by Kim Bowman
“Splendid.” A reddish hue crept up Oliver’s neck.
Drat Conrad for making that rude remark about Oliver not having money. Now he’s embarrassed.
“This cuckoo is often mistaken for a falcon in flight. And has a habit of laying its eggs in other bird’s nests so it doesn’t have to raise them itself. Denying responsibility of parenthood, if you will.”
“There’s a word for that in human terms.” Conrad glanced at Lucy. “But I won’t repeat it in mixed company.”
Lucy smiled sweetly. “And just whom are you mixing? Hmm? Men and women, or humans and birds?”
Or Conrad Croomes and common cuckoos?
He huffed out a breath. “Let’s just say that if I ever came face to face with one of those repulsive cuckoos, I’d give it a tongue lashing for being so outlandishly unseemly in its behavior.”
“Would you now? They are birds, after all.” Oliver crossed his arms.
Was it Lucy’s imagination, or had he grown taller? And had his shoulders broadened and his arm muscles enlarged? Lucy lightly clapped her hands together, so small a movement that neither man saw. Good for you, Oliver, for protecting the reputation of your birds.
Conrad puffed out his chest. “Yes. I would. Why I would say—”
The insulted cuckoo dove from the tree and plunged toward them, squawking its annoyance.
Or rather, directly toward Conrad.
“Ahh!” He batted the bird away, but not before the cuckoo had knocked Conrad’s hat off and absconded with a thatch of the man’s hair.
Lucy widened her eyes. “Conrad! Are you hurt?”
His hand to his head, and then hand held in front of his face, he stammered. “M-my hair. Th-that bird has stolen my h-hair!” A few straggly wisps hung from his fingers.
Oliver stepped forward. “Say, let me have a look. Make sure the bird didn’t leave a wound.”
“No!” Conrad batted at Oliver’s hand, much the same as he’d done to the bird.
“Now, now. I’m just trying to help you. Let me lo—”
“Away from me! Get away! I’ll thank you to keep your hands and those of your insane bird apart from my person.” He bent down and snatched his hat from the grass and then plopped it on his head. “Good day to you both.” He stomped away in a fury of ill temper and dusty clothes.
Lucy shook her head. “He does realize, I hope, that cuckoos don’t possess actual hands?”
Chapter Seven
Oliver climbed from his carriage and trudged toward the door. That Lofton fellow was a piece of work. Poor Lucy for having to put up with him. Still… there was the question of what exactly their relationship was. Were they friends? Betrothed? No, surely not that. They didn’t act like any betrothed couple he’d ever met. But perhaps that was wishful thinking on his part.
Lucy certainly didn’t seem too fond of him, but Lofton… it almost seemed as if he had designs on her. Could that be possible? If that were the case, didn’t he realize Lucy did not appreciate his companionship? It was obvious to anyone with eyes. The daggers she shot him could have brought down the largest goose in the Sanctuary.
Oliver’s hands tightened into fists, the impulse to pummel the rogue so strong that he nearly did an about-face to his carriage to seek Lofton and call him out. What an insulting, condescending, prissy man. No wonder Lucy was not in any way pleased to see him running toward them like some lunatic escapee from Bedlam, waving his arms and yelling across the Sanctuary grounds. If Oliver had had a net handy, he’d have tossed it over Lofton’s head and had him hauled away.
The door opened with a creak. Kirby, the butler, stood at attention in his black coat, pants, and boots and white gloves and shirt. Not a wrinkle or stain would ever be found on his person. He made very sure of that. “Good afternoon, sir.”
“Good afternoon, Kirby. Is Father at home?” He stepped into the entryway.
“Yes sir, in the drawing room.”
“Thank you.” Why would Father be in there? Was he with someone? Oliver couldn’t imagine him sitting in there alone.
Oliver crossed the entryway and climbed the stairs two and a time. He needed to change from his soiled clothes before speaking to his father, who never appreciated Oliver bringing the out-of-doors inside with him when he’d been at the Sanctuary. Anything to do with dirt, mud, water, or feathers disgusted him. Which pretty much summed up the Bird Sanctuary.
Once in his room, Oliver changed into clean, suitable clothing, leaving his soiled ones for the maid. Wouldn’t Father have an apoplexy if he arrived at dinner looking like something that had jumped in the duck pond and then rolled in the mud like a pig in its trough?
Pond.
A smile tugged at his mouth. Attempting to rescue Lucy’s hat from the goose may have been one of the smartest things Oliver had done to date. Otherwise, might she have been so gratified? So friendly and open? Surely seeing him in his work garb would have put someone of her status off under normal circumstances. It was a wonder she spoke to him at all in his old clothing and dirty gloves.
Thoughts of the pond also stirred something in his belly. When he and Lucy were playacting for Lofton’s benefit, part of Oliver wished it had been real. The glance. The touch. His arm about her shoulders. Their lips so close, a kiss was just a whisper away. How did she feel about it? Was it all in fun? Or had she felt something more, too? Something deeper. A pull of attraction toward Oliver.
Because he’d certainly felt a tug of desire toward her. More than a tug. As if he was pulled off of his feet by a team of frightened horses.
Until he’d met her at the Sanctuary, he hadn’t given a thought to his appearance when there. If he spotted someone he knew, he’d make himself scarce. No use giving the gossip mongers something to chew on.
“Have you seen Oliver Shipley? He’s dressed as a pauper.”
“A common worker.”
“Do you suppose his father has lost their money? That Oliver must now work to support them?”
But when he’d seen Lucy, although her appearance suggested means, the pull to stand near her, speak to her, was so strong he’d not even thought about the consequences. He’d never had an instant attraction like that to anyone before. As much as it mystified him, he could not seem to be near her enough.
It was likely if he had introduced himself using his true surname, she’d recognize it. Using his mother’s maiden name of Barrow helped hide his identity. At least for a while. Someday, someone he knew would notice him at the Sanctuary and he might have to give up his beloved work there. Since decent society would think it improper for someone of his standing to lower himself to doing physical labor.
If Lucy only knew that his status and hers most likely resided on the same plane. Or his above hers.
But she must not know. Not now. Not yet.
Not until Oliver discovered whether or not the lovely woman had an interest in him as a person. And not only for his wealth.
He left his room and retraced his steps down the long stairway. Did Lucy also live in luxury? He’d always wanted for nothing. Was that her experience as well? Perhaps they would have much in common that way, but he wasn’t ready to disclose his current way of life yet.
He found his father where Kirby suggested. In the drawing room. Asleep. How odd that he was in there alone. Sleeping. Sitting up!
Stepping softly, Oliver crossed the room and bent over his father, who was in his favorite chair with his chin resting on his chest. His face was pale and his breathing ragged. Was the man ill? Alarmed, Oliver gently tapped him on the shoulder.
“Father?”
No response. He leaned closer. His father was still breathing, wasn’t he?
“Father? Wake up.”
“Wh-what?” Snorting himself fully awake, his father frowned, peering up at him with washed-out blue eyes. “What are you about, Oliver? Scaring a man half out of his wits. Aren’t I allowed an afternoon nap?”
Oliver sat on the nearby settee and crossed his legs. His heart raced with
the momentary shock of finding his father as he had. “Yes, of course. But it’s not your habit. Has never been. I was concerned you were—”
“Were what? Not breathing?” A brief smile touched his mouth but soon vanished. “You can see I am indeed alive.”
“Please don’t joke about such things.” He swallowed hard, trying to calm down.
“No one lives forever, Oliver. We must all die. Some now. Some later.” He turned his head, glancing toward the far wall. “Which is why I wish you’d marry soon. You’ll need to—”
Oliver held up his hand, just as his father turned back and peered at him full in the eye. “Please. I know what you wish me to do. And I know why. But it concerns me, this sudden preoccupation you have with your health, Father. Is there something more to this than morbid curiosity?”
A pause.
A shrug.
“Father? Is the preoccupation sudden, as I suggested? There is something, isn’t there?” What would he do if something happened to him? If he was seriously ill? Ready to…
His father drew a long, deep breath. When he released it, a slight shudder ran through him. When had that begun? Had Oliver been so preoccupied with his own life that he hadn’t noticed a change in his father’s health? Because surely this hadn’t happened overnight.
“Son, I… the physician has told me I may not have…”
“No!” Oliver stood up abruptly. “Please don’t say—”
“Believe me, I’m not at all thrilled with the prospect, either. But you have to face facts. You may soon inherit everything and must be prepared.”
Prepared? He’d never be ready for that. Pain lanced through Oliver’s heart. His father was still a fairly young man. Why was this happening? Why now? Looking at his father again with a more attuned eye, Oliver took a good long appraisal. Dark circles beneath the eyes. A rasp to the breathing. Slight tremors of the hands. Skin on his face and hands so thin, blue veins were visible from beneath.
It was true, then. His father was… dying. And Oliver hadn’t even noticed. What did that say about him as a son? That he was despicable, that’s what. That he’d put his interests above those of his very own family. And he couldn’t turn back time to make amends.
“Oliver, there are some things we need to discuss.”
Frowning, he shook his head. “I already help run the business, and as you yourself have said on several occasions, quite well. I’m sure I can manage it when the… time comes.” Oliver choked out the last words and then swallowed hard.
“I have no doubts about that. It’s… well… your hobby.” His father peered at him through tired-looking eyes.
Working at the Sanctuary, helping care for the birds was more than a hobby. It was a passion. And Father knew it. Reining in irritation in light of his father’s health news, Oliver clamped his lips together until the words longing to escape settled down and lost their heat. Now was not the time for an argument.
“Father, I have successfully done my work for the family business as well as my volunteer Bird Sanctuary labor for a while now. Nothing will suffer, I assure you.”
“But it’s the perception from the community.”
“Community? That means nothing to me.”
“But it should. Whether you care or not, what you do and say affects you, me, our home. And your future.”
Oliver sat back down. “I understand what you’re saying. I do. It’s only…”
“What, son?”
“When I’m taking care of the birds, I feel as if I’m contributing to something necessary. Something important.”
“And the family business has no importance?”
“No, that’s not what I meant.” He took a deep breath and ran his hand down his face. Leaning forward, he placed his elbows on his knees and his chin on his clasped hands. “Hasn’t there ever been something in your life that you were passionate about? Something that filled your heart with joy and meaning? That was on your mind the whole of the day and filled your dreams at night?”
His father’s eyes misted and he blinked rapidly. One corner of his mouth raised and quivered. “Your mother.”
Oliver glanced toward the floor and then back up. “I miss her, too.”
“I want that for you, also. To find someone who will steal your heart and be your soul mate. Is it possible there is anyone…?”
Warmth rushed to Oliver’s face. Lucy, smiling. Laughing. Delighting in learning new facts about the birds. Dark brown eyes and curly dark hair. “I… have met a woman. A wonderful, sweet woman, who loves the birds, as well.”
“So you’ve met her at the Sanctuary, then?”
He nodded.
“And what does she say about your…?” Father waved his hand at Oliver’s clothing, even though he’d already changed. The implication was there. What does this woman think about your slovenly appearance?
“She thinks I just work there.”
“The woman doesn’t know who you are?”
“I don’t…” Heat encompassed his face and neck. How was he to gently explain to Father why he chose not to use the name Shipley?
“You don’t… what?”
He’d not disclosed to his father that he used his mother’s name instead. And for this reason. He would be angry. But things being what they were, his father’s health and time being apparently short, there wouldn’t be time to wait. Much as it would pain Oliver, his father needed to hear it from him. Before someone else had a chance to tell him. It would be horrible if some man on the street gave an innocent, “By the way, saw your son at the Sanctuary. Did you know he’s using an alias?”
Oliver lowered his head. “I’ve been telling people who’ve inquired that my name is… Oliver Barrow.”
“Your mother’s maiden name? Am I to understand you’re ashamed of my name?” His hands fisted against the arms of his chair.
“No. Of course not.”
“Then why would a son of mine do something so asinine?”
Oliver shrugged. “Aside from me not wanting my peers to know what I’m up to, it goes along with you wanting me to find my soul mate. How can I hope to find the right one, the woman who will love me for me instead of the bulk of wealth and this large estate that I could provide? Surely you haven’t forgotten the many young, simpering women who vowed to marry me on the spot. They did not really know me. If not for what they could grasp with greedy hands, why else would they be so anxious to get me to the altar? If you truly desire for me to have what you had with Mother, you’ll try to understand my reasons.”
For several seconds, silence. His father blinked and swallowed. “I think I do understand. I wish it didn’t have to be that way. That you could be who you want to be and who you are at the same time.”
“It’s not that I don’t—”
“I’m not condemning you. It is true that young ladies do seem greedy sometimes. Much to my dismay.” He took a deep breath and let it out, this time producing a frightening rattle.
Oliver knelt on the floor at his father’s knee and took the older man’s hand in his. His cold, clammy skin was alarming. “Thank you for understanding. I think this is the only way I will truly know for sure if she cares for me instead of who I am. I… need to be sure.”
A tear traveled down his father’s ruddy cheek and dripped from his chin to his shirtfront. “I wish for you only the best, because I… love you.”
“And I, you, Father. And I, you.”
Chapter Eight
A light breeze blew through the garden, stirring the leaves of the red rose bushes and those of the large oak tree on the other side of the walking path. Sunshine, broken by thick tree branches, produced dappled light, dancing with its bright spots across Lucy’s dress and boots.
Gerald, her marmalade cat, purred and wound around Lucy’s legs. Then he stopped and sat on his haunches, studying her with large eyes as if searching her mind and soul for her deepest, most thought-provoking secrets. It brought to mind being scrutinized by a physician, eyes roaming eve
ry inch, seeking something out of the ordinary.
Lucy sat on her mother’s favorite bench, just beneath the maple tree her father had had planted for her mother shortly after Lucy was born. The tree had grown quite tall in the whole of Lucy’s years, now providing shelter, shade, and homes for nesting birds.
Now that Lucy had spent time at the Sanctuary learning about some of the birds, she knew that the newly hatched babies in the nest above her were sparrows. And the talkative tiny ones flittering about the roses were finches. She hadn’t seen any owls on the property, but that didn’t stop her from looking. Wouldn’t it be amusing to discover a sleeping long-eared owl in her very own tree?
She tilted her head back against the bench and studied the tree above her. The mother sparrow fed her chirping babies one at a time, their small mouths open wide, waiting for dinner. Oh, how she missed her own mother. The tree brought back pleasant memories of time spent together beneath it, of talks and picnics and playing with Gerald’s predecessor, his mother Gertrude. But sadness came along as well. It reminded her of her mother’s illness, the pain she'd suffered before she died. Lucy’s father’s grief and loss, as well as her own.
Now, when Lucy had questions about life… love… her feelings for Oliver, it would have helped to have her mother’s advice and guidance. It seemed now that she was older, more and more questions crowded into her mind at every turn. Events that would have included her mother, important events, would be forever tarnished. Courtship. Marriage. Children.
And Lucy couldn’t imagine in a world of lifetimes, confiding these confusing feelings to her father.
No, never.
He’d frown at her and tell her she was absurd for even thinking such thoughts, much less asking him for advice about them. Then he’d shoo her away so he could get back to his work. And remind her to be a good girl. Sometimes, no, more than sometimes, he hurt her feelings. Why must he be so brusque? Of course he could never have the sensitive nature as a woman would have, but must he be so impatient and ill-tempered with her at times?