Memoirs of a Hoyden

by Joan Smith

  “What was your impression of Jerusalem?” Kestrel asked. I think that despite his brusque manner, he was becoming somewhat interested in my journey.

  “We visited all the holy places. The Holy Sepulchre was small and insignificant. Only four of us could get in at a time. We kissed the marble slab that covers the grave. I regret to say the place abounds with ignorant superstition. A footprint was pointed out to me as sup­posedly having been made by the Holy Virgin. It looked like a man’s bootprint to me. In fact, when Ronald put his boot in it, it fit perfectly.”

  “Did you travel the route from Gethsemane to Cal­vary?”

  “Indeed we did, and a hard trek it was, even without the weight of a cross. I brought home what purports to be a sliver of the cross, but I fancy if all the slivers were put together, we would have a veritable forest. If you are interested in these matters, Lord Kestrel, I shall be delivering a lecture on my travels at Canterbury this evening at eight o’clock.”

  “Where in Canterbury?”

  “In the assembly room of the Fleur de Lis Hotel, in High Street. There ought to be signs posted announcing it. The proceeds will go to the church,” I added, lest he take the idea I was trying to make personal profit from the lectures. “I have various artifacts in my trunk to be shown around—the sliver from the cross amongst them, along with a sample of the clothing I wore. Oh dear, I hope my trunk is safe on the coach! Surely Wideman and the vicar will attend to it when they awaken. I should have left them a note.”

  “You actually overlooked a detail?” Kestrel joked. “I am mighty relieved to hear it. I was sure the re­doubtable Miss Mathieson thought of everything.”

  “With the assistance of her secretary,” I added, to draw Ronald into the conversation.

  “Why is it you require a secretary, Miss Mathie­son?”

  “For my writing,” I answered vaguely, and quickly moved to a less prickly topic. “Your groom, I should think, will take care of your curricle and personal ef­fects?”

  “Of course.”

  “That was a bang-up team of grays, Kestrel. How did you come to break down?” Ronald asked.

  “I didn’t break down. The curricle was new, I be­lieve, and my groom agreed with me, that the pin was damaged on purpose by the French spies before I left London. It appeared to have been partially sawed through, to ensure breaking within a few miles. It made stealing my letter easy, away from the city, you know. They must have been loitering a little behind us. For­tunately, the stagecoach came along before they ar­rived. Not that it made much difference in the long run.”

  “If you knew all that, what you should have done was give the letter to your groom,” I said. “They would think you had it, and he might have delivered it without trouble.”

  “A pity I hadn’t met you at the time to explain these matters to me,” he answered stiffly.

  Conversation petered out after that exchange. I re­fused to be baited into a riposte. I would win this ar­rogant devil’s goodwill if I had to swallow a quart of spleen in the doing.

  As we progressed, the fog dissi­pated. After an hour or so, a weak ray of sunshine peeped through the cloudy heavens and gave us a view of the countryside. Kent, along with a few other coun­ties, is called the Garden of England, and in the spring the title seemed appropriate. Fruit trees were in blos­som, conferring some beauty on the cottages, which were a hodgepodge of flint and stone, timber and brick. Kent has only flint as a native building material, and as it is hard to work, the Normans often shipped stone across the channel. The result is quaint, picturesque, uniquely English.

  Men were already at work in the hop fields, where the vines had crawled halfway up the strings supporting them. The plentiful light green of new bines hinted at a good season for the growers. Oasthouses were there in abundance. Some farmers had a few sheep grazing. I mentally turned each into a roast of lamb, for I was quite hollow from hunger. I thought Kestrel might men­tion stopping at one of the cottages for breakfast, but as the sun gave better vision and the road firmed under us, he only picked up the pace till we were nearly gal­loping toward Redden, the village we had chosen as our first stop.

  At length we espied a low stone church in the dis­tance, and knew the village was at hand. It was seven-thirty—the trip that should have taken less than an hour had taken two. I trusted Kestrel was not so superhuman that he meant to begin the search without first having breakfast, but I left it for Ronald to mention the subject.

  “Thank God—there’s an inn!” he exclaimed. “I’m hungry as a camel.”

  We all found new vigor to increase the pace. It was like a horse race to see us all bolting at breakneck speed toward the hanging sign that symbolized food. The place was called the Redden Maids, and the sign showed two ladies joined at the hips, though I believe this un­usual set of twins were—was?—actually from Biddenden, if memory serves. Ronald held the door and we entered into a modest but clean establishment. The air was filled with the aroma of coffee and gammon frying. How the mouth watered!

  Kestrel let out another of his hello’s, and a man ap­peared. “Good day, sirs.” He smiled. “Mr. Monahan at your service. Can I offer you a table—the private parlor by chance?” he asked hopefully, as he caught a view of myself. I hadn’t quite kept pace with the gen­tlemen as the hope of food drew near, but it was not for lack of trying.

  “If you please,” Kestrel said.

  We were led into a small parlor, where a welcoming fire was just beginning to catch on. At closer range, Monahan noticed our disheveled condition, especially my own pelisse, and enquired if we had had a break­down.

  “We’ve been walking for hours,” Kestrel told him. “We were held up by highwaymen last night.”

  Monahan shook his grizzled head. “I smelled trouble when that pair of ill-natured mares wandered into town this morning, after the coach not coming through last night. I had thought it might be the weather that held it up. We’ve never had any trouble with the scamps here­abouts. Held up, eh? Did you lose much?”

  “Nothing of account, but the young lady has her trunk on the coach, and must recover her things.”

  “I’ll send word to the constable and have him go after the coach. Was the driver kilt?”

  “No, wounded. He’s safely housed a few miles down the road. You didn’t have three shifty-eyed ne’er-do-wells turn up here last night or this morning? There were three of them.”

  “They’ve not been seen in the village, or I’d have heard. Word gets around in a wee place like Redden. I’ll keep an ear cocked for you, sir. Now, about break­fast . . .”

  This important matter was taken care of, and while we awaited its arrival, we all hung our outer clothing before the fire. Our jackets were damp around the shoulders, too. “Let us dispense with formality and strip to our shirts,” I suggested. “We don’t want to take a chill when there’s important work to be done.”

  As Kestrel was kind enough to assist me with the removal of my traveling jacket, I returned the honor and helped him pull off his. His broad back stretched out above me. The shoulders, I noted with approval, were not eked out with wadding. When he turned around, his shirt was seen to be pulled taut across a well-muscled chest. The weathered column of his neck rose proudly against the white shirt. That latent streak of Aurelia in me felt a fleeting wish to spread her hands over his chest, to test its fibre. I looked up consciously and caught Kestrel examining my shirtfront with the same curiosity. Our eyes caught and held a moment. There was a tension in the air—a moment of acute em­barrassment.

  I turned away and busied myself arranging our jack­ets for the minimum of wrinkles, but I was minutely aware of his gray eyes following my movements. Soon we had a steaming plate of gammon and eggs, toast, and coffee before us, which we dispatched in short or­der. Conversation was nonexistent till our plates were empty. With only the coffee remaining, we resumed speech.

  “I must try to find a new pair of slippers before we leave,” I said. “Mine are like mashed paper. Whi
le you gentlemen finish your coffee, I’ll dart over to the cobbler and see if I can beg or borrow something. I don’t want to detain you.”

  I was able to beg a pair—red, alas!—of slippers made for a Miss Stone two years before. The lady had been dissatisfied with them, and there they sat, gathering dust till I rescued them. It was when I opened my reticule to pay that I discovered the stunt played on me. My money purse was missing! Either Mostly, the vicar, or Mr. Wideman had relieved me of my money. It must have happened while I was in the bedroom with Kes­trel, for I hadn’t slept a wink that night. Naturally I was furious with the thief, but of more importance, I had to part with a pretty little gold chain given me by the de­sert emir, Mohanna el Fadel. It was set with tiny em­eralds and rubies, worth much more than the slippers, but I arranged to recover it for cash later. The theft also left us with the problem of settling up at the inn. I suspect that despite the inconvenience, Kestrel was not entirely sorry to find me bested by a mere merchant.

  “I believe the thief was Wideman,” I said angrily. “Mostly seemed a good fellow, and one can hardly accuse a vicar, even if he does carry pictures of par­tially draped women in his prayer book.”

  “Does he, by God!” Kestrel exclaimed, and laughed. “And he hadn’t even the courtesy to share them with us. Well, Miss Mathieson, you have conned me prop­erly. Here I let you come along so I could batten myself on your purse, and the purse is empty. That will teach me to cadge from ladies.”

  He spoke in jest, but I suspected there was an ele­ment of truth in his words, and of regret. Fortunately, Monahan was a generous man. He agreed to hold Kestrel’s emerald ring till we could return. He was kind enough to advance several guineas in cash as well, to permit us to finish our journey. I was afraid Kestrel might try to hint us away now that he held the money, but he didn’t mention it. During my absence the gentlemen had had their jackets pressed, their faces shaved, and their boots polished. They looked much more re­spectable than myself.

  “Why don’t you go to the stable and hire us a car­riage while I freshen my toilette?” I suggested.

  “A carriage?” he asked, surprised. “We can’t hope to overtake mounted men in a carriage. I planned to hire mounts. But you’re quite right. I cannot expect a lady to ride all day. I’ll hire a carriage for you to con­tinue to Canterbury, Miss Mathieson, while Mr. Kidd and I—”

  “I’ll ride,” I said firmly.

  “It will be very uncomfortable for you. We’ll have to set a hot pace, probably for hours. And you’re not outfitted for it either, in your gown and that pretty bonnet.”

  “I am wearing a comfortable traveling suit, not a gown. It will do for a riding habit. I’ll leave my small case behind.”

  An obstinate glitter entered his steely eyes. “I must give you warning, I mean to hire the fastest horseflesh in the stable. Are you a good rider? Your experience on elephants will do you no good here.”

  “Camels are the beast of burden in the desert, Lord Kestrel. I ride a horse quite as well as I ride a camel, as Mr. Kidd will tell you.”

  “An excellent horsewoman,” Ronald said at once.

  “Very well.” The curled beaver was clamped on his head, and he stalked out, leaving Ronald behind. During his absence, I tore the feathers from my bonnet to make it more suitable for riding, and turned down the brim to prevent its blowing off.

  He was soon back with three frisky beasts, any one of which I was eager to get astride, though I assumed the smaller mare was intended for me.

  “Silver is yours,” Kestrel said with a challenging look, as he handed me the reins of the second fiercest animal. He kept the sturdy bay for himself. “They warned me she’s raring for exercise,” he cautioned.

  My mare was a sleek animal, deep-chested, long-legged, silvery gray in color. “Thank you, Lord Kes­trel. I wouldn’t want to set out on a day’s ride on a winded hack. This one reminds me of Zenobia, the mare Ibrahim Pasha loaned me at Damascus,” I men­tioned to Ronald.

  “I hope you don’t treat her the same way,” Ronald laughed.

  Kestrel looked interested to hear what accident had befallen me, but I silenced Ronald with a glare and mounted Silver without aid of either the mounting block or the gentlemen. It was a little awkward with my ret­icule over my wrist, but by no means impossible. And by the way, all that happened to Zenobia is that she slipped on a mountain road and sprained her ankle. It had nothing to do with the rider, but was solely the fault of the wretched road, all littered with stones and rocks, and very steep, too.

  I was no sooner on Silver’s back than she reared up on her hind legs and decided to unseat me. A restive whinny told me she was going to be trouble. There’s no being polite with some animals, and I include hu­man animals in that. I took my wrath with Kestrel out on Silver. Lacking a riding crop, I gave her a taste of the reins across her neck and jobbed at the bit. She settled down nicely and proved to be a sweet goer.

  We figured our highwaymen had made for Chatham, the closest city and the likeliest place for them to have stopped, if indeed they did stop before reaching the coast. With good mounts under us, we were at Chatham in no time. It was a bustling city, for Chatham has been one of the main naval and military stations since the days of Henry VIII. We weren’t interested in such mat­ters, nor in the pretty Medway River, but headed straight for the High Street. We enquired first at the Sun and Mitre for three travelers arriving late the night before. When they had no word on our thieves, we wasted con­siderable time at the smaller inns, but there was nothing to be heard of them.

  “They didn’t stop here at all,” Kestrel decided. “They must have gone to Rochester or Gillingham. The three Medway boroughs are practically one town. I’m damned sure they didn’t pelt all night through that downpour. It will take forever to find them.”

  “Let us continue toward Dover,” I suggested.

  Kestrel glowered and announced, “I’m in charge of this expedition.” I just shook my head and waited for him to back down, for really, there was nothing else to be done. “I say we continue to Dover,” he added, laughing to relieve his embarrassment.

  We walked hastily along the High Street. A few of the merchants had stalls set up outside their door to lure passersby not wanting to go in out of the sun on such a fine day. My eye fell on a rack holding glass beads. I could swear I had seen those beads before. “Those are Wideman’s trinkets!” I exclaimed. “Where did you get them?” I demanded of the clerk.

  “These beads? Why, I bought them of a traveling salesman a month ago,” he said. I took another look and could swear they were Wideman’s stuff. They had the chip of red glass in the clasp. He had mentioned they were a new line, so how had the merchant had them a month? The man had a sly look in his eye. I didn’t believe a word he said, but short of having him hauled off to a judge, there was no way of proving he was a liar, and time didn’t allow me to call a judge.

  “Just tell us when you bought them, and whether it was from three men,” I said.

  “I bought them a month ago,” the clerk insisted.

  “This is a waste of time,” Kestrel decided. I re­mained a moment longer arguing with the clerk, trying first by threats, then cajolery, to get him to admit the truth. He stood fast in his story. When I looked up, Ronald had wandered along to another stall, but Kestrel was waiting for me, not patiently. He finally took me by the elbow and pulled me along.

  “If you’re convinced they’re Wideman’s trinkets, we know all we have to know. The Frenchies were here. We’re on the right track. Now, where the deuce has Ronald wandered off to?”

  He was half a block farther along with his nose in a book, his nose’s preferred location. As it was my own book, A Gentlewoman’s Memoirs of the Orient, he was holding, I didn’t rush him, but waited to see if Lord Kestrel might be interested to pick up a copy.

  “They have your book on prominent display, Mar­ion,” Ronald mentioned.

  “Why, so they have! How nice. I wonder how it is moving.”

 
Kestrel picked up one and leafed through it with a fairly disinterested face. “Is this any good?” he asked the clerk.

  “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t read it. This one is a good mover,” he replied. To my astonishment, he handed Kestrel a copy of Aurelia’s adventures in Por­tugal. The infuriating man allowed his eyes to roam over those pages for much longer than he had given my memoirs.

  “Good God, don’t tell me you read such trash as this!” I was betrayed into saying.

  He didn’t remove his nose from the book, but reached into his pocket to buy it. In my anger, I moved along to the far side of the rack, where used books were on sale. There, right on top, was Reverend Cooke’s copy of the Devotions and Sermons of Dr. Donne. The pic­tures were still concealed inside. I quietly took it to Kestrel and showed him the name inscribed on the fly­leaf. It was a gift to Cooke from the dean of Canter­bury. “The vicar would be happy to have this back,” I mentioned.

  “He’ll be glad to be rid of it,” Kestrel thought. He took the book and shuffled the naughty pictures of the partially undraped ladies into his hand, thence into his jacket pocket. “I wouldn’t want anyone to buy the book with Cooke’s name in it and find these pictures,” he explained.

  “Make sure you don’t put your name on the book they eventually end up in, in case you lose it like Cooke.”

  He turned his back to the stall and pulled the pictures out for examination. “They won’t end up in a book. I’ll have them framed for my study,” he said, with a smile in his voice. That touch of lechery in him sur­prised me.

  To mitigate the shame of the picture stealing, he bought a copy of my memoirs. With the books and the pictures strapped to his saddle, we were ready to go. We determined that one of the Frenchies had sold the stolen goods not two hours before. We figured out that the highwaymen had decided to make a small profit on the bits of loot stolen.