Goosed! or a Fowl Christmas

by Linda Banche

  “You heard? Oh, dear.” Julia’s face heated. Was there no end to the day’s mortifications? “I do care for him, but not that way.” She was uncertain, and she liked him too much to encourage him until she was sure. Although she felt nothing but friendship for him now, perhaps she could find warmer feelings if she tried.

  A sudden chill spiked through her. Would he care?

  ***

  Will rode home on air. Actually, he rode home on Smoky, a placid mare who stumbled a few times on the uneven, sunset-dim road. After the third time, Will paid more attention, but not much. The horse could have pitched him headfirst into a ditch and Will wouldn’t have awakened from his blissful fog.

  He pulled in a frosty breath. His world expanded to encompass the heavens, the earth, the future, and everything good and right everywhere. After six months of being afraid, he had finally declared himself. Even though he had planned to propose today, having Julia literally fall into his arms was a blessing. His body, overriding his mind, had taken the right course.

  And that kiss! He floated a few inches higher. That kiss, and the softness of her slender body against his, had been the high point of the past few years. Julia was the lady for him. Beautiful, intelligent, kind, and everything right. He would do whatever he must in order to provide for her. He could dance on the wind with the eagles.

  But she hadn’t been completely delighted at his marriage proposal. The air supporting him vanished and he thumped back to earth. Well, that was because she was overwhelmed. He certainly was.

  The sky faded from orange to purple to black, revealing a slender crescent moon which shed no light, but they reached home without further incident. Will patted the horse on the neck. Reliable Smoky was his favorite horse. She knew the way to her feedbag blindfolded from anyplace nearby, and he had often depended on her unerring sense of direction to guide them home when his mind wandered. Like tonight.

  Still spinning air castles, each more wondrous than the previous one, Will unsaddled and rubbed down the weary horse, and gave her an extra helping of oats. After gathering up his scattered wits, he went to the aviary. The gate was locked, so he didn’t check inside. Then, he circled the outside of the fence, searching for evidence of burrowing. Today’s debacle proved the fox was still around, and, although the beast hadn’t besieged the aviary yet, there might be a first time.

  How he would love to pay that wretched beast back.

  But not tonight. All was satisfactory, and he returned to the house and his chamber. Since he wasn’t a servant, he didn’t sleep in one of the boxlike basement rooms allotted to the male retainers. Tyndall had given him one of the smaller chambers at the end of the guest wing.

  He fell into bed and danced anew on the air currents, this time with Julia.

  ***

  “I miss our tree hole, Woodie.”

  “As do I, my dear.” Woodie shifted closer to his mate. “But the fox can’t reach us here on the chicken coop roof, and we can huddle for warmth.”

  “I like that.” Julia sighed. “Gracious, what a day this has been. Quite a dustup with the fox and the chickens.”

  “Indeed. But The Keeper saved the day.”

  “And that Machiavelli!” Julia huffed. “The villain deserted us!”

  “Yes. I will have a number of things to say to him when next we meet.”

  Julia slid closer to her mate. “What shall we do now?”

  He caressed her head feathers. “We snuggle together until dawn.”

  She laughed. “You know what I mean.”

  Woodie chuckled. “In the morning, after we finish up the corn Machiavelli left—I intend to leave nothing for that scoundrel—we fly back to the aviary.”

  “I am sure they will take us back.”

  “Of course, they will.” Woodie rubbed his head against his wing. “This journey has not been a complete waste. We have seen more of this new land, and we have come to no harm. Things could have been much worse.”

  “You’re right.” Julia yawned.

  Muffled clucking drifted from inside the chicken coop.

  Woodie also yawned. “I suspect that is the Chicken for “Be quiet, we want to sleep.”

  Chapter 8

  Robert stood before the cheval glass in his bedchamber.

  Evers, his valet, brushed Robert’s black tailcoat and doeskin pantaloons once more.

  Robert fidgeted. Any lint must have succumbed to the valet’s ministrations long ago, but still the conscientious servant labored on. While Robert approved of Evers’s industry, he didn’t need every fiber of his apparel pummeled into cringing submission. “Is everything to your satisfaction yet?”

  “Almost, my lord.” With a flourish, the valet set the brush down on a nearby table. Then he opened the jewelry box beside the brush. “Would you care for the emerald stickpin?”

  Robert shook his head. “No stickpin. I am well enough to pass for neighborly calls without going that far.”

  “As you wish.” Evers picked up the hairbrush and patted several wayward strands of Robert’s fashionably cropped hair into place. Then he stepped back. “You will take the neighbors by storm.”

  Robert patted his high, starched cravat. “Especially with this Christmas knot.”

  “The very latest, and appropriate for the season. I learned the intricacies of that knot only last week.”

  “I am most fortunate you always keep me in the first stare of fashion.”

  The valet’s eyes gleamed. “My pleasure.”

  Robert turned from the mirror, the tassels of his highly polished Hessians swinging gently.

  “You wear your garments so well, my lord.” Evers released a heavy sigh. “Unfortunately, many gentlemen do not, and we valets can do only so much.”

  Robert smoothed his palm down his white brocade waistcoat to his flat stomach. “All that boxing, fencing and riding has paid off.”

  The valet inclined his head. “Indeed.”

  “Now, I am off.”

  Evers bowed. “I hope you have a pleasant time.”

  Robert gritted his teeth. “A pleasant time” was the last thing he expected. Truth to tell, part of the reason he had returned to Kent was to escape the social whirl. But he had been back for two days, and calling on the neighbors was expected. Best to get the blasted duty over with.

  He strode down the main stairs to the entry, where a footman waited with his greatcoat, hat and gloves. He robed himself and then sent the servant to call for his horse.

  He slapped his gloves against his thigh. He would start his rounds with his widowed aunt, Lady Ellison, who lived nearby. She looked in on Tyndall Manor when he travelled, so he owed her thanks in addition to a call. Then he would visit the other neighbors, in a large loop, ending with Shaw Farm, where he would ask the Shaws to Christmas Eve dinner. He would take a better look around, too, and offer help, if needed.

  But first, he would visit the aviary. Some pleasantness to sweeten the unpleasantness to come. After telling another footman to have the groom walk his horse until he returned, he wended his way to the sanctuary. Cheeps, chirps and the occasional song greeted him.

  His tense shoulders loosened. What would he do without his birds? He strolled down the path inside and stopped by the peafowls’ cage. So beautiful. The iridescent blues and greens of their feathers always soothed him.

  Until the peacock emitted an ear-grinding screech. Robert’s shoulders tensed again. Gorgeous peacocks might be—until they opened their beaks. Which was the reason he owned only one pair. Whenever his peacocks mated, he gave the eggs away. Why some estates hosted entire flocks of the vexatious beasts was beyond him. He shrugged. They provided a home for his unwanted eggs. And the unfertilized ones made good omelets.

  He continued past the bird of paradise, the ring-necked pheasant, which, true to form, disgorged a screech almost as teeth-rattling as the peacock’s, and the Canada goose, toward the area of the ducks.

  The ducks were the best birds to see in the wintertime. In summer,
when the entire world rioted with the lush, brilliant hues of the rainbow, the ducks molted. Molting hens looked much the same as before, but the drakes’ bright nuptial plumage fell away, and they garbed themselves in drab brown feathers like their mates’. Since they lost their flight feathers at the same time, the dull plumage allowed them to hide. In contrast, as the autumn landscape faded into the dreary tones of winter, the ducks molted another time, the drakes’ new feathers bursting forth in a kaleidoscope of colors. After all, ducks paired in the winter, and the males had to dress in their best.

  Like him. He grinned. Although his garments weren’t nuptial plumage. He wasn’t on the search for a mate.

  He leaned against the boundary fence of the wood ducks’ pen. None of their high-pitched squeaking drifted to his ears. He looked up. They weren’t flying around. Were they in their tree hole? He didn’t want to disturb them, but he would like to see them.

  He opened the gate and entered, careful to secure the latch after him. He walked slowly up to the tree. Their hole was above eye level, so he climbed onto a wooden block beside the trunk and then craned to see inside the opening.

  He frowned. Empty. Where could they be? He jumped down and then turned in a circle. There wasn’t much cover, except for the privet hedges separating this pen from the ones on either side. He examined one set of bushes. Not there. He then crossed to the other side. Something stirred within the foliage. He parted the greenery.

  His jaw sagged.

  “Borland!”

  ***

  An explosion of avian squeaks, squawks, squeals, honks and quacks, with Will’s name at the center, rattled the pans on the kitchen wall. All the servants ground to a dead halt and stared open-mouthed at each other.

  Including Will. He had overslept, so wrapped up in his heart-and-body-stirring dreams that the normal household bustle hadn’t awakened him, and had come by for a quick breakfast.

  He dropped his scone and then pelted out the kitchen door, still pulling on his greatcoat. Lord Tyndall’s furious shouts and the birds’ agitated chorus resounded through the air, leading him straight to the wood ducks’ pen.

  Tyndall, dressed in the height of fashion, his tall beaver hat a forlorn black smudge at the far side of the pen, chased a white, domestic goose around and around.

  Machiavelli? Why the devil is he here?

  Tyndall charged over and over at the furiously honking bird, but the goose, although big and ungainly, always eluded his would-be captor.

  Will slid to a halt in front of the pen. Fumbling with the latch, he let himself inside.

  Tyndall lunged and grabbed at Machiavelli.

  “HONK!” The bird swerved out of reach.

  Will gritted his teeth. Machiavelli’s honks were akin to fingernails scraping on a slate board.

  Tyndall, breathing heavily, stopped. “Borland! What happened to the wood ducks? And what is this?” He pointed at Machiavelli.

  “The ducks were here yesterday morning. I saw them when I fed them.”

  Machiavelli sidled to skirt past Will, but Will spread his arms to block him. “This goose belongs to Miss Shaw. I have no idea how he got here.”

  “Well, he is here now and God only knows where my ducks are. I want them back!” Tyndall jumped to Machiavelli’s other side and also spread his arms wide. “Let us box him in.” With the fence at Machiavelli’s back, and the men on two of the other sides, only the way before the bird was free. “Were the ducks here last night?”

  “I do not know. The aviary was locked when I returned.”

  “You did not check?” Tyndall’s roar set off another shrieking avian chorus.

  “No, I was late getting back…”

  Tyndall edged closer to Machiavelli, and the goose backed up a step toward the fence. “We will discuss that later. Right now, I want to catch this—this—goose—” He spat the word. “—and remove the beast.”

  Will inched toward Machiavelli. “Maybe if we rush him…” They ran at the goose.

  Machiavelli leaped high. He flapped his wings, rose several inches, and aimed toward the top of the fence. He wasn’t high enough to soar away. With a loud thump and much vociferous honking, he landed within the enclosure. Beating his wings, he battered his way past Tyndall and dashed to the tree.

  Tyndall blew out a breath. “Let us force him against the bushes.”

  More chasing, shouting and honking ensued. Will and Tyndall, arms open, rushed at Machiavelli.

  Machiavelli twisted, turned, honked, and eluded them, once, twice, and again and again. Almost as if the vexatious goose could read their minds, or understand their directions to each other on how to catch him. A Drury Lane farce couldn’t have scripted their failed chase better. Whether wild goose chase or domestic goose chase, their efforts were an exercise in futility.

  Several underkeepers had run up and entered the pen. In a low voice, Will sent one of them to fetch a net.

  “Damnation, two grown men cannot catch one overstuffed goose?” Tyndall wiped perspiration from his forehead as they backed Machiavelli toward the bushes. Again.

  Will leaned against the wood ducks’ tree. “Machiavelli is very sly. Now that we have six of us, maybe we can catch him.”

  Will and Tyndall circled Machiavelli.

  Machiavelli flapped his wings hard, and, with a great heave, lifted into the air, higher than he had risen before. He arrowed to the fence.

  Will launched himself after the goose. Hell and the devil, this time the bird just might escape the pen.

  Everyone else dashed after Machiavelli, too, but this time, the goose soared to the top of the fence.

  “HONK!” The Canada goose jumped onto the top fence rail. Just as Machiavelli cleared the barrier, he nipped Machiavelli in the tail feathers.

  Machiavelli crashed into a squawking, feathered puddle on the path outside the pen.

  Will vaulted over the fence and grabbed him.

  ***

  “I’ll get you for that!” Machiavelli squawked at Julian, just before The Keeper grabbed his bill and held it closed.

  “I’m trembling.” Julian sneered, his Yankee twang adding bite to his comment. He stuck out his neck and hissed. “If anything has happened to those ducks, you’ll get a lot worse from me!” Then he tossed his head and jumped back into his own pen.

  Machiavelli twisted and turned and thrashed. He had to get away! He batted his head against The Keeper’s chest.

  The Keeper, both arms secured around Machiavelli and one hand holding his bill, tightened his grip.

  Machiavelli squirmed more, and tossed his head.

  An underkeeper ran down the path carrying something.

  The Keeper grunted. “Damnation, man, hurry up! I cannot hold him for long!”

  The underkeeper tossed out what he held.

  A net! Machiavelli flailed harder.

  The net fell over both him and The Keeper. The underkeepers gathered up the mesh, tightening its hold on Machiavelli and freeing The Keeper. Then they bound the net closer around Machiavelli.

  Machiavelli thrashed and thrashed. He couldn’t get out! Heaving like a bellows, he sank into a defeated heap. He couldn’t escape now. Better to save his strength for later when an opportunity for freedom might arise.

  The Keeper said something Machiavelli didn’t catch to one of his assistants. The man nodded and ran out of sight.

  The Keeper heaved out a breath. “Well, that was an enjoyable start to the day.”

  His Lordship picked up his hat, frowned, and dusted off the brim. “Indeed.”

  The Keeper straightened his greatcoat. “I can take him back to Miss Shaw.”

  “No.” His Lordship swept dirt from his long coat. “I planned to go there today as I made my duty calls on the neighbors. Instead of ending with the Shaw Farm as I planned, I will start there instead.” He glared down at Machiavelli. “Quite a devil bird.”

  Machiavelli hissed. He got his bill outside the net and snapped at the nobleman. Who was His Lordship to call
him names?

  His Lordship leaped back. “What an abomination! Does Miss Shaw have this much trouble with him?”

  The Keeper shook his head. “He is always most mannerly with her.”

  Because she treats me well. That is, she lets me do as I please.

  “Well, this will help you.” The Keeper beckoned to the underkeeper who ran down the path toward them. The man carried a wooden cage.

  No! Machiavelli thrashed again.

  The Keeper set the cage aside and opened its door. “All you men, help me. Your lordship, please step out of the way. This will not be quick or easy.”

  Machiavelli made sure getting him into the cage was neither quick nor easy. One of the men held the cage door open, one slowly removed the net, with three of them grabbing at him as the net slid away. Machiavelli honked and hissed and thrashed.

  “Ow!” Jem grunted. “Damned bird bit me.”

  The Keeper gripped Machiavelli’s body tight. “Grab his bill.”

  One underkeeper caught his bill, another secured one of Machiavelli’s wings, while a second captured the other. They folded his wings over his back. Then, with four of them holding him, Machiavelli still flinging his head from side to side, they edged toward the cage,

  “When I give the word, shove him inside and let go.” The Keeper clutched Machiavelli harder. “Now!”

  All four shoved, and Machiavelli landed on his tail in the cage. The man holding the cage slammed and latched the door. “Ow!” He shook his hand. “Curst bird bit me, too.” He spat. “Good riddance to ye!”

  His Lordship crossed his arms over his chest. “I agree. Someone go to the stables and have a groom bring over the gig. And send someone to the house to pick up my horse. I will not need him.”

  An underkeeper nodded and left.

  Machiavelli bit at the bars of the cage. Blast! He couldn’t bite through them. He flung himself at the side and tipped the wooden box over.

  The Keeper righted the cage and then secured the door with twine. “Are you sure you will be all right, my lord? I can come with you.”

  “No, stay here and look for the ducks. Mayhap they are still nearby.”