Memoirs of a Hoyden by Joan Smith Page A

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