Mistress of the Hunt

by Amanda Scott

  Pottersby shook his head. “Not old Wakefield wouldn’t say it, Miss Philippa, ’n if yer of a road t’ take yer language from Oxford brats, I’m by way o’ thinkin’—”

  “Oh, Jake, for mercy’s sake,” Philippa said, chuckling, “you can be as uncivil as Papa. I promise I shan’t say anything to make you blush when I hunt.”

  “Happen that means yer aimin’ fer me t’ join the hunt along o’ yerself, Miss Philippa, and that’s a thing I’m not meanin’ to do.”

  “Well, you’ve got to,” Philippa said flatly. “No matter how much I want to prove myself to Rochford, I’m not such a ninnyhammer as to ride into a field of I don’t know how many men without protection, and since I can scarcely ask another lady to abet me in this particular venture, you are all I have, Jake, so you must ride Ponsonby’s Black Nestor, for I doubt any other horse we have can keep up with Cupid here, and I don’t want to lose you.”

  “Old baron’d turn me off, sure,” said Jake, turning the corners of his thin mouth downward.

  “Well, the old baron isn’t here, and neither is Papa,” said Philippa incontrovertibly. “You won’t let me down, will you, Jake?”

  The only response she received was a growl, but it was enough. She knew he would not fail her if for no other reason than his fear that she might go alone if he didn’t go with her. As a result, the following Tuesday morning, she found him awaiting her in the stable, both hunters saddled and ready to ride.

  Fog lay heavily on the countryside, and there was a curious stillness in the air, broken only by the scratching clip-clop of the horses’ shoes on the new white gravel drive. It was early, and the only humans in sight were a pair of gardener’s boys dressing the barren grapevines at the far end of the kitchen garden. The air was chilly, too, and Philippa wondered if her dark green wool habit would suffice to keep her from freezing before she could get into action. She had chosen it for its unremarkable color, not for its material, for she knew that although she welcomed the warmth of the wool now, it might well become unbearably hot later on, during the chase.

  The fog hid Wyvern Towers from view, and she wondered if the meet had begun. In Melton, she knew, there would be groups of hunters setting out about now in different directions to meet different packs of hounds. Each sportsman would, much earlier yet, have sent two horses ahead of him. On one would be mounted a very light but extremely well-dressed lad, who would later return home on his master’s cover hack. On the other would be the second-horse man, riding the mount that would carry his master during the second half of the hunt.

  Had they been hunting in the Midlands or the Provinces, the hunters might well have been carried to their assorted meets by a stylish carriage and four, but here in Leicestershire, the byroads being bad for wheels, the cover hack was considered by nearly all to be the better conveyance. One reason Philippa had started early herself was that she had no wish to encounter any of these gentlemen en route.

  She led the way across the Eye Brook at the Whissendine ford and on through the north wheatfield to a sycamore copse some three miles beyond, having carefully selected the location several days before. According to Sam Cudlipp, the best coverts for the Wyvern pack were to be found to the east of that point at which the Eye Brook curved and became a river. Once drawn, the fox would most likely run away from the water toward the Stamford Road. Therefore, if the hunters were lucky, they would get a run of nearly ten miles before they would head the fox back toward Wyvern and the Whissendine.

  The copse she had selected had not been thinned yet, and its density provided good cover for Philippa, Pottersby, and their horses. It was not until they had been waiting for some time that it occurred to Philippa that it would also provide good cover for the fox, which was no doubt why it had been encouraged to grow in the first place and had not yet been thinned. Since it was no part of her plan to be challenged by the hounds before she could join the hunters, she urged her mount further to the northeast end of the copse, no easy task, for the soft mist condensed on the boughs, and the trees seemed to drip continuously. Whenever she had to push a low-hanging branch out of her way, it had a tendency to fly back, sending a cold shower down her neck.

  Jake Pottersby had pulled up his coat collar, but she knew he was as uncomfortable as she was, and it was with great relief that she heard the cry of the pack less than half an hour later. Any longer, waiting in that damp chill, and she knew she would have had to give up and go home.

  The baying of the hounds acted upon her like a tonic, however, and she urged Cupid forward almost to the edge of the copse. The mist, she noticed, was beginning to lift, for she could see the hunters like gray ghosts riding toward her, packed together, sailing almost as one man over a post-and-rails fence two fields away. At first she could not see the fox, but once she had located the pack, it was but a moment before she saw the brush flying, as Mister Reynard scrabbled this way and that over the grassy field, heading straight for the copse.

  The fox scrambled through the next obstacle, which was a thorn hedge, and the hounds followed, jumping and scrambling to get over or through. Close behind came the hunters. The hounds saw the copse at once and, to Philippa’s relief, headed the fox to the north of it, so there was scarcely a check in the noisy surge of baying hounds, thundering horses, and cheering riders, although the latter slowed their mounts to avoid overriding the hounds, which was a thing that was simply not done by any but the veriest thrusters.

  She looked for the viscount, but most of the gentlemen were dressed in similar clothing, and although she was very nearly certain that she recognized him as one of the frontmost riders, she could not be certain. Not, she told herself firmly, that it mattered in the slightest, for he would see her soon enough.

  Nibbling nervously at her lower lip, she waited with forced patience until the field was past before giving Cupid the office to start. The powerful horse needed little urging then, but gathered his legs beneath him and shot out of the copse after the others so sharply that Philippa had all she could do for the first few moments to retain her seat and not lose her hat. When she did manage to look over her shoulder at last, she saw to her relief that Jake was only a few yards behind her.

  Keeping well to the rear of the field, she held Cupid in at first when he showed a wish to come up with the others. Despite her practicing, Philippa found that she had to concentrate very hard each time she came to an obstacle, lest she disgrace herself, and it was not until she had cleared an oxer, a thorn-filled ditch, and two timber fences that she gained sufficient confidence to urge Cupid to a faster pace. No sooner did she drop her hands, however, than he put on a sharp burst of speed, and within minutes she was passing the first of the men and riding toward a gap between two others. She caught them by taking an in-an-out with more speed than grace, then dashing across the next field, letting Cupid run full out.

  She had not given thought to Jake Pottersby since the first oxer, but now she spared a glance over her shoulder and was encouraged to find him still behind her, his expression grim but excitement showing in every other line of his wiry body. Philippa shot him a saucy grin, then turned her attention back to her own mount and the necessity for making her way between two more hunters before reaching the next obstacle, another oxer.

  The men were beginning to notice her now, and heads turned as she flashed past the two riders and felt Cupid gather beneath her for the jump. There was a water-filled ditch on the other side, but as usual, the powerful horse was flying and cleared the whole without so much as a check upon landing. Philippa laughed aloud, so exhilarated did she feel.

  At that moment, a rider who had been beside her before the jump came down prematurely with a splash and a shout of chagrined dismay, and when next she looked back, over her left shoulder, it was to see him straining to pull his horse from the ditch. Then, as she was about to look forward again, she caught a motion from the right in her peripheral vision that appeared to be Jake waving like a madman. Twisting back around in order to see him better, s
he saw instead that which made a clearer view of Pottersby unnecessary. Rochford, astride a black even bigger than Black Nestor, was but ten yards to her right, and he had seen her.

  Having been certain she would find him at the front of the field, Philippa had not made a serious effort to identify the viscount among the others, and having managed to convince herself that she would amaze and astonish him when she rode up beside him, she had not troubled to examine that conviction any further. Now one look at the expression on his face was enough to tell her she had erred badly in her judgment of how he would react to her fait accompli.

  Her stomach tensed as her gaze locked momentarily with his, and she knew in that instant that despite any gentlemanly wish he might have to please her, he was not going to dismiss her action lightly. Nor, by the look of him, was he likely at some point comfortably distant in the future to settle for a quiet discussion of what she had done. There was little to be seen in his wrath-filled expression of the warmhearted gentleman she had counted upon to be amused by and thus forgiving of her tactics. Instead, if she was any judge of such matters, his lordship was in a flaming rage and ripe for murder.

  Philippa’s breath caught raggedly in her throat, but she swallowed determinedly and touched Cupid’s flank with her whip. Though she had not thought before that the splendid horse could go faster, he proved her wrong, and it seemed by his speed that his hooves could not be touching the ground. But when she dared to look back a moment later, she saw to her dismay that Rochford was less than twenty feet behind her.

  Then—almost worse—when she looked forward again, she realized she had been covering ground so rapidly that she had passed the other hunters. The hounds were practically under Cupid’s feet.

  The big horse swung to the right of his own accord to avoid trampling them, and as one the hounds swerved left almost at the same time. A moment later they were behind, and as she approached the next fence, she saw plowed ground beyond and knew that if she took the jump, the soft earth might slow Cupid enough to allow Rochford to catch her.

  Frantically she turned her horse with a sharp jerk of the rein, observing only as she did so that they had somehow got ahead of the fox. But Mister Reynard, seeing the huge horse looming above him, did what any sensible fox would do. He skidded to a halt, doubled back on himself, and shot directly toward the oncoming field. Then, recognizing his error, he adjusted his course in order to avoid both the hounds and hunters, and hightailed it toward a nearby spinney.

  The hounds, confused first by the riot of hoofbeats and then by the fox’s evasive action, had checked and were scrabbling this way and that, casting for the scent that seemed to them to have stopped in thin air. The fox having disappeared into the spinney, Philippa urged Cupid over a timber fence into a field of stubble and brush, then across a small brook, riding as hard as she dared, certain that Rochford was still behind her. A moment later, she heard the cry of the hounds in the distance and knew they had come upon the scent again, but it no longer mattered to her which direction the fox had taken. All that mattered now was that she escape from the viscount, or at least lead him far enough from the other hunters that he might vent his fury with her in privacy.

  She had heard him shout at her once. His words faded before reaching her ears, but his tone convinced her that she didn’t want to hear him. By the time Cupid had cleared two more timber fences and a thorn hedge, she thought they must be well away from the hunt. Before the thought had been completed, however, they topped a low rise and quite suddenly, directly ahead, she saw an overgrown hedge, a bullfinch, one so large and so thick that the sight of it caused her to check. A glance over her shoulder served to spur her on again, however, for Rochford looked even angrier than he had looked before, and there appeared to be several riders behind him. Instantly she rejected all thought of stopping to face him and, in near-panic, gave Cupid his head, praying the big bay would find an opening through the dreadful hedge and that—since she had not had the forethought to provide herself with a veil—she would be able to protect her face and still retain her seat. It would do her dignity no good at such a time as this to have to ask Rochford to rescue her from a thorn hedge. Indeed, the very thought made her shudder.

  Fortunately, Cupid still had his wits about him and found a gap large enough to accommodate him. Holding one arm protectively across her face, Philippa scarcely felt the branches brushing and tugging at her before she was through and into an open field. At nearly the same moment that she realized she was on her own land, she realized, too, that the innocent-looking rail and hedge ahead of her was in fact the double oxer she and Cupid had practiced jumping some days before. Two rails with a thorn hedge between and a ditch on the far side that she remembered being rather a wide one. As she neared the jump, she touched Cupid lightly with the whip, just enough to remind him to give his best effort, and a moment later she was safely over and conscious of gratitude for the fact that she had not chosen to ride Black Nestor, who might easily have sensed her tension and refused to take such a jump at all.

  She was perspiring now, and Cupid seemed not quite so full of energy as he had been. Flecks of moisture beaded on his neck, and she could hear his breath blowing hard from his nostrils, a sound that she had not heard before.

  Seconds later a tremendous, thudding crash behind her put all thought of Cupid’s distress straight out of her head and caused her to jerk hard on the reins, bringing the bay to a plunging halt. Fear washed over her even before she turned, and when she looked back, she was unable to suppress the cry of horror that sprang to her lips.

  Rochford’s black, half in and half out of the ditch, was struggling to his feet. His master lay several feet away on the grass, unmoving.

  —9—

  FLINGING HERSELF TO THE ground, Philippa hurried to Rochford’s side. When he began to stir, she felt a surge of relief, but when he did not immediately open his eyes, panic threatened to claim her again.

  “Oh, Rochford … oh, my lord, wake up. Do, please, wake up.”

  At the sound of hoofbeats on the other side of the treacherous jump, she leapt to her feet, snatched off her hat, and began waving it.

  “Here!” she called. “Over here. Oh, do come quickly. Oh, Jake,” she cried when she saw the first rider, “ ’tis his lordship, and I fear he has injured himself quite seriously. He barely stirs.”

  As she was speaking, Jake found a gate in the hedge and using that end of his whip made especially for the purpose, opened it without dismounting and let himself through. He was followed by several gentlemen, of whom Philippa at first recognized only Lord Alvanley. That gentleman’s presence was scarcely calculated to please her, but for the moment she paid him little heed, having thought only for Rochford.

  “Oh, Jake, do come look at him, He does not open his eyes, and I am persuaded he must have hit his head when he fell. Please, God, he has not broken his neck.”

  Rochford groaned just then, and she hurried back to him.

  “Rochford! Oh, please open your eyes.”

  “Step back, Miss Philippa, ’n cease thy fatching,” Jake said, dismounting beside her. “Happen I’ll see to ’im.”

  “Never mind that, my man,” said a stern voice behind them. “Let the sawbones through. Here, Dr. Livesey, we’ve a body for you to practice on, man. Look sharp.”

  Philippa looked up at the man who spoke. He was dressed much as Rochford and Alvanley were, in creamy, snug-fitting buckskins and a well-cut dark coat, but there was a distinct note of elegance in his attire that was somehow lacking in the others, although she had not come to notice the fact before. He carried himself with the same easy confidence as the others, and his manner, like theirs, was one of casual, even amused, arrogance, but his gleaming top boots boasted glossy white tops, and his neckcloth was more intricately tied than theirs. She had thought his voice familiar, although the note of command in it when he spoke to Jake was not, but that one look at him was enough to bring a deep flush of embarrassment to her cheeks.

 
; She got slowly to her feet, allowing the small, thin gentleman who was clearly Dr. Livesey to move briskly past her to kneel beside Rochford. Suddenly, but for her worry about the viscount, she might have wished herself a million miles away, for surely the tale of her escapade would now be spread from the Channel to the Scottish border by the following morning.

  “I did not know you numbered amongst Rochford’s guests, Mr. Brummell,” she said, gathering her dignity and meeting the ironic glint in his silver-gray eyes as steadily as she could.

  Mr. George Bryan “Beau” Brummell, known even more widely for his cutting tongue than for his sartorial dictatorship, bowed from his saddle. “I do not have that precise honor at present, Lady Philippa, but have taken up my customary residence at Melton Old Club.”

  She nodded, for once feeling no amusement at the thought of a club that was restricted by the number of its bedchambers to having only four members at a time. Over a period of years, she knew, a number of the very best gentlemen had been members, and there was, in truth, something highly respectable in everything connected with Melton Old Club. There were said to be no ostentatious displays at table, though everything was as good of its kind as a first-rate cook and the finest wine cellars could produce. It was said, too, that the club’s members and former members were remarkable for their ability to live together on terms of the strictest harmony and friendship. Looking up at the gentleman presently accounted the club’s most famous member, Philippa could hope only that he would somehow find it in his heart to forget to mention to all and sundry her part in the day’s activities.

  Then Rochford groaned again and she forgot her own troubles when she saw that his eyes were open at last. Indeed, his gaze was fastened upon her in a manner that could only be described as ominous, but she made no attempt to evade it, for she was too concerned with what the doctor might say.