinner was finished and Mr. Farrow excused himself to his study, Max was finding himself quite agitated.

"I must meet with Mrs. Cooper to plan the meals for tomorrow,"
Miss Farrow said, excusing herself and indicating it was high time Max went back upstairs to be tormented by Bartholomew.

"Thank you for a very lovely dinner,"
he said before she could exit the room.

"You are welcome," she said, and that was all.

There was nothing he could do but politely rise and wait as his hostess took herself off to the kitchen. What an infuriating woman! Did her blushes this afternoon mean nothing? Was that letter so unimportant to her that she would leave it unattended for days and days while he drove himself mad over it? No, surely he could not have misread her so dramatically.

She must simply be proficient at hiding her desires. With that assumption, he left the dining room and started up the staircase. At the landing, however, he paused. Did he hear footsteps? Yes, he believed he did. Perhaps Miss Farrow did not remain in the kitchen with the housekeeper after all.

He pressed himself against the wall and waited. In moments he was rewarded. Miss Farrow did, indeed, emerge from the dining room and crossed the entry hall below him. She did not glance his direction but silently let herself into the drawing room. Ah, but he'd clearly been right all along.

Now the question remained, was she so eager to see the
letter's contents that she would read it there, or would she take it up to the privacy and leisure of her own room? He strained to listen. Returning footsteps or rustling paper?

Paper.
Good. So she had not been as indifferent to this letter as he'd begun to fear. She was reading it straight away, the very moment she thought she was alone. Most excellent.

He went back down the steps, moving quietly to avoid detection.
She would be irked when he interrupted her, of course, but he could see no way around it. The only way to find out just how he could make best use of her spurious actions—and the guilty conscience that no doubt went along with them—was to find out more about that letter. And it's author.

She was at her desk, letter in hand. He could just make out the curve of her lip; a secret smile for her admirer, he supposed. He disliked the man already. Surely anyone who was not suitable for public acknowledgement did not deserve such a sweet smile from a good woman. He did not feel one pang of guilt for interrupting her.

"Finally reading your letter, I see," he said, stepping into the room.

She started. "Er, yes... I had nearly forgotten it."

Ah, so she was a liar and a secret keeper. He could work with that.

"I suppose we kept you too busy to get to it," he said. "I hope it has not turned out to be any matter of great urgency."

"No, it is just a note from a friend. Nothing urgent."

"That is good to hear. The way you were pouring over it when I came into the room made me worr
y it might be of great import."

"My friends are of great import to me, sir. Now, is there something I can do for you, or would you mind if I excused myself to my room?"

"The list," he said quickly, before she could make an escape. "I came back to get the list we made earlier."

"Of course. I have it right here."

She pulled up a sheet from the desk. The three of them—four, counting Bartholomew—spent a good hour making a very exhaustive list of phrases spoken by the bird and determining which were fairly innocent and which were, well, not. The first part of the list focused on the most common phrases and Miss Farrow had become quite the expert at blushing as they went through that. Max and Mr. Shirley had been as tactful as possible, of course, but there was no hiding the fact that Bartholomew was a heathen.

The second part of their list was of more interest to Max. This focused more on the phrases that seemed not to be part of any known rhyme or song lyric. These phrases were enigma
—no one knew what they meant or where they came from. Max couldn't recall hearing them before, not from school friends, drinking lads, or any of his father's merchant sailors. And more importantly, not from Bartholomew, not in the years gone by when he'd spent happy visits at Glenwick Mannor.

So where had the bird learned these cryptic phrases
in recent times while Max had been gone? And who had been teaching him? And just what part did all of it play into the old earl's untimely death?

"I'm sorry you had to spend so much time on such an unpleasant task," Max said, accepting the page she offered. "Especially when you had
this much more pleasant letter waiting to be read. Your friend is well, I hope."

"Yes, thank you."

He'd stepped close to retrieve his list and she'd shifted the letter so he might not see it. The minx.

"Is she a friend from the village, or perhaps an old school chum?"

"It's... yes, someone who once lived in the area."

"Ah, the absent friend. It's good you can keep up correspondence.
Have you and she been friends long?"

He enjoyed watching her discomfort as she struggled not to correct his supposed misunderstanding that her friend was a female.

"Er, well... we became acquainted shortly after Papa and I came to live here."

"When you were a mere girl. But she lives elsewhere now. Recently?"

"Not very. Several years now."

"Ah. Once out of the schoolroom. Your friend left to get married, I suppose."

Oh, but she didn't much care for that statement, he could tell. He was more intrigued than ever about Miss Farrow's deep, dark secrets. To be corresponding with a married man! But this was even better than he had hoped.

"Yes," she replied hesitantly. "
But sadly, my friend suffered some recent losses and is in mourning now."

"Losses? How tragic. No wonder you are so eager to read her words and respond. I'm sure your kind affections will help soothe her, Miss Farrow."

She blushed again and held the letter closer to her, just in case he might peer over and notice the writing. He had, of course, and his first impression was solidly confirmed. Masculine script, and quite a lot of it, from what he could see. Whoever this grieving, distant friend was, he had much to say to Miss Farrow.

"Thank you, Mr. Shirley. But if you wish to work on your list now, perhaps I should retire to my room. I wouldn't want to disrupt your efforts."

"No need, Miss Farrow. Bartholomew is upstairs and I should return to him. I will study the list there and you may reply to your dear friend in private."

She seemed most relieved at the thought of his departure. Of course he'd much rather stay and continue his questions, but clearly she was on edge regarding her secret letter writer. He'd do well to let the matter drop for now, leaving her to think she'd protected her secret. Perhaps she might even think him a friend, responding, as he had tried to appear to, with interest and compassion.

Indeed, it seemed Miss Farrow was a good woman to be friends with.

"Thank you, Mr. Shirley," she said.

He gave a polite bow then simply moved toward the doorway. She called him just before he was gone.

"And thank you for your work with Bartholomew. I am hopeful we will all be rewarded by your efforts."

So she hoped for reward, did she? It was hard to know just how much he should read into those words. He decided it might be best to let them be for now. It might not be prudent to let his imagination get carried away—at least not until he had more definite proof of his suspicions. What this moment called for now was nothing more than a warm, brotherly smile.

That is what he gave her.

"Thank you, Miss Farrow. Your kind assistance makes my task that much easier. And infinitely more enjoyable."

She blushed again. Ah, but she was fetching with that pink in her cheeks.
He was more than pleased to have been the one who inspired it this time.

Finally he was gone. She breathed a sigh of relief. Good heavens, he'd asked so many questions! It had been all she could do to guard her tongue and keep from revealing things she
had no wish to reveal. Why had he been so inquisitive?

At first she thought perhaps he suspected. But of course that was ridiculous. How could he?
Why
would he? The man was simply being sociable. Was she so very anxious about things that she could not even recognize friendly conversation? Yes, perhaps she was, and she refused to contemplate what that might imply.

Nigel
Webberly was coming back to Richington. Of course she should be feeling some anxiety. Perfectly natural. After all, she hadn't seen the man for seven years—not since he broke her heart and went off to marry that heiress.

Not that she
had any reason to blame him, of course. She was barely out of the schoolroom—just a starry-eyed girl and he'd never promised her anything. It had always been expected he'd marry well. He was the grandson of Lord Glenwick, after all. Of course she should never have fancied herself suitable for him, never have felt betrayed when he took her off alone and, instead of a proposal, she was given a good-bye.

It had been all Meg could do not to let her father see
how devastated she'd been. How awful it would be even now if he came to suspect how she had felt for the man, what she had assumed he'd intended, how she'd regretted the kisses she'd let him steal! Indeed, Papa must be kept in the dark at all costs.

But
years had passed and slowly she'd begun to think herself healed from her heartbreak. She'd seen him for what he was; a man who had wealth, position, and more than enough charm to get nearly anything he wanted from anyone he chose to get it. In the end, he simply chose not to get it from her. She'd vowed to never again be swayed by any other smooth-talking, fine-featured gentleman.

Then how on earth had she allowed Mr. Shirl
ey to end up as their houseguest? And she'd been actually civil toward him just now. This was certainly not a good sign of her recovery. The last thing she wanted—the last thing she would allow—was to be on friendly terms with another charming, good looking man with nothing on his mind but taking his ease and then taking his leave. Everything about Mr. Shirley said he fit that description most perfectly.

Yet he had been applying himself to the cause of bettering Bartholomew, hadn't he? She
did not believe it at first, but the gentle way he handled the bird and the insight he seemed to have... he did seem to truly care for the creature. Apparently her time spent discussing the situation with the man as they compiled their list this afternoon had altered her impression of him.

She was still not ready to give up on her quest to see his formal references
, though, but it was harder and harder for her to completely dislike him. And she had to admit, it might not be a bad idea for Nigel to see her in company with Mr. Shirley when he returned to Richington. Purely for her own vanity's sake.

Not that
Nigel was likely to notice. He was indeed deep into mourning. His grandfather, the earl, had died one month ago, and just four months before that he'd lost his young wife. Papa had insisted they send him plentiful words of comfort and condolence, and to Meg's surprise, Nigel had replied with warm appreciation. He continued the correspondence beyond that and over the past weeks he'd been especially friendly. Not that he gave any hint of rekindling the sort of relationship she'd once thought they'd had. That was entirely in the past.

At least, she
thought that it was. But on reading this letter from Nigel today, she must admit to some little doubts. Why had her heart sped up a beat when she read that he'd be returning? Why had his tone seemed so much more intimate in this letter than in his letter last week, or the week before that? And what was this nagging flutter that had settled into her belly? It vexed and perplexed her.