Miss Farrow's Feathers Read online

  Miss Farrow's Feathers

  by Susan Gee Heino

  Copyright © 2013 Susan Gee Heino Laughingstock Publishing

  Cover design by Lewellen Designs

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from the author. This book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are products of the author's imagination and are fictional or used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Dedication

  To Chirp.

  You fell into our lives just when we needed you most and you fluttered your way into our hearts.

  Other Regency Romance by Susan Gee Heino

  Yuletide Lies

  Miss Wheaton's Whiskers

  Passion and Pretense

  Temptress in Training

  Damsel in Disguise

  Mistress by Mistake

  Chapter 1

  Hampshire, England, 1818

  Meg Farrow choked on a feather. Handy, since she needed one just now. She’d heard that passing a feather through flame provided just the right odor to rouse an insensible swooner. Poor insensible Mrs. Sedley-Stone certainly did need rousing just now. She’d swooned—but good—and the smelling salts hadn’t worked.

  It was just as well, though, considering that the very uproar that had sent the woman into hysterics was still roaring along. Or soaring, rather. Papa lunged about the drawing room waving a net while the large, yellow-headed parrot squawked loudly from atop the window cornice where it had come to rest. Their usually unflappable housekeeper screeched from the far corner, flapping her arms twice as much as the bird.

  Meg’s head was beginning to throb. Two weeks of this had been more than any of them could take.

  “Bartholomew! Come down here right now,” Papa ordered, shaking his fist—his fist!—at the bright-eyed parrot.

  The bird cocked his head, ruffled his feathers, then let Papa know exactly what he thought of that idea. Heavens, but this creature knew words Meg had never even heard before—and she spoke three languages. On the settee, Mrs. Sedley-Stone had just begun to stir. Apparently she did know some of these words, because they made her swoon all over again.

  “Watch your ruddy language, you bone-headed devil,” Papa shouted at the bird.

  “Papa, for heaven's sake,” Meg chided.

  Gracious, now even Papa had been corrupted by the parrot's influence. What were they to do? The whole village was talking about it. Innocent passers-by could not come within a hundred yards of their house but they were accosted by the most egregious verbiage, uttered loud and clear in a high-pitched raspy voice. It filtered through the doors, through the windows, out into the street. Anyone who didn't know better would think this was not the parsonage, but a common wharf-side alehouse.

  Those who did know better would likely not have bothered coming so near to begin with. Sadly, Bartholomew's saucy tongue was well known in the community. Even sadder, it used to be contained to Glenwick Downs, a good two miles out of town. Now that their dear old friend, the Earl of Glenwick, had passed from this life and gone to his reward, Bartholomew had passed into the Farrow’s possession and into the confines of the parsonage.

  With him came the language. And the squawking. And the random feathers strewn all about the house. And other miscellaneous unfortunate things, the least of which was the swooning Mrs. Sedley-Stone. Meg was doing what she could to remedy all of these.

  The insistent pounding at their front door did not help matters. When it was clear their housekeeper was far too preoccupied with being terrified of the parrot to tend to the arduous task of answering the door, Meg took a deep breath and abandoned Mrs. Sedley-Stone. It wasn't as if she would notice, after all, considering she was unconscious again.

  Meg left the small drawing room and the chaos it contained. Of course the sound of Papa's bellowing and the bird's corresponding profanity were little diminished by the distance between her and the entry way. It would take far more than fifteen feet and one simple wall to stifle all that.

  Most likely this was the very reason for all the pounding. She expected to find the local magistrate at their door, here to fine them for causing such a disturbance. Or perhaps word of their new house guest's unchristian-like behaviors had reached a higher authority and this pounding was to bring word from the Archbishop, threats against Papa if he didn't reform the dreadful bird right away. Most likely, though, it was one of their long-suffering neighbors with a hatchet and a sudden craving for exotic poultry. At this point, she would half welcome that.

  In any case, it would be of little benefit to keep the insistent pounder waiting on the other side of that door. She patted her hair back into place, took a deep breath to calm her frayed nerves, then opened the door. Wisely, she took care to step back just in case there truly should be a hatchet involved.

  There was not.

  Nor was there a magistrate, Archbishop, or any close neighbor. There was, in fact, no person she'd ever seen before. The gentleman she found at her door was quite clearly a stranger.

  Not that he looked strange; quite the opposite, in fact. This particular gentleman looked perfectly ordinary. He had all the requisite features, arranged in what most would consider a pleasing manner, and he wore very adequate clothing. They suited his elegant form quite well, as a matter of fact. His hat perched just right atop his head, which Meg couldn't help but notice was a good six feet off the ground, and his eyes were very much an agreeable shade of blue. Indeed, nothing at all strange about this man.

  What was strange, however, was that he stood at her door appearing completely unruffled by all the ruckus in the background—as well as by her unseemly staring. In fact, while the housekeeper screeched and Papa sermonized behind her, this gentleman gave her a smile. Then he surprised her by speaking her name.

  "Miss Farrow, I presume?"

  Maxwell Shirley knew from the young lady's eyes—rather fetching brown eyes, as a matter of fact—that he'd guessed correctly. Miss Farrow, indeed. Then again, it was hardly a guess. He'd been told the Reverend Mr. Farrow lived at this home with a small staff and an adult daughter. And the parrot, of course.

  Since the fresh-faced, demure young woman who answered the door could hardly be the staff—or the parrot—he felt it safe to presume she was Miss Farrow. She was just as he’d been told; well-dressed, lovely, and perfectly proper from top to bottom. Or so she would seem.

  Max gave her a warm smile that had served him well with proper-seeming young ladies before. She responded by blinking those wide nut-brown eyes at him. Excellent. Perhaps this part of his journey would prove every bit as productive as he hoped. He was about to launch into the carefully benign greeting he had prepared.

  His speech, however, was interrupted. A most distracting uproar came from the rooms behind her. Except for the slightest twitch in her left eye, she did a remarkable job of ignoring it, though.

  "Er, yes. I am Miss Farrow," she answered him sweetly. "May I help you, sir?"

  He cleared his throat, ready to get on with what might prove to be an uncomfortable interaction.

  "Yes, I hope so, miss. I'm here to see..." he glanced at the paper in his hand and tried to appear charmingly awkward. "Mr. Farrow, I believe."

  A crash sounded from somewhere inside. This time Miss Farrow appeared concerned and glanced over her shoulder. "I'm afraid he's—"

  But a man's voice called from behind her. "I'm right here. Is there someone at the door?"

&nb
sp; "Yes, Papa," she said, turning and pulling the door open wider as she did so.

  Max could now see the parts of Miss Farrow's delightful form that had been hidden by the door. Delightful, indeed. He could also see the modest but carefully polished woodwork of an average-sized entrance way, along with a rather stiff, red-faced gentleman who, for some reason, was clutching a net. The unnatural shrieks and squawking from the interior of the house continued, though with slightly less fervor than at first.

  "May I help you, sir?" Mr. Farrow said, puffing his way through the house to stand beside his daughter.

  Max decided he'd do well to forget—at least for now, anyway—the young lady's delightfulness. It was time to be merely charming and eloquent. Perhaps he might find opportunity for delightfulness later on.

  "I hope you may help me," he said to the man. "I am here to speak with you on a most important matter."

  It was likely a waste of breath. Mr. Farrow wrinkled his brow in confusion. The man clearly had not heard a word Max had said, thanks to the uproarious squawking that echoed throughout the interior of the house. A stream of impressive profanity accompanied the squawking. Max's ears perked to the chaotic din and it might just be about time to ask after it—as any normal person probably would—when a middle-aged woman in an apron came running out of a doorway and into the entrance hall, hands flailing over her head in a most Methodist manner. Quite unconventional, to say the least.

  Indeed, though, it was quite welcome. All of this further convinced Max he'd come to the right place today. Miss Farrow clearly possessed the attributes to do what he suspected she’d done, while the good Reverend Farrow was obviously in possession of what Max had been seeking. Now Max was going to find out just what else these questionable clerics possessed… or how honestly they'd come by it.

  "I have some questions for you," Max continued loudly, once the profanity had waned and the moaning Methodist had disappeared into the rear of the house.

  "Questions about what?" the gentleman asked, leaning in toward Max in an effort to hear him clearly.

  "I was told you were the person I needed to speak with about—" Max began to explain, but had to stop.

  A large green and yellow bird suddenly sailed through the doorway that had just produced the flailing woman. It landed gracefully on the older man's shoulder and cocked his head, gazing with round, red eyes at Max. A parrot. By God, it was the parrot. Max smiled.

  "Er, was that your parrot making all the fuss, sir?"

  Miss Farrow blushed. Mr. Farrow cleared his throat.

  "What? Oh, er, well... yes, and I apologize if—"

  The bird slapped him in the face with his wing as he leaped off the reverend's shoulder. It was too sudden for Max to do anything but stand stock still as the bird aimed straight for him and settled itself onto his shoulder, digging in his claws and brushing up against Max’s hat. It slid downward over his eyes.

  Max reached for the bird, pushing him aside just enough to right his hat, The bird uttered a moderately tame curse. Max tried to hide his pleasure. So the old bird remembered him, did he? Good for him. Now if Max could but trust that his only nice coat would not suffer some unlaunderable defacement.

  As it turned out, however, his ear was the item in most immediate danger. The bird nibbled it and Max swore involuntarily. Damn. Not the best way to ingratiate himself into the good minister's favor. It did, however, seem to garner some sympathy from Miss Farrow. She waved her hand at the bird, trying to distract him from his very intent ear nibbling.

  "I'm so sorry, sir," she said. "He has a preoccupation with ears, I'm afraid."

  "I assure you," Max said, gently swiping at the bird. "I'm not opposed to a little ear nibble every now and again."

  But he had little time to consider how Miss Farrow might take his admission. Instead of his swipes succeeding in removing the bird, they merely served to gain its attention. Max was rewarded by a two toed grip around his finger. The bird stepped up onto his hand and allowed Max to bring him round to eye level.

  Miss Farrow gasped. Mr. Farrow cleared his throat again. The bird cocked his head in the opposite direction and stared into Max's eyes.

  Good old Bartholomew. How long had it been? A dozen years at least. And clearly the bird's vocabulary hadn't improved one bit.

  "Good gracious," Mr. Farrow exclaimed. "You've tamed him!"

  "Er, he's not actually a bad creature," Max said, then wondered if it was wise to give so much away already. "At least, so he would seem."

  "You know parrots?" Mr. Farrow questioned.

  In truth, Max knew nothing of parrots in general. He did, however know this one. Hell, he'd learned much from old Bartholomew in his younger days. After a bad night at the gaming table or a disappointing day at the races, he was rather thankful for the colorful descriptors he'd gained from conversing with the creature in his youth. Just now, however, he opted for a more vague answer.

  "I know a bit of them, sir."

  His words seemed to have a profound effect on Mr. Farrow. The reverend grasped Max by the free hand and pulled him into the house. The sudden movement upset Bartholomew, sending him into screeching and flapping and the repetitive recitation of two damnable lines of what Max knew to be the mildest part of an even more damnable rhyme.

  Miss Farrow blushed again. How interesting. Max would not have guessed her to be the type to own familiarity with the rhyme in question.

  His curiosity about Miss Farrow's various knowledge, however, was quickly diverted by Mr. Farrow's barrage of questions.

  "Can you help us, sir? Have you experience with this sort of thing? How long do you expect it to take?"

  Perhaps if Max had been able to make heads or tails of the man's rambling he could have answered intelligibly. As he could not, and as he had found Miss Farrow's warm brown eyes with their mixture of innocence and admiration to be somewhat of a distraction, Max rather babbled his response.

  "I... er, that is..."

  Thankfully Bartholomew disrupted things by leaping off his hand and flying up onto the nearby stair rail. He joyfully bobbed his yellow head up and down while he completed the rhyme. Miss Farrow blushed again.

  "You can help us, can't you?" Mr. Farrow repeated. "You did come about the advertisement?"

  Advertisement? Good gracious, were these people trying to sell the bird? Indeed, Max was glad to have arrived when he did. What a disaster it would be if Bartholomew ended up sold off to some stranger. He only hoped he had enough ready blunt to cover the sale. He was hoping not to have need for contacting his solicitor until he had a better idea of the situation here. He needed to know who could be trusted, and who could not.

  "Er, yes. Yes I did come about the advertisement," he replied. "What terms are you suggesting, sir?"

  Mr. Farrow beamed and shook his hand excitedly. "Excellent! Thank heavens, sir. Come in, come in. We can make whatever arrangements you see fit, considering the urgent nature of things. Meg, go see if Mrs. Cooper has calmed herself enough to get us some tea. She can bring it to the drawing room."

  Mr. Farrow began leading Max toward the doorway where all the hysteria had played out so recently. Max politely removed his hat and followed, giving Miss Farrow a bow and feeling somewhat disappointed to be losing her company already. She, however, appeared in no great hurry to rush off at her father's bidding.

  "But Papa—" she began.

  Her father shushed her. "Go along, pet. I'm sure Mrs. Cooper is fine. You know she's a durable woman."

  "Yes, Papa, but—"

  "And perhaps some cakes, if she wouldn't mind. It's a bit early, I know, but tell her some cakes for our guest might be just the thing."

  "Of course, Papa, but—"

  Mr. Farrow led Max into the drawing room. Miss Farrow followed but Max had the distinct impression she would rather not have. He soon understood why. There, sprawled gracelessly half on and half off the settee was a large woman in bold, matronly garb. It appeared she had at one point been entirely on the sette
e, but had slid off. Her garb, however, had not. The thick fabric of her gown had remained affixed to the silk of the settee and was now wrapped unceremoniously about her thighs. The effect was not nearly as enticing as a purely verbal description might lead one to think.

  Fortunately, the woman appeared to be sleeping and unaware of her dishabille. Unfortunately, the sound of their voices woke her. Her eyes popped open as they entered the room and it was clear she was at first confused by her surroundings. Slowly she took stock of things. She blinked at them and gradually her puffy, blotched face was overcome by an expression of mortification, evidenced by more blotches.

  "Good gracious," the surprised reverend said, clearly as mortified to find the woman this way as she was to find herself. "Mrs. Sedley-Stone!"

  "Yes, Papa, that's what I meant to remind you," Miss Farrow said, rushing past them to go to the aid of the woman.

  Max wasn't at all certain what his response to this vision should be. He knew it would be most improper to stare at the woman whose legs were all but exposed before them, so he looked away. But to look away with so much vigor and enthusiasm might be equally rude. So, rather than turning dramatically around and gouging out his eyes to wipe the image from them, he could only quietly avert his glance in the most gracious, polite fashion possible.

  That put his gaze squarely on Miss Farrow's previously noted form. This time it was the backside of her form, to be precise, as she bent in all innocence and Christian charity to help right the older woman's clothes and return her to a more appropriate, seated position. Whether or not it was rude to stare at this Max really did not care. His eyes were not about to re-avert at this point.

  "Forgive us, Mrs. Sedley-Stone," the good reverend said in most formal tones. "I cannot express how sorry I am for any discomfort you may have—"

  His beautiful apology was interrupted. Bartholomew swooped back into the room and landed directly atop Max's now hatless head. He cringed at the feel of the bird's claws digging into his scalp, while his eyes stung from his hair being brushed down into them. The bird squawked loudly, then most eloquently recited a stanza—in perfect pentameter—declaring what should be done when a woman of dubious morals is found with her skirts up about her this way. It did not involve innocence or Christian charity. Nor did it involve improving the woman's morals. It was, in fact, a line from a song best sung in the company of good friends, aberrant amounts of alcohol, and absolutely no ladies.