Love Birds: The Complete Collection

by Ruth J. Hartman

  “Please, think nothing of it, Miss Ashbrook. My work often causes my attire to become soiled.”

  Face heating, she lowered her gaze to her lap. He knew. Somehow he knew what she had been thinking. His attire. His soiled gloves. The fact that their stations were different. How mortifying. And how she must seem to him. Uppity. Snooty. Thinking herself better than him. Looking down on those of lesser wealth and status than her. And didn’t that just describe her acquaintance Amelia, whom she could barely tolerate?

  Glancing about the path and area surrounding it, she wished she’d indeed brought her maid as a chaperone. What would people think? A young woman sitting on the bench alone. A strange, unkempt — albeit handsome — man standing oh, so very close. Should she be frightened? He didn’t seem dangerous or threatening. Still…

  Her gaze strayed to his face. Gone was the dimple. His mouth was drawn down at the corners. The gleam had gone from his eyes. Blasted society and their rules! Ever since an unknown lady of distinction had written down some rules of etiquette, everyone spent much time trying to conform to said rules.

  She looked at the long bench on which she sat. Surely it would do no harm to invite him to sit? There would be sufficient room between them if one sat on either end. And no one was about at the moment, anyway.

  “Please. Join me.” She waved her hand toward the bench.

  “No. I couldn’t.”

  “I must insist.”

  “So must I.” He crossed his arms.

  “But, you must sit.”

  He tapped his boot. “No. I mustn’t.”

  “I’m trying to be nice.”

  “As am I.”

  She huffed out a breath and folded her arms. Did his frown and lowered eyebrows mirror hers? Did she seem an immature child, fussing because she wasn't getting her way? How silly she must appear. A smile tugged at her mouth. His did the same, forming the adorable dimple again. Oh, how she’d missed that dimple, even though she’d only first set eyes on it but a moment ago. How silly that sounded.

  She tilted her head as she held out her hand. “Please?” For some reason she didn’t understand, it seemed of the utmost importance to have him join her. She’d never met him, and there wasn’t a single logical reason to have him do so, yet she wanted it. Desperately.

  He chuckled, a deep sound from his throat. His eyes twinkled as a gleam of sunlight kissed his long dark lashes. “Well, in that case.” Taking her hand in his, he gave it a gentle squeeze. Only once. Then he released it. How odd that disappointment coursed through her. She’d only just met him. They were nothing more than new acquaintances.

  And yet…

  The bench shifted a small bit as his weight settled. Lucy had not the courage to look at him now. Why was conversing with him as they sat side by side so much different than face to face? Somehow, it seemed more intimate. Heat rose from her collar, traveled up her neck, and spread across her cheeks. Was her face red? He’d know, then, how uncomfortable she was. Would he think her so young and immature that he’d not stay to talk about the bird she was drawing?

  Mr. Barrow leaned against the back of his seat and sighed. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he grabbed an old, worn handkerchief and proceeded to wipe his forehead. Was he tired from his labor? How foreign that seemed to her, as her father had workers who did such things at their home and on the grounds. Before now, she’d not given them much thought. They were just there.

  But now… now glancing at this man, a gleam of perspiration on his brow, muscles firm from physical work, clothes dusty and boots caked with dirt, things were brought to her attention as never before. How had she not noticed the servants in her own household? How thoughtless to simply brush past them as if they had no worth in life other than to do her bidding? They were people, too, with hopes and dreams, likes and dislikes. They worked and labored and were married and cared for families.

  Ashamed, she swallowed past the sudden dryness in her throat. Perhaps she could be an acquaintance of this man. Would that help make up for her thoughtlessness of the past? She laid her artwork aside and clasped her hands in her lap.

  “Mr. Barrow, how kind of you to take time from your busy work to join me.”

  With raised eyebrows, he smiled. “It’s no hardship, Miss Ashbrook, I assure you.”

  “I-I don’t wish for you to be in trouble for… uh, loitering.”

  “Don’t worry on my account. I’m quite certain no harm will come to me for relaxing on a park bench for a little while.”

  Still uncertain, Lucy shrugged but didn’t reply. She desperately hoped that were true. What if the poor man lost his position because of her?

  He leaned forward, his forearms on his knees. “So I assume you have an interest in birds? Since you’re here at the Sanctuary?”

  A smile tugged at her lips. “I find them fascinating. Though I will admit to not knowing a great deal about the different ones. It’s enchanting the way they perch on their tiny legs and feet and actually fly through the air. How wonderful to sit and watch them and dream of doing the same.”

  “Indeed. Birds are fascinating. They’re the joy of my life.”

  “Have you worked here long, Mr. Barrow?”

  “Not long.” He chuckled. “It’s just something I… decided to do.”

  What an odd choice of words. Decided to do. What Lucy knew of their workers, they hadn’t a choice but to work. And to work at whatever they could find. That made her even more conscious of her standing and wealth. What must it be like to have to toil day after day, earning one’s keep? While she had the luxury of coming to a place like the Bird Sanctuary to sit the whole of a morning, sketching birds and daydreaming?

  “Oh, well. It seems to suit you.” That didn’t sound the way she’d meant it. How rude he must think her, to suggest that he should work hard and get soiled for a living. “I mean… that you seem to take pleasure in your work.”

  “Indeed. Quite a bit.” He glanced around and then pointed to a branch above them. “There’s your nuthatch again. He must like you.”

  Lucy looked up as well. “He’s such a handsome fellow. Thank you for telling me what kind of bird he is. I had no idea. Only that his loud, quick call amused me. And I admire his blue and white markings. Almost as if he wears a cutaway coat.”

  Mr. Barrow laughed. “A cutaway coat? I’d never thought of it that way, but you’re right.” He leaned toward her, just a little, just enough for the scent of pine trees and grass to reach Lucy’s nose. “Would you mind if I looked at your drawing once more?”

  “It’s really not that impressive.” She lowered her head.

  “From what I observed, it was quite the opposite. May I?”

  She bit her lip and nodded. The edge of her hat caught on the back of the bench as she leaned over to reach for her paper. “Oh dear!” She tried to pull away from the old wood, but her hat did not follow. She grabbed it and gave a tug, but it still held fast. Some of her dark curls came loose from their pins and fell around her face. Was the ribbon caught on a rough edge of the wood?

  “Here, allow me to help, Miss Ashbrook.”

  Strong hands, one on her shoulder, the other on her hat, gave a pull.

  A small chunk of wood gave way, splintering from the bench. “Oh no!” Her white hat, so delicate with lace, flowers, and ribbons, flipped off of her head and sailed over the grass like a wayward kite.

  Mr. Barrow’s eye widened. “I’ll get it!” Jumping up from the bench, he ran toward the hat. As he leaned down, his hand inches from the brim, it skipped away on a strong breeze, hopping and rolling through the grass as if playing hide and seek.

  In his boots, which were well suited for present circumstances, he tromped through the tall grass until he came upon the hat again, which had stopped near a pond, as if taking a rest from its play. Mr. Barrow turned toward her, a triumphant smile on his face. “There. Now we’ll recover it, Miss Ashbrook.” Turning back toward the hat, he reached down.

  And grabbed air.


  “But where’s the—?”

  A large grey goose now had possession of Lucy’s pretty, white apparel. The bird honked through the side of its huge beak, forming the sound around the fluffy pink bow at the hat’s side.

  Lucy gasped. “No!” She stood and hurried toward the pond. What would become of her hat now? It was covered in goose drivel! The hat might never recover.

  She watched in horror as the goose approached the water. With webbed feet, it stepped through the mud. Closer. Closer. Until its toes, making sucking noises in the slimy ooze, edged into the pond. Hunching down and sliding into the water as a ship might leave a harbor, the goose effortlessly glided into the murky, green depths, carrying the hat with it.

  Mr. Barrow stepped toward the water’s edge as well. He crouched down, very nearly sitting in the mud, and reached out his hand, teetering back and forth in an effort not to slide into the water. His fingers stretched toward the goose.

  “I think… if I can just grab the… brim of the hat, I can still retrieve it for you, Miss—”

  As his boots slipped through the mud, he yelped. His arms flailed as he fought to regain his balance.

  But to no avail.

  Water shot toward the sky as he splashed in headfirst. He submerged beneath the wetness. Head. Chest. Legs. And finally boots. Geese honked and flapped their wings, rising into the air, feathers and feet dripping, as they escaped the loud intrusion into their home. The hat thief dropped his white, lacy prey back into the pond. It settled on the surface, floating as lazily as a cloud in a windless sky.

  Seconds ticked by as nothing about the water stirred.

  Lucy’s hands flew to her face. “No! Oh no! Mr. Barrow! Where are you?” Had he hit his head and drowned? Her heart raced in her chest. What would she do if he didn’t come back up? Should she jump into the pond to try to save him? She took a step forward. Then another.

  The water bubbled. She let out a whoosh of air when his hand appeared above the surface. His glove was missing. It must have come off when he hit the water. His other hand, also unclothed, joined the first, waving back and forth. His head, with hair dripping, finally peeked above the water. He gulped in air, gasping for breath.

  “Mr. Barrow! Here, let me assist you.”

  He stood up, shoulder-high in the water, and waved her away. “We don’t need both of us falling in the pond.” Water streaming from his clothes, he carefully took one step, then a second, until he climbed over the lip surrounding the pond.

  “Well, that was quite the adventure, I must say.” He collapsed on the grass and huffed out a loud breath. “Not every day I take an unplanned swim. I’m only sorry I couldn’t find your hat.”

  “But that’s where you’re mistaken.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She pointed up.

  For her hat, her very expensive, lacy white hat now rested in a soggy clump.

  On Mr. Barrow’s head.

  With raised eyebrows, he lifted his gaze.

  Up.

  And up.

  Until he peered at the brim peeking out over his forehead. “Ah. I see. Not quite my style, now is it?” A grin formed, raising both corners of his mouth.

  Covering her mouth with her hand, she sputtered a giggle. Tears, unbidden, streamed from her eyes. It was unseemly to laugh at the man, especially under the circumstances since he was only doing it to assist her.

  But…

  As if joining in, nearby ducks let loose with raucous quacking sounding quite like laughter. Lucy chuckled with them and wiped her eyes. “It seems they agree with you, Mr. Barrow.”

  “Yes. Indeed.” He pointed to his head. “Perhaps they think a darker shade more appropriate?”

  Lucy widened her eyes and stared behind him. “Uh… oh… no.”

  He frowned. “What’s the matter, Miss—?”

  The huge grey goose, otherwise known as the hat thief of the Bird Sanctuary pond, flapped its huge wings and landed just behind Mr. Barrow, who shivered. Was it from the cold of being wet, or did he sense that they were no longer alone?

  Honk! Honk!

  Gasping, Mr. Barrow turned his head to the side in time to see the goose lunge.

  At his head.

  And Lucy’s hat.

  “Ahhh!” Mr. Barrow closed his eyes just as the hat was snatched from his head.

  Lucy reached forward, nearly losing her fingers as the goose snapped at her. “Oh!” She drew back her hand as if burned. “What a wicked goose. Mr. Barrow, are you hurt?”

  He took a deep breath and turned slowly, looking behind him. The goose slid into the water with the hat in his bill. Mr. Barrow shook his head. “I’m fine. But what is it about that hat that fascinates that goose so?”

  “I don’t know. I really don’t. Perhaps it knows it’s my favorite?”

  “It is a lovely hat, I’ll grant you that.” He smirked.

  Lucy smiled. “Why thank you, kind sir.”

  They stood and watched as the goose swam farther into the water. It let go of the hat and dove beneath the surface.

  Rubbing the back of his neck, Mr. Barrow sighed. “I’m truly sorry I was unable to retrieve your favorite hat from the atrocious goose, Miss Ashbrook.”

  “Thank you. I do appreciate your valiant effort. But at this point, I don’t think I would even desire to have it returned.” She pointed to the pond.

  The goose had surfaced from the water.

  Wearing the hat.

  Mr. Barrow chuckled. “Understood.”

  Chapter Three

  “What in the world happened to you, Oliver?”

  He stepped into the dim light of the work shed where the Sanctuary housed the tools necessary for the upkeep of the grounds. The steady drip-drip-drip from his hair, chin, and elbows reminded him of sitting inside his father’s house on rainy days as a child. “Had a run-in with a hat.”

  “Pardon?”

  He laughed and waved the other man away with his hand. “Tried to rescue a fair damsel’s hat from a goose, but I ended up taking a swim instead.” What had he been thinking, speaking to her as he had? How improper. How gauche. And yet… when he had seen her sitting there, all reason had deserted him.

  Richard, the chief groundsman, leaned forward on the handle of his dusty shovel. “A damsel, you say?”

  Oliver shrugged. “Someone who came to sketch the birds. I only became acquainted with her this morning.”

  “I see.” He raised his eyebrows.

  “What do you see?” Oliver wrung water from the hem of his tweed coat, creating a puddle on the floor. Hmm. Probably should have done that outside.

  “You’ve taken a fancy to her.”

  Oliver eyed Richard. “I said I’ve only just met her.” And yes, I have taken a fancy. How would Richard know that?

  “What does that matter?”

  “Quite a bit, I should think.” Oliver tapped his boot in impatience. He glanced down when he heard a tiny splat. Oh, right. The puddle.

  “It was that way for me and the wife, God bless her soul. Saw each other one day. Married at Gretna Green the next week.”

  Oliver dropped his jaw. “The next week? You certainly didn’t waste any time, man.”

  Richard shrugged. “What’s there to waste time about? When you find the right one, you may as well marry her, because love is love.”

  “Now you’re getting melancholy on me, Richard.” He raised a finger to emphasize his point and winced as water, turned cold, trickled beneath his sleeve.

  “You can scoff all you want, Oliver, but I know what I’m about. Mark my words. You’ll be tied to this bird-sketcher before you know it. She may not know you are of similar stations, but you do. I’ll keep your confidence about your identity, but if she is someone of importance to you, you might want to tell her. And trust me. It doesn’t pay to waste time. My sweet wife has been gone five years now, but I don’t regret a single minute we were married.” He grasped the shovel at the middle of its handle and whistled an off-key tune as he
left the shed.

  Oliver reached for an old towel on the workbench, drying off his face and hair. He’d have to return home to change into dry clothes. He hoped he had another pair of work clothes clean, as it wouldn’t do to wear his usual hat, topcoat, and expensive boots to muck about the Sanctuary.

  He shook his head as he stared at the empty doorway. Married. After a week! Certainly, Miss Ashbrook was comely and seemed intelligent and interesting, but he’d only just met her.

  There was something about her, though. Those dark eyes. And brown curly hair. And that hat. Oliver sputtered a laugh. Hilarious! And to find at the end that she did indeed have a sense of humor. Most women he’d met would have thrown a fit, crying and sobbing over the hat’s demise. Wailing that they’d never have another like it and the world would surely end. Perhaps that was part of the reason he avoided any and all social interactions with his peers. He cared not for their company.

  Miss Ashbrook. She’d seemed to take it in stride. Not getting upset about a piece of clothing. Oh, how refreshing it had been to spend time with her.

  But, she also appeared to be someone of means. So would she, if not already spoken for, be in the hopes of finding someone of equal or greater wealth? Oliver had trudged down that particular road before. Women only wanted him for his riches and standing. He longed to find someone he could share his life with who valued him, loved him for him. Not for what he could provide or supply.

  Was there any such woman about? Did she even exist? So far, he’d yet to make her acquaintance. Women he’d met seemed to desire material things more than taking the time to get to know Oliver as a man. His interests. What delighted him. How he loved to spend his time.

  If there was a woman out there with those qualities, he’d like to meet her. Would love to meet her. A smile spread across his mouth.

  Perhaps he’d even marry her in a week.

  Miss Ashbrook’s face floated across his mind. There was something about her he found intriguing. Was it her interest in the birds? Her wide-eyed wonder at their beauty and splendor?

  Or was it her apparent stubborn streak as he’d insisted he could not join her on the bench, but she just as vehemently insisted he must.