None 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.
Chapter 2
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 t
rust 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.”
“You 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.
Chapter 3
"I think Mr. Shirley will work out quite well for us," Papa said when he wandered into the drawing room to interrupt Meg from the letter she was writing.
Oddly enough, she'd just written that very phrase to her sister in Kent. Except for one thing: Meg's phrase included the word not. She did not think Mr. Shirley would work out quite well for them.
From what she had been able to determine of Mr. Shirley's character over the past three days since his arrival, was that the man was a sort she knew only too well. He was well-spoken, enchantingly turned out, and completely amused with himself. The only person his sort tended to work out quite well for was, well, himself. She'd had a gullet full of this sort of gentleman.
Still, he did have a way with Bartholomew. The bird seemed quite comfortable with him, and vice versa. Not that the man's influence had done anything to curb the bird's language or his annoying tendency to sneak up behind Meg and then bark like a dog, or comment on the view. It was more than annoying, actually. Just yesterday she'd poured tea down her front when Bartholomew did that during a visit with the very elderly Mr. and Mrs. Melling, and already this morning her hairbrush had gone flying. The bothersome bird had managed to get into her room while she was dressing! She refused to even contemplate how that had been managed.
Something would have to be done.
"I'm pleased that you like him, Papa," she said carefully. "But doesn't it bother you that the man would arrive here for a position in our home and not bring any references?"
"He explained that, my dear. The parcel containing his references was lost on his journey. He's contacted his previous employer to forward another. It should just be a matter of a few days more. You'll see, pet. All will be in order."
"I hope so, but—"
"You worry too much. Anyone can see that Bartholomew is quite taken with him. And frankly, so am I. In fact, I wonder why you seem to be so very cool toward him."
"He is a strange man in our home, Papa. I should expect you might be glad to see me so very cool toward him."
"He is a fine young man, by all appearances. I should think you'd appreciate that."
"I prefer to appreciate people on something more than mere appearance, Papa. And his appearance is..."
"It's very fine, isn't it? Yes, I thought you might notice."
"Honestly, Papa! I was not about to say that. Heavens. I was going to say his appearance is rather... convenient."
"Indeed it is. Miraculous, I might even say."
"And I say it is suspicious. Doesn't it strike you as odd that you barely had that advertisement placed and he should appear at our door?"
"But that's what advertisements are for, dearest. I should think you'd be pleased that the Almighty saw fit to answer our need so quickly. And with someone so charming and attractive."
"Who still has done nothing to disrupt the atrocities coming from Bartholomew's mouth... or other parts. Really, Papa, I hope you insisted those references come quickly."
"The English post does the best that it can. Be patient. I think we are well on the road to success with our
feathered friend."
At that point, Bartholomew came flapping into the room. It was almost to be expected, really. She'd gone for nearly an hour without suffering any indignities from him. This bird would be the death of them all.
And as for Mr. Shirley... well, she could only wonder what sort of destruction he might bring. The man rushed into the room after the bird and came to a jolting halt when he noticed them there. She refused to acknowledge how his dark, glossy hair fell over his brow, tempting her to right it, or how the room brightened from the hint of the smile at his lip when his eyes happened upon her. Despite three days working with the unteachable parrot, the man's coat was still impeccably pressed and his neck cloth elegantly tied.
Papa's description of the man's appearance as "fine" was quite modest, indeed. But no. Meg would not let herself judge the man on his appearance, no matter how fine it was. Papa might call him miraculous, but she would use other words. Dangerous was certainly among them.
Bartholomew seemed to have no such concerns about the man, though. He ignored him quite easily, swooping up to his perch on the cornice and squawking away as if a formidable, broad-shouldered gentleman was not bearing down on him. Meg was glad said gentleman had turned his attention from her and back onto the bird.
"I'm so sorry," Mr. Shirley said, obviously attempting to explain how—once again—he'd lost track of his pupil. "I was reading from the Scripture in hopes Bartholomew might mimic me, but I'm afraid he took umbrage at the story of the Hebrew children devouring quail in the wilderness."
"Perfectly understandable," Papa said, nodding as if he often experienced the same thing while addressing his own faithful flock. "The unenlightened often times kick against the pricks."
Miss Farrow's Feathers Page 2