Showjumpers (2 page)

“Where is Patricia?” James asked Frances.

“Your stepmother is on her way back from Paris,” the maid replied. “And your father—”

She was interrupted by the deep sonorous boom of a hunting horn that made Georgie spin around. Across the green lawns of the Kirkwood gardens, darting in between bushes and leaping over hedges, came the fox hounds. The pack was running with their tongues lolling out and tails held erect. They must have been at the end of a run because their tan, black and white coats were covered in burrs and mud.

When they reached the elegant fountain in the forecourt the hounds began to leap straight in, some of them lowering themselves to sink down beneath the water and cool off, others standing on all fours in the shallow fountain, lapping away at the water. The horn sounded again and Georgie saw a man appear astride a magnificent grey hunter. He wore a red jacket that signified that he was the master of the hounds. He had the horn in one hand and with the other he kept a light grasp on the reins as he rode directly down the middle of the carefully mown lawn, jumping metre-high topiary hedges as if they weren’t even there.

“Ohmygod!” Georgie was stunned.

“I know!” James nodded. “Just as well Patricia isn’t here. She’d give him a telling-off for galloping across the front lawn like that.”

The man cantered the horse across the pebbled forecourt and pulled his mount up right in front of Georgie and James. When he vaulted down to stand beside them, he towered over James. He was as solidly built as his hunter and his red hair was greying at the temples beneath his velvet riding hat. He pulled off his brown leather gloves and shook hands with James in a brisk fashion.

“The hounds had a good run today,” the man said. “They’re in good shape for the hunt tomorrow. I assume you’re joining us at ten to throw off?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” James confirmed.

“Hunting?” Georgie was horrified.

“You don’t hunt?” The hunt master frowned.

“I can’t even believe you’d ask me that!” Georgie said. “Chasing after a poor little fox on horseback and killing it like that! It’s cruel and barbaric.”

“Now wait a minute…” the man tried to say.

But Georgie was in full swing. “I think it’s pathetic. All those dogs set against one poor fox as some sort of ghastly entertainment.”

“But—” the hunt master tried again.

“It’s outlawed in Britain, you know,” Georgie continued. “I’d have thought America would ban it too – like any civilised society.”

This last sentence was something Georgie had heard in Social Studies the week before and she was quite pleased to be able to use it to bold effect.

The hunt master sighed. “Are you finished?”

Georgie nodded emphatically.

“Right,” the hunt master said. “Firstly, they’re not called dogs. They must always be referred to as hounds. Secondly, we are not hunting foxes. No fox has ever been hunted on Kirkwood land – we hunt an aniseed lure and no animals are killed for our pleasure. And as for being civilised, I find it is always good manners to greet your host before you begin to rain torrents of abuse on them for crimes they have not committed.”

Georgie felt her stomach do a flip-flop. She’d just made a major mistake.

“Georgie,” James sighed, “I didn’t get the chance to introduce you. This is my father.”

The huntsman extended his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, young lady,” he said in a tone that indicated it was anything but. “I’m Randolph Kirkwood.”

M
rs Kirkwood arrived home from Paris late that afternoon. Georgie noticed that James and Kennedy greeted their stepmother in the same detached manner that James had used with his father on the front lawn, as if they were mere acquaintances rather than family.

Patricia Kirkwood swept into the house wearing high heels and a sharply tailored black suit, her jet-black hair swept up into a chignon and lengths of gold chains roped around her neck. She was a consultant for a major fashion house in Paris and divided her time between her office in France and the Maryland mansion.

“Working in fashion must be so glamorous,” Georgie said when they were introduced.

“It’s a juggling act,” Patricia replied. “I can be in jodhpurs on Friday riding across our estate, and back in haute couture gowns on Monday choosing fabrics for the new collections.”

Arden and Tori, who were both fashion-obsessed, made sure they were sitting next to Patricia at dinner and spent the whole time quizzing her about fashion trends.

Kennedy looked outrageously smug when Mrs Kirkwood announced that she would be taking her stepdaughter to see the runway shows next season. James however, seemed less impressed.

“I think she hates it really,” he told Georgie as he watched his stepmother flitting in and out of the dining room, her mobile phone glued to her ear, throughout the meal. “All the endless runway shows and high heels, the air kisses and back-stabbing. She works for Fabien, that French designer who wears the ridiculously big shoulder pads? Patricia is his muse. Apparently he adores her and can’t design the range without her – but the rest of his staff can’t stand her. They call her Hamburger Patty because she’s American. I think the only reason she keeps doing the job is to avoid us. She’s hardly ever home and when she is, she’s out hunting.”

It seemed that hunting was an obsession for the Kirkwoods. Patricia had returned from Paris to prepare for the hunt the next day and during dinner she was constantly distracted with preparations for tomorrow’s activities, snapping orders at various members of staff.

Mr Kirkwood, meanwhile, never appeared at dinner at all. “He’s down at the kennels with the hounds,” Frances told Mrs Kirkwood when she asked after her husband. Georgie was relieved to hear it. After her misguided outburst she didn’t really fancy sitting down to dinner with him.

“Why didn’t you tell me he was your dad?” she groaned to James.

“I was having too much fun watching you,” James grinned. “Dad was totally stunned to have someone disagree with him. It doesn’t happen very often.”

Neither Mr or Mrs Kirkwood seemed to show much interest in Georgie – or in any of the teenagers, including their own children.

“This house is so big,” James told Georgie, “I came home once for mid-term break and it took them the whole week to realise I was even here!”

He’d meant the story to be funny, but Georgie thought how awful it would be to come back to an empty mansion and for no one even to notice you were home.

James had given her a quick tour of the ground floor before dinner and Georgie had been overwhelmed by the luxury and size of the mansion.

“Don’t leave me behind,” she told James as she trailed after him. “I may never find my way out of here on my own.”

“Guests have been known to disappear,” James agreed with a wink.

The maze of corridors was so confusing that when it was time to go to bed, Georgie had to rely on Frances as a guide. Georgie followed the clack-clack of the maid’s court shoes on the parquet floor as she led the way. At the end of the main hall they climbed the grand staircase that led to the west wing of the house. Georgie’s guest room was the fifth on the left and had its own bathroom and dressing room.

“You’ll find some of Kennedy’s old hunting clothes in the wardrobe,” Frances said as she turned down the bed. “She told me you would need something to wear for tomorrow.”

Like the other rooms in the house, Georgie’s guest room was completely over the top. It was as if several interior designers had been hired at once and had fought it out with no clear winner. The chairs were cloaked in animal prints – leopard, zebra and tiger stripes, the cushions were floral, the furniture was French antique and there was baroque wallpaper hung with Chinese tapestry. If this was how Patricia Kirkwood decorated her house, Georgie shuddered to think what she might put on a catwalk!

In the dressing room she searched through jods and jackets hanging on the rails, choosing herself a suitable outfit for tomorrow. Georgie had never hunted before, but she knew that young riders were meant to wear tweeds and thankfully there were several suitable things to wear here. She selected a buff tweed hunting coat and cream jodhpurs, both of which looked like they would fit, then she rummaged around in the cupboard and found a hunting stock that was the same shade of cream as the jodhpurs. Georgie decided she would wear her long black boots to complete the outfit. Then she laid them all carefully on a zebra-print chair, ready and waiting for her.

A heavy mist hung over the estate the next morning. Georgie looked out her bedroom window and was greeted by the magical sight of horses and riders in scarlet coats milling about on the front lawn. By the time she had showered, pulled on her hunting clothes and raced downstairs there were already nearly a hundred riders gathered on the pebble forecourt, their horses breathing steam from their nostrils as they waited for the hunt to throw off.

The horses were classic hunters, stocky types with thick strong legs and chests that were deep through the girth. Georgie loved the way they had been clipped so that it looked as if their top and bottom halves actually belonged to two entirely different horses, joined together in the middle.

The riders all looked far more dressed up than Georgie had expected and despite the early morning hour they were drinking port, sipping away at the stirrup cups that were handed to them by servants carrying silver trays. Patricia Kirkwood, dressed in a black velvet hunting coat and lace cravat, was holding court amid a group of shrill and overbearing riders who were behaving more like they were at a cocktail party than a hunt.

“Avert your eyes!” There was a whisper in Georgie’s ear and she turned around to see Damien Danforth standing behind her. “If you stare at one of those gorgons directly you could turn to stone,” he deadpanned.

“Watch it – they might hear you!” Georgie was taken aback.

“Who cares?” Damien sniffed. “If you had to spend ten minutes in a room with Patricia’s awful friends you’d see I’m simply telling the truth.”

He gave Georgie a dark look. “I blame you, you know. You British were the ones who invented all this hunting nonsense and made it seem classy. Now every nouveau riche moron in Maryland wants to join the Kirkwood hunt. Honestly, I don’t think half of them know one end of a horse from the other.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Georgie smiled.

“I’m not!” Damien insisted. He pointed to a rider seated on an enormous dark brown hunter. “That’s Heatley Fletcher,” he said. “Local lawyer and multi-millionaire. Do you notice anything odd about his horse?”

Heatley’s big brown hunter stood out with its hot-pink leg bandages.

“A bit flamboyant,” Georgie admitted.

“You know why?” Damien whispered. “Heatley is famous for turning up at a hunt and not even recognising his own horse. He’s had to be asked twice this season to dismount because he got on the wrong one. Finally his groom came up with the solution of putting coloured bandages on Heatley’s hunter so he won’t embarrass himself any more.”

“Of course,” Damien added, “the bandages don’t stop Heatley from falling off. He usually plummets at the first hedge because he can’t actually ride.”

“He can’t ride?” Georgie was horrified. “Then what’s he doing hunting?”

Damien sighed. “Being invited on the Kirkwood hunt is like being invited to the
Vanity Fair
party at the Oscars. So they all come. And they all drop like flies at the first spar.”

“You seem to know this place and the Kirkwoods pretty well,” Georgie said.

Damien gave her a long-suffering look. “James and I met at boarding school when we were nine years old. He’s one of my best friends,” he paused, “although I often wonder how James turned out the way he did…”

“Talking about me?”

It was James. Georgie had no idea how long he’d been standing there behind them.

“I was just telling her the Kirkwood secrets,” Damien said.

“Don’t,” James warned him. “You’ll put her off!” Smiling at Georgie, he clasped his arms possessively around her waist. Georgie was shocked by this sudden public display of affection.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go to the stables and I’ll introduce you to your horse.”

The stables turned out to be utterly beautiful. Patricia Kirkwood had clearly never thought of bringing her fashion sense outside so the interior was mercifully untouched. The stable block had bare flagstone floors and high-vaulted ceilings with wooden beams.

James led Georgie to one of the loose boxes on the far right-hand side. “You’ve been given Belvedere,” he told her, unbolting the top of the stall door.

Belvedere was a heavily built brown horse, part-draught with a broad white blaze and a face that was so immense and solid that the throat lash of his bridle could barely fit around his broad cheeks. Still, his eyes were bright and kind, and he met Georgie’s gaze keenly. His ears pricked forward as she approached him and took his reins.

“He’s lovely,” she said. “He has such an honest face.”

“Belvedere’s a reliable jumper,” James assured her as he legged her up. “I would have preferred to put you on something with a bit more class like Tinkerbell, but Dad said she’s not for first-timers.”

Georgie suspected that what Mr Kirkwood really meant was that he didn’t consider her good enough for his best horses, so he’d stuck her with a draught horse. Still, she wasn’t complaining. She really liked Belvedere, although sitting astride him felt weird after riding Belle. His heavy physique bulged out beneath her, the barrel of his belly forcing her legs to stick out like she was doing the splits.

As she lumbered back across the lawn trying to get used to Belvedere’s cumbersome trot, Georgie caught sight of the showjumperettes. Kennedy and her friends were mounted up on elegant, well-bred hunters and all of them wore sleek black riding coats with frilled stocks at their throats and top hats instead of helmets. Next to them on her draught horse in her borrowed country tweeds Georgie looked like an unsophisticated hick. She could see from Kennedy’s smirk that this had been her intention all along.

“Interesting choice of outfit,” she said to Georgie. “Beige is really your colour, isn’t it?”

“Thanks, Kennedy,” Georgie replied sarcastically. “Oh, and by the way, Abraham Lincoln called – he wants his top hat back.”

Kennedy’s expression turned fierce. “You obviously know nothing about hunting. If you get in Dad’s way today, he’ll feed you to the hounds.”

“Calm down, Kennedy,” James said, “I was just about to tell her the rules.”

He smiled at Georgie. “There’s really only one rule. My dad is the master of the hunt and you must never overtake him on the field. Those other guys with him in red coats are Dad’s henchmen – the whippers-in, and the field masters. They’ll try and boss you around, but don’t worry, just do as I say and no matter what, always stick with me.

OK?”

Georgie didn’t have time to reply. Randolph Kirkwood raised the horn to his lips, giving a long, low blast. Then he set off at a brisk trot, the hounds following obediently at the heels of his great, grey hunter. The pack scampered across the pebbled driveway, heading to the right of the house towards a low stone bridge that crossed a small stream, leading out into the pasture beyond. They kept alongside their master in tight formation until they reached the field, and then they began to fan out, casting for the scent.

Two hounds to the far left of the field began baying, and soon the others had joined in their howling chorus. Randolph Kirkwood gave another toot on his horn to alert the riders behind him and then the hunt was off and galloping.

The hounds covered the ground far more swiftly than Georgie had anticipated. They kept pace with Randolph Kirkwood’s hunter, who flew the first obstacle, a clipped hedge at the far end of the field, without hesitation. Dedicated to the pursuit of the scent, the hounds squirmed and thrashed their way through the hedge. Several men in red coats followed, along with Mrs Kirkwood, who jumped the fence with expert finesse.

With the competent riders over the hedge, the rest of the field surged in a mad rush. Just as Damien had predicted, Heatley Fletcher was one of the first to fall. Georgie saw his big brown hunter skid to a halt in front of the hedge so that Heatley flew over his mount’s neck, landing face-first in the mud.

Heatley’s horse caused a collision with three other riders, two of whom also promptly fell off. Georgie watched the pile-up in astonishment.

“Total carnage!” Damien said with a grin as he rode up alongside her.

“I told Dad we should ride at the front,” Kennedy whined. “Now we’re stuck behind the losers.”

“Out of the way, please!” James was yelling at the riders dithering about and blocking the path in front of the hedge. He rode his liver chestnut, a pretty mare named Bambi, at an astonishingly gutsy gallop. If things went wrong and he came to grief it would make for a very nasty fall, but James’ confident style made it clear that he had no intention of either stopping or falling. Damien, Andrew, Kennedy, Tori and Arden all followed his lead, pushing in to take their turns over the hedge until only Georgie was left. She looked at the hedge. It was a fair-sized jump, probably a metre high. “Hurry up, Georgie!” James called to her. “We’re going to lose the hounds at this rate!”

Georgie took a deep breath and shortened up the reins. “Come on, Belvedere,” she pressed the big brown hunter on and rode him hard at the hedge.

At the last minute Belvedere tried to swerve away, but Georgie held him steady with her legs, growling to urge him on again. The hesitation meant they were now on a bad stride and Georgie considered pulling the horse off. Then she remembered what her old riding instructor Lucinda Milwood always said at moments like this: “When in doubt, kick on!” And so she did, giving a firm dig with both heels. Belvedere pulled himself together, knowing that his rider meant business. He chipped in a last-minute stride and managed to get them over the hedge with Georgie securely on his back.