Goosed! or a Fowl Christmas

by Linda Banche

  “Borland, my—hic—friend.” He gestured toward the chair facing his. “Have a drink with me.”

  Will sank into the seat. “No, thank you.”

  Tyndall’s unfocused gaze tipped up to Will, and his forehead furrowed, as if he had trouble understanding Will’s speech. “Oh, yes, now I remember.” He sat up. “Saint William does not drink.” He bit off the words. Then he snagged the decanter from the floor and hugged the bottle to his chest. “Means more for me.” With a shaky hand, he poured brandy into his glass.

  Will grabbed both decanter and glass before they could wind up smashed on the floor. He placed them on the table behind his own chair, far out of Tyndall’s reach.

  Tyndall frowned at his empty hands. “Where is my drink?”

  “You have had enough.” Will kept his words quiet, when he wanted to shout at the fool.

  “Enough?” Tyndall glared at Will. The look wasn’t particularly intimidating because he swung his head back and forth as if he wasn’t sure of Will’s location. “I have just lost the love of my life. There is not enough liquor in the world.”

  “What happened?” As much as he hated this, he had to be the voice of reason. He would try even if the effort killed him.

  “The Picture!” Tyndall waved toward his desk.

  A painting sat on the desk chair. Will rose and brought the canvas over to the fire.

  Morning Mallard, as she had said. He propped the painting against the side of the hearth. The red and gold of the flames lent the picture the rosy hue of morning. Beautiful.

  Robert set his elbows on his knees and cupped his chin in his palms. He stared at the painting as if the world had ended. “The Picture. That is the problem. She was happy with me until she saw the blasted thing. What could be wrong? Looks like a perfectly fine painting.”

  Will had seen the canvas as a work in progress, but not the finished product. “Fine” was too mild a term. “Extraordinary” was much better.

  He drew in a slow breath. Julia was a rare talent. Her ability should be nurtured and feted. Would she receive that as the wife of a poor man?

  His heart sank. He could never give her what her gift deserved. But Tyndall could.

  “Damnation, but I wasted my money.” Tyndall raked his fingers through his hair. “I wanted this painting so much, I did not even haggle with the gallery owner over the price. If I had known the thing would cause such trouble, I never would have bothered.”

  “You paid for this?”

  “Of course I paid! In cash. I always pay for what I buy.” Pushing off from the chair arm, he stood, grasped the edge of the mantel and leaned toward the painting so far he almost fell over. “A full two hundred pounds. I also asked the artist’s name, but the owner refused to tell me.” Then he plopped back into his chair. “You know I want an artist to paint portraits of my birds. I thought I had finally found the one who could do a proper job.” He raked his fingers through his hair again. “So much for that.”

  Will settled back into his chair. The crackling and popping of the flames echoed around the room.

  Finally, Tyndall stirred, sitting forward with his hands clasped between his knees. “Women are a scurvy lot. They lead you on, and then throw you out.”

  “You do not mean that. You care for Julia.”

  Tyndall looked up. “Of course I mean it. And Julia is as deceitful as they come.”

  “Stop! Julia is a wonderful woman.” No one would insult her in Will’s presence. But Tyndall called her by her Christian name. She hadn’t granted him that privilege until they had known each other for months. A heavy weight settled on his shoulders. They were much more serious than he had thought. “If you want to wallow in self-pity, by all means, do so. But a world full of men would be over the moon to have her.”

  Tyndall sneered. “Including present company?”

  Will balled his fists. “Yes, including present company.” He forced calmness into his words when he wanted to floor Tyndall. He rose. Arguing with a drunk was always a mistake. “Stop whining. If you want her, fight for her instead of soaking yourself in drink.”

  Tyndall blinked. With both hands planted on the chair arms, he pushed up. For several seconds he hung suspended as his feet refused to move to the correct position to bear his weight. Then, with an explosive release of breath, he flopped back into the chair. “You are right. I will not just let her go. At least not without trying to fix whatever went wrong.” He squinted at Will. “You are a true friend, Borland.”

  “No, I am not.”

  Tyndall extended a weaving hand for a handshake. “Stop moving.” His words slurred as he successfully propelled himself up from the chair, only to fall back. He then repeated the performance.

  With a sigh, Will hauled Tyndall up. He pulled Tyndall’s arm over his shoulders and half dragged, half walked the cup-shot man to the door. He lurched as Tyndall stumbled.

  Will gripped his burden more securely. “I am a damn fool. And I hope to hell someday I get over it. But not today.”

  He had probably ruined his last chance with Julia.

  Chapter 20

  Robert lay on his back in bed and pressed his hands to his throbbing head. Gads, horseshoes must feel like this when the blacksmith hammered them. That vat of alcohol he drank last night had taken a gleeful revenge. He deserved to feel as if death would improve his condition.

  He cracked open his eyes. Blinding light scorched them and he immediately jammed them shut. Evers shouldn’t spread the drapes so wide. He reopened one eye a slit. Except for a stray sunbeam that crept under the curtains, darkness enshrouded the room, but even that meager illumination overwhelmed his sodden brain. If he was lucky, his head might stop pounding by the time he was forty. He pushed up to sit on the side of the bed.

  His stomach roiled and he clenched his middle until the seething settled.

  Julia. He had to see Julia. Borland had talked him into speaking with her. But why? Borland also wanted her.

  He screwed up his eyes. At first, Borland had steered him away from her. Robert had been so foxed he probably would have gone that way with a little prodding. He dropped his head into his hands. But then something changed, and Borland had urged him to make up with her.

  Ignoring the incessant throbbing behind his eyes, he raised his head. Why would a rival help him? He toppled back on the bed. Puzzling out the reason was best left for another time. The important task lay in apologizing to Julia. He groaned again and pulled the pillow over his head.

  What a splendid friend Borland was. Robert winced. Better than he deserved, because he had insulted him. While he was mending his fences, he had better apologize to Borland, too.

  But he would start with Julia. He loved her. No pulsing fog in his brain could obscure that truth.

  His head and stomach protesting every quiver of movement, he staggered to the washstand and doused his upper body with cold water. He shuddered, the clanging in his head resounding louder. Then he washed and dressed. Fortunately, he had given all the servants the day off, so Evers wasn’t here to see how pathetic he was.

  Heaven must have taken pity on him, because he made the journey to the front door without falling down the stairs or tripping on air. Outside he sucked in several deep breaths. The cold air seared his lungs, but his head cleared somewhat.

  The sun’s unblinking red eye bid the horizon farewell, and then leaped into the bright cheerfulness of a cloudless sky, mocking the torment in his head and stomach.

  He growled.

  He leaned against the door frame. The fastest way to reach Julia was to ride, but his muzzy thoughts wouldn’t allow him to control a horse. The time was also too early for a call. He could pace until the sanctioned hour, he could walk over, or he could find Borland and make his peace with him.

  He started for the aviary and then veered off to the path to the valley. Borland could wait. He would talk to Julia first. The exercise would clear his head, too.

  He stumbled over a tree root and sprawled flat
on his face.

  If he didn’t die along the way.

  ***

  Julia marched up the North Downs to Tyndall House. Would she be in time to apologize, or was Robert through with her?

  Sleep hadn’t come last night as her thoughts bubbled and frothed over the scene in his library. Part of her burned to visit dire retribution on him. The other half boiled to inflict the same punishment on herself.

  She puffed out a breath. All her righteous fury had exhausted itself with the daylight, leaving her drained but reasonable. Will was right. Whether Robert had paid for her painting or not, she hadn’t asked for his side. She also hadn’t told him she was the artist. At least part of the blame for yesterday’s fiasco belonged to her.

  How fortunate she was to have Will for a friend. Her stomach twisted. After he had been so generous, how could she tell him she couldn’t marry him?

  But she would. He had done her the best of turns yesterday. She must do the same for him.

  Right after she talked to Robert.

  She turned a curve and stopped.

  Robert stood on the upper part of the path, swaying a little and blinking, as if he couldn’t make her out.

  Julia’s heart constricted. Was he angry? Sorry? Does he still want me?

  She stepped forward.

  Then, as if at some invisible signal, Robert opened his arms.

  They ran to each other. Their lips met in a fiery kiss, and they clung as if tomorrow would never dawn.

  Finally, they separated just enough to look at each other. “I apologize—” Their words tumbled over each other, and then they laughed.

  Robert kissed the tip of her nose. “The lady is always right, so I apologize. I overreacted yesterday. I could not understand what was wrong, but I did not give you a chance to explain.”

  Julia hugged him. “Very prettily said, sir, but in this case the lady was wrong, so she will apologize. I never gave you the courtesy of explaining what the difficulty was.”

  Robert grinned. His eyes were bloodshot. Had he been drinking? “I care not for your apology. I just want you. Please forgive me, and come back to Tyndall House.”

  She cupped his cheek in her palm. “I have nothing to forgive. But I do need to clarify some matters.”

  “I also have nothing to forgive, and I am more than willing to listen to any account you care to make.” He shivered and pulled her closer. “But the day is deuced cold, so let us talk on our way back to a hot fire.” He settled his arm around her shoulders, she clasped him around the waist, and they wended their way up the hill.

  He wavered as they walked. Then he stumbled.

  She grasped him tighter. “As you all right?”

  He pressed a hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. “I went on a drinking binge last night. I was angry at you, but mostly at myself, and terrified I might have lost you.” He rubbed his forehead. “I have an absolutely satanic hangover. Quite the worst of my life, even worse than those I suffered during the stupidity of my university days.”

  He stopped and leaned against a tree. “I am not yet fully recovered. But I will be, soon, now that I have you back.” He pushed upright.

  “I am sorry you are in pain. Will this help you feel better?” She kissed him.

  He grabbed her and kissed her back. “Yes, that helps.” He kissed her again. “I am well on the road to recovery.”

  “Then we shall administer the medicine often.” She curled her hand around his arm and they resumed walking.

  He covered her hand with his. “I must thank Borland for talking to me last night. He convinced me to speak to you.”

  “He did the same for me. I must thank him, too.” Now she would explain. She took in a deep breath. “I also have to tell you about Morning Mallard.”

  He frowned. “If the picture upsets you so, I will rid myself of the thing.”

  “No!” She stopped so suddenly he almost lost his balance. “I love that picture.” She swallowed. “I painted Morning Mallard.”

  “You?” A smile curved his mouth. Then the smile arched into a huge grin that sputtered out into an uproarious laugh.

  Julia’s jaw dropped. Her art was the most important thing in her life and he made mock? She’d been wrong about him not once, but twice. What a fool she was! “This is not funny!” Tears blurred her vision as she ran down the hill.

  “Julia, wait!” He caught up and folded her back into his arms.

  She stiffened.

  “I am not laughing at you, my sweet. Let us sit down for a moment. My head pounds hard enough to keep me awake for the rest of my life.”

  She let him lead her to a fallen log, but she lowered herself to the wood a distance away from him.

  He sank heavily down and then drew several deep inhalations. “I finally found out why I always smell turpentine when I am with you.”

  “Oh.” She wrinkled her nose. “Do I really smell of turpentine?”

  He slid close and pushed her bonnet back. Then he buried his nose in her hair and drew in a long, loud, exaggerated sniff.

  She giggled. Then she tipped her head back.

  His wide grin greeted her. “Not now.” He readjusted her bonnet, tucking a few flyaway hairs under the brim for good measure. “The odor is stronger at your house, because I assume you paint there.”

  “Yes, in the upstairs bedchamber on the north side. That room has the best light.”

  “I am privileged to meet the genius who painted Morning Mallard.” He dipped his head.

  Her breath caught. “You honor me.”

  “Not at all. The painting is superb. When I brought the canvas here, I saw the name ‘Wahs’ in the corner. Now I realize ‘Wahs’ is ‘Shaw’ spelled backwards.”

  “A paltry attempt to hide my identity, but many people will not buy paintings by women.”

  His mouth thinned. “They are fools. I asked the gallery owner the artist’s full name and direction, but he refused to tell me.”

  “I asked him not to divulge my identity.”

  “And if no one knew who you were, he could keep the commissions to himself.”

  “Now I will explain why I must apologize.” She put up a hand as he shook his head. “Things have been difficult since Papa died. I have made some money painting, but not enough to keep the farm going. I sent Morning Mallard to the gallery five months ago. A fortnight past, the owner informed me he had sold the painting, but I have not yet received my fee. He said he could not pay me because the purchaser had not yet paid him. Seeing the painting in your library was a complete and utter shock. My only thought was that you were the reason I was starving.”

  His face darkened. “But I did pay!”

  “You did?”

  “Of course, I did. Three weeks ago, on the day I took possession. I made the owner keep the gallery open past closing time because I had to visit the bank for the money.” His eyes flashed. “That dealer cheats you. I will go to London and shake your money out of him.”

  “Oh.” She slumped against him. “I am so ashamed I thought ill of you.”

  “No matter now.” He rose and brought her with him. “The past is over. Now let us think of the future.” He ran a gentle finger over her cheek. “Even though I have known you for less than a week, you fill my thoughts.”

  “And you, mine.”

  “Truly?” His eyes shone as if he had just received the best gift in the world. “Then I would like to think of you for the rest of my life.” He clasped her hand and lowered himself to one knee. The frozen ground must be cold, but he didn’t appear to mind. “Julia, I love you. Will you marry me?”

  Her heart danced. “I love you, too. Yes.”

  Chapter 21

  Robert could have sung with the birds. All his pain of the previous half day vanished with one little word: “Yes!” She had accepted him! Only joy and happiness awaited them both.

  So what if he stomach still flipped when he walked too fast, and the hammers pounded without cease in his head. Julia would marry
him!

  They took their time on the return to Tyndall House. They laughed, and strolled, and stopped to kiss. Over and over and over. What a wonderful way to walk.

  They warmed up in front of the library fire, and then returned to the hollow, where Julia led him to another corner of the pond, which was the scene of Evening Mallard.

  “A companion piece. Splendid. May I see it?”

  “Of course.”

  But first, they returned to Tyndall House for the light meal his cook had left for them.

  Robert led Julia to the kitchen. “The servants are off, since they worked yesterday. I fear I must make do by myself.”

  She cast him a lowering gaze. “As if you will starve.” The cook had left the food on the trestle table in the center of the kitchen. “Let me see. Roast chicken, cheese and apples. Not bad for a cold meal, if your stomach does not object.”

  “Since you accepted my proposal, I feel in the pink of health.” His stomach still rocked to and fro, but he didn’t disgrace himself as they fed each other tidbits, with kisses in between.

  Then Robert hitched up the gig for their return to Shaw Farm. “I am glad I do not have Machiavelli in a cage in the back.”

  “I am sure he was very unhappy with the cage.”

  “Indeed. I was lucky to survive unbitten until I reached your farm, not that he failed to try several times. A pugnacious one, that Machiavelli.”

  As they pulled up at her front door, Mrs. Henry emerged. “Miss Shaw, I worried—” Her face closed up at the sight of Robert. She dropped a shallow curtsey. “Good day, your lordship.”

  “Mrs. Henry, I have the most wonderful news. Robert has asked me to marry him!”

  Mrs. Henry thawed. “Splendid. I congratulate you both. Now, come and have some tea to celebrate. I just finished a batch of lemon tarts.” She installed them in the dining room before leaving. A few moments later, she returned with steaming tea and a platter of her lemon tarts.