Memoirs of a Hoyden Read Free Page B

my lecture tour set. When I spotted a dark hulk ahead of us, I pointed it out. “What is that?”
    “It looks like a hop-picker’s hut,” the groom replied.
    As we drew nearer, it proved to be slightly more than a hut. It was a small cottage, not at all prepossessing, and with no outbuildings hinting at horses, but it had a roof over it, and we all turned as one toward it. I felt a moment’s pity for the poor farmer’s wife who would have to spread her meager hospitality over so many of us. Kestrel’s concern for his jacket finally shook him out of his lethargy. He took the lead. He advanced and knocked so loudly, the door rattled. Then we waited. A moment later he knocked again, if kicking a door with a booted foot can be called knocking. Still there was no reply.
    “Are they deaf!” he exclaimed, and took hold of the handle to rattle the door loose. He strode in and bellowed ‘Hello’ a couple of times. There was no reply. “It’s empty,” he told us.
    This seemed to be the case. We all straggled into the pitch black, and still there was no sign of life. “We need a light,” he decided.
    “Ronald, go out and see if you can detach one of the carriage lamps,” I suggested.
    The groom went with him, and they soon returned, each carrying a lamp, which by good fortune were of the old detachable sort. The room we stood in was a combination dining and sitting room. It had a dusty deal table and two lopsided chairs, a lumpy horsehair sofa with half the stuffing on the floor, a sideboard, and a grate with a half-empty basket of wood beside it. “Does anyone know how to light a fire?” I enquired.
    The gentlemen exchanged startled looks at the suggestion that they should lift a finger for their own comfort. The faces soon turned toward the groom. “John Groom is wounded. Surely one of you knows how to start a fire!” I scolded. “Ronald?” He went to the grate and dumped the container of wood in.
    “You need room for a draft, and a bit of kindling or paper to get her started,” the coachman suggested. He directed Ronald to build the wood up in a certain order. I found some old newspapers which I formed into balls while the gentlemen looked on, and with a light from the lamps, we eventually got a small, smoky fire going. We received very little heat from it, however, as we all hung our coats on the chairs to dry in front of it. This left the horsehair sofa, holding three at the most, for our only seating.
    The noble gentleman was the first to avail himself of a seat, with the vicar not a step behind him. Wideman took a look around and soon legged it to grab the other spot. I cast a disparaging glance at the three rude brutes and said to Ronald, “It is a great comfort to be surrounded by gentlemen at this time of difficulty. Reassuring to know their high opinion of ladies goes beyond failing to defend her during a holdup.”
    Kestrel stared at me from his cold gray eyes, still drooping in boredom, and shuffled to his feet. “Would you care for a seat, Miss Mathieson?” he asked wearily.
    “Thank you, sir,” I replied, and with a frosty look, sat down, shivering and rapidly becoming weak from starvation.
    My companions seemed to have taken the notion that I was in charge of affairs, and asked what should be done. “We’ll need more firewood before long. And as this rain shows no sign of letting up, someone ought to go and see if there are any bedrooms or blankets in this shack.’’
    The cottage was only one story high. It had one bedroom in the back, empty save for a roll of tattered, foul-smelling blankets on the floor. Ronald brought them for my inspection. “Goat blankets,” I said, waving them away. I recognized the odor from Damascus. Kestrel’s nostrils quivered in distaste, and he fanned the air beneath his nose with his curled beaver hat. Only John Groom, whose name was in fact Mostly, availed himself of the blankets.
    “If we had some boiling water, I’d cleanse that wound properly for