The Colonel patted Salamander on the flank. ‘Couldn’t part with you now, could I, old girl?’ He looked up and Charlotte could see that he was looking for Bay, who was a few feet away. She realised that the man was almost blind.
‘Over here, Colonel,’ Bay said. ‘May I present Miss Baird?’ The Colonel looked in the opposite direction.
‘Miss Baird, Colonel Postlethwaite – longest serving member of the Pytchley, and the hardest rider in the Shires.’
Charlotte nodded and, realising that was useless, she said as loudly as she could, ‘How do you do, Colonel Postlethwaite.’
The Colonel turned his great, blind head towards her.
‘Honoured, Miss Baird.’
Bay spoke quickly. ‘The scent’s well and truly up. I think it is going to be a capital day for it. You can give Salamander her head.’
‘Oh, I intend to, Middleton.’ The Colonel dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and disappeared into the throng.
Charlotte looked at Bay. ‘Can he see anything at all?’
‘Precious little. But Salamander’s a good horse. She’ll see him through.’
‘But isn’t it fearfully dangerous?’ Charlotte said.
Bay looked as if he was about to laugh but then clearly thought better of it. Instead he said gently, ‘Postlethwaite doesn’t think it’s dangerous, Charlotte. He’s been hunting round here all his life. It’s not the danger he’s scared of, it’s the day when he can’t ride out anymore.’
Charlotte felt her eyes fill with unbidden tears. The stupid, blind old fool. She looked down at her camera, and started to fiddle with the shutter so that Bay would not see the emotion in her face. But just then there was a shout and a great murmur ran through the crowd. Charlotte looked up and saw that the royal party were making an entrance. She knew it was the royal party because everyone at the meet, with the exception of Colonel Postlethwaite, had turned to watch the Empress and her attendants cantering down the hill that led to the house.
As a composition it could not be bettered, Charlotte thought. If only they were not moving so fast, it would make a magnificent photograph. The Empress in a dark green habit, slender and erect on her strawberry roan, was flanked by two male riders in coats of a lighter green and silver spurs, with a groom bringing up the rear. Charlotte saw that the Empress rode as if she was glued to the saddle; her slender figure did not waver or wobble as the horse came down the slope. She heard a gasp as the royal party sailed over the ha-ha that Bay had jumped earlier. The male riders flanking the Empress leant forward as they took the ditch, but she stayed quite motionless in the side-saddle, seeming to float with her horse.
‘At last,’ Bay said. He dug his heels into Tipsy’s flanks and with a brief wave to Charlotte, he trotted off towards the royal party. The Empress had stopped in the middle of the forecourt, still flanked by her escorts. She was talking to Earl Spencer, her face tilted up on account of his immense height, and as she had lifted her veil, Charlotte could see the Empress’s profile, a small, sharp counterpoint to the immense weight of hair at the back of her head. The other riders were keeping a respectful distance from the royal party and Charlotte thought she had her picture. She had brought down a plate with a new emulsion that required a shorter exposure time. Lady Dunwoody had said it was quite effective in daylight. She put her head under the cloth and angled the camera so that her subject was at the centre of the frame. It felt strange to be taking a picture without the subject’s knowledge, but Charlotte knew that she would probably not get as clear a view again. She moved the viewfinder so that the Empress was in the upper third of the plate; a little asymmetry, she found, always made for a more pleasing effect. She found the bulb and squeezed it. She heard the muffled bang and started to intone the Lord’s prayer. At ‘Hallowed be thy name’, she felt that she had exposed the photo long enough and she unclenched the bulb and came out from her shroud. The Empress was still talking to Spencer, but she had turned her horse a little so that the whole face was visible. She was about fifteen feet away and Charlotte could see that she had regular features, a straight nose, and dark eyes under thick, arched brows. Was she beautiful? Charlotte found it impossible to tell, but there was something intense about the older woman’s gaze that surprised her. Charlotte sensed that the other woman was full of emotion, she could almost see her quivering. Charlotte wondered what the Red Earl could be saying to the Empress to create such an effect. But she must capture this moment. As quickly as she could, she put in a new plate and had a look at the composition in her lens. She moved the camera a fraction to the right and squeezed the bulb again. This time she took it as far as, ‘On earth as it is in heaven’, just to be sure.
Charlotte straightened up. As she looked over to the scene she had just photographed, she noticed two things: the first was that the Empress was holding something that looked like a fan in front of her face. The second was that standing directly beside Earl Spencer was Bay Middleton. The fan was large and unlovely. It was not there for decorative or ventilation purposes. It was being used as a shield.
Although it was a cold day, Charlotte felt the humiliation rise over her like a scorching tide, stinging her face and neck, as if she had just been slapped. She looked over at Bay, trying to catch his eye. Surely he could explain to the Empress that she was just an amateur photographer who meant no disrespect? But Bay did not seem to see her; he was completely held by the face behind the fan.
Major Postlethwaite
Bay set off towards the Empress, who was talking to Earl Spencer. As he approached he could see her profile clearly, her veil was up. Yesterday he had only seen her face in the silvery gloom of the twilight; now there was a bright winter sun and he gazed at her. She was full of contrasts, the dark eyebrows against the pale skin, the mahogany-coloured hair against the green habit, the red lips and the white throat. She must have felt the heat of his glance because she turned her head towards him, but as she did so she saw something that made her frown and her mouth compressed into a tight line. She started to tug at the reticule attached to her saddle with sharp, angry movements and pulled out what looked like a baton. The Empress gave the object a flick with her wrist and Bay saw that it was a fan made from smooth brown leather. She held it up so that her face was hidden from the front. Bay looked over to see what she was shielding herself from, and saw Charlotte’s small figure standing beside her camera, the bulb in her hand. Behind Spencer, he could see the Empress’s two companions stiffen and look at each other in alarm.
The Empress now noticed his presence.
‘Captain Middleton,’ she made an angry gesture with the fan, ‘it’s too much. Nowhere is safe.’
Earl Spencer, immediately on his guard, said, ‘Your Majesty, I can assure you there are no threats to your person at the Pytchley.’
‘I am afraid you are wrong. There is a … person over there taking photographs of me, Earl Spencer.’ She did not raise her voice but Bay thought that the low intensity of her tone was somehow more terrible.
‘I came here as a private individual to hunt, not to be hunted. I thought I should be safe here. But once again, I find that I am a fairground attraction to be captured as a souvenir, a prize to sell newspapers.’
The Earl look round, bewildered, and then he saw Charlotte on the terrace, fumbling as she tried to dismantle her equipment.
‘Oh, but Ma’am, that is just the Baird girl; she’s a guest at the house. I am sure she meant no harm by it. A lot of these young girls play around with cameras now. In my day it was sketchbooks and easels, but I suppose we must all move with the times. Isn’t that right, Bay?’
The Earl turned his huge head towards Middleton, the look in his bulbous blue eyes unmistakeable – Charlotte Baird was Bay’s responsibility, and as she had caused this faux pas, he must make amends.
Bay saw the hard tilt of the Empress’s chin and found it unaccountably attractive. He couldn’t understand why she was so angry but he liked the way her temper highlighted her features. He cou
ldn’t help himself taking stock of her as a woman, the narrow waist, the mass of hair, the dark, unreadable eyes. He noticed a small mole on the Empress’s upper lip. It was the only blemish on the white skin. He found himself wanting to touch it. But then a flick of the fan reminded him that this woman was also a monarch. He hesitated – he knew he should defend Charlotte, but he sensed that the Empress would not like him taking another woman’s part.
‘If only we could move with the times. Literally, I mean. I would so much like to have a record of Tipsy here in full flight.’ Bay smiled, willing the woman in front of him to respond in kind. She looked at him directly, clearly surprised by his deflection of her anger, and for a moment Bay thought that she would snub him, but then he saw her face soften and the set of her shoulders relax. ‘I have a charming photograph of me and Tipsy, but can you imagine what it would be to actually see her gallop?’
‘If it is possible in the imagination, Captain Middleton, then I am sure that one day it will become a reality.’ Slowly, the Empress lowered the fan and the corners of her mouth moved upwards into the beginning of a smile. Spencer let out a great sigh and the two Austrians relaxed back into their saddles. Bay saw the courtiers taking him in, registering his existence for the first time.
He was about to reply to the Empress when a great yelping went up from the hounds, who had found the scent. He looked at the Empress and she lifted her crop, gesturing for him to ride on. He pulled Tipsy round and started to follow the others down the drive. At the gate, as the Empress passed in front of him, he turned back to look for Charlotte, but she had already gone.
* * *
The day was fine and clear, the thin layer of snow on the ground crisp under the horses’ hooves. The hounds had picked up the scent halfway up a hill topped by a small Greek temple, so positioned that it could be seen from the drawing room of the house. As Bay cantered past, he saw that the statue was of Diana the huntress, holding her bow. Bay’s classical education had been scant but he recognised Diana – he had taken an interest in the hunting deities. He knew the story of Diana and Actaeon, the hunter who had been been turned into prey for trespassing on the goddess bathing. Spencer had a painting at Althorp of Actaeon surprising upon the deity and her attendants in their nakedness. When Bay had seen it he had thought that the fleshy figure of Diana would have needed quite a substantial mount. This statue, though, was slender, the body taut as it twisted round to take aim. She looked like a woman who didn’t miss. There was something in the clarity of its profile that was familiar. He turned his head to take another look and just then the Empress came up on his right flank; the resemblance between the sylph-like statue and the lissom, intent figure beside him was unmistakeable. He raised his crop to show the Empress but she had already passed by, following the hounds ahead.
The going was good. Bay liked a long run at the beginning of the day. He preferred it when the pack thinned out a bit and the riders were strung out in order of ability and courage. He had nothing to prove, but still it pleased him to find himself at the front. There were so many places where he had to curb his instincts, but here in the field there was no deference, no order apart from the natural one. Even the Empress, his social superior in every way, was here to follow his lead.
The hounds had stopped at a stream. They had lost the scent. The huntsman was urging them across, but the animals were confused, reluctant to go through the icy water. Bay looked around for a crossing place. The stream was just too wide to jump and he didn’t want to get soaked this early in the day if he could help it. There was a bend in the stream a hundred yards away and Bay urged Tipsy down towards it to see if it offered a better vantage point. He looked back and saw that the Empress was behind him, as was, to Bay’s surprise, Colonel Postlethwaite. How the Colonel had followed the Empress, Bay could not imagine. The man might not be able to see a thing, but he could still find the best-looking woman in the field. The Colonel had been one of the many admirers of Skittles, the famous courtesan who had hunted with the Quorn in the Sixties. She had been famous for the tightness of her habits, into which she was rumoured to have been sewn naked, and the ferocity of her riding. The gossip went that she had been quite taken with the Colonel, so much so that she had forgiven him his lack of fortune.
The clamour of the hounds suggested that a few had crossed the stream and had found the scent on the other side. Bay looked at the stream. It was slightly narrower here and there was a sandy slope. He could either try and jump to the other side or take the safer but wetter route and wade through the water. He didn’t hesitate, but urged Tipsy into a run and, to his enormous relief, cleared the brook. The Empress landed a moment after and then, with a great bellow, Colonel Postlethwaite, a beaming smile on his scarlet face.
One of the Austrians riding with the Empress was trying to catch up with her and was now readying himself to jump over the stream. Bay watched as the horse stumbled and tried not to smile as the man fell head first into the water. The stream was not deep and the man managed to scramble onto the bank, but he was a comic sight: soaking wet, the gold braid on his coat sodden and his breeches transparent.
Bay heard what sounded like a snort of laughter and turned round to see that the Empress was convulsed. He caught her eye and she shrugged.
‘Esterhazy pulled the horse up short. He should have had the courage of his convictions. If you are going to jump, then you must be decisive. There is no room for second thoughts,’ she said and cantered after Colonel Postlethwaite, who seemed drawn after the hounds by an invisible thread.
Bay lingered for a moment to watch the unfortunate Esterhazy attempt to recapture his mount and then he turned his own horse in the direction of the pack.
The hounds were swinging around in a great arc – Bay was always impressed by the refusal of foxes to run in a straight line. The endless circling and doubling back was the element that made hunting so endlessly fascinating. There was no logic to it, no order. The railways that now crossed the English countryside might proceed in inexorable parallel lines for ever, but Reynard would never be ruled by Bradshaw. Bay relished the random syncopation of the hunting day; the recklessness of a good run followed by the idle moments as the hounds looked for the scent. All his other days were ordered in a procession of meals, costume changes and ritualised pleasure, but in the field nothing could be predicted. No two days were ever the same. In London, in the season, Bay knew almost to the minute where he would be at any time of the day on any day of the week. The battlefield, Bay supposed, was equally unpredictable, but he was a soldier who had never seen action. The Pax Britannica had made the Shires his battleground.
The rest of the field was beginning to catch up. It had thinned out since the morning; the royal sightseers had given up and gone home when they realised what was required of them to keep up with the Empress. Bay saw Spencer grinding down the middle of the line, the flanks of his horse crusted with a white tidemark of sweat. Spencer was a superb rider but his great bulk meant that he would never be at the front of the pack. Bay turned his head and saw that the Empress was ahead of him, once again. She was riding at full tilt towards a nasty-looking fence, Colonel Postlethwaite at her heels. Bay felt a sick lurch in his stomach as he realised that she was about to take a fence that even he would baulk at. He shouted, ‘Look out!’ and dug his spurs into Tipsy, hoping to head her off. But the Empress could or would not hear him. He watched as she let her horse’s reins go slack and allowed the animal to take off. She cleared it all right, but had she landed safely? Bay could not see over to the other side. He urged his own horse on and over the fence, feeling Tipsy shudder as they cleared the highest bar. And they were down. He looked up and saw the Empress’s horse standing in front of him, riderless. He felt his mouth go dry.
Then he heard the awful, unmistakeable shriek of an animal in pain, and turning his head, he saw Salamander, the chestnut mare he had sold Postlethwaite, lying on the ground, the body of her master pinned beneath her legs. The Empress was attempting to
soothe the animal, but the horse’s leg was bent and broken and it was thrashing about in agony. Bay sat frozen for a moment. He saw Postlethwaite’s head bent back at an unnaturale angle. The horse’s dreadful screaming grew louder. Bay made himself dismount and walk towards the Empress. She was standing very still. Bay watched as she raised her hand.
At first he thought that the object she was holding was the leather fan, but then he saw that it was a revolver. Slowly and deliberately, her hand quite still, she aimed the weapon at the centre of the horse’s forehead and fired. The screaming stopped as the mare’s body collapsed. Bay gasped, and the Empress turned her head – the dark eyes burning in her white face.
‘The Angel of Death is always with us,’ she said and crossed herself, the revolver still in her hand.
Bay walked around the dead horse to Postlethwaite’s head. The milky eyes were staring at the sky and the mouth was open in a grotesque smile. Bay knelt down and pushed the old boy’s eyelids shut. He tried to pull the body out from beneath Salamander, but the carcass was too heavy. He saw that Postlethwaite’s stock was tied with a gold pin in the shape of a horseshoe. He thought of the old man fumbling with the pin that morning and felt tears running down his cheeks. Postlethwaite had been a gallant creature and this was probably the end he would have hoped for, but still Bay felt desolate as he looked down at the bodies of horse and rider. He felt in the pockets of his coat for a handkerchief but could only find his hip flask. He brushed his face as best he could with the rough wool of his sleeve and took a swig from the flask. The brandy tore his throat and made him cough, but at last he could control his tears.
He felt a touch on his arm.
‘I am sorry, Captain Middleton. He was a friend of yours?’ The Empress held out a small scrap of fabric edged with lace. He realised she was offering him her handkerchief. The gun had disappeared.
‘He used to be the Master of the Pytchley. I sold him…’ Bay found he could not go on. He took the handkerchief from her and tried to wipe his eyes. It smelt of lavender.
The Fortune Hunter Page 13
