Memoirs of a Hoyden (9 page)

“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 right. 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 Six

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.

Kestrel moved closer on the sofa for some private conversation. We had to keep our voices low because of Sir Herbert. “Did you ever come across this paralysis of the tongue during your travels?” he asked.

“No, sir. This, if I am not mistaken, is a peculiarly English provincial disease. Possibly contracted from too close an association with sheep.”

“There is something positive to be said about shrews after all. At least they don’t hesitate to use their tongues.”

“As you so kindly imply, mine has never suffered from lack of exercise. I would like an opportunity to talk to you in private, if possible.” This time Kestrel didn’t look as though I meant to throw myself on his neck and make an improper proposal, as he did at the hop-picker’s cottage. Instead he glanced to see if anyone would notice our departure. Before we could get away, the door knocker sounded. We both jumped to rigid attention, ready for trouble.

The new addition to the party certainly didn’t look dangerous. He was introduced as Mr. Harcourt, a neighbor, and he proved to be a younger version of Sir Herbert—already portly at twenty-six or seven, red of face, boring of conversation, unstylish in toilette. Before long, he turned a yearning eye in Miss Longville’s direction. The papa obviously approved the match, as he suggested Nel, the name he called his daughter, show Alfred the new
Sheepbreeders’ Monthly
that had apparently arrived that day in the post. “An excellent article on sheeprot,” he added as further inducement to romance. Not that Alfred needed it.