Goosed! or a Fowl Christmas Read online

  Goosed! or A Fowl Christmas

  By Linda Banche

  Published by Linda Banche at Smashwords

  Copyright 2014 Linda Banche

  The Feather Fables

  Discover other books by Linda Banche at Smashwords

  A Similar Taste in Books

  A Mutual Interest in Numbers

  A Distinct Flair for Words

  A Gift from the Stars

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 of Goosed!

  Chapter 12 — The Middle

  Chapter 24 — The Final Chapter

  Author’s Note

  About Linda Banche

  Connect With Me!

  Discover Other Titles by Linda Banche

  Excerpt from A Similar Taste in Books, Book 1 of Love and the Library

  Excerpt from A Gift from the Stars, Book 1 of The Regency Star Travelers

  End

  Chapter 1

  Leeds, Kent, England

  December, 1805

  Shaw Farm, I love you.

  Machiavelli drew in a deep breath of earth-scented air.

  Below on all sides stretched rolling brown fields, now barren and sere as the earth rested from its yearly toils. In the surrounding forest, the gray, leafless skeletons of trees clacked in a light wind. As if not wishing to disturb the earth’s repose, the hedgerows bounding the farmland murmured a hushed reply. The sky, the brittle, crystalline blue of a chill winter’s day, arched overhead, its promise of warmth a false one.

  Through the center of the valley coursed the River Len, the weak sunlight striking sparkles from the sluggish, as yet unfrozen, water. Beyond the river, more cleared fields climbed in an ever-steepening incline to the wooded North Downs, deep green against the horizon, marking the northern boundary of the valley.

  Machiavelli exhaled slowly. Year’s end was a good time, a time to rest and remember the triumphs of the past twelve months, and to think up new schemes for the days to come. The year now at its finale had had its ups and downs, as most years did. But the seasons ahead were completely unknown, and something he would shape to his benefit, if he could.

  To do that, he needed information, which meant he must return to the center of Shaw Farm.

  Dry leaves crackling under his feet, he shuffled down the slope toward the barnyard.

  He strutted by the empty goose pen, and then past the dilapidated barn with the fenced-in chicken coop at its side. The chickens’ cackles and squawks trailed after him in a softening wave as he approached the rear of the house. Time to pay a visit to the kitchen and spy—er, check on—His Mistress.

  With noiseless steps, he rounded the side of the building. The old warped kitchen door always stood ajar, enough for him to eavesdrop. Even from this distance, the voices of His Mistress and The Cook wafted out. He sidled up and put his ear to the door opening.

  “Oh, miss, I don’t know what to do for Christmas. We have almost no food left.” The Cook, Mrs. Henry. There was no mistaking her raspy voice.

  “Things cannot possibly be that bad.” The soft tones of His Mistress, Miss Julia Shaw, floated into the cold air.

  Machiavelli sighed. What a wonderful lady, His Mistress. She was so kind, so good—she always fell for his schemes.

  Her voice wafted out once more. “At least I hope not.”

  Machiavelli pricked up his ears. Something was amiss. His Mistress had never sounded so glum. He pressed closer to the door opening.

  “How will we feed ourselves, miss? I have only a little flour left, and some oatmeal and potatoes.”

  Machiavelli tapped his foot. Another of The Cook’s litany of worries. She always went on and on about food. The dearth of food was a worry, but her complaints had become monotonous.

  “You are overly pessimistic, Mrs. Henry. I am sure payment for the last painting I sent to London will arrive soon. Then our troubles will be over.”

  Water splashed. The Cook probably poured water into a pot so they could have tea. They drank tea a great deal. “But what if the coin doesn’t come? We still have to eat.”

  “I know.” A heavy sigh escaped His Mistress. Not a good sign.

  The water’s splashing stopped, and heavy footfalls pounded on the floor. The Cook, carrying the pot to the fire. His Mistress was as light-footed as an angel. “We have nothing for Christmas dinner, either, miss.”

  Machiavelli caught himself before he emitted a snort the women might hear. Christmas dinner again. The Cook had harped on that meal for the past few weeks. Time for him to leave. He didn’t want to hear another chorus of that song.

  “And I do so like a nice Christmas dinner, with all the trimmings. I know you don’t care for the notion, but we may have to…” The Cook’s words trailed off, as if portending a doom too terrifying for speech.

  Machiavelli pressed closer to the door. They couldn’t mean…

  “I know what you have in mind, Mrs. Henry, and I am forced to agree with you. Finally.”

  Silence louder than the most ear-splitting thunder reverberated in the air. Machiavelli’s heart plummeted into his feet.

  His Mistress released another strained sigh. “Very well. On Christmas, we shall have Machiavelli for dinner.”

  ***

  Machiavelli almost fell over. Had he heard aright? They would have him for dinner? And they didn’t intend to invite him over for dinner. Oh, no, they wanted him for dinner, as the main course.

  He propped himself against the door frame. Why, oh why, had he been born a goose? He enjoyed his goosiness—his bright white feathers, orange bill and webs, and his blue eyes—except during Christmas time. At this season, he would much rather be a buzzard or a crow, or some other bird no one wanted to eat.

  He shivered. Nasty creatures, buzzards and crows. But no one sought them for their dinner tables, and right now, he would happily change places with one or the other.

  Plate-sized orange webs slapping the frozen ground, he raced back to his pen, lifted the latch with his bill, entered, and then refastened the gate behind him. Appearance was everything, so he arched his neck and fluffed out his feathers to make himself appear larger and more intimidating.

  He tossed his head and swaggered, but the actions were only ploys to prevent himself from cowering. He must maintain his reputation. He was Machiavelli, King of Shaw Farm. Conniver, schemer, and manipulator extraordinary. He had no equal.

  Head high, he pranced back and forth to mask the trembling in his limbs. He was no pudding-heart, but the possibility he might end his days gracing a serving platter was his worst nightmare.

  He must prevent such a terrible occurrence! All his skills, most beyond the ken of a normal goose, were of little help now. Latching and unlatching his pen gate, which allowed him to roam at will seeking information, and his protecting the chickens from his arch-enemy, Sylvester the Fox—so what? These accomplishments didn’t matter now.

  At least his paramount ability, the understanding of the Human language, had warned him of the impending catastrophe. As far as he knew, no non-human animal could understand Human—except for him. He didn’t know why or how he possessed this ability, and he didn’t care. Most important, t
he Humans had no inkling of his gift, and he intended to keep them from finding out. Secrecy was power.

  But, by the Great Goose, he had to think of something! Spreading his wings wide, he flapped them hard enough to kick up dust. He coughed.

  He stopped, and allowed the air to clear. Then he drew in a deep breath and looked around. Anyone watching? No. He deflated his puffed-up aggressive pose. Leave the show for an audience. Besides, maintaining the posture required more energy than he had at the moment. He folded his wings firmly on his back and released his breath in a low honk. Now was not the time to let his wits go abegging. What were the possibilities?

  Head bent, he resumed pacing. Running away? He shook his head. That action would forfeit his domain at Shaw Farm. Flight was the last resort.

  What else? He stopped and tapped a web. He could hide. Yes, that idea was much better. But where? He pivoted in a circle. The farm itself was too open. Nothing suitable here. The woods? Even worse. The forest abounded with sharp-toothed creatures that liked to eat goose.

  He trod to the end of the pen and then reversed direction. Back and forth he tramped, his thoughts a seething beehive.

  Stay calm. Stay calm so you can think. But he couldn’t suppress the panicked refrain that rumbled in the background.

  What can I do? Oh, what can I do!

  Chapter 2

  Robert, Baron Tyndall, tugged lightly on the reins of his curricle.

  The pair of matched grays pulling the vehicle slowed to a halt.

  Tying off the ribbons, Robert settled back on the bench and rolled his shoulders. Whenever he drove home, he always stopped here. Somehow, this point marked an invisible boundary between the strains of the outside world and the peace of his country refuge, even in the cold of winter.

  The aspect was lovely, this gently sloping valley with the river winding through the center. The Len’s far bank formed the boundary of his estate. Beyond its waters, near the top of one of the hills forming the North Downs, sat his manor house, its four stories of white stone gleaming red and orange in the waning afternoon light.

  He closed his eyes briefly, willing himself to shut out the world.

  He rolled his shoulders again. Hang it, why was he so tired? London wasn’t that far from Kent, and although he had driven since morning, he had made this journey many times.

  Perhaps the journey wasn’t the cause of his fatigue. Of late, life’s day-to-day activities had changed into grinding effort. For the past year, his business interests had required constant travel. His personal attention was the reason they prospered, even in the midst of the continuing war with Napoleon.

  But the extended effort now dragged at him, disturbing his sleep, and leaving him exhausted all the time. What was amiss? On the surface, nothing. But underneath, something tugged at him.

  His upcoming twenty-sixth birthday? He grinned. His mother said exactly that, along with the years-old refrain about his long overdue betrothal. He had always shrugged off her comments. But for a solid week shortly after his return to his London townhouse, she had none too subtly thrown a different high-born miss at his head every day. Those chits, barely out of the schoolroom, were definitely not to his taste. After the seventh lady, he informed his mother she was doing it up too brown, and then packed and left.

  Pushing upward, he untied the reins and then clicked them over the horses’ backs. The animals moved forward at a measured clip to pass a house set close by the road.

  Robert blinked. What a difference a year made.

  The old Tudor manor house, built of gray stone with mullioned windows, remained much the same as he remembered. The multifaceted panes glittered like ruby and amber in the sunlight, but the ivy climbing the walls had run wild, and now almost consumed the house. The sadly overgrown front garden had thickened into a hayfield in need of scything, and weeds and ruts choked the semi-circular drive before the building. Paint peeled off the barn and stable, and rotted fence posts cried out for replacement. Cackling spilled from a chicken coop next to the barn, but there was no movement of men and beasts, as there should be, even in winter.

  Sad. The once thriving farm was failing. While Robert was away, the owner had died. Robert had given his man of affairs standing instructions to buy the place if the estate came up for sale, but the solicitor wasn’t fast enough, and a Mr. Shaw had purchased the property.

  Poor Shaw. Robert snapped the reins to quicken the horses’ pace. He would pay a call and offer his help. Perhaps Shaw needed a loan. If matters were very bad and he wanted to sell, Robert would tender him a good price.

  In any event, he was a neighbor, and Christmas was almost upon them. He could at least invite the family to dinner.

  A white streak tore across the road in front of the horses. They shied.

  Robert hauled on the reins. The horses thrashed and neighed, and Robert fought until at last he restrained them. Blowing out a breath, he tied off the reins and then hopped down to stride to the agitated horses’ heads. What the devil had scared them?

  In the distance, the white object blazed a trail across the farmland as if fleeing a pursuing demon.

  A goose, of all things.

  Robert hurled mental imprecations at the beast as he stroked the horses’ noses to calm them further. Blasted bird could have harmed his horses.

  He narrowed his eyes. Did the goose bolt from a cleaver-brandishing cook? If he were the goose he would have fled, too. A prime specimen, that bird. Big and fat, perfect for the dinner table. And quite fleet-footed for such a large bird. Probably couldn’t fly, which was why he ran.

  Although I would have preferred that you didn’t run in front of my horses.

  The goose decamped into the nearby woods, and then was lost to sight.

  Robert patted the horses’ noses once more. No damage done, although he would have helped the cook catch the miscreant, after the trouble he had caused.

  Or maybe he wouldn’t. After all, Christmas was near. In any case, a moot point. The bird had escaped. Good luck to you, goose.

  And, good luck to you, too, Shaw.

  ***

  What is that horrible racket?

  The neighing of horses and the screeching of wheels filled Julia’s ears. She dropped her brush on the paint-spattered table by her easel and dashed to the window.

  On the road was a handsome curricle with red wheels and a black body, the horses flailing. A man stood at their heads and gripped their bridles. He stroked the beasts’ muzzles, and they quieted as if they were lapdogs under a doting owner’s ministrations.

  All was well. She sagged. Something must have frightened the horses, but the man had everything under control.

  Mayhap she should go out and make sure. She leaned a little closer to the window. Good gracious, she hadn’t seen such a smart vehicle since her London days. The horses looked to be prime, too, as did the gentleman. He wore a high-crowned beaver hat and a tailored greatcoat with many capes. Even from this distance, the garments shouted their quality. Obviously a man of wealth. He must be on his way to Tyndall Manor, the only estate beyond her farm, and where the road ended. Visitors rarely passed her house, because the Manor’s owner hadn’t been in residence since she moved here.

  Was he the owner? If so, perhaps the area would enjoy some new society this holiday season.

  The driver stepped away from the now tranquil horses.

  Her breath caught. What a striking man. Regular, chiseled features, dark hair, and dark eyes that bored into her, even from this distance.

  Prickles flicked over her skin, and she backed away from the opening. Odd that his regard disturbed her, especially since he couldn’t possibly see her through the ivy screen.

  But she was being fanciful. She watched a stranger who had stopped in front of her house, nothing more. She stepped back to the window.

  The man was still there. She sighed. He was really quite pleasant to look at. Mayhap they would meet at church or at one of the assemblies in Leeds. A new face would be most welcome
.

  He climbed into the driver’s seat, flicked the reins, and was off toward Tyndall Manor. The equipage gathered speed and then disappeared from view around a bend in the road.

  She turned back into the room. How she would enjoy dressing in what was left of her finery, probably sadly outdated now, and dancing with an attractive man as she had done during her ton days.

  But that was not to be.

  Mama had died years ago, and Papa had died shortly after they moved here, leaving debts. Paying them off took most of the money he left her. The farm earned a little, but that and the pittance horticultural magazines paid for her realistic pictures of flowers barely kept them from starvation, let alone allowed her to keep up the farm. She had had to sell most of the furniture and her clothes, too. And she hadn’t yet received payment for her one large-scale painting.

  At least the farm was hers free and clear, but she needed the money from the sale of Morning Mallard, the painting she had sent to a London gallery. The dealer said his patrons usually purchased large paintings on credit, so he couldn’t pay her for the piece yet. Even rich people felt these hard times. Or so they said.

  After the New Year, she would go up to London and demand her payment from the dealer. No more excuses. And she would find someone else to handle this painting, Evening Mallard, the companion piece to the canvas she had sold.

  Which she had better finish.

  She picked up her brush and dabbed a spot of green onto her canvas.

  She stepped back from the easel and frowned. The color was wrong. She would have to remix the pigment.

  Oh, dear. Oil paints were so dear, and she would have to scrape up the money somehow. But she would. She had to finish this picture.

  In the meantime, they would enjoy their Christmas the best they could. Except…

  Did they really have to eat Machiavelli?

  She shuddered. She liked the bird, rascal that he was. Always he brought a smile to her lips as he strutted around the bedraggled barnyard, his head at an arrogant tilt, as if her poor farm were the most prosperous estate in creation. She would miss his antics as he and the fox dueled over the chickens. Even his sleep-shattering honk as he greeted the new day would be a loss.