Goosed! or a Fowl Christmas

by Linda Banche

  ***

  Sly awoke from his nap at the woods’ edge near the chicken pen. He stretched.

  Maybe the chickens had come out into their yard. On his arrival at sunrise, he had slunk up to the enclosure. Sometimes, one of the earliest rising hens strayed too close to the fence. That was an opportunity he didn’t want to miss, not that he had ever succeeded in catching a chicken.

  But, today, no such luck. For some reason, the hens remained in their coop. Why, on such a bright, sunny day?

  He slitted his eyes. And where was Mac? The dratted goose usually swaggered out of his hut at first light as if the day had dawned expressly for him.

  Perhaps he should wait a little longer. He sank back under his bush, keeping the goose pen in view. Little by little, the sun moved and left him in shadow. He shivered. Enough waiting. If he stayed here much longer he would freeze.

  After looking from side to side to ensure he was alone, he ran up to the goose pen. With his upper legs on the top rail of the fence, he craned his neck to look into the hut.

  He almost fell over. No Mac! Only two unusual-looking ducks.

  What luck! He dropped back to the ground. Today the chickens would be his!

  He crouched and slunk back to the woods. This morning, the young female Human had unlocked the chicken pen gate. The Humans assumed—incorrectly—that the barnyard activity would keep him away. But he would prove them wrong.

  Now, his only worry was The Keeper, who had arrived just before Sly took his nap. Was he still about?

  ***

  That went well.

  Inside the barn, Will slung his greatcoat over a stall door. He threw two blankets over the shivering cow, another over the farm horse and one over the mount he had ridden over here.

  Mrs. Henry had incredibly bad timing. The last thing he needed was an interruption just when he had screwed up his courage to ask Julia to marry him.

  He grabbed a shovel and mucked out the stalls. The noisome task suited his mood.

  Although he couldn’t really blame the housekeeper. He returned the shovel to its place, grabbed the pitchfork and tossed hay to the animals. If he had come up to scratch sooner, he would already have proposed to Julia.

  And mayhap she would have accepted. How wonderful that would have been.

  He could have danced with the pitchfork, but instead set the tool by the barn door. Then he fed the animals corn.

  He weighed the bag in his hands. Almost empty. There wouldn’t be much for the chickens.

  He emptied the corn into a bucket. Julia’s farm was much worse off than he had thought. If she was in such dire straits, his offer of marriage could be a godsend.

  She might accept you out of desperation.

  His shoulders slumped. He didn’t want her to marry him for that reason. He wanted her to marry him because she loved him.

  But did she? Perhaps she didn’t, now. She did like him, though, and that was as good a start as any. Love could grow. Many marriages, especially the arranged marriages common in the ton, started with less, and they worked out.

  Except for those that didn’t. Look at George, the Prince of Wales, and his wife, Caroline. They despised each other.

  He scowled. The ton was as rife with marital unhappiness and infidelity as with arranged marriages. Was the first the result of the second? Probably had some bearing.

  But the ton was a poor example, and one that didn’t apply to him.

  He firmed his mouth. No more dithering. Unless a catastrophe intervened, he would propose before he left today.

  He picked up the bucket and left the barn. The cow mooed, a few cackles arose from the chickens, but nothing was out of the ordinary. No sign of that pesky fox that sometimes nosed about.

  As he neared the chicken yard, the hens spilled out of the coop. Odd for them to stay in there so long. Most of them, doubtless wary of the fox, congregated in the center of the yard, although a few of the younger, probably hungrier, hens rushed up to the fence to greet him.

  Poor chickens. They were as ill-fed as everyone else on this farm.

  He entered the yard, shutting the gate behind him. “Good morning, ladies. Time for breakfast.” There he went again, talking to birds. Mayhap Jem was right, and one day they would cart him off to Bedlam.

  But not just yet. He scattered the corn, keeping to the center of the pen in case the fox showed up. The chickens, squawking and fluttering, surrounded him. They gobbled up the seed, and then pecked around, searching for more. Again, most stayed far from the fence, but a few daring ones ranged farther afield.

  “Sorry I do not have more for you.” He hated to see birds hungry. Asking Julia to marry him was the right decision. She needed his salary for the farm. Pray she would accept him.

  Empty bucket in hand, he exited the pen. Without looking back, he pulled the gate shut behind him and then returned to the barn.

  A robin trilled its mating song. Not common, but a few birds always tuned up early for the spring. The promise in such songs always lifted his spirits. The depths of winter wouldn’t last forever. Spring would return.

  Julia would survive this muddle, with him at her side.

  Furious clucking erupted from the chickens.

  The fox!

  Will dropped the bucket. He grabbed the pitchfork and then tore back to the chicken yard. The gate hung open and a snarling fox charged the birds. The latch probably hadn’t caught when he left, allowing the fox entry.

  Swinging the pitchfork, he jumped into the flurry of fur and feathers.

  Teeth bared, the fox bolted out of the pen and then toward the woods.

  Cursing, Will followed. He put on a burst of speed and raised the pitchfork.

  The fox dashed to the entrance to a small enclosure located as far distant from the house as possible. He pulled up short and growled.

  Will lunged.

  Chapter 7

  Of all the blasted—

  Will couldn’t stop. Flinging the pitchfork aside, he twisted to fall on his side. His hat flew into the distance as he landed smack in the middle of the dung heap.

  The fox loped off. Was that a smile on the misbegotten animal’s face?

  Will held his breath and his curses as he pushed to his feet. Wet manure and other disgusting muck cascaded off him.

  He slipped on something better unnamed and crashed back into the malodorous sludge. Why was today of all days warm enough to melt this slop? The wretched mire was bad enough frozen, but now…

  He gagged. There were no words to describe the foulness of this stench. Hell and the devil, how could he impress the lady of his dreams when this revolting mess drenched him?

  He heaved himself to his hands and knees and then crawled to the edge of the heap before standing. The last thing he wanted was to slide in again.

  Julia ran into sight. She stopped dead, her exhalations a cloud in the cold air. Then she choked and covered her nose with her hand. “Good gracious.”

  Will drew in a shallow breath and cursed silently. There was no way to keep the vile odor out.

  “We heard a prodigious racket. Are you all right?” She spoke through her fingers, her voice muffled.

  Will positioned himself downwind of her and then stepped out of the morass. “Nothing wounded but my pride.” Gads, why couldn’t she have arrived a few minutes later, after he had hidden in the woods?

  She lowered her hand from her face and then wrinkled her nose. “What happened?”

  “I chased a fox away from the hen house. Hang it, if I didn’t know better, I would have sworn the damned—deuced—thing deliberately lured me here.”

  Her gaze swung from him to the dung heap and then back. The sides of her lips curled up. She covered her mouth with her fingers, but the laughter bubbled out.

  His own lips twitched, and he laughed, too.

  For several minutes, they both roared like the veriest lackwits. Somehow, the stench of the muckheap even contributed to their mirth.

  Finally, after much choking
and sputtering, they calmed.

  Julia wiped tears from her eyes. “Oh, dear. I am sorry. What happened to you was not funny.”

  “I disagree. Funny, but not mirthful. How many people can claim to have fallen into a dung heap?”

  She laughed once more. “More than you might realize, but I doubt they would admit to such a calamity.” She backed out of the enclosure’s entrance and waved him after her. “What you need, my dear sir, is a bath. Come to the kitchen and Mrs. Henry and I will take care of you.”

  She rescued his hat from a bush, and then they cut through the barn on the way back to the house.

  The cow mooed and the horses neighed. Laughing at him? Well, he deserved their ridicule.

  She ducked into one of the many empty stalls and returned shaking out a horse blanket. “The horse won’t mind your smell.” Her words were solemn, but she bit her lip to keep in a laugh.

  Wet through, Will shivered as he pulled the blanket around himself. The blanket smelled better than he did. What a pretty pass.

  She gathered up his greatcoat, which he thanked heaven he had left here.

  They hurried to the house, Will at a distance behind Julia.

  She opened the door. “Throw those wretched clothes beside the door and then come in. We will put the tub in front of the fire, and you can get right in. I will find some of my father’s clothes for you.”

  Teeth chattering, Will pulled off his boots and wiped them off with a few tufts of withered grass. He owned only the one pair, and he couldn’t let the muck on them freeze, although he would need to clean them more thoroughly later. As for his clothes, they would probably reek for a long while no matter how thoroughly he cleaned them. Then he dropped the coverlet and held his breath as he stripped off his garments and dumped them by the door.

  Pulling the scratchy blanket around himself again, he stepped inside the kitchen. Clean air! The yeasty aromas of baking bread and scones filled the room. Although he would have welcomed anything short of more midden. He shut the door with a snap. What was out there was better left there.

  A partially filled hip bath sat before the fire. Mrs. Henry tipped the steaming contents of a large pot into the tub. She replaced the pot on the hob, and then poured more water inside the vessel. “Come in, Mr. Borland, and stand by the fire. The room is somewhat cold. You’ll freeze over there.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. I’m sure most of the foulness is now outside.”

  The fire drew him like metal to a lodestone. Teeth chattering even more now that warmth beckoned, he pulled the coverlet closer and let the heat thaw him.

  As Mrs. Henry finished filling the tub, Julia, her arms full, returned. With her foot, she hooked a chair and dragged it toward the tub.

  “Let me help.” Clasping the blanket tightly around himself, Will set the chair by the tub.

  Julia placed towels, soap and clothes on the chair. She held up the shirt and her forehead creased. “Oh dear, this shirt has a hole. Give me a moment, and I will fetch you another one.”

  He almost gagged again on his stench. “At the moment, a hole in a shirt is the least of my problems.”

  As he intended, she smiled. “But a problem I can easily remedy. Come, Mrs. Henry, time for us to leave.”

  Mrs. Henry topped off the water in the tub, and then the door closed with a soft snick behind the departing women.

  Will tossed the blanket, now as smelly as his clothes, outside, before crossing to the tub. Curls of hot steam caressed his chilly skin as he lowered himself into the bath. He wiggled his fingers and toes in the welcome wet heat and then sluiced water over his chest and back until he stopped shivering.

  Unfortunately, the tub was too small for him to lean back. He would like nothing more than to lie here for the rest of his life, blessedly warm and not smelling of dung.

  But that was not to be. He gathered up the soap. The sweet scent of rose wafted to his nose. Julia had given him her own soap. His heart swelled. Did she think kindly on him, then? Would she accept his marriage proposal?

  Or did he smell so bad that even laundry soap wouldn’t remove the stench, and he needed the added fragrance of rose?

  In any case, this soap was what he had, and what he would use. He lathered up the soap and gave a chuckle as he spread the floral-scented suds over his arms and chest. What would the underkeepers say when he returned smelling like a rose? Better to smell like a rose than a dung heap.

  He washed his hair and scrubbed every inch of his skin twice. By the time he finished, the reek of the dung heap was a memory. Thank heaven.

  The water had cooled and he shivered anew, so he stepped out of the tub and dried off. Leaving the towel around his neck for warmth, he sat on the chair to pull on his stockings and then donned the breeches. He had just fastened the last button on the fall of the breeches when voices drifted in from the passage.

  Must be Julia with the shirt. He would stick his hand out the door for the garment.

  ***

  Julia raised her hand and leaned forward to knock on the door.

  “Miss Julia, do you have that shirt yet?”

  She turned toward Mrs. Henry’s voice. “Yes, I—” The door opened. She tumbled over the threshold straight into Will’s arms.

  He grabbed her and they both stumbled backwards into the kitchen. The door slammed against the wall, bounced back, and then the latch fell home with a click.

  Julia sucked in a breath. Her hands rested flat on Will’s chest.

  His bare chest.

  Oh, my.

  His warmth penetrated her skin and sent a tingling all along her nerves. Will was a handsome man, and his loose clothes had hinted at the fine form beneath. But even watching him chop wood was nothing compared to this sight.

  His shoulders were broad, the muscles in his arms, chest and abdomen chiseled and hard. A fine dusting of springy hair darker than the hair on his head covered his chest. That fascinating hair angled down and narrowed to disappear under the waistband of his breeches.

  She jerked her gaze away. No decent woman had the right to look there at a man who wasn’t her husband.

  The shirt she still held dangled between them. Somehow she had managed to keep her grip on the garment. “Here is your shirt. Sorry.” She stepped back

  He pulled her closer. “I am not.” His voice held a smile. “I cannot imagine a better Christmas present.”

  Still wrapped in his embrace, she looked up.

  His eyes gleamed as if a candle flared behind them. Then he dipped his head and kissed her. His mouth was soft and gentle. He cradled her to his chest as if she were the most precious of jewels.

  Julia melted. For a few blessed moments, the comfort of his arms obliterated the loneliness of her recent life. The last person who had held her was her mother, so many years ago.

  But this was different. No man had ever held her before. And this was Will, sweet, kind Will. He wouldn’t hurt her. So she let the kiss continue.

  His lips moved from her mouth to her eyes, her cheek, her ear, then back to her mouth.

  His touch sent shivers over her skin.

  He pulled her closer. He wanted more than a kiss.

  But did she? Her mind whirled.

  Not yet. Gently, she pushed against his chest.

  He broke the kiss. Then he drew in a deep breath, his eyes dark.

  She swallowed. “That was very pleasant.” How trite. “But—”

  He loosened his grip on her a tad. “Sorry. I took you by surprise. But I have dreamed of kissing you for a long time, and I could not let the opportunity pass.” He released her, and caught her by the shoulders. “I love you, Julia.”

  Oh, no. She had thought he might care for her, but love?

  His eyebrows drew down, and, for the slightest second, his visage clouded, but then cleared. “Will you marry me?”

  Her head was as light as if she had inhaled too much turpentine. This dear, sweet man loved her enough to want to marry her. She was two-and-twe
nty now. Many would say her best years were behind her. All she could offer was herself and a run-down farm, but that was enough for him. How could anyone not love such a man?

  I don’t. What was the matter with her? Her mother and father had adored each other, and she wanted that for herself, too. But, even if she loved Will, she couldn’t let him marry her when her finances were in such disarray. “I thank you, but I must say…”

  He put his finger to her lips. “No, wait a little before you answer.”

  Coward that she was, she leaped at the delay. Hands shaking, she gave him the shirt and then fled.

  After a few minutes in which she composed herself, she returned to the kitchen, this time calling out as she knocked. She would not fall into his arms again.

  “Come in.” His voice called from the other side of the door.

  Gritting her teeth behind her smile, she opened the panel.

  Grinning, he buttoned the top button of his shirt. “All ready.”

  “Would you like to stay to dinner? I owe you for the trouble you received today.”

  “Not your fault I fell into the dung heap.” His smile was warm as he shrugged into the borrowed waistcoat and coat and then his own greatcoat. “As much as I would like to stay, night draws near, and I want to reach home before full dark.” He tapped his hat onto his head, and then followed her to the front door. “I will return as soon as I can.” He kissed her palm.

  His touch sent little shocks through her, even though she didn’t love him.

  He leaned over to kiss her lips…

  Skirts rustled in the corridor and Mrs. Henry turned the corner into the entryway.

  Lips thin, Will straightened, and nodded to both women. With a last, longing look at Julia, he departed.

  As the door closed, Julia’s shoulders sagged. Why couldn’t her heart flutter over him? She would rather suffer a thousand deaths than hurt him, but she couldn’t marry any man without loving him.

  Mrs. Henry had no such qualms. Motherly by nature, she never hesitated to speak her mind, even though she was a servant. “I heard you two in the kitchen. Why didn’t you accept him? ’Tisn’t every day a kind young man shows up on your doorstep offering marriage, especially a handsome, kind young man.”