by Agnes Forest
“I find that hard to believe,” Sherbet said, leaning an elbow on his horse’s saddle and examining Sawyer with confusion.
“What’s hard to believe?” Sawyer contested.
“That a man of your age and stature refuses to bite the bullet,” Rutherford said, propped against a tree and cleaning his boot.
Sawyer merely laughed to himself. Of course, there was the lady in white, but he would not mention her lest he be greeted with more laughter.
“Must I remind you cretins that my commission has only newly been purchased, and so time is still on my side?” Sawyer explained calmly.
“Ah yes. Use that excuse if you like,” Sherbet added.
The other soldiers did much the same; prepped their horses, cleaned their boots, nibbled on arrant pieces of bread and meat that had been stuffed in their saddlebags, and picked on Sawyer. It was the calm before the storm. For once they set out on the hunt, their competitiveness and ferocity would show through.
“I wouldn’t wait too long, if I was you,” one of the soldier’s chimed in. “By the end of the season, all the prime cuts of meat have already been selected and consumed, and you’ll be left with the hoofs and noses.”
It was a gruesome way to look at the whole situation, and Sawyer resented it.
“Even worse, you shall be forced to become a vegetarian entirely,” Rutherford added. “Like some abominable Indian with his curry and rice.”
Sawyer enjoyed the hunt, but he wondered if the time had not come to ride alone on Thursdays. The soldiers’ talk did not appeal to him in the least. He had once tried curried rice and enjoyed it.
“I shall wait for when the moment is right to seek a wife, gentlemen. And that’s all that I have to say about it.” The tone of his voice was measured.
His gaze caught Sherbet’s, who was still staring, and there was recognition in his gaze. Sherbet knew the real reason for Sawyer’s hesitation and it troubled him.
The band of soldiers were interrupted by the ceremonious arrival of their fox, housed in a little metal crate. The proprietor of the grounds, Percival Mont, delivered the furry target at the same time and location every Thursday. In that way, the presence of said fox could be guaranteed. If the soldiers decided of their own accord to hunt on a Wednesday, they would be bereft and fox-less. Such was the artificial nature of the hunt, but it was necessary.
“I have here the sly devil,” Percival said by way of introduction.
“Sawyer, what say you to taking the fox as a wife?” one soldier hollered.
“That fox would be much easier to keep and maintain than a wife!” another bellowed.
“Might I say, the fox is the opposite of a wife,” Sherbet mused. “Man, horse, and hound are compelled to chase a fox. With a wife, all are inclined to run in the opposite direction.”
The soldiers laughed heartily. Sawyer merely grinned, promising himself that he would never marry someone whom he chose to run away from. Percival looked frustrated. How was it that everyone present cared more for their soiled hunting boots than they did for the deliverer of the goods? It was his lot in life to be under-appreciated.
“This fox is primed and ready,” Percival said, louder in volume.
“I have a taste for bacon this morning,” Rutherford mused, purposefully ignoring Percival’s presence. This made the proprietor’s frustration even more dire.
Had it not been for Sawyer’s hound, St. John, yelping and spinning about in anticipation, the men might have sat there all day.
“I believe that it is time, gentlemen,” Sawyer said, hating to see St. John so frazzled. He imagined that Thursday was the most anticipated day of the week for his beloved mutt, and did not wish to deprive him. The other hounds were beginning to be restless too, as though sensing an oncoming storm.
“Well, I suppose,” Sherbet said, loathing that he heeded the call of hounds over his own inclination. “Mount!” he proclaimed, and tossed himself upon his poor horse. The creature would be clutched for the better part of the afternoon by Sherbet’s meaty thighs.
They were all upon their horses within moments of Sherbet’s command; returning to battle. The funny business was concluded and it was time for manly action. Ultimately, after action, there would be feasting and ale.
Percival was finally satisfied. He lifted the little cage like an offering to the gods. He then gently placed it down upon the ground - all of this routine - and checked to make sure that everyone was prepared. Each gentleman sat on his horse, watching stealthily. The dogs drooled.
Percival lifted the door to the cage with expert care, as though performing a surgery, and the fox was off, running for its life. It was a rather stealthy fox, Sawyer noted. The morning’s sport would be rigorous and challenging.
The hounds were utterly beside themselves, to the point of seeing stars, but they sat expertly trained. They must endure that one short moment awaiting command as the fox was given a head start. Otherwise, the hunt would be too easy to catch and the men would not feel satisfied. It was only when things were just out of reach that they deserved to be called men.
“Ho ha!” Sherbet cried. The hounds were released into the field, panting and smiling.
The fox darted forth onto the hillside. Its copper color was the only thing that made it distinguishable from the verdant grass. Even a brown hound could be imperceptible in the lush emerald borders of South Downs.
Sawyer was finally free. His soul was dancing; a poetic description of what seemed profane. But Sawyer always thought of fox hunting as nothing if not poetic. He and the countryside became one. The smell of woodland and fresh-cut fields, the warm glare of the sun, the vibrant colors of the spring flowers, and the pounding of his heart were timeless sensations.
Just as Sawyer was firmly in his element a minor problem occurred. It would have been fine were it another hound whom Sawyer had no acquaintance with, but it was St. John. The beloved cur trailed off and veered towards the sea. Sawyer couldn’t fathom it.
“St. John!” Sawyer protested, but the dog did not heed his call. Such odd behavior for a well-trained animal. “Go on without me,” Sawyer said to Rutherford, and steered his horse towards the errant dog’s direction. It couldn’t be prevented.
“Let it go!” Sherbet called back.
I could just as easily let go of my little sister, Sawyer thought to himself.
And with that, Sawyer took a detour, but he had to ultimately admit that crossing into the territory of South Downs would prove propitious.
Chapter Five
“Have you ever heard a story about a woman marrying for love?” Vivian had asked.
Fanny was taken aback. It was far too beautiful a morning for her charge to bring up such an odious question. Although Fanny O’Malley had remarkable wit and humor, her mind was chiseled with custom. If in her lifetime she were to see Lady Vivian raised, married to an honorable man, and ensconced in his estate, Fanny’s work on this earth would be done. The job would be complete.
“You read too many books,” Fanny replied in frustration.
“I don’t read that much,” Vivian said, wishing she could read more.
“Every day I see you in the garden, reading,” Fanny moaned, spitting out the final word like it were something that was done in Ireland. Fanny was of Scottish heritage.
“But truly, tell me what you think,” Vivian said, desiring an honest response.
“My opinion?” Fanny asked, bristling. “You don’t care for Lord Phillip.”
“Of that, you are correct,” Vivian replied.
“And you’re too young to say so.”
“Too young to say so?” Vivian asked, mildly offended.
“Indeed.” Fanny was holding her head up high and riding with confidence.
“Nonsense,” Vivian replied.
“I have been alive for a long while,” Fanny said, slowing her horse so that the gem she was about to dispense would be heeded properly. “And I know that the only call that one must heed is that of duty.
Your duty is to your father and his wishes.”
Fanny went silent, confident that she had flung pearls before swine. Nay, Vivian couldn’t be considered swine. In fact, secretly, Fanny loved the young girl desperately as if she were her own blood. That’s why she delivered her counsel so gravely.
“Leave idle fantasies to your books,” Fanny said in a more somber tone. “You’ll find that life is not akin to those books.”
Vivian noted a hint of sadness in Fanny’s voice. Had her chaperone experienced great disappointment in her own life? Surely, she must have. Vivian was young, but wise enough to know that every person embarks upon a journey that does not go to plan.
“Very well, then,” Vivian replied, not wishing to press the matter further.
The two women ventured on. The knotty bit of conversation done, they were free to let go and embrace their vivacity.
A tiny bug flew into Fanny’s mouth and they had to stop. But that was the joy of the countryside. The bugs in one’s teeth, the aches in one’s shoes, the brambles on one’s behind. Heaven.
The morning was all in all a great success. The women had ventured far and wide, but things took a turn for the worse when Fanny’s complaints about her mare came to a head. The animal was simply not behaving in the slightest and Fanny would not endure it for a moment longer.
“I must rest here,” Fanny said. “And see if I can talk some sense into the animal.” The chaperone was heaving at that point and the flush of her cheeks went from a pink rose to red carnation. She was not only considerably winded but also burning up from the inside. Could she speak a horse’s language, she would have a few choice words to share with that mare. But since she was not fluent in horse, she would use English, and the words - once she had privacy - would be scandalous.
Vivian did not like to see Fanny so flustered, but she was excited to explore the countryside on her own - something that would give her father chest pains.
“Might I go forward and come back to find you?” Vivian asked. She crossed her fingers behind her back.
Fanny thought about it. To let the girl go unattended was against her station in life. That being said, she desired privacy with her horse so that she could dish out the aforementioned expletives.
“Alright, I suppose,” Fanny replied. “But don’t go far, I warn you.”
Vivian was off in no time, and the widest, most un-mannered smile came to her face. It was un-English of her to smile so. But the feeling of the wind and the hopping and bouncing to and fro were so favorable. She imagined that it was the same sensation that a bird would experience in flight.
That enjoyment was short-lived. Upon thinking of a bird, Vivian thought of a cage. And upon thinking of a cage, she thought of her own predicament. Vivian slowed her horse and became contemplative; something that she was prone to.
She came upon a lazy pond where a deer was having a cool drink. The animal did not seem to be affrighted by either Vivian or Caelus. It went about its business, sensing that it was in good company. Vivian dismounted.
“You have done a fine job,” Vivian said to her steed, kissing the star upon his face. “I think that we will have many adventures together.” Caelus himself took a sip from the pond and eyed the deer with curiosity.
Looking about, Vivian had to wonder when was the last time that she had been alone in that way. There was always someone following, accompanying, chaperoning, etc. It was an exhausting existence that made her wonder what all the effort was for.
Would marriage amend all that? Vivian began to daydream. If she were finally wed, in a prosperous household that she could command, would everyone cease to meddle with her? Would all the watching and fretting and spying disappear? Would she be at liberty?
Vivian became tired of those weighty thoughts and craved a scone. Yes, a scone! Or a bit of bread. She was hungry, after all; the hours since breakfast had stretched on.
“Heavens,” she said to herself, knowing that supper was still far off.
There was a flurry of activity at the opposite end of the pond. A creature darted by quickly, and by the flash of copper, she suspected that it was a fox.
The animal scurried into a hole near the water’s edge, no doubt sensing its own demise. Vivian felt empathy, wishing to save it from the brutes that pursued it so. As she got up to examine the situation more closely, Vivian heard a horse approaching and was quickly deflated.
She threw herself behind a large fallen tree trunk. The skirts of her riding costume draped themselves along the wood and she stealthily pulled them down, so as not to be detected.
The sound of the horse’s hooves penetrated the ground, and Vivian could feel the thumping in her breast. Oh, mercy me, Vivian thought to herself. There could be one of two outcomes: it was either a gentleman on the hunt, or it was a ne’er-do-well on the prowl for an unsuspecting victim, such as herself. Vivian didn’t believe in the latter, but fear had been ingrained in her mind by Lord Benedict and Fanny O’Malley.
“Just breathe,” Vivian said to herself, lying prostrate behind the trunk. She heard a hound approaching and yelping, and then the horse came to a halt, a booted figure dismounting. Those boots could be heard crunching against the branches and thickets of the forested ground. Vivian merely listened, but did not budge.
“Well there, St. John,” the man’s voice said. “I must admit that I’m impressed.” The boots proceeded further towards the hole. The dog continued yelping. “Steady, now. And here I thought you were an arrant knave. But it turns out you’re the smartest of them all,” the voice went on, and Vivian became intrigued. Perhaps he wasn’t a ruffian set to steal her maidenhead. Maybe he was a gentleman.
Curiosity could be the death of her, but Vivian peeked her head above the log. She placed her two soft hands on the edge of the bark and pulled herself up. What she saw there was surprising; a man in soldier’s attire. He looked handsome enough - exceedingly handsome - but also familiar.
“As frightened as a kitten,” Sawyer said, in regards to the tremulous green eyes of the fox. There was compassion in his voice. Vivian was comforted by the sound of it.
All at once it struck her who the gentleman might be. Was it not the soldier that caught her gaze at Almack’s just the evening before? How implausible was it that he should stand before her again. And in an environment where Vivian was entirely unescorted. She could pop up and present herself? No, she would observe the remarkable intruder. In doing so, she wished to capture and remember every angle and play of light upon his face and person.
Chapter Six
Sawyer was vexed at first. When St. John went astray he felt a loss of pride. Surely, the hound had always been exceedingly good at the hunt, but that morning St. John was unfocused and Sawyer was not pleased. However, once he came upon the pond and discovered that, in truth, his hound was the most skilled, his pride returned. Just as the planets spun on their natural orbits, so his dog was bound for perfection.
He knelt down in front of the hole to coax the fox out. Something rustled nearby, and Sawyer became alert. Even St. John’s ears stood on end. There was something in their midst. Perhaps it was only a deer or rabbit, but what if it was a bandit? These were not unheard of, even in the idyllic expanses of South Downs.
“Who goes there?” Sawyer called. Vivian bit her lip and slowly pulled her hands off the trunk. Was she in trouble? She had done nothing wrong. But considering their encounter the night before, the mysterious soldier might go so far as to think that she was following him. That was the least desired outcome.
“I do apologize,” she replied. Sawyer beheld two timid brown eyes rise up, as well as two dainty hands.
He was relieved that it was a woman. And also annoyed. Now he had a dire situation. Here would be a female, alone in the forest, no doubt an invalid, or worse yet, a harlot. He would have to take her to safety and ensure her general comfort.
What popped up from behind the log would be surprising, to say the least. As Lady Vivian Ravenswood reared her pretty br
unette head, Sawyer felt a sensation come over him which he had always tried, but failed, to attain in church. She was a vision. The happenstance of their encounter was unfathomable. Vivian looked at him, wide-eyed and just as confused as he. A flush came to her already pink cheeks.
“I do apologize,” Vivian said, fearing that her curls were askew.
“It’s quite alright,” Sawyer replied, wishing to put the lady at ease.
Both parties involved did not mention that they recognized one another. They both feared, in kind, that it would seem too presumptuous that they remembered one another from the night before. It was such a brief moment. To refer to it could be disastrous if the other had no recollection.
Sawyer couldn’t help but be enamored by Vivian’s unique, wild sort of beauty. She was unmasked. Her curls went willy-nilly, her face was yet again un-painted, and her eyes were glaringly honest. Lady Vivian Ravenswood couldn’t hide herself if she tried, and Sawyer was emboldened by it.
“My name is Lieutenant Cook.” He feared that was too formal. “Lieutenant Sawyer Cook,” he added.
“I am Lady Vivian Ravenswood,” she replied.
“Do you —,” they both said together, and stopped their speeches short.
“My apologies,” Vivian said bashfully.
“It’s quite alright,” Sawyer replied, sharing in her embarrassment. “Do, go on.”
“Do you live in the area?” she asked.
“Within a short distance. My home is in Bedringham Court.”.
“A fine place,” Vivian replied. “We frequently visit during the summer. There is a rather noteworthy flower show there.”
“Yes, it’s perhaps the only thing that Bedringham Court is famous for.”
“Well, if you’re going to famous for something, it may as well be a flower show.”
Vivian sheepishly realized that she was still standing behind the log. It was rather awkward. Sawyer noted it as well, and put out his hand to help her over it. She took his outstretched hand eagerly and was assisted to the other side.
