Memoirs of a Hoyden

by Joan Smith

  “She’s dainty as a sylph,” Ronald smiled.

  “Dainty as two sylphs rolled together. Her body is fuller than mine. It’s the length I’m concerned about.”

  The well-rounded sylph returned wearing a frown of confusion. “You don’t have any cases. There was noth­ing but the mounts.”

  “We were just out for a ride,” I answered swiftly, before Ronald took into his noggin to say more than he should. “We are visiting at Dover, and wanted to see a bit of the countryside while we’re here.”

  “Would you like to send a message to someone?” Miss Longville asked.

  “No, we are putting up at a hotel.”

  Miss Longville raised a prudish eyebrow at this. “Mr. Kidd is my nephew,” I assured her, “as well as my secretary.’’

  “It is odd, a lady having a secretary,” she said.

  “I am an author. Perhaps you’ve heard of my book, A Gentlewoman’s Memoirs of the Orient? I was to lec­ture at Canterbury tonight, but had to postpone it.”

  Her “Oh” said as plain as day she’d never heard of me, and had very little interest in the Orient besides. A herd of sheep would be of more interest to this coun­try bumpkin. As the girl was rather simple, I had to remind her of the patient. “Would it be possible for Mr. Kidd to lie down somewhere for an hour or so?”

  “He can stay right here,” she answered witlessly, pointing to the sofa he sat on.

  “Perhaps we’d best send for a doctor after all. He’s passing out,” I announced, with a commanding eye to Ronald, who promptly fell into a marvelous coma.

  “I hope it’s not contagious!” Miss Longville said, and jumped back a yard or two.

  With great forbearance, I didn’t box her ears. “Call your Ruggers and a couple of footmen. We must get him into bed at once. He’ll require plenty of covers and some hot soup. It isn’t contagious, Miss Longville. It is like intelligence in that respect.”

  “But what ails him?”

  “It is a fever of the brain.”

  “Oh dear! I don’t know what Papa will say!”

  This was the first interesting utterance to have left her lips. “Your papa dislikes company, does he?” I asked. This seemed the expected behavior of a traitor­ous spy.

  “It’s not that. He already has company. Lord Kestrel is staying with us overnight.”

  “Overnight!”

  Strangely, the witless thing picked up on my peculiar reaction, mentioning the length of Kestrel’s visit. There was a somewhat knowing look in her eyes as she ex­amined me. She didn’t say anything, but there was def­initely a knowing look in her eyes. “I’ll call Ruggers,” she said, and left.

  Ronald recovered sufficiently to walk upstairs on Ruggers’s arm. I went up behind him, accompanied by Miss Longville. “We are about to have dinner. Miss Mathieson,” she said. “Could you be prevailed upon to join us?”

  “If you have a gown I could borrow, I should be delighted,” I answered.

  “Come to my room while they settle Mr. Kidd in. We can be alone there.”

  One hardly expected to change in front of men, but I found her “alone” rather ominous. When we were alone, she said, “Did you know Lord Kestrel was here?” A sharp look in her eyes caused me a moment’s consternation, till I figured out she thought I was throw­ing my hankie at him and had come here haring after him.

  This put me in the devil of a predicament. I wanted to deny any knowledge of the man, but what if Kestrel blurted out that he did know me? It seemed more likely he would not do this, however, so I said, “Lord Kes­trel?” in a confused sort of way that left the door open to recognition later if necessary.

  “He works with my father at Whitehall, and lives nearby.’’

  “It is strange he stays overnight then.”

  “He plans to return to London tomorrow morning. Something has come up.”

  “I see. I hope there isn’t any trouble.”

  “No, just some government business.”

  She opened the door of her clothespress to reveal a smarter collection of gowns than I anticipated. A few compliments brought forth a smile.

  “I live in London. I’m my father’s hostess there,” she said. “I don’t dress up at home. Papa says it puts the constituents off for me to dress too grandly. If I’d known Kestrel was coming ...”

  “How about this one?” I said, selecting a dashing blue crepe gown, cut to the latest fashion. “Do I have time to bathe? I’m covered in dust from our ride.”

  “Dinner is nearly ready. You’ll have to make do with a quick washup.”

  She called for a basin of hot water and left me alone to tend to my toilette. While I washed, brushed my hair into a basket of curls, and donned the pretty blue gown, I could hardly contain my mirth to think of Kestrel’s shock when he saw me. The fit of the gown was far from perfect, being too loose and to short, but it was passable. I had more important worries than the fit of a gown. I must speak first when Kestrel was introduced, to let him know we two were strangers. When I was prepared, I went into the hall and saw Miss Longville just coming from Ronald’s room. She wore a frown.

  “How is he?” I enquired, with all the solicitude of a mother hen for her brood.

  “He seems fine.”

  “Then I shan’t look in till after dinner. I have delayed you too long already.” Ronald couldn’t have heard her say Kestrel was remaining overnight, or he would be less than fine. These brain fevers are obliging. He would have a relapse after dinner.

  Kestrel’s reaction was all I could wish for. He would have had me excommunicated on the spot if he could. He nearly choked on his sherry when I entered the sa­loon with Miss Longville, while I was as calm under fire as a diplomat telling lies. When he recovered, he wore the stiff face of a stranger.

  “This must be Lord Kestrel,” I smiled, and went to shake Sir Herbert’s hand.

  “That is my father, Sir Herbert,” Miss Longville told me.

  “Delighted to meet you, Sir Herbert,” I said, and sized him up swiftly as we exchanged a few pleasant­ries. He wore the disguise of a country squire whose main interest was his herd of sheep. Working at White­hall was mere duty, to judge by his conversation, but he didn’t fool me for a minute. His blue eyes were as sharp as needles.

  “And this must be Lord Kestrel,” I said, when Miss Longville took me along to meet him. “Now that I see you more closely, I see you aren’t quite old enough to be Miss Longville’s papa, unless you had married quite young,” I told him artlessly.

  Kestrel bowed briefly. “Miss Mathieson” is all he said. Not even “Happy to make your acquaintance.”

  Miss Longville latched herself on to Kestrel’s arm and led him to a sofa to finish the sherry before dinner, which left me with Sir Herbert.

  “Your daughter tells me you work at Whitehall,” I said leadingly.

  “A man must do what he can during these troubled times. When we get Boney put away, I’ll come back and get on with my real work. Are you interested in sheep at all, Miss Mathieson?”

  “I am interested in everything,” I said, planning to revert to Boney at the first opportunity. No such op­portunity arose during the whole time I was alone with him. What we discussed, by which I mean he spoke and I listened, was his plan to cross his own Romney rams with some Rambouillet ewes he hoped to get his hands on after the war. To hear him talk, his sole in­terest in the war was to get hold of those Rambouillets. It seemed this French sheep was a fine-wool animal, whereas his Romneys were long, coarse wool. Why these two breeds should be crossed was of no interest to me, nor you either, I daresay.

  Not till we sat around the table did any other matter than sheep come up. Naturally, the meal was lamb, but welcome for all that. Before Sir Herbert could start tell­ing us what breed we were eating, I spoke up. “Miss Longville tells me you work with her papa at Whitehall, Lord Kestrel,” I said, and smiled innocently across the table.

  He gave me a look that went through me like a knife and replied, “That’s righ
t. Excellent lamb, Sir Herbert. Your own?”

  For five minutes there was no talk worth listening to. I have attended spinsters’ wakes that were livelier than that dinner party. I eased back to Boney via the back door. “When do you think we will see the last of Bon­aparte, and you can get those Rambouillet rams, Sir Herbert?”

  “Ewes, madam. I have rams aplenty. These are trou­bled times,” he said sadly. “The whole coast feels as if it were under siege, with only the Channel between us and Boney. I hope he don’t come during the week, while I am in London. My steward has his orders, but I would prefer to be here myself. I’m afraid of damage to my flock.” He was as cunning at returning to his sheep as I at avoiding them.

  “What you ought to do is leave your daughter at home, Sir Herbert,” Kestrel suggested, with an admir­ing glance at the provincial.

  “Nel is too valuable to me in London. I need a host­ess since my good lady passed away.” Nel scowled at her papa. Was it possible the provincial would have preferred being buried in the country? “She’s better off where I can keep an eye on her,” he added.

  “You can’t expect your daughter to fill that role for long. Some young fellow will steal her away from you,” Kestrel warned. Again his eyes lingered on Miss Long­ville, who glared at her father. Sir Herbert’s words and her reaction hinted at a liaison that had the father’s dis­approval.

  I turned a curious glance toward the blushing beauty and said, “Are you satisfied with such a paltry role in life, Miss Longville? I would not be satisfied arranging dinner parties after spending the last few years much more interestingly. My nephew and I are just returned from the Orient, Sir Herbert,” I said.

  “Ah yes. Our Karakul comes from there. A beautiful tight fur, if you skin them at a young age, but the meat is tough, I believe.”

  “They cook the meat over an open fire, and it is excellent,” I replied, undaunted. “Of course, most foods are cooked over an open fire. In the mountains of Lebanon, they actually eat the flesh raw. Just skin the animal and eat it.”

  “That sounds mighty unappealing to me,” Sir Her­bert scowled.

  “I daresay one gets accustomed to anything. Riding camels, living in a tent. Mind you, some of the tents are quite lovely, and very comfortable. I had one lined with satin.”

  “Living in a tent sounds horrid!” Miss Longville frowned. “You must have suffered great deprivations, Miss Mathieson.”

  “Great deprivation, and yet at times, more luxury than you can imagine. I shall never forget entering Pa­sha Suliman’s marble palace, to find him reclining on a crimson sofa, surrounded by hundreds of guards, all with their swords drawn. That whole trip glows in my memory. It was at the time of the Ramadan, that is, the ninth month of the Mohammedan year, of course, which is holy for them. The whole city ablaze with lights at night, and in the bazaars some of the people poured coffee on the ground before me.”

  “Whatever for?” Miss Longville enquired.

  “Why, it is a mark of respect!”

  “It sounds more like an insult to me! Why, it might have destroyed your gown.”

  Kestrel’s eyelids drooped lazily. “Miss Mathieson obviously speaks ex cathedra on oriental matters, Miss Longville. Did you wear gowns in the desert, Miss Mathieson?”

  Miss Longville snickered into her fist at the image of me in my petticoats. I didn’t take up Kestrel’s childish challenge, but went on to tell them a few of my more outstanding memories. When the dessert arrived, I re­alized I had run on longer than I intended. “But I don’t want to bore you,” I said, with an arch glance to Kes­trel, who couldn’t have looked more bored had he tried. His eyelids were nearly closed. He didn’t want me up­setting the torpor of that somnolent party.

  “It saves us a trip to hear your lecture,” he said. “Miss Mathieson gives lectures on her experiences abroad,” he added to Miss Longville, who hadn’t even the normal curiosity to enquire where, or when. “I saw her posters in London.”

  “I shall not be lecturing in Hythe,” I said. “If you are interested in the matter, my book is probably avail­able here. It is called A Gentlewoman’s Memoirs of the Orient.”

  “A bargain at ten shillings,” Lord Kestrel added, but his look suggested the bargain was in not having to listen to me. I really hadn’t planned to run on quite so long.

  After dessert, we ladies retired and left the gentlemen to their port. I longed to stay behind, but Miss Long­ville reminded me that I was to look in on Ronald. She went upstairs with me, which made any interesting con­versation impossible.

  “My, you do look peaked!” I exclaimed when I en­tered Ronald’s room, and went on to give him a hint he must quit improving. “You’ll end up having to remain overnight like Lord Kestrel if we aren’t careful.”

  He caught on at once, and sighed wearily against the pillows. Miss Longville looked at his empty tray, betraying a sound appetite not usually associated with invalids. “You’ve gone and eaten red meat, Ronald,” I scolded. “You know you shouldn’t when you’re having one of your attacks.”

  “Shall I send for a doctor?” our hostess enquired.

  “English doctors have very little notion how to treat Ronald’s ailment. In the Orient they have a herbal rem­edy. Lacking that, rest is the best thing.”

  “Then you must stay overnight,” Miss Longville of­fered, not with alacrity or joy, but grudgingly.

  She sat down to wait till the gentlemen were through with their port. She struck me as the sort of girl who preferred the company of men to ladies. Her conver­sation was all directed to Ronald. “Miss Mathieson has been entertaining us with tales of your travels,” she said. “It sounds very exciting.”

  “We’ve had a few interesting experiences,” he al­lowed modestly. “In fact, from the moment we were shipwrecked off Rhodes and had to spend the night in a cave, the last three years have been an unending va­riety of novelty. I think the most hair-raising experience we had was the time of our visit to Palmyra. We had to befriend all the tribes—Ishmael Aga, chief of the Delibash, and Mohanna el Fadel, chief of all the Anizi tribes. Bribed them all, and still our guides deserted us in the middle of the desert. Prince Nasar, Mohanna’s son, was the scoundrel who turned coat on us.”

  Miss Longville showed enough interest that he con­tinued for a generous length of time with tales of pashas and sheikhs, till I began to see that one could get too much of that sort of thing. I would curb my reminis­cences in future. Ronald’s ranting sounded a good deal like showing off to the provincial. When Miss Longville figured Kestrel was free, she excused herself and went below. I stayed behind with Ronald for a moment.

  “Throwing your bonnet at the shepherdess, are you?” I teased.

  “She’s lovely, isn’t she?”

  “Charming, but Kestrel is running you a close race. You noticed how she hotfooted it out of here when she thought he would be free?”

  Ronald gave me a sly smile and changed the topic. “How was dinner?”

  “A perfect nightmare of boredom.”

  “What opinion did you pick up of Sir Herbert?”

  “He’s as big a rogue as Prince Nasar. You’d think to hear him he hadn’t a thing on his mind but sheep. He doesn’t reveal a word of his real activities. I must find an opportunity to get Kestrel in private and see what he plans to do. Kestrel, I fear, isn’t on to his curves.”

  “If you can get him away from Miss Longville, that is.”

  So that was the meaning behind his sly smile! Ronald thought I had Kestrel in mind as a flirt for myself. “You should know me better, after all these years.”

  “Oh, I know you’ll detach him from her and have him around your thumb eventually, but he don’t wind as easily as most, does he?”

  “Pokers don’t wind at all, and that is not what I meant! She is welcome to Kestrel.”

  Ronald didn’t continue this pointless subject, but re­sumed business. “I have a view of the rear of the estate and the stables from my window. I kept a watch during dinner,
but didn’t see anyone come.”

  “No matter if they had come. Sir Herbert wasn’t out of our sight for a moment, and Kestrel is with him now. When we must be on guard is after the family retire. It will be early—it’s that sort of establishment. After I return below, Ronald, you have a look around upstairs and find Sir Herbert’s bedchamber. If the coast is clear, go in and have a look for clues. If you’re caught, say your headache is killing you, and you were looking for a headache powder. Lay it on thick, mind. We don’t want them suspecting. Sir Herbert’s servants might be in on it as well.”

  “What do you think I’ve been doing the past hour? I’ve found Sir Herbert’s chamber. There was nothing in it but his estate accounts and a pile of books about sheep.”

  “He hides his activities behind sheep. A wolf in sheep’s clothing is what he is. The more interesting things must be in his office downstairs. I’ll try my hand at it later tonight. Now I must go. Keep an eye on the rear window.’’

  I darted out, back downstairs to rejoin the dull little party, which I would not enliven with one word about any place east of Dover, not if they all fell asleep in their chairs.

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  When I returned below, the room looked as though Madame Tussaud had brought her traveling wax museum to call. Three inert figures sat on chairs, staring dumbly into the distance. Kestrel would have run out and hung himself had he realized what an expression of relief descended on his features.

  “Ah, here is Miss Mathieson!” he exclaimed joy­fully. “How is your secretary, Miss Mathieson? Feeling a little better, I hope?”

  “About the same, I fear. He is suffering from a fever contracted—” I came to a screaming halt. Not one word of the East! “Contracted a while ago,” I concluded.

  Kestrel eased into a smile. “Something he picked up in the desert, is it?”

  “Very likely.”

  Sir Herbert came to life and picked up a magazine. Miss Longville stared at us, mute as a picture on the wall, then strolled to the window, where she seemed wrapped up in thought.