Memoirs of a Hoyden by Joan Smith

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