Memoirs of a Hoyden (5 page)

“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. While 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.