Goosed! or a Fowl Christmas

by Linda Banche

  And somehow, his pride in her farm gave her hope that she would find a way out of her current muddle.

  Her shoulders sagged. But they had little choice, at least for the time being.

  No. She set her brush onto the table, snatched up a rag and scrubbed her hands clean. She couldn’t do it. Schemer that Machiavelli was, he did an exemplary job protecting the chickens. Without him, they might lose their one secure source of food.

  She squared her shoulders. Then she marched to the kitchen to rescind Machiavelli’s death sentence.

  ***

  “Hey, Mac, how are you?”

  Machiavelli stiffened. How he hated that nickname. Only one being dared use it. Today of all days, he was the last one Machiavelli wished to see.

  A red fox, his bushy tail curled around his legs, sat on the top rail of the goose pen fence. Sylvester the Fox grinned, but the smile wasn’t one of pleasure.

  Since Machiavelli and Sylvester were schemers with opposing goals, their relationship was one of friendly, and sometimes not-so-friendly, competition as they fought over the farm’s chickens. So far, Machiavelli had always thwarted Sylvester’s efforts. In retaliation, the fox called him “Mac”, because Machiavelli detested the name.

  “Good morning to you, too, Sylvester.”

  They both used Common Animal, the inter-species language non-humans used to communicate.

  Sylvester’s grin hardened. The fox preferred the nickname “Sly”, since he had outwitted the area’s enthusiastic hunters for years, his wiliness increasing as time lessened his speed and stamina.

  Machiavelli called him Sylvester to irritate him. Tit for tat, my friend.

  “What brings you here this fine day?” Machiavelli’s world might be tumbling down, but one of the cardinal rules to maintaining power was to keep a calm facade. Good thing he had returned from hiding in the woods across the road. When The Cook, brandishing a cleaver, had stomped up to his pen, he had taken off, narrowly avoiding a different death under a carriage’s wheels.

  “I came from the Tyndall place. Lots of activity there. His Lordship has returned.”

  “Indeed.” Machiavelli forced boredom into his voice, but an idea blossomed. A grand idea. “Why not tell me something important?”

  Sylvester sneered. “His Lordship’s return is important. He might hold a hunt.”

  Machiavelli flicked a wing. “Important to you, but not to me. His Lordship doesn’t hunt geese.”

  “He doesn’t, but others do. But no sport in hunting you. You’re too fat to fly.”

  Machiavelli fluffed up his feathers in his aggressive posture. “I would be careful what you say. I’m bigger than you.” He swiped a wing at Sylvester.

  Sylvester hopped to the ground outside the pen. “But not nearly as fast.” His rust-colored brush waving, he bounded off into the woods.

  Machiavelli deflated as the fox disappeared. Curse that Sylvester. The blasted fox always ruffled his feathers.

  He resettled his wings. But he had more important matters to deal with. Time to set his plan into motion.

  Careful to look as if nothing in the world could disturb his calm, he exited his pen and then strolled to the chicken enclosure.

  A dozen or so scrawny hens gathered in small groups, scratching the frozen ground for stray feed. They found little. Not enough food was a problem for all on this farm.

  Cackling away, the hens rushed to the gate as Machiavelli lifted the latch.

  He swaggered into the pen. The hens were always so grateful for his attention. His visits were probably the only excitement in their dull, little lives. Shaw Farm had no rooster, so he served as the rooster. In most ways, that is.

  For a few seconds, his heart constricted. If only another goose resided on the farm, a female goose. Sometimes, late at night, as he sat all alone…He shook himself. Such unproductive thoughts served no purpose. He was happy. Indeed, he was.

  In any case, power was more important. His Mistress valued his protection of the chickens. After today’s revelation, he needed to ensure he provided that value.

  “And how are we today, my dears?” Speaking Common Bird, the avian language the different bird species used for communication, Machiavelli bestowed a benevolent smile on the fluttering hens. Being lord of the manor did have its pleasures.

  “We’re fine.” A young hen flapped her wings and batted her eyes. A chicken flirting with a goose? She was pretty, as far as chickens went, but her attics might be to let.

  Machiavelli cleared his throat. Always got the hens’ attention.

  The hens quieted.

  Worked again. “I shall be gone for a few days.”

  Agitated cackling thundered, and the hens jumped around in a frenzied dance.

  “What? You’re leaving us to the mercy of the Humans? We’ll all be murdered on our perches!” One particularly fearful old hen flapped her wings hard enough to kick up dust.

  Machiavelli smothered a cough as he raised a wing for silence. “But not to fear. No harm will befall you. Be sure the gate latch is secure, and if you suspect trouble, squawk as loudly as you can and fly away.”

  “We’re not afraid.” A second young hen gave a defiant toss of her head.

  “You should be, young lady.” The hens were such simple creatures. Either terrified of the darkness when a cloud passed over the sun, or frightened of nothing. Neither attitude was safe, which was why he had to protect them. And save his own skin in the process. “Flying away is preferable to becoming a fox’s dinner.” He raised his voice. “I just spoke to Sylvester the Fox.”

  The hens shuddered.

  “He would like nothing better than to gain entry here. Be on your guard. I will return as soon as I can.” He strutted back to his pen, keeping his act for the chickens in place until he entered the little hut he called home.

  Once inside, he puffed out his chest. The sheer genius of his plan astounded even him. But then, what other type of idea could he have? After all, he was Machiavelli.

  Mulling over his stupendous scheme yet again, he sat, closed his eyes and tucked his head under his wing.

  He would not become dinner if he provided another meal for his owner. And there was no better place to look than the Tyndall estate, where the owner kept a zoo of sorts.

  Chapter 3

  Ruddy sunlight poured over the road as Robert pulled up before his house. Pools of warm candlelight spilled through the front windows and washed over him as, with a final crunch of gravel under the curricle’s wheels, he drew to a halt.

  Home at last.

  The front door opened, and a several footmen ran down the front steps to gather his luggage. A moment later, a groom appeared from around the side of the house.

  Robert jumped down and then turned over the reins to the groom. Slapping dust off his greatcoat, he mounted the steps to the butler waiting by the open front door.

  The servant bowed. “Good evening, my lord. Welcome home.”

  “Thank you, Phillips. I am glad to be back. I have been away much too long.”

  “Indeed.” The butler stood aside to allow Robert entry.

  Welcome heat greeted Robert as he stepped into the spacious foyer. The polished floor’s checkerboard pattern of black and white marble gleamed in the blaze from tapers in wall sconces. White marble staircases curved along the right and left walls to meet in a landing on the next level. Beyond the stairs, the entry narrowed into a passage that bisected the house.

  Robert rubbed his gloved hands together. “The ride was freezing. I hope Mrs. Phillips has a hot supper ready.”

  “Unfortunately, the stove has been troublesome today.” The butler closed the door on the drafts. “So the meal will be a few minutes late.”

  “Quite all right. Has the parcel I sent from town arrived yet?”

  “Yes. I placed the item in the library.”

  “Splendid. I look forward to unwrapping it. But since dinner is not yet ready, I will make a quick stop at the aviary to see the birds.” Boot h
eels tapping on the marble, he passed down the corridor to the rear door and exited.

  Pulling up his greatcoat collar against the buffeting wind, he climbed the rest of the way up the hill. The aviary, a large circular structure with the center higher than the sides, crowned the hill’s summit. Silhouetted against the setting sun, the edifice loomed over the surrounding countryside, the highest point for miles around.

  A stronger gust of wind sprang up, and the sides and top of the aviary billowed out like a tent. A large woven net supported by a ring of poles with a taller pole in the center produced the tent-like effect. The central spire lifted the net high to create an area large enough for the largest birds in Robert’s collection to fly freely. He refused to clip his birds’ wings, but he didn’t want to lose any of them or cause them harm.

  A six foot, solid wood fence topped with iron spikes guarded the perimeter of the enclosure. Prickly hawthorn planted along the fence softened its unyielding firmness, and also formed another barrier to intruders. Ash trees on three sides protected the refuge from wind and weather.

  The track leveled out and took him beside the hawthorn.

  A blue tit, its feathers dulled to gray in the day’s waning light, chirped as it gorged on the hawthorn’s red berries.

  Robert slowed his pace so as not to disturb the bird.

  The tit looked up, cocked its head, and then flew up and through one of the net’s openings into the aviary. The fine-meshed net allowed entry to small birds, and in short order, they had discovered the food and protection within. Robert offered all birds refuge.

  He entered at the only gate, making sure to secure the latch behind him. Then he trod along the main path, which wound along the boundary fence. A privet hedge grew along the fence, and individual bird pens separated by more privet lined the other side of the gravel track. The birds had free run of the place, but most eventually selected an enclosure they called home, although disputes sometimes broke out. And he did have to keep the predators, the eagles and hawks, separated from birds they would deem prey.

  Smiling as several robins hopped out of his way, he immersed himself in the evening-muted rainbow of avian colors, and the various chirps, cackles, caws, squawks and cheeps of his feathered friends.

  He had strolled halfway around the sanctuary before he found his Keeper in the Canada goose pen. Mr. William Borland was an authority on birds. He had designed the aviary and supervised its construction, his innovative scheme creating a structure that blended into the landscape as well as providing a good home for the birds. He was responsible and competent, and had even written a book on birds. Remarkable in a man not yet thirty.

  “Borland!” Robert raised his hand.

  The tall man dressed in breeches, boots, laborer’s smock and wide-brimmed hat strode over with a long-legged gait. “Welcome, your lordship.” His gentlemanly accents contrasted with his workman’s attire. “So you did come today, after all. We were unsure if you would arrive today or tomorrow.”

  “Thank you. I am happy to be home.” Robert held out his hand and they shook. “And none of that ‘your lordship’ fustian. Call me Tyndall, or Robert. After all, you are heir to a baronet.”

  “Yes, but you are still my employer, your lo—Tyndall.”

  Robert waved a dismissive hand. “Enough. Now, on to important matters. I want to hear about the aviary.”

  “Much has happened since you were last here. I have expanded the wildfowl section and…”

  Robert shivered. “By George, but the cold cuts through me.” The shadows had lengthened so much since he left the house, they now obscured even nearby objects. “And almost full dark has fallen.” He slapped Borland on the back. “No reason to discuss things here. Have supper with me tonight, and you can make a full report.”

  Borland nodded, and the two men circled the rest of the way around the sanctuary until they exited at the gate.

  The last vermillion crescent of sun slid below the horizon, pulling a blanket of shade over the valley below. At their backs, the birds cheeped and chattered their farewell to the day. In the distance, the multi-paned windows of the Shaw farmhouse caught and reflected one last ray in a dazzling streak of crimson.

  Robert inclined his head toward the house. “I passed Shaw Farm on the way here. Sad to see the place so run-down. How could the property decline that much in only a year?”

  Borland released the heavy padlock he had secured on the gate. “A sad tale, but a common one. Soon after the Shaws moved in, Mr. Shaw caught a fever and died. I do not know the details, but he lost most of his money. Bad investments, they say. His daughter inherited only the farm.”

  “His daughter? Does she live there now?”

  “Yes, Miss Shaw, her old aunt, and the housekeeper-cook and her husband. The aunt is ill, and I have never seen her. They have some day servants, and a village man comes out to do the heavy work. I help out on my days off, too.”

  At mention of Miss Shaw, a wash of color highlighted Borland’s cheekbones.

  Robert raised his eyebrows. A trick of the sun, or did Borland harbor more than just neighborliness toward the lady?

  Well, good for him. And good for Miss Shaw, too, if she shared the interest.

  ***

  Robert leaned back in his chair and sipped his wine.

  Supper was not so late after all. Candlelight flickered off polished silverware and fine china, and softened the contours of the dark-paneled formal dining room. Thanks to the blaze roaring in the white marble fireplace, the spacious room had heated to a comfortable temperature by the time he and Borland sat down. They occupied one end of a gleaming mahogany table that could easily seat forty as they chatted about the day.

  Phillips stepped up with a tureen and served them turtle soup.

  “Just what we need on such a raw day.” Robert dug in, and they continued their talk about the weather until they finished the course.

  A footman removed Robert’s soup bowl and then set a plate of roast lamb with baked potatoes and asparagus before him, and the same before Borland.

  After a nod of thanks to the servant, Robert picked up his fork. “How is the aviary proceeding? You mentioned something about expansion.”

  “Yes, the wildfowl had a good breeding year, so I increased the number of their pens. We will have a good supply of North American Wood ducks next year.”

  “Glad to hear that. I like those birds.”

  Borland cut into his meat. “I do, too. They are very beautiful. The Icelandic chickens also outdid themselves. I gave a few of the birds to Miss Shaw.”

  Because they had too many chickens, or because he liked her? “I am sure she can use the eggs they will lay. Well done.”

  “Thank you.” Borland speared a piece of lamb. “With so many extra birds, I had to increase expenditures a little. The bailiff approved my requests.”

  Robert lifted a shoulder. “Your ‘increased expenditures’ are usually minor. You always find the best vendors and whatever help you need at a good price.”

  “Because of the war, purchases of all kinds are down, and work is scarce. I always have more than enough help with whatever task needs doing.”

  Robert swallowed a bite of lamb. “Mrs. Phillips has done her usual unsurpassed job with the food. Now that I am back, I will hire more people to help her and everyone else. I plan to observe Christmas in style, with everything that entails.”

  “The village will appreciate the extra employment. And the guests will appreciate the results.”

  “You are invited, of course. As you are to every gathering I have.”

  Borland nodded. “You are most generous.”

  “Fustian. You are as much a gentleman as I or any of my other guests.” Although, with his blond hair tied back in a queue, his worn frock coat and old breeches, Borland’s appearance was that of a poor gentleman.

  Borland sliced off another piece of lamb. “Some will still cut me because I work.”

  “I work, too. Those contracts I signed wi
th the American mill owners did not negotiate themselves.”

  Borland set down his knife. “But you do not soil your hands with your work. I do. And that is the difference.”

  Robert snorted. “Too many worthless idlers decorate Society’s drawing rooms for me to scorn an honest man who makes his own way, whatever the method.” He quirked his lips. “And there is no way you can deal with birds and not soil your hands.”

  Borland laughed. “Much as I love the dear creatures, they can be extremely dirty. But I make sure the aviary is always clean.”

  “More work to ensure your underkeepers’ employment. And my nose thanks you, too.”

  Borland grinned as he ran a finger around his tea cup’s rim, a muted chime ringing out from the fine china. “All in the siting. I selected that location partly for its downwind location to the house. You can also see the aviary from here, but the distance mutes the birds’ dawn chorus.”

  “Which can be quite annoying, especially during the spring.”

  A footman placed the final course of nuts, cheese and fruit on the table.

  Borland reached for a walnut and the nutcracker. “And how did your voyage fare?”

  “A profitable journey. More contracts for cotton for my spinning mill, and finished cloth for my manufactory, too.” Robert slowly twirled the wine in his glass. “A curious people, the Americans. Some are in awe of my title and bow and scrape more than Englishmen do. Others do not care in the least for titles, and treat me as they do everyone else. And still others want nothing to do with the curst English they freed themselves from so recently. But I am my usual charming self and usually win them over. Either that, or I out-negotiate them.”

  Borland cracked a nut, the sound loud in the room. “Congratulations on your success.”

  The candles burned low as they talked. Finally, they pushed back their chairs from the table.

  Borland suppressed a yawn. “Time for my nightly check around the aviary. A fox lives in the area. Once or twice, I startled the wily beast as he dug a hole under the fence. I have not seen him for a long time, so he may be overdue.” He nodded. “Good night.” He quit the room.