Goosed! or a Fowl Christmas

by Linda Banche

  Woodie gave her a gentle nudge in the shoulder with his bill. “Even me?”

  “Even you, but not so much now that you have me.”

  Woodie laughed.

  “’Tis mating season. But the drakes know how they behave, and I suspect His Lordship will apologize before long. In fact, they may have already reached an accord.”

  Woodie chuckled. “My love, you do know your males, whatever their species.”

  Julia nodded. “He must be her mate. No sane hen would argue with such a large male. By now, most drakes would have flown for cover. Yes, he must be her mate.” She nodded once more for emphasis, and then turned to her own mate.

  “And then they will make up?” He nuzzled her head.

  “Of course. That’s the best part.”

  ***

  Machiavelli rubbed his sore head against his back. Curse those ducks! They had seen right through him.

  Then there was His Lordship. What gall! Bad enough to return him here to The Cook’s hatchet, but to insult him, too! Yes, he had to lose a few pounds. To be honest, maybe a stone, but no one had to hurl abuse to his face. Although His Lordship didn’t know he could understand him.

  Even worse…He narrowed his eyes. The enemy had beguiled His Mistress! Very few male Humans came to the farm, and she never looked at any of them the way she looked at this one. The two Humans were so wrapped up in each other, they hadn’t even noticed his fracas with the ducks.

  Disgusting.

  Even worse, they ignored him. He ground his bill. No one ignored him.

  He would teach His Lordship. Splatting on his boots wasn’t punishment enough. But he knew just the thing.

  He crept to the gate and then raised the latch with his bill. He swung open the gate barely wide enough for him to exit. Better if he left for a while, with the wood duck drake in such a lather. Since he intended to return to the aviary, he had to make peace with the pair, but he could placate them later.

  Bending low, he edged up behind His Lordship. He would wipe that silly grin off his face. “HONK!”

  Both Humans jumped.

  Machiavelli tore the hat from His Lordship’s grasp. He raced out of the pen and toward the back.

  “Machiavelli!” His Mistress ran after him.

  His Lordship caught up and passed her. He slid his arms out of his long coat and dropped the garment to the ground.

  Machiavelli flapped his wings to propel himself a little faster. If only he could fly now! But his destination, the enclosure behind the barn, was in sight. Just a little farther…

  His Lordship lunged. His fingertips grazed Machiavelli.

  Machiavelli squawked and swerved.

  His Lordship fell forward, past the entrance and inside the small fenced-in area.

  Chapter 10

  Gads, that abominable stench!

  Miss Shaw’s voice rang out behind Robert. “Watch out for the—”

  He landed face first in the—

  “—dung heap!”

  Of all the damned—Robert sat and screwed up his nose and eyes. By thunder, he would never breathe again! Hell probably didn’t stink this badly.

  Miss Shaw skidded to a halt, her eyes wide and mouth gaping. Then her lips twitched. She giggled.

  Robert wiped the noxious brew off his face. Would he ever get this horrid odor off his body? Or more importantly, out of his nose?

  “I am sorry, my lord, but two days in a row…” Miss Shaw’s voice trailed off into a bubble of laughter. She pressed her hand over her mouth to muffle the sound, but to no avail. She clasped her arms around her stomach and guffawed.

  Two days in a row? What, did gentlemen arrive every day for the pleasure of flinging themselves into her dung pile? He gagged.

  Machiavelli, looking angelic, stood at the far end of the dung heap beside Robert’s clean, unharmed hat.

  Holding his breath, Robert pushed to his feet, odoriferous muck dribbling down his expensive garments. “Miss Shaw, I am certain that white nightmare—” He jerked his head toward Machiavelli “—deliberately lured me here.” He glared at the goose. “This is not over, my friend. This will not end until the day you grace my table—baked, roasted, stewed or fricasseed.”

  Machiavelli stuck his bill in the air, his posture proclaiming such an event would never occur.

  We shall see. Hang it, here he was, threatening geese again. What a day today had been.

  Miss Shaw’s mirth died. She edged around the dung heap until she reached the goose. She scooped up Robert’s hat. “I am extremely vexed with you, Machiavelli.”

  Machiavelli tilted his head toward her.

  Almost as if he understood.

  She tapped her toe. “You will not cozen me about this. I must decide what to do about you.” She beckoned to Robert. “Come, sir, we must clean you up and dry you off. Quickly.” She led him out of the enclosure, Robert keeping far behind her. She picked up his greatcoat on the way.

  Robert stopped. “Just a moment. I must see to my ducks and horse.”

  “We can put them in the barn. They will be safe there.”

  The horse shied as Robert caught his bridle. Did he smell so bad a horse recoiled? He calmed the beast, and then led the horse and gig away, the ducks still perched on the vehicle.

  In the barn, Miss Shaw pulled a horse blanket from an unused stall. “You must keep warm until you are done. Now I will start water heating for your bath.” She continued on to the house.

  Robert, teeth chattering, wrapped the blanket around himself as well as he could. He unhitched and rubbed down the horse, and then threw a blanket over the animal. “When we get back, the grooms will do a more thorough job, and, I promise, there will be extra oats for you.” He patted the horse’s nose. “The grooms will not stink, either.” He exited the barn for the house. Thankfully, the activity had warmed him some.

  The back door opened and Miss Shaw emerged. “Good, you have finished. Please deposit your clothes over there.” She pointed to an untidy heap of fabric near the door. “Come in when you are ready.”

  He nodded. Shivers wracked him he sat on the ground and removed his boots, the heat from his exertions rapidly dissipating. Then he pulled up some weeds and scrubbed Machiavelli’s revenge off the footwear. He then set the boots by the door. Rising, he moved around the corner of the house, away from general view, and shivered more as he removed his clothes. They were probably ruined, but his valet would pick them up and decide.

  He twisted his lips. He hadn’t wanted to visit the neighbors, and he certainly couldn’t do so now. Be careful what you wish for.

  After wrapping the blanket around his naked self, he stepped just inside the kitchen.

  The kitchen was large and sparsely furnished. Also cold. Very cold, his bare feet on icy flagstones proclaimed. Strange, the kitchen usually was the warmest room in the house, even in winter. A small fire danced in the hearth, but didn’t heat the air. A caldron hung over the flames, probably for the bath water. Probably couldn’t heat that, either.

  He sniffed. Turpentine again. No evidence of painting here, so where did the blasted smell come from?

  You don’t care about the turpentine. You want to know more about Miss Shaw.

  An older woman, probably the cook, stood at a large table, up to her elbows in flour, rolling out dough. Not every much dough, either.

  The inside of the house reflected the sad state of the exterior. Miss Shaw was exceedingly poor. His heart turned over.

  Miss Shaw tipped water from a bucket into the caldron. “Mrs. Henry, this is Lord Tyndall. He returned Machiavelli, who somehow wound up at his aviary. They had a run-in—”

  “And Machiavelli won.” The cook dusted off her hands.

  Robert scowled.

  Miss Shaw laughed. “Do not look so distressed, sir. Machiavelli usually does win. That is why we call him Machiavelli. He does whatever he must to get his way, fair or foul.” She raised her eyebrows. “Or perhaps—fowl?”

  In spite of his chill, stink,
and lack of clothes, he laughed. She was delightful. He would enjoy his stay here. The cold danced over his skin and he pulled the blanket closer. If he didn’t freeze first.

  The cook set aside the loaf she had finished. “Too bad the villain escaped my cleaver that day. If he hadn’t, none of this would have happened.”

  “Now, now, Mrs. Henry, I decided we would not have Machiavelli for dinner. And today’s adventure is nothing we cannot fix.” She wrinkled her nose. “However bad the smell.”

  The cook snorted.

  Robert frowned. Miss Shaw had considered eating Machiavelli? She was in even more desperate straits than he had thought. She loved that scoundrel of a goose, not that he deserved her affection. He must help her.

  Because she’s poor or because you find her attractive?

  Damned voice. Helping her is the neighborly thing to do.

  Ha!

  Miss Shaw moved toward the back door. “I will find something for you to wear after your bath. But right now I will clean your boots.”

  “Thank you, but I have already cleaned my boots.” From all appearances, her only servant was the cook. He couldn’t let her wait on him.

  “Very well, then I shall find you something to wear.” Smiling, she left.

  Her smile almost made his heart stop.

  He stared at the doorway until his heart again took up its regular rhythm. What a spell she cast. Then he turned back into the kitchen.

  The cook wrestled a hip bath from the corner and shoved the tub near the fire.

  “Mrs. Henry, let me help.”

  She waved him off. “The best thing you can do, sir, is confine the muck to as small a space as possible. Keep warm by the fire, and I’ll take care of the bath.”

  He stood aside as she filled the tub, the flames and the coverlet doing little to ease his shivering. Would he ever thaw out?

  Footsteps echoed from the passage. Miss Shaw, her smile heating him as no fire could, entered. She set soap, garments and towels on a stool she pulled by the tub.

  Her forehead wrinkled, and she brought the soap to her nose. “Oh, dear. I hadn’t noticed yesterday, but the only soap I have is rose-scented. I hope you do not mind smelling like flowers.”

  Another cryptic remark. What went on here yesterday?

  But that was for later. “Miss Shaw, with the state I am in, I would happily scrub myself with your lye laundry soap. I assure you, roses will do an excellent job.”

  They laughed, even dour Mrs. Henry cracking a grin.

  Her smile lingering, Miss Shaw finished filling the tub, and then both women exited.

  Now that he was alone, Robert discarded the blanket onto the malodorous pile outside. He stepped into the tub and hissed. The water was exceedingly hot, hotter than he expected. Much more slowly than he wanted to, he lowered himself into the steamy bath. He blew out a breath as welcome heat seeped into his freezing body. Splendid.

  When his teeth stopped chattering, he lathered up the soap and then washed the revolting muck off.

  What a day. First, he had lost, and then found, his ducks. He screwed up his lips. Unfortunately, he had also found Machiavelli, and the benighted goose had won the first round.

  An amazing bird.

  But not as amazing as his mistress.

  ***

  Julia hesitated outside the kitchen door.

  What happened yesterday will not happen again today.

  She had inspected the garments she gave Lord Tyndall with a gimlet eye and there were no holes. Now she steadied herself against the door frame. She would not fall inside when he opened the door.

  Still, a small corner of her mind wanted to see Lord Tyndall shirtless. Wanted the warmth of his bare skin under her palms, have his strong fingers caress her…

  She fanned her face with her hand. Gracious, she had met the man less than an hour ago, and she hadn’t liked him at first. Now she dreamed about his touch? The man was a charmer indeed, if he could enchant her while clothed in ripe manure.

  Be careful, Julia. She drew in a deep breath and knocked on the door. “May I come in?”

  “Yes.” The wood panel muffled his voice, but the deep timbre sent a thrill skittering over her skin.

  She pushed the door open.

  Drat.

  Lord Tyndall, fully dressed in breeches, shirt, waistcoat and coat, pulled on his second boot. He stood. He was a bigger man than her father, and the tight clothes outlined his form as even the best-tailored garments would not. Broad shoulders tapered to slim hips and long, muscled legs. His hair, free of its pomade and still damp from the bath, curled slightly.

  Her heart thumped. All in all, he was a pleasing sight. More than pleasing. Even the slight scent of her rose soap drifting from him enhanced his masculine appeal.

  How she would enjoy seeing him undraped.

  You must stop such wanton thoughts!

  “I see you have recovered from your acquaintance with the dung heap.” She sniffed. “I smell nothing now but yeasty dough and roses. Quite an improvement.”

  He chuckled. “I agree. Believe me, that acquaintance is over.” He raised his voice. “Dung heap, I will never invite you to tea.”

  His deep baritone slid over her skin like the softest of silk. She clasped her hands before her to still their trembling. Talk about something, anything. “Good gracious, we have had the same accident two days in a row. Who will fall into the dung heap tomorrow?” Nervous chatter. This man sent her into a tizzy.

  Lord Tyndall’s forehead puckered. “I beg your pardon. I was not the first?”

  “Oh, no.” She laughed, a high, thin sound that grated on her own ears. “The same thing happened to Mr. Borland yesterday. A fox lured him into the dung heap. His clothes are still outside in that pile by the door.”

  ***

  Robert saw red.

  Borland was here yesterday? He said he came here on his days off. But somehow Robert hadn’t thought…

  His world tottered as his brain conjured up fevered images of Miss Shaw and Borland. Of a naked Borland in the bath, and Miss Shaw giving him personal attention. Very personal attention.

  What is amiss with you?

  Nothing, I am against rank impropriety.

  Or rank impropriety that doesn’t involve you with Miss Shaw?

  He balled his fists. “Borland is responsible for losing my ducks. He was remiss in watching over the aviary.” The words were a harsh growl.

  Miss Shaw’s eyes widened. “Please do not be angry with him.”

  Because you’re involved with him? She had to be. That was the only reason she would protect him.

  Your wits have gone abegging!

  “Do you defend him, madam?”

  “Yes, I do.” Her voice was flint-hard.

  “Why?” He stepped toward her. He wanted to wreak havoc on something or someone.

  She widened her stance and stood firm. “He helped me with the farm work yesterday, as he has done for the past six months. Mr. Borland is very kind.”

  “Oh, kind is he? Or something more?” His blood frothed and then boiled over, lending a sneer to his voice.

  Miss Shaw stiffened. “What do you imply?” Her voice was as frigid as the outdoors.

  “What is he to you?”

  She sucked in a breath. “That is none of your business.”

  “Yes, it is, if it concerns my property. I will not excuse his behavior just to humor your—your—lover!”

  Miss Shaw’s jaw dropped. Then she hauled back her arm and slapped his face. Hard.

  He reeled back, his cheek flaming.

  “If you have finished your bath, please take your property and leave. You and your insults are not welcome here.” She spun on her heel and stalked out, slamming the door behind her so hard the sound echoed in the room.

  Robert scrubbed his face with his hands, and then flinched at the pain in his cheek. The high-and-mighty Miss Shaw packed quite a punch.

  He glared at the door. She didn’t want him here? Well, he
didn’t want to stay, either. He pulled on his greatcoat, gloves and hat, thankfully not subject to Machiavelli’s ministrations, and stomped out through the back door. After gathering the wood ducks into the cage he had used to transport the vexatious goose, he loaded them into the back of the gig. Then he harnessed the horse and climbed aboard and picked up the reins. As he exited the barn, the house came into view. A shadow moved behind one of the windows on the upper floor.

  Miss Shaw? Let her watch him leave.

  ***

  Good riddance!

  Julia looked out the window in her studio as the carriage pulled away. What an insufferable man. He thought she had a lover!

  Her breath heaved. She had never been more insulted in her life. Not only did he insult her, he insulted kind Will, too. Lord Tyndall had better not return.

  He drove past the house, looking up once.

  She snatched up the nearest paint pot. With her other hand, she grabbed the window sash. If she could just open the window in time…

  He rattled past.

  She slumped against the window frame. Too late. How she would have loved to douse the odious man with the pot’s contents. A nice bright red for Christmas. The sight of red paint dripping off him would have lifted her spirits high, and he deserved the punishment.

  She set the pot aside, but remained at the window long after he had disappeared. Then she brushed the curtains wider and turned back to her easel. Enough time wasted over the dratted man. She had work to do.

  She picked up her brush, hesitated, and then set it down again.

  Rubbing her hands over her arms, she wandered to the unlit fireplace and then sank onto the slightly shabby chair before the hearth. After pulling her shawl more tightly over her shoulders, she leaned back and closed her eyes.

  What was amiss? Her heart still pounded from the encounter with Lord Tyndall. Indeed, he deserved every word of her setdown, and the slap, also, but the contempt of a near-stranger didn’t merit such a roiling in her blood. Truth to tell, no one had ever sent her flying so high one moment, only to crash to earth and fracture into splinters the next. And deep inside, something inside her shriveled at the prospect that he wouldn’t return.