by Amanda Scott
Indeed, his smile was so warm that Philippa found herself responding to it yet again. A moment later, disconcerted to find herself still staring into his gray eyes, she sought a way to break the spell and grasped at the question that had been plaguing her since young Quinlan’s visit. “Please, sir, can you tell me why the scent is poor in Leicestershire in November?”
“Is it, by God? First I ever heard of it. Here, Duke”—he turned toward Rutland—“has the scent fallen off since I was last here in November?”
Rutland stepped closer to them, but they had everyone’s attention now, and it was the dowager who answered first.
“Nonsense. Pure poppycock. Who’s been filling your head with such rubbish, sir?”
“Why, Lady Philippa tells me she has heard the news from some quarter or other.”
All eyes were on Philippa now, and she found to her dismay that she was blushing deeply. “I … I really know nothing about it,” she said. “Someone merely made the statement—”
“Someone who had a bad day’s hunting one November, no doubt,” said Rutland gently. “That is generally how such tales get about. Though the height of the season hereabouts is more likely to be December and January, one can get good runs in November as well. The scent is higher in the shires than elsewhere because of all the grass and because we don’t permit all our farm animals to run loose fouling it. It is generally breast-high, meaning the hounds don’t stoop to it, or very good—‘burning’ or ‘screaming,’ in the language of the hunt—but we have our flighty days, too, when the scent is variable. Because the weather is more uncertain in November than in the later months, more likely to present us with quick freezes, it is possible to have more variable days. No doubt that is what your informant meant. Won’t you let me refill your glass before we go in to dinner?”
Philippa nodded, not because she wanted more ratafia but because it gave her the chance to follow Rutland a little away from the others, a chance to catch her breath. By the time she turned back, the members of the party had rearranged themselves, and the duchess was telling a humorous anecdote in her rattling way. The company was still laughing when Mr. Douglas entered to announce that dinner was ready.
Conversation at the table was general but turned at last, as indeed all conversations in Leicestershire inevitably turn, to hunting. Lord Robert Manners was reminded by something his mother said about some lord or other of a tale concerning that same gentleman in the hunting field. This tale was topped by one related by the duke, and soon everyone but Philippa and Miss Pellerin was exchanging tale for tale. After well nigh a half-hour of this conversation, the young duchess laughed ruefully and spoke across her brother-in-law and Alvanley to Philippa, who was sitting at Rutland’s right hand, across from Miss Pellerin.
“You must forgive them, my dear. Once the subject raises its head, nothing can stop them. I am persuaded you find such conversation tedious, but I promise you, the more one hears of it, the less boring it becomes.”
“You needn’t fret about me, Elizabeth,” Philippa said, smiling. “I grew quite accustomed to such talk at Wakefield’s table, although I suppose I did not really attend to it, or I would be able to understand more of what is being said now. The niceties of the sport elude me, but I do like a good fast run with the hounds.”
“I’d forgotten,” said the dowager, “that you stayed in Leicestershire with Wakefield through the hunting season. That must have been dull for you. I know that his first wife flatly refused to leave Sussex in the wintertime.”
“Well, I enjoyed myself,” said Philippa, smiling. “Not that I was able to hunt other than when we visited here, of course, for I fear Wakefield was a trifle old-fashioned in that regard.”
“All Leicestershire is a trifle old-fashioned in that regard,” said the dowager tartly.
“Why, how can you say so, ma’am, when the duke has very kindly permitted me twice to hunt with the Belvoir? Indeed, he has invited me to do so again,” she added, turning her smile upon Rutland.
His eyes crinkled at the corners, but though he said nothing, his brother was not so reticent. “Dash it all, why should she not hunt with us occasionally?” Lord Robert inquired. “Not at all the thing to do with the Quorn or Cottesmore, of course. All those rowdy young sprouts riding neck-or-nothing, and not a courtesy to be found amongst the lot of them. But when Mama rides with the Belvoir, not a word of language does one hear that one ought not to hear. The very thing for you, Lady Philippa.”
Alvanley was grimacing, and it was as much to forestall any words he might utter that would set the dowager off that Philippa said quickly, “I shall enjoy it, of all things, I promise you, sir, but you must know that I shan’t often be able to travel so far. ’Tis all of seventeen miles from Chase Charley to Belvoir, and I fear I am not sporting enough to enjoy getting up in the dark and returning in the dark.”
“But you must stay here when you hunt, of course,” said the duchess, laughing. “How absurd you are, Philippa, to think we should expect you to ride here and back in a single day, and hunt as well.”
“But that is what the men do, is it not? They hire horrid little houses in Melton Mowbray so as to be as near the three great hunts as possible. Then they ride to Charnwood Forest to hunt with the Quorn on Monday—or is that the Friday hunt? Not that it signifies, of course,” she added, shaking her head. “For the next day, they are off to Belvoir or to Oakham to ride with your pack or the Cottesmore. They are not such poor honeys as to need to rack up overnight.”
General laughter followed her description of the Melton men, but no one contradicted what she said of them, although Lord Alvanley took exception to her description of the horrid little houses.
“I darethay my house ought not to incur your disdain, Lady Philippa. A very cozy box, I promith you.”
“Yes, I have heard that you purchased that charming little house across from the George, my lord. I’ve no doubt you find it quite comfortable.”
“Having spent a small fortune to make it so, he dashed well ought to find it comfortable,” said Lord Robert with a wink.
“Money,” groaned Alvanley. “Mutht we alwayth talk of money?”
“Not rolled up yet, are you?” asked Rochford.
“Not yet,” admitted his lordship, “but if my uncle don’t path on soon, it will be bellowth to mend with me, I promith you.”
“We will have no such vulgar talk at this table,” said the dowager severely.
Philippa looked quickly down at her plate, for as the old lady spoke, she had no difficulty seeing her in her mind’s eye as she must have been that night at the opera when she had damned Fox before the entire beau monde. No vulgar talk, indeed. When she had herself in hand well enough to venture looking up, she was unfortunate enough to look directly into Rochford’s eyes. Was it her imagination or was there a twinkle lurking there? Not daring to look long enough to make sure, she turned quickly to the duke.
“You were saying earlier, sir, that the Wyvern hounds are considered to be as fine as your own?”
Rutland smiled. “Perhaps not as fine, ma’am, but fine enough. I think I may say without fear of contradiction that the Wyvern color is not so perfect as the Belvoir, but then, our hounds are particularly well-noted for their bright yellow color. And it is true, also,” he added, raising his voice with just the suggestion of a provocative note, “that their cry is more musical to the discerning ear.”
“They are as fast,” declared Alvanley before Rochford might take up the lightly veiled challenge, “and that ith more important. Who careth what they thound like. Hounds serve no purpose other than to give us a direction in which to point our horses’ headth, after all.”
Lord Robert Manners and Rochford both entered enthusiastically into argument with Alvanley over this piece of impertinence, just as though there had been no ladies present, Philippa thought.
“At this rate,” said the duke to her in an undertone, “you will have learned a great deal about hunting, and certainly a good de
al more of the language of sport, before you return to hunt with us, my lady.”
Philippa chuckled. “I shall, indeed, sir. I must confess, however, that I share Lord Alvanley’s belief that the riding is the best part of the hunt. I was not in at the kill when I was here before, nor do I have any desire to be there in the future. To see any small animal suffering must be repugnant to me. But the chase itself—ah, the hard riding and the jumping—there is the thrill, I think.”
“There are many who agree with you,” replied the duke, “and here in Leicestershire, I daresay as many foxes go free as are caught. There are those of us who believe that a fox who successfully avoids the pack long enough to go to ground will be around for a second day’s sport, you see. ’Tis a pity you will not be here often. My mother would enjoy your company. Even on the days she rides, there are few ladies to accompany her.”
“Well, I confess I should much prefer to find a hunt nearer to Chase Charley, so that I might hunt whenever I wished. It seems a pity to me that more women do not hunt in the shires. I know many who would like to, many who have hunted with their family packs over pretty dull ground.”
“Perhaps they prefer what you call dull ground,” the duke said gently. “Leicestershire hunting sets an incredibly fast pace, you know, not one for gently bred females.”
“I think gently bred females can often ride just as well as gently bred males,” Philippa said firmly, “and I can tell you, sir, I mean to discover whether Mr. Assheton-Smith or Lord Lonsdale can be convinced to agree with me.”
“Well, good luck to you,” said the duke, “but I fear you will have little success.”
“Then I shall ask Rochford to permit me to hunt with the Wyvern,” said Philippa matter-of-factly, only to be dismayed when she realized that the argument had ended and the others had fallen silent. They had all heard what she had said. She looked at Rochford, feeling warmth surge into her cheeks at sight of the mocking glint in his eyes.
“Well, Rochford?” The dowager regarded him challengingly. “What have you to say to that, sir?”
“I say ’tis an interesting proposition,” replied his lordship promptly, “and one that deserves careful consideration.”
“Humph,” said the dowager, sharply signaling to her daughter-in-law that it was time to leave the gentlemen to their port.
But Philippa took heart from the fact that the viscount had not delivered a flat negative, and as she followed the other ladies back to the pink saloon, she told herself that if she could not contrive to convince Assheton-Smith or Lord Lonsdale, she would bring Rochford round her little finger, one way or another.
Conversation in the saloon turned to household affairs and children, and the duchess took this opportunity to send for the latest addition to her nursery. There was sufficient time for the other ladies to coo over the young Marquess of Granby and to tell his proud mama how very like his handsome papa he looked before the gentlemen entered the room and the nursemaid was directed to take his young lordship back to his crib.
Lord Robert was speaking as the gentlemen came in, and he seemed to be distressed. Clearly, Philippa thought, the conversation was one begun in the passageway, for they would not ordinarily have carried their port talk to the saloon. “I say, Rutland,” said Lord Robert, “you will have your hands full if someone else gets up to William’s tricks.”
“What’s that you say?” demanded the dowager. “Has someone threatened to post his land, Rutland?”
“Not yet, madam,” replied her eldest son calmly. “I merely expressed the hope that this season would see no more of that nonsense.”
“Well, so I should hope.” Seeing the bewildered looks on Philippa’s and Miss Pellerin’s faces, she added impatiently, “ ’Tis all nonsense, just as he says. Three years ago, Sir William Manners, a kinsman who is no longer welcome in this house, got a bee in his head and came to the conclusion that Rutland had robbed him of his due electoral influence at Grantham. All poppycock, as I said before, and the details are of no consequence to anyone. But the idiotish man retaliated by stopping the duke from hunting over his land and got thirty-five farmers to bring actions for trespass against the Belvoir hunt.”
“Mercy me!” exclaimed Miss Pellerin, her hands fluttering in her lap. “Did he actually find a magistrate who would hear such a case?”
“Man’th got a right to hunt damn well anywhere he liketh,” said Alvanley in mellow tones, indicating that he had enjoyed perhaps a bit more than his share of the ducal port. “Destroying pestilential beasth, after all. Doing everyone a dashed favor.”
“Coming it too strong, there, Alvanley,” said Rochford with a lazy smile. “ ’Tis absurd in this day and age to argue that people feel it is their duty to hunt foxes solely in order to destroy noxious animals. No one will believe, no matter how you might choose to stretch their imaginations, that clergymen descend from their pulpits, bankers neglect their counting houses, brewers run away from their breweries, or that tradesmen, clerks, and others desert London for six full months of the year in order to rid the poor overrun farmers of Leicestershire of their foxes.”
“Indeed, Alvanley,” said Lord Robert, “considering that you yourself fined one of the gamekeepers at your manor house in Cheshire last year for killing two foxes before they could be hunted, you can hardly claim that there is any object other than our own amusement to be had out of the sport.”
“But can you actually be sued for trespass?” Philippa asked.
“Yes,” replied Rutland with a wry grimace. “A case in London four years ago set the precedent, and my dear cousin took advantage of it the following year.”
“Then he won his action?”
“He did not,” declared the dowager.
“Well, that is not precisely the case, you know,” said the duchess before her husband could speak, “for Rutland paid what Sir William demanded, and the row ended before it was well begun.”
“Didn’t want to chance losing the sport,” said Rutland with his gentle smile. “There was quite a rash of suits at the time, but they’ve subsided.”
“The threat still exists,” said his brother, rather grimly, Philippa thought. “Never know but what I’ll scrabble through a bullfinch just for the fun of finding a damned ‘No Trespassing’ sign on the other side. Excuse me, Mama, but ’tis more than a fellow can stomach. What is one to do if the fox don’t read the sign?”
“Well, you know, Robert,” said the duchess, “we really needn’t worry too much here in Leicestershire, for our tenants all have reason to support the hunt. ’Tis only in more hostile territory, where the tenants’ good offices, have not been so carefully cultivated, that hunters need keep a lookout for signs. I daresay you’ll not find a single one in all of these three counties.”
“Perhaps not,” retorted her brother-in-law, “but I for one don’t like knowing the possibility even exists.”
“You are a justice of the peace, Alvanley,” said Rochford. “Surely you ought to be able to find a precedent that will supersede the London decision. I was not in England at the time, of course, but there must have been some opposition to their case.”
“Humph,” said the dowager, who had remained silent longer than was her custom. “ ’Tis all very well to call that young man a justice, but that don’t make him a man of law any more than his having been a captain in the Fiftieth Foot and a member of the Coldstream Guards makes him a soldier.”
“Well, ath to that,” said the short, round baron, “I liked the uniform, don’t you know, and a man mutht eat. But I do recall that the London case wath brought by disgruntled landowners who didn’t like the hunterth tramping down all their newly sown wheat. Called it ‘intolerable damage on valuable land,’ as I recall it. It wath the Old Berkeley Hunt they wath after, and the OBH rethponded thtupidly by treating the whole with indignation, thaying it wath all private pique and perthonal resentment. They also inthisted they had the right to hunt and went tho far as to smash the top rail of a gate to let their mathter
get to hith houndth after he had been warned off by Lord Essex’s gamekeeper. ’Twath Essex who brought the action.”
“Of course, Essex himself is a hunter, so it was easy for him to convince the court that he didn’t oppose hunting in general but only the conduct of the OBH in particular,” said Rutland. “Made it difficult for the rest of us when the suits began flying fast and furious.”
“Theems to me,” said Alvanley, who had clearly been thinking furiously as a result of the dowager’s setdown, “that since all land came originally from the crown, ’tith the crown which held hunting rights over all of England. Logically then, the king—or in point of prethent fact, the Regent—should hand over these rights to the local pack. Then hunting would have a prethise, legal status.”
The duchess’s gurgling laughter burst forth. “Cannot you see his face, Rutland, if you were to request that Prinny grant you the hunting rights for the Belvoir hunt over that part of the three counties you are most like to cover?”
The duke smilingly suggested it would be as well for the success of the forthcoming christening festivities if the subject did not come up, and even Lord Alvanley joined in the laughter that followed. It was quite well known that the Prince Regent, despite his oft-avowed love of sport, was more apt to respond to such a suggestion in the manner of a superannuated baby than in that of a dignified monarch ruling on a point of law. He was, at the best of times, a good deal more likely to sulk, wheedle, simper, or throw tantrums than he was to act decisively.
Since none of them was foolish enough to insult the Regent outright in such company, the conversation soon turned to other matters, and it was not long before the party broke up and its members made their way back to their separate bedchambers. As Philippa and Miss Pellerin walked together along the passageway leading to their rooms, Philippa congratulated herself upon having so neatly set matters in train that would presently allow her to hunt.
“ ’Tis a very good thing,” she told her companion, “that I may rely upon Rochford if the others fail me, for I am persuaded that even men who might otherwise follow me to my doorstep will have no interest in wealthy widows on the hunting field.”
