Emily and the Dark Angel (23 page)

“If you join the hunt on Tuesday, will you ride Nelson, Emily? If so, you should let Christian know soon enough to allow him time to settle for another ride. It’s his livelihood.”

“You do not need to lecture me on proper behavior, Mr. Verderan.”

“Of course not,” he said, fighting down an urge to fold her into his arms and soothe her cares away. “I merely wanted to offer to ride Nelson myself on Tuesday, if necessary. That way, you could release Christian now. And since Randal will probably ride, he could take the other horse—Oak-apple, I believe.”

She was flustered and perplexed again. “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Verderan,” she said with a frown. “I’m just not sure—”

“If it’s fair? You’re more meticulous about these things than most men. As I understand it, you can sell the horses any way you wish. You could even accept five hundred guineas for the whole string here and now.”

“Five hundred!” she gasped.

“Yes.”

“No.”

“As you will. Do I get to ride Nelson, then?”

“No, I do,” Emily snapped.

He smiled, feeling the distinct possibility of winning her spread through him like brandy. “Excellent,” he said. “You’re going to make me very happy.”

She went bright pink, but made no attempt at a rebuttal and beat a hasty retreat. He watched her until she was out of sight.

Emily set a blistering pace during the walk back to Grantwich Hall until Junia protested. “Emily! I consider myself in prime case for someone my age, but I’m winded.”

Emily immediately slowed almost to a crawl. In fact, crawling into a hole for a month or two seemed very attractive.

“Piers Verderan,” guessed Junia. “I wish you would make up your mind and either put the poor man out of his misery or make us all happy.”

“I don’t even know why everyone is so set on the match. A less likely couple is hard to imagine.”

“The Violet Tart and Hector Marshalswick,” said Junia promptly, startling a spurt of laughter out of Emily.

“I give you that, but truly, it’s like an eagle and a dove. We have nothing in common.”

“You will grow together,” Junia said. “You will learn to fly high and he will learn to enjoy the comforts of the dovecote.”

Emily stopped and looked at Junia. “That doesn’t make any sense. Eagles eat doves.”

“Doesn’t, does it? But it’s a pretty fancy. So, what are you going to do?”

“Wait until Tuesday. It all comes down to the first Quorn meet. If I ride the hunt, I’ll marry him. If I do,” she added morosely, “I’ll have to.”

Junia demanded an explanation and as soon as she had it she looked very pleased. “Admirable. By luck or genius, Lady Randal has hit upon the very thing. If you don’t ride the hunt, you don’t deserve him, anyway.”

“It is hardly a proof of moral value,” Emily protested.

“No, but it’s a test of courage.”

“And what test is he to pass?” Emily demanded.

“He’s already passed, I think. Why do you assume,” demanded Junia with unusual severity, “that it’s easy for a man like him, or any man, to lay himself open to a woman, to be vulnerable? Just because he puts on a bold face, do not assume that he cannot be hurt.”

“I never asked him to,” Emily protested.

“No, but you could appreciate the way he’s trying to handle fate. I think it is time for me to tell you more about Piers Verderan.”

 

 

On Monday, the first of November, Verderan, Chart, Harry, and Corny set off to the first meet of the season, a meet of the Cottesmore pack. The four men were on hacks, their favorite hunters having gone up at first light so as to be rested and fresh for the run. Lacking the grooms to ride spares, the trio were depending on one horse each for the day, but Verderan had sent three horses ahead. He would start out on a grey called Thorwick. In case of a particularly hard run he had Ulysses to change to and, in case of an easier day, Beelzebub. The grooms who rode them would keep in touch with the hunt without pushing the horses and would come up if summoned.

It was the sort of day hunters dream of, clear and sunny but without any frost. There was only a light breeze and the sky was virtually cloudless.

At the meet they found all the excitement of the first real day of hunting. The black, white, and tan hounds were milling ready, tails wagging, controlled by their huntsman and whippers-in.

The greats were there—Lord Lonsdale, of course, as he was the Master of the Cottesmore; a party from Belvoir including Beau Brummell; Alvanley, Sefton, Jersey, Althorpe, and Quarley Wilson; Assheton-Smith was there, though his hounds wouldn’t have their first run until the next day.

There were a number of Blackcoats, or parsons, and many Browncoats, or farmers, and local professionals. There were, of course, the usual body of graziers and tradesmen in their blue coats, led by their longtime leader, John Marriot. But the vast majority were in the traditional gentlemanly pink.

There was even the famous chimney sweep, in his tall black hat and waving the symbol of his trade, a brush. He was hailed and welcomed by all. Hunting, after all, was a sport for anyone with a horse, and on the field only riding counted.

Dick Christian rode easily among the throng on Wallingford. As he had said, it was a promising horse if a little narrow in the shoulders. As he worked his way around he would drop a word as to who to approach if anyone thought the beast promising. There were always plenty of people interested in a horse ridden by him, hoping that by purchasing such a horse they would magically be transformed into such a gifted rider.

Among the high spirits, someone started to sing of the famous Billesdon-Coplow run of 1800—twenty-eight miles which weeded out the men from the boys and left Thomas Assheton-Smith famous for being first in at the end, even though in the end the fox had won free. Soon all joined in:

But Lonsdale cut short the chorus and moved his hounds out. The nearly two hundred riders followed after, making their way to the first covert, where they hoped to find a fox. It was now nearly noon, but early that morning the earth-stoppers had been all around this area, stopping up the entrances to the foxes’ holes, in the hope that at least one charley would take refuge in this covert.

At the chosen spot, a spinney with plenty of ground cover, the hounds were thrown in and eagerly began to draw. The riders waited. Some dismounted and took a little liquid refreshment. Others hovered around the covert, hoping to see the fox break and call the halloo to alert the Master and the hounds.

Then suddenly, a red flash, a halloo, and the dismounted hurry into the saddle. The hounds are gathered at the spot where the fox broke and are cast to find the scent. Soon the best of them have it. Baying, they stream like a cream and gold tide across the field after the fleeing fox.

Immediately the horsemen follow, keeping behind but up. The fox slips under a brush fence. The hounds push through. The riders must leap or search for a gate.

The hunt is on.

 

 

There was no direct evidence of the hunt at Grantwich Hall, but everyone was aware of it. Sir Henry was in a terrible mood and Emily was obsessed by the morrow’s decision.

What Junia had told her of Verderan’s childhood had both shocked and touched her. She could imagine all too well the running battle between the spring-steel nature of Verderan and his despotic grandfather. Old Lord Templemore would have started with bluster but gone on to harsher and harsher measures, determined in the end to break what he could not mold.

And perhaps in some way he had succeeded in that, for the man today was surely not the person who would have grown from a happy youth. The flaunting of Society, the anger, the killing—these, she was sure, were all Templemore’s work.

On the other hand, she had to admit that he had exhibited little of his harsher side to her. He was unconventional. He challenged where others would accept. But he was kind and, in his own way, thoughtful.

Which was the true Piers Verderan? Which side of his nature could she expect to dominate in the coming years?

For she knew now that she wanted Piers Verderan, wanted what he could give her, but also wanted to give him the warmth that had all too often been lacking in his life. But now she had allowed herself to be worked into this corner where the only honest way to claim him was to do something outrageous—something totally against her nature and her upbringing. It was not so much that she thought it wicked to hunt, but she would have to make a spectacle of herself.

She remembered their first meeting. She had doubtless made a spectacle of herself then, but in his company it had not seemed to matter. Would that magic work again?

She had taken the first tame step by cancelling her arrangement with Dick Christian. She had still paid his fee, however, as she wasn’t sure he would find another ride at such short notice. That still left the major step to take and though her spirit was willing, her conventional sense quailed.

But she was sure Junia was correct. If she couldn’t do this, she wasn’t ready for the rarefied air of life with Piers Verderan.

It was a relief when she was told that Lord Randal and Sophie were calling, even though she expected further pressure.

It appeared not to be so.

“Emily,” said Sophie, bouncing up as soon as Emily entered the parlor. “There’s a balloon ascension!”

“Where?”

“Oh, over near Leicester, but the wind is blowing this way. I’m convinced it will come this way, so we’re out to give chase. Since we are not after foxes.”

Emily looked from Sophie to Lord Randal. “And tomorrow . . . ?”

“We ride,” he said, but did not ask her intention.

“Will you join us, Emily?” asked Sophie. “It should be fun to try to track the balloon if it should come this way.”

Anything was better than sitting around the house fretting. “Of course. Just allow me a moment to change.”

They were soon out, Emily on Corsair, scanning the sky for any sign of the balloon.

Emily hardly expected that they would see it, for there must be any number of factors in the direction of such machines, but it was a glorious day for a ride and she enjoyed showing Randal and Sophie some of the local sights.

Then, up in the sky, there was a flash of color.

“My God!” exclaimed Randal incredulously. “It’s coming.”

“Not exactly,” said Emily after a moment. “It’s heading towards Wymondham. Let’s go!”

She set her horse along a lane, choosing a route which should intercept that of the balloon. Soon they passed through a gate and across the fields.

The colored shape became larger: red, blue, and gold. Soon the tiny basket underneath could be seen, and perhaps a person waving.

They stopped to check their angle.

“Randal,” Sophie asked, bright-eyed. “How does one get to ride in a balloon?”

“Sophie,” he said with a groan, “have pity on my poor grey hairs.”

“You don’t have any, silly.”

“Little you know. Blonde hair disguises them, you know.”

Then they became aware of other sounds. A horn. A baying.

“The hunt,” Randal said. “It’s coming this way.”

“And the balloon’s coming lower,” pointed out Emily. “I do hope it doesn’t crash.”

“They have to come down somewhere,” said Randal. “It’ll be the devil to pay, though, if it comes down in the middle of the hunt.”

They immediately set off again at full speed, trying to anticipate the landing place of the beautiful object decorated with pictures of sailing ships and sea monsters.

Suddenly a red flash alerted them to the fox, hurtling desperately across the field, the hounds audible a mere few fields back.

“Keep out of his way,” warned Randal. “Give him his chance. And watch for the hounds. In fact, I judge this to be as good a place as any to watch both hunt and balloon descension.”

The hunt swept over a rise to their right, hounds in the lead, followed closely by the Master and his men, and with some of the field not far back.

“There’s Ver!” cried Sophie.

Emily looked to see him leap a fence.

“There’s Wallingford,” said Emily, seeing the horse close behind. Then she gasped. As the horse landed, he seemed to miss his footing and went down, rolling. Christian was clear but never lost the reins. In a moment he had the horse checked and settled, remounted, and chased after the leaders.

“Surely he should take him out after such a fall,” Emily exclaimed.

“The horse looks well enough,” said Randal. “Christian won’t stop for such a little thing.”

Emily watched Wallingford with concern as they came closer, but could see no obvious damage. She was glad, however, that she, not Christian, was to ride Nelson. She would definitely sacrifice some flashy performance to save her horses from such a fall.

Such thoughts were broken off, however, when shouts signalled the sudden dropping of the balloon. The huntsman blew on his horn in a futile attempt to send the monster on its way.

The hounds gave up their proper prey to circle and bay at the descending object. Lord Lonsdale was red in the face, Verderan was laughing, and the rest of the hunt began to ride up, exclaiming at the sudden wonder in their midst.

“Come on,” said Randal, and they cantered over to where the balloonist was throwing out ropes to people to fix his craft. “We’d better make sure the purists don’t award someone his brush and mask!”

By the time they reached the balloon, however, the general spirit was one of good humor.

“By God, man,” said Lonsdale, slapping Mr. Sadler on the back. “If you’re so set on following the hunt I’ll lend you a horse next time!”

“Not at all, my lord,” said the man, not much abashed at the company he found himself in. “I’d be scared to death to be riding one of these mettlesome steeds.”