by Joan Smith
“We really ought to take a look around for your lap case, Marion,” Ronald suggested.
I silenced him with a glance. I certainly didn’t want Kestrel looking it over, with the latest Aurelia manuscript enclosed to embarrass me. “We can’t waste a moment,” I said hastily, and we were off to the coast. Of course, I would have to return and look for Aurelia later. I had three chapters done, and didn’t want to lose them. I hoped no one would buy my lap case within twenty-four hours, but if they did, I could always discover the purchaser and send Ronald after her for the manuscript.
Kestrel set a hot pace along the road toward Ashford, where we were to separate, he going to Dover, Ronald and myself toward Dungeness. Orchards in bloom and pretty gardens whizzed past in a blur of white and pink. My years in various saddles, from camel to donkey to horse, stood me in good stead. If Kestrel hoped to see me lag behind, he was disappointed. I enjoyed every moment of it. When he paused to enquire whether I would like to stop for lunch, I assured him I could ride on for hours yet. We stopped at various villages to ask about our three highwaymen, and learned that we were gaining on them.
They had passed two hours ago, then one and a half, and finally one hour before us. This good news kept our spirits high. Kestrel could be an amusing companion when all was going his way. He came very near letting a compliment slip out as the morning advanced. “I take it you do a fair bit of riding?” he mentioned. (This was the near compliment. Look no further.)
“I have only three requirements in life. Food, a clean bath, and a good horse.”
“You would hardly have had to go to the Orient for those basic needs.”
“Naturally I was referring to physical requirements. The spirit makes its demands felt as well. Born a gentleman, you wouldn’t be aware of the ludicrous restrictions placed on ladies.”
“Most ladies find their entertainment in social doings—finding a mate first, and eventually marrying him and raising a family. Those more conventional pastimes didn’t find favor with you?”
The use of the past tense with relation to marriage surprised me. I never consciously ruled it out as a possibility. Rather than show my pique, however, I turned it back on himself. “Nor with you either, apparently, as you have chosen to remain a bachelor past the age when most men have settled down. Marriage is a contract devised by men, Lord Kestrel. In my view, they have kept the perquisites to themselves, and deposited the burden on the women.”
“The financial burden is usually assumed by the gentleman.”
“Yes, I have found a few gentlemen eager to assume the burden of spending my money under the guise of marriage.”
A reluctant laugh rumbled in his throat. “You did the right thing to go to Arabia. You have the mentality of a peddler in a bazaar. I doubt if any gentleman will get the best of you in anything.”
“Thus far, it hasn’t prevented their trying.” I am not actually so misogamistic as this speech indicates. I said it only to alert Kestrel that other gentlemen didn’t consider me over the hill so far as marriage goes.
“I wouldn’t want you to take the idea I’m angling after your fortune, Miss Mathieson,” he said, and returned to business. “We’re making good time. We can afford to stop for a quick bit of luncheon at the next village if you like.”
“I can continue for another hour or so.”
“Ronald is looking peaked,” he decided. Since I wasn’t hungry and he refused to admit he was himself, the chore fell to Ronald.
“We’re only an hour behind our quarry. Would it not be better to push on till we overtake them?” I suggested.
Kestrel batted the idea away. “We’re gaining steadily. They’ll stop, and we should bait our horses, too. They’ll be arrested before the sun sets.”
The hindquarters do become fatigued, even on a smooth-going mount. Without further argument, we agreed to pause for refreshment at the next likely spot. This proved to be a roadside tavern situated halfway between Chatham and Ashford. I lifted the menu and said, rather impatiently, “After such a hearty breakfast, we need no more than some cold cuts and bread here. We don’t want to dally long. Will it be cold mutton for us all?”
Kestrel glanced at the bill of fare and was struck with a desire for roast lamb. He took considerable pains over his accompaniments. Was the asparagus fresh? How did cook do the potatoes? And what about a side dish of ragout to accompany the lamb? My menu rustled impatiently while I told Ronald he wanted only the cold cuts. Between the two of us, Ronald and myself, we glared Kestrel into leaving half his lamb on his plate— and it looked very tasty, too.
At last we were back on the road. The next time we got a whiff of our Frenchies, they had got an hour ahead of us again. “It’s a pity we stopped!” I said, with an accusing look at Kestrel. We picked up the pace after that, but our quarry had got fresh mounts, and from then on, we didn’t gain an inch on them till we stopped and got fresh mounts, too. Mine, I regret to relate, was a jaded, swaybacked old nag who shifted like a camel when she cantered. As we advanced toward Ashford, we lost the scent entirely. Our men hadn’t been seen at the last two villages we passed through.
“There’s obviously a shortcut we don’t know about,” Ronald thought. “We’ll plough on to Ashford.”
“If we don’t stop to eat again,” I said, with a commanding look to our leader, “We should overtake them there.” Kestrel was sufficiently quelled that he didn’t argue.
* * *
Chapter 4
We arrived at Ashford rather late in the afternoon. The town was a lively hunting center with some quaint old houses and a church boasting a fine perpendicular tower. The ride was not that far, but with all the stops to enquire for the Frenchies, we were considerably delayed. The difficulty now was to discover which route the Frenchies had taken—east to Dover, or south to reach the coast closer to Dungeness. This was the crucial moment, for if they took a side road to report to their masters here, we would never find them in time to recover the letter. I outlined my thinking to Kestrel as we entered the town.
“We’ll make enquiries at the Saracen’s Head and the Royal Oak. I’ll take the former, you the latter,” he decided.
“Would it not be wiser to ride through to the far end of town, and see if anyone saw them passing?” I countered. “They would not be likely to tell the innkeeper their route.”
Ronald was glancing at his watch and finally spoke. “What about our lecture tonight, Marion? You should notify them it is to be postponed.”
“Good gracious, it’s not till eight o’clock, and Canterbury is only ten miles away. I’ll be there. We’ll have these fellows handed over to the authorities in plenty of time.”
“But you’ll have to have a bath and change clothes. I think it would be wiser to postpone it. You won’t have your box of souvenirs to show, or your Turkish costume—”
“Devil take it! It’s not a sliver of an olive tree and a set of silk trousers they come to see. It’s me! I’ll be there. Oates would dislike for me to postpone the lecture when it’s been advertised. Of more importance is catching the Frenchies. What do you say, Kestrel?”
“I’ll just nip into the Saracen’s Head and see if they’ve been there.”
As he was wasting time in this fruitless endeavor, Ronald and I went to the Royal Oak. “It seems to me Kestrel is dragging his heels,” I scolded. “I begin to wonder if he isn’t afraid to confront the Frenchies. He was only carrying that letter under duress, you know.”
It was only pique speaking. To my considerable astonishment, Ronald took up the theme and added some embroidery. “We could have caught them hours ago if he hadn’t insisted on stopping for lunch.”
“Pest of a man! It’s a shame to think the nation’s safety is in such hands as his. After this is over, Ronald, I mean to apply to Castlereagh and offer our services as couriers—if you are agreeable, that is.”
I knew by the glow in Ronald’s eye that he was in total agreement with me. “My
papa knows a man who is acquainted with Melville, first lord of the Admiralty. He will put in a good word for us.”
“If we have success today, it will stand us in good stead.” Success in catching the French spies became more important than ever.
The result at the Royal Oak was a blank stare. Dozens of men had been in and out all afternoon. The barkeeper couldn’t remember three strangers having entered together, and if they had, they hadn’t informed him they were carrying purloined letters to deliver to the French. We went to meet Kestrel outside the Saracen’s Head. The aroma of ale lingered about him when he finally came out.
“No luck, I suppose?” I asked.
“On the contrary. Our quarry was there, and enquired for the fastest road to Dover,” he replied, with great satisfaction.
I was more annoyed than happy that this dilatory spy should have met with success. “Fine, then we all hasten along to Dover.”
“I think not. It will be better for you two to take the other road, in case it was a subterfuge. The road forks at the east end of town. We’ll go together that far.”
“You’ll never be able to handle the three of them alone,” I pointed out. Why that innocent remark should get Kestrel on his high horse was a mystery. “You don’t even have a pistol,” I added, to assuage his pride.
“That’s a good point. I’ll purchase one before I leave. The pawn shop is my best bet, since the money is running short.”
“Did you leave London to deliver that important document without any protection?” Ronald asked. We exchanged a look, no longer of surprise at this poor excuse for a spy, but of dismay.
“I had a pistol in my curricle. I forgot to bring it along when I transferred to the coach,” he admitted.
“You’d best buy two,” Ronald said.
“That won’t be necessary.”
“If the Frenchies’ asking for the Dover road was a subterfuge, as you suggested,” I reminded him, “it is Ronald and myself who will have to deal with them.”
Kestrel reluctantly acknowledged this, but when he came out of the shop, he carried only one pistol. “I didn’t have enough money for two,” he announced calmly.
“You got ten guineas for your emerald ring! You can’t have spent that much!”
“There will be other expenses before we’re through. I’m sure the Frenchies have headed straight to Dover. If you think you are on their scent, you should go to the constable here and seek assistance. It would be improper for a lady to mix with spies in any case.”
It was too much to be borne. “Improper! You wouldn’t be this close to them if a lady had not bullocked you into action, sir, and so I take leave to tell you. You’d still be on your haunches in some inn, eating mutton and leering at those dirty pictures you stole from the vicar and filling yourself with ale. This lady has dealt with rougher and more numerous enemies than a trio of tame Frenchies. I was betrayed by Prince Nasar and abandoned alone except for Ronald in the Bedouin desert, surrounded by Arabs who would as soon shoot us as spit. I brought them to heel, and I assure you I am not about to flinch from three damned Frenchies!”
Kestrel’s nostrils quivered into slits. “It seems you hardly need a pistol, Miss Mathieson. You could quell them with no weapon save your sharp tongue.”
“It’s well my tongue is sharp, for if you shoot that pistol as incompetently as you do everything else, it will be yourself you maim. Come along, Ronald. We shall lay your watch on the wood and get ourselves a brace of pistols.”
Ronald chose that moment to express his obstinacy. “Why not your watch?”
“Because I have already had to hawk my necklace. It’s your turn.”
While Kestrel stood trying to think of some clever set-down, Ronald and I went into the shop and, with our experience in Arabic haggling, managed to obtain the one remaining pistol in the shop, and the necessary ammunition, in exchange for Ronald’s watch. “I wonder why Kestrel didn’t take this one,” Ronald said, hefting it. “It’s well balanced—it looks brand-new.”
“What would he know? His was probably a penny cheaper. He wants his money to buy ale.”
Kestrel was still standing in the street when we came out. He looked at the pistol as though he would speak. I wasn’t in a mood for more of his foolishness.
“Are you still here? What are you waiting for?” I scolded. “The Frenchies will have delivered their letter and sent it off to Boney. I begin to think that is precisely what you want.’’
As you have no doubt concluded already, I had given up any thought of using Kestrel as my entree to Castlereagh. I was beginning to think Kestrel’s help would do more harm than good.
His face turned scarlet with anger—or shame. He looked ready to explode, but when he spoke, he attempted a conciliatory tone. “I merely wished to settle how we should all meet up again after this business is settled.”
“If we never meet again, it will be too soon for me. Good luck, Lord Kestrel. You’ll need it.”
On that brave speech I drew Ronald away and left Kestrel standing in the street with several hedge birds gaping at his disgrace.
“We shall send a note off to Canterbury after all, Ronald. I am too upset to give a proper speech this evening. Do you have any money?”
“The few shillings that were loose in my pocket when we were robbed. It should be enough.”
We sent the message before leaving Ashford. This gave Kestrel a head start on us. By the time we reached the edge of town, there was no sight of him, which is just as well. My temper hadn’t diminished since we parted ways.
“The man is a fool,” I told Ronald. “He knew as long ago as yesterday when his curricle broke down that he was being followed. He should have left the letter for his groom to deliver. The spies wouldn’t have bothered him. But no, what did he do? He climbed aboard our coach—without his pistol—and had us all robbed. And even then he calmly went to bed, instead of going after the men. Really, one trembles to think such dilatory men are our defense against Napoleon.
“As he knew he was being followed, you’d think he would have made some plans to defend himself—at least he could have hidden the letter a little better.”
“He was too busy playing at coachman. Imagine, playing childish games at such a time. You know, I begin to think what we ought to do is follow him. The Frenchies will make minced meat of the man. It seems to me Dover is their likeliest destination. What do you think?”
“I found it suspicious they told the tapster where they were going. Of course, they couldn’t know we were following them.”
“It’s the last thing they’d suspect, if they’re familiar with Kestrel. Apparently they are. They cut his axle before he ever left London. There’s a farmer checking his hay. Let’s ask him if he happened to see three mounted men pass this way.”
We dismounted and went to the fence to hail the farmer. Ronald has a way with provincials, and I let him handle the chore. “Good day, sir. That’s a fine crop you have there.”
“ ‘Twill be, after a bout of sun. The rain flattened her last night. Can I help you, sir?”
Ronald outlined our quarry. The farmer lifted his hat and scratched his head a moment. “I did see three bucks heading out Dover way a bit ago. The reason I noticed them in particular, they took the shortcut through my cornfield, the scoundrels. It cuts three mile off the main road, and meets up with it farther along. I hope old Ed Munster caught them and filled them with buckshot. They’d have to cross his barley as well. They leapt the fence and did considerable damage. I figured they must be local lads or they’d not know the shortcut, yet I didn’t recognize ‘em.”
“Were they dark-haired men, rather short?” I asked.
“They was on horseback. I couldn’t judge their size, but they didn’t look like big men. They was singing some song I didn’t recognize—disguised, very likely. Maybe ‘twas Gaelic. They speak queer in Wales, I’ve heard said.”
I thought more likely it was French. Spies working the area w
ould know all the shortcuts, if they had their wits about them. I briefly outlined the situation to the farmer, and he gave us permission to leap his fence and destroy his cornfield. As I put my nag over the fence, my heart soared with her. We’d be ahead of Kestrel! Wouldn’t he look nohow when he came upon us, with the Frenchies already captured! A farmer mending his fence, presumably Munster, let out a bellow as we plunged into his barley. We couldn’t afford to stop. I hoped the other farmer would explain our trespassing.
When we met up with the road again, Ronald had lost his sense of direction. He wanted to turn west, but fortunately I was able to steer him toward the proper course. We rode hell for leather, keeping our eyes trained ahead for any sign of the three men. Riding sidesaddle felt wretchedly uncomfortable and inconvenient after riding astride in the desert. My full breeches there made that mode feasible. Riding astride was the least of my unconventional exploits, but one I didn’t mention in my lecture. My publisher thought it might be considered unladylike! Really, the mind boggles to consider the inanity of convention.
We swept past dung carts and gigs, one handsome carriage with a lozenge on the door, and several mounted riders. The dust was negligible after the rain, so that was one annoyance avoided. It was just a few miles west of Dover that we spotted a lone horseman ahead of us. He was crouched forward, riding ventre à terre.
We set our pace to overtake him, but the harder we rode, the harder it was to catch him. The man rode like a demon, and on an enviable black mount. I knew in my bones only an Arab stallion could set such a pace. “I wager he’s one of the Frenchies,” I gasped to Ronald, for the strain of a day in the saddle was beginning to tell. “Much chance that dolt of a Kestrel would have of outrunning him. Do you think we should follow him, or stop him and search him?”
“We’ll never catch him,” Ronald called back.
As he spoke, the man looked over his shoulder. I believe he knew we were chasing him, for he whipped his nag forward to a hotter pace. “We’ll stop him. I’m certain he has the letter. Is the pistol loaded, Ronald?” He nodded. “Give it to me. I’m the better shot.” Without breaking stride, he passed me the weapon. Ronald is a fair shot; he could have hit his target, but I wanted only to wound the man, not kill him, and that required better than fair.
