by Linda Banche
He shrugged. No matter. The aviary was quite pleasant. He would stay for the night and then return with the ducks in the morning.
***
The ducks turned their backs and exchanged amused glances as they waddled away.
“Yes, Julian?” Woodie spoke in Common Bird.
“Watch out for that one.” Julian hissed the words in Duck. Since they all came from North America, they had become fast friends. They had taught Julian Duck, and he had taught them Goose. But Julian had rarely spoken Duck before. This information must be important, so important he didn’t want that Machiavelli to understand.
Julian lowered his voice. “The songbirds told me this Machiavelli is a master manipulator. If he’s talking sweetly to you, you can bet your pin feathers he’s up to no good.”
“We had the same thought.” Mrs. Woodie glanced over her shoulder at Machiavelli, who climbed over the fence, assisted by his flapping wings, and wandered over to inspect the tree that held their nest hole. Then she turned back to Julian. “I am curious, though. I would like to see this Shaw Farm.”
“But—”
She shook her head. “You need not worry, Julian. We can fly away if we don’t like what we find.”
“But Machiavelli doesn’t know that.” Woodie chuckled. “We told him my lady couldn’t fly.”
Chapter 5
The sun peeked over the eastern horizon in a blaze of orange and gold as Will Borland tipped sunflower seed from his bucket into the mallards’ pen. Loud quacking pierced the crisp air as the ducks waddled over to the food.
Will set the heavy bucket down for a moment and stretched. Today was his day off, but no rest for him. He would spend his time helping out at Shaw Farm, as he usually did.
After a grin at the busily squabbling mallards, he picked up the bucket and moved to the wood ducks’ pen. He perched the bucket on the top rail of the fence.
Another day in Julia Shaw’s presence, at least part of the time. The pale sun glowed brighter just at the thought of her. She was everything he wanted in a woman. But could he win her?
He needed money to marry, and although his father held a title, his family wasn’t rich. Will had completed Cambridge on a scholarship, and then put aside his dream of finding work involving birds to take a job as a surveyor for the Thames and Medway Canal Company in north Kent. His love of birds never died, though, and he spent every spare moment studying them. Over the years since his boyhood, he had amassed piles of notes, which he was in the process of collecting into a book.
Then he had given a bird lecture in Leeds to earn a few extra pence. Lord Tyndall attended and offered him this job, the chance of a lifetime. Not only had his dream come true, but the salary was a far sight better than his earnings from surveying.
And then there was Julia. He tipped over the bucket farther than he meant to, and a hail of seed cascaded out. With a jerk he righted the bucket. The wood ducks would dine well today.
He folded his arms over the bucket top. He’d met Julia soon after she arrived. If he hadn’t believed at love at first sight before, he did now. His initial glimpse of that lovely lady had set his heart into a spin that hadn’t yet stopped. Beautiful, intelligent and kind, she charmed everyone, and all the eligible men in the area beat a path to her door. He hadn’t stood a chance against such competition.
Until her father died, and the loss of his money became common knowledge. The suitors disappeared, although Julia didn’t seem to mind. He had started going over there, both to help out and to be near her. They became friends, and she allowed him to address her by her first name, an intimacy she hadn’t granted to any other man. That alone put him ahead of other possible suitors, and he didn’t know of any.
Now that she was as poor as he, mayhap he could win her, especially if he kept his job here and sold his book. He hadn’t said anything to her yet, biding his time, but he couldn’t hide his feelings much longer.
And why should he? He set the bucket on the ground. He had been the good neighbor for months. Truth to tell, since he finished university, he had worked so much he hadn’t spent much time with women, and was unsure how to court one.
But, that was an excuse. He had already let his inexperience with the fair sex hold him back too long. He loved Julia. Today he would declare himself. Her acceptance would be his Christmas present this year. His heart soared.
He stepped to the side and bumped into the bucket, the crack reverberating in the quiet. What, no excited squeaking from the wood ducks? Perhaps they were still in their tree hole.
He leaned over the fence, trying to see into the opening, but the aperture was too high.
“Something amiss in there?” Jem, his assistant, trod over and then leaned a hand on the fence.
“I do not think so, but the ducks usually come out when I bring their seed.”
Jem snorted. “They stay in their hole when I put the seed out.”
Will grinned. “Mayhap they like me more than they do you.”
Jem’s lip curled. “They have no taste. What can you expect from ducks that live in trees? I never saw a duck in a tree before they came here. Unnatural, that is.”
“Must be natural, or they would not do it.”
Jem crossed his arms over his chest. “You have an answer for everything. Should I go and see if they’re in there?”
“SQUEAK!”
Woodie’s head emerged from within the hole. He perched on the edge of the opening, spread his wings and then fluttered to the ground. Mrs. Woodie flew out after him.
“There you are. I wondered about you.” Will backed up as the ducks waddled over to peck at the seed. “Today is my day off, so I will not see you again until tomorrow.”
“And that takes care of that. I’ll see you tomorrow, then, too.” Jem straightened. “You really shouldna talk to ducks.”
“Perhaps you should watch what you say around them. Sometimes I think they can understand English.”
“Next you’ll be atelling me they talk to each other, just like we do.” Jem stomped down the path. “There’s a reason why we call a fool birdwitted.”
Will picked up the bucket. Of course, the ducks couldn’t understand him. But still…“Can you follow everything I say?”
The ducks looked up, all attention, as if they did indeed comprehend his speech.
A little shiver danced over his skin. He smiled at the birds, and then departed, for some reason happy to leave.
***
Machiavelli straightened. At The Keeper’s approach, he had crouched behind the privet bounding the pen, the dense foliage screening his white feathers. So, today was The Keeper’s day off! Now he and the ducks had more time to return to Shaw Farm. But he would have to avoid The Keeper once they arrived there.
He stretched and stamped his webs. The night had been cold away from his cozy hut. Since he couldn’t fly up, or fit into, the wood ducks’ tree hole, he had had no choice but to sleep beside the privet, practically out in the open! Even his down feathers hadn’t made up for the discomfort.
Not that he wanted to sleep in a tree like they did. Why in the name of the Great Goose would any wildfowl do that? Ducks and geese should sleep on the ground.
He ducked back behind the bushes as The Keeper passed by again, doing more tasks around the aviary. Of the underkeepers, only the one who had stopped by was in evidence. But, from the tales the songbirds told, neither he nor any of the others would be a problem. The Keeper was the smart one, and he would soon leave.
Finally, The Keeper exited, latching the gate behind him.
At last! Machiavelli, his cramped legs rejoicing, almost jumped out from his hiding place. He bowed to the wood ducks, who had finished eating, although a pile of sunflower seed remained. “Good morning, my friends. Now that we are alone, we can leave for Shaw Farm.” He took a step toward the fence and then stopped. Sunflower seed was a delicacy, and one he rarely ate.
The great black mound of uneaten seed glistened in the sunlight, a veritable
gustatory siren’s song. His mouth watered.
Much too good to pass up. “After I have breakfast.”
He finished up all the seed, the ducks politely waiting by the fence. After rooting around for any morsels that had eluded him, he straightened. None left. Oh, well. He fluffed his feathers. “Now, we can go.”
They climbed over the fence and then waddled up to the gate.
“Let me show you something.” With a flick of his bill, Machiavelli unlatched the gate.
Mrs. Woodie’s bill dropped. “Amazing.”
Machiavelli swaggered out the portal. Let them be a little in awe. They would heed him all the better.
Chapter 6
Drat the winter!
Julia tugged again on the end of the fallen log. The miserable block of wood moved forward another inch. At this rate, she would need all day to drag the wretched thing to the chopping block.
The sun shone out of a clear sky, but she had shivered on her way to the forest. Now, though, after all her efforts to move the log, she was quite warm. She tugged off her scarf. Moving this log was the hardest work she had ever done.
She prodded the log along another inch. Although she had been cold when she came out, the temperature was moderate for December, and had been for the past few days. With the mild spell lingering, she had expected their store of wood to last until Mr. Henry returned from his trip to London. Or at least until tomorrow, the day laborer’s regular day.
But no such luck. Mrs. Henry had tossed the last twigs into the stove this morning and they needed more fuel.
She pulled as hard as she could. Almost there. Although, having the house in sight barely qualified as “almost there”.
She stopped and wiped perspiration from her forehead with her sleeve. On the bright side—if there was one—she had discovered this large fallen branch relatively close to the forest’s edge. She would never have dragged the insufferable weight this far if she had had to go farther in.
She picked up the end and tugged again. The log refused to budge. She tugged harder. No movement.
With a huff, she dropped the end of the log. Enough. She couldn’t go any farther. She would chop the wood here. Mayhap she should have cut up the log in the forest. But then, she would have had to make multiple trips to carry the wood to the house. At the time, dragging the log into the garden had seemed a better idea.
She returned to fetch the ax. Mr. Henry had left the ax with its blade embedded in the chopping block. With both hands, she pulled on the ax handle. The blade wouldn’t come out. Oh, fiddle, would everything conspire against her today?
“Let me do that.” A masculine voice called from the barnyard.
Julia jumped.
Will Borland, his smile beaming, strode to her side and, with one flick of his arm, freed the ax, which he then propped against the chopping block. “I gather you need some wood.”
“You gather correctly.” She pointed to the log. “I found that in the forest.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “You dragged that all the way here? You are stronger than you look.” Without even breathing hard, he hauled a burden which had resisted her every effort to the chopping block.
Sometimes, having a man around made things much easier.
You could marry.
Julia gave a mental snort. Who would marry a poor woman like me? Suitors had buzzed around her like bees drunk on nectar when she first arrived here. And they had all vanished when her father lost his money.
Except Will. He had never abandoned her.
Why not marry him?
He hasn’t asked.
Prod him.
Gracious, she didn’t want to marry simply because she needed someone to split wood.
Will positioned the log on the chopping block. He removed his worn greatcoat, coat and tricorn hat, set them aside and then picked up the ax. “Soon you will be quite warm.” He swung the ax with rhythmic strokes, and with apparently little effort.
The crack of splintering wood was music to her ears.
Soon, he had reduced the monstrous (to her) log to chunks which she could easily manage.
Julia sighed. With all the physical labor Will performed at the aviary, he was a fine specimen of masculinity. Tall and lean, and yet, as his shirt tightened across his shoulders, well-muscled and strong. Also very good-looking, with chiseled features, high cheekbones and deep blue eyes. And she did like fair-haired men.
More importantly, he was kind. How many other men would help her on their days off? She had barely enough money to pay the hired man for a day a week, and Will often performed the heavy labor that came up between his workdays. And all because he was a good neighbor.
Or does he want more?
She bit her lip. That thought had plagued her more than once these past months. He had never said or done anything to indicate he was anything but a friend, but…
Did she want more, too?
Sometimes, in the middle of a long night, she lay awake and wondered. Could Will be the man for her? Did she want him to hold her and kiss her and…more? Her cheeks heated.
She had never dreamed about any man, not even during the heady days of her London Seasons, and didn’t dream about Will, either. Was that a bad sign, a sign that he wasn’t for her? She shivered.
“Cold?” Will set the ax down. A messy pile of fireplace-sized logs littered the ground around him. “There should be enough wood here to keep you comfortable for a long while.”
“I am sure there is. Thank you.” She scooped up some of the split logs and then carried them to the bin by the door.
“You are welcome.” He also gathered up wood and dumped his burden into the bin after she did. After mopping the perspiration off his forehead, he straightened. “Julia, I wish to speak with you.” His smile faded and he swallowed. “I have come here for a long time, and I want you to know how I feel.” He stepped closer. “About you, that is.”
Oh, dear. What she had feared had come about. She bore him nothing other than friendship, at least not yet. She didn’t want to hurt him, but at the same time, she didn’t want to lead him on. Perhaps she could delay, and test if she had a warmer regard for him. “Will, I—”
“Miss Julia, where are you?” Mrs. Henry’s voice rang out from inside the house. Wiping her floury hands on her apron, she appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Do you have the wood now? The bread has almost finished rising.” She nodded at Will. “Good day, sir. We are always happy to see you.”
Will, his face blank, stepped back. He nodded to the housekeeper.
“Yes, we have more than enough wood, thanks to our friend.” Julia plastered a wide smile on her face.
His visage still impassive, Will nodded as he pulled on his coat. “I will see to the animals.” He tapped his hat on his head, picked up his greatcoat and headed to the barn.
“Thank you again.” Julia collected another armful of wood and ran into the kitchen, squeezing by Mrs. Henry at the door.
The housekeeper’s eyes narrowed. “Is something amiss?”
Julia stretched her smile more. “No, nothing, not at all.”
“Mr. Borland looked like he wanted to speak to you.” Mrs. Henry shut the door. “About something important.”
“No, we just traded commonplaces.” She was a coward, an absolute coward.
Mrs. Henry’s mouth flattened, but she said nothing more.
Julia’s hands shook as she piled the wood in the basket beside the stove. What was she to do about Will?
***
“And that is how I chased Sylvester out of the henhouse last summer.” Machiavelli, the ducks in tow, lifted the latch on the goose pen and led them inside.
Their way here had been easy. The weather remained clear, the walk was all downhill, much to the delight of his sore webs, and they met no one. To distract the ducks, and also to prevent questions, he had regaled them with tale after tale of his prowess—all the stories humorous, and most only a little exaggerated—as they progressed to Shaw Farm.
From time to time, the ducks rolled their eyes, but they still laughed. And followed.
Machiavelli raised himself to his full height as he closed the gate behind them. All was quiet. Perfect. “I would like to surprise the Head Goose. Would you mind staying out of sight for the rest of the day? The party will start at dusk. I will come for you then and present you to everyone.”
The ducks looked at each other, but offered no objection.
“You can wait in my hut. The place is very comfortable. I have a water bowl and some corn in there for your comfort.” He had prepared the hut before he left. He didn’t want the ducks to leave. At least not until after I do.
“Let me see, first.” Woodie entered the hut. Scrabbling sounds wafted out before he returned to the opening. “Looks all right. And no door, so we can leave whenever we wish.”
“But why would you want to?” Machiavelli shivered. “I missed that hut terribly last night.”
“Thank you.” Mrs. Woodie entered the hut and sat.
Woodie sank down beside her just inside the doorway.
Machiavelli bowed. “I will be right out here.” He then wandered around the pen, pecking at the ground, flapping his wings and strutting. Must make them think I’m here, so they won’t notice when I sneak away.
He then sat down out of sight of the hut’s opening, not far from the gate.
“Are you still there, Machiavelli?” Woodie’s voice drifted in the air.
Curst, suspicious birds. “Yes, I am here in the sun, keeping warm.” He might have to remain here longer than he liked, in full view if The Cook again came looking for him. He folded his wings more firmly on his back.
A breeze rustled in the bare branches of the trees in the woods, the chickens cackled as they always did, and the sun reached its peak, heating the air a tad. No more comments issued from the ducks.
Time to leave. Machiavelli rose, and oh, so slowly, lifted the latch and exited, setting the gate closed behind him with a soft snick. Looking over his shoulder, he padded to the forest and slunk behind a bush.
Still no outcry. He released a breath. Now to return to the aviary.