Verse of the Vampyre

by Diana Killian

  “Do you have children?” Grace was surprised.

  “No.”

  “Hoick together!” called the Whipper-in to straying hounds. The Whipper-in was the Huntsman’s right-hand man. “Hoick, hoick.”

  There were a number of familiar faces present in the field, which consisted of about seventy. Grace spotted Chief Constable Heron on an enormous gray hunter.

  If she got the chance, she wanted to ask the chief constable about the rumors surrounding Bill Jones’s death. But at the moment he was in conversation with the Hon. Al. Tall and boyishly slim, Al had the perfect figure for riding clothes. The chief constable sat as straight as a cavalry officer. He wore a scarlet jacket with a navy collar, which Grace understood to mean he had been awarded colors.

  Al’s collar, too, was navy. She was the official Field Master, which Grace found interesting. She would have expected Theresa, a devoted sportswoman and Sir Gerald’s lady, to have been awarded that honor.

  As though on cue, Theresa’s laugh rang out, earning disapproving looks. Sir Gerald’s hunter backed up as though his hands on the reins had suddenly tightened. Grace glanced his way.

  “Good hunting, then!” he told her curtly. He trotted off to join his wife and her companion.

  A heavyset man on a motorbike gunned the engine, catching Grace’s attention. A pair of bright-eyed terriers sat in a cage on the back of the bike.

  This, she realized, must be the Terrier Man, the person whose job it was to dig out and bolt (or shoot as the case might be) the fox when it went to ground.

  Grace wondered how she would feel if she saw a fox shot. Her mount tossed its head restively and worked the bit. She stroked its neck with the butt of her crop.

  Feeling a tiny bit on the outside, she spoke to the mare, whose ears twitched in response. Grace was a little anxious, although not about her riding skills. While other small girls her age had been shuttled to dance and music lessons, Grace had been learning dressage. She frequently substituted for St. Anne’s riding instructor when he was ill or on vacation. No, her uncertainty revolved around hunt protocol, which she knew was rigorous. She prayed she wasn’t going to inadvertently commit a faux pas like passing the Field Master or getting in the way of a hound.

  Smiling at faces she recognized, she guided her horse through the crowd, declining offers of the stirrup cup. She couldn’t help hearing bits and pieces of the conversations flowing around her as the Innisdale Pack greeted each other, talking and laughing. She knew that for most of these people, the hunt was a social event, and the killing of a fox was incidental.

  “The police are always on the verge of making an arrest, aren’t they? I don’t suppose it really means anything.”

  “At last estimate the ban would leave over fourteen thousand hounds jobless. That doesn’t include terriers, harriers, beagles, bassets…”

  “Scottish, my dear. One of these obscure titles. He’s very well known in theater circles.”

  It was at that moment that Grace spied Catriona Ruthven, sleek and stylish in black livery. She was mounted on a leggy sorrel whose burnished coat seemed color-coordinated with Catriona’s coppery hair. The horse danced nervously but was easily checked by its rider. They made a lovely picture.

  Grace glanced around, seeking Lord Ruthven, but couldn’t see him. Perhaps he didn’t ride to hounds. He didn’t seem like the sporty type. In fact, she couldn’t remember if she had ever seen him out in the fresh air and sunshine.

  She wondered if Catriona’s hunter was also on loan or if the Ruthvens kept their own stable. She began to consider the size and nature of the Ruthven household.

  She knew they had taken one of the large Georgian houses at the edge of the village. The Monkton estate. An old house with a mysterious past. And how appropriate, although it was a big place for two. Was it just the two of them? Grace couldn’t imagine the Ruthvens with children, but then she knew so little about them.

  If Catriona was up to no good, surely her husband would have to know about it? Was that why he had followed her to the cemetery that night? Did he suspect her of something? Or was he in on it, too—assuming there was anything to be in on.

  Servants would probably be aware of any irregularities in the household. Did they have a large staff? She seemed to recall the village gossips reporting that the newcomers had a German man working for them.

  A thought occurred: Did Mrs. Mac “do” for the Ruthvens? If so, did that have any special significance?

  Grace continued to study Catriona. As background to her thoughts, one of those snooty voices was droning, “They need about a three-hour head start to effectively disrupt a hunt. Changing the meet location at the last minute helps prevent the sort of fiasco we had last week when one of the hooligans called the pub and informed them the hunt had been canceled owing to rain…”

  Saboteurs, Grace realized. The speaker was talking about organized efforts to disrupt the hunt by antihunt protestors. Sabs were inventive. Their tactics included everything from “prebeating” the planned covert, spraying foliage with scent dullers like citronella, opening up blocked earths so that cornered foxes might escape, and setting “rook scarers,” various noise devices to scare the animals away.

  Allegra guided her horse up to Grace. Her cheeks were flushed with cold and excitement. “Watch yourself,” she said curtly. “The terrain’s bloody past the ash grove. We’re one of the few Lake District packs to hunt on horseback. Most hunt on foot.”

  Grace was still trying to reconcile the picture of a foxhunt on foot when a white-muzzled bitch lifted her head and let out a baying sound.

  “Fiver’s hit a line,” Allegra exclaimed, and reined her mount away.

  This Grace knew was the opening. The other hounds circled Fiver, the strike hound, barking and whining, “honoring” her voice, and the Huntsman’s horn rang out, startling against the babble of hounds.

  A frisson glided down Grace’s spine. Were these crisp silvery notes from “The Peeler,” the hunting horn that local legend claimed once belonged to John Peel—now the property of Sir Gerald Ives?

  And then there was no time to think about anything because the chase was on.

  The hounds tore off in full cry, presumably in chase of a fox invisible to Grace, who was busy guiding the mare through the heaving crowd of horses and riders.

  “Tally ho!” shouted Derek Derrick, passing Grace at a gallop.

  “Ass,” grunted someone near Grace. She glanced back, then out of the corner of her eye caught movement.

  Catriona veered her way. The sorrel kicked out at Grace’s bay. The bay shied, eyes rolling, her muzzle wrinkling to bite. Grace tightened her knees, guiding the mare clear of Catriona’s horse.

  “Hey!” she protested.

  “Ride ’em cowboy,” Catriona quipped, urging her horse past. She was lost in the lunge of riders heading for the woods beyond.

  Grace dug her heels into the bay.

  Choose your line, she warned herself. Pace yourself. Don’t crowd. Don’t thrust.

  The thud of hooves was like thunder as they crossed a mile or so of meadow. The trees neared, towering.

  Grace ducked a low branch and slowed her horse, as it fought the bit. The woods were alive with the babble of hounds, the pounding of hooves on damp ground, the crackle of dead leaves and breaking branches.

  What happened to the rule about going slow in woodland? Grace asked herself as riders charged ahead. Despite the mare’s displeasure she took it more cautiously, while the hounds tore through the woods, followed by riders weaving in and out of trees, red and black coats flashing. She was still in the rear as dogs and horses burst out of the forest covert in arrow formation, chasing across the acres of green-and-gold checkerboard.

  To horse and away, to the heart of the fray! Fling care to the Devil for one merry day!

  It’s just like the books! Grace thought delightedly, as the field fanned out before her.

  Her heart was in her mouth as they approached the first jump, one of
the endless snaking stone walls left by Roman armies. It had been nearly two years since she’d jumped, and never in a crowd. She felt the mare’s muscles bunch and instinctively leaned forward. And then they were soaring. The mare landed cleanly and sprang forward. Grace laughed with sheer exhilaration.

  The pack sped on through wet fields, over rickety stiles, past silver meres glinting like glass in the now bright sunlight, chasing past fences behind which sheep grazed in apparent disinterest at the passing tumult.

  Hounds racing tirelessly ahead, they took the first of several small hills. Purple heather dusted the gold in patches, hooves echoed against stone. They galloped on, horses and riders swarming the next rocky hill and spilling down over the side.

  Grace caught her breath in surprise and pulled back. Below, a wide stream tumbled its blue way over rocks and boulders.

  She spotted Catriona well out in front, starting across the streambed. As she watched, Catriona’s saddle slipped, and she fell sideways. She put her arms out to save herself, falling headfirst into the stream.

  The sorrel, saddle slipped well to the side, trotted to a stop while horses parted around Catriona, hooves narrowly missing the ball she had rolled herself into. One or two riders slowed and stopped to ascertain she was unhurt. Catriona climbed soddenly to her feet, waving them on.

  Grace’s horse waded in. Bending down, Grace caught the reins of Catriona’s mount, leading him back. She tossed the reins to Catriona as Derek Derrick, even farther back in the field than she, pulled up beside them where they stood on the pulverized bank.

  “What happened?” he asked, looking from Grace to Catriona.

  “My girth billets broke,” Catriona said, examining the hanging saddle. Her wet and mud-streaked face was grim. Kneeling, she ran her hands down her horse’s forelegs

  “That brute’s fine,” Derek said. “You’re soaked through.”

  It was cold down by the water. Catriona’s teeth were beginning to chatter, as she said, “I’ll live.” Her look implied that someone would not.

  “I’ll go back with you, will I?” He offered a clean hanky, and Catriona took it, wiping her face and taking a better look at her saddle girth.

  “How could both billets give at the same time?” Grace questioned, watching Catriona scrutinize what looked to Grace like cut leather.

  After a moment Catriona said, “Perhaps it’s defective.” But she didn’t sound convinced.

  “You seem to be having a lot of accidents,” Grace commented.

  “And you always seem to be around when I’m having them.”

  This was such an unreasonable retort that Grace was momentarily at a loss for an answer. She noticed that Derek seemed to be trying to catch her eye.

  “I’ve got this under control,” he assured her. “Why don’t you rejoin the field? No point all of us missing out on the kill.” Maybe he thought Grace was aggravating the situation, or was every woman on Derek’s menu? Grace gave him an “E” for Effort. Catriona was liable to eat him alive.

  “Go ahead,” he urged, as she hesitated. “I’m not that keen on—”

  He broke off as a large brown fox came splashing across the shallows of the stream, passing within a few feet of them. The three humans exchanged looks.

  It occurred to Grace that she was supposed to shout “Tally ho” or wave her cap to indicate having spotted the quarry, but the sight of the fox, trotting as fast as his legs would carry him, pink tongue hanging…

  “Tally ho baaaaack!” Shouts echoed across the water. Horses and riders wheeled, hooves kicking up clots of grass and mud as the pack came thundering back, dogs baying outrage as they cut through riders. The notes of a hunting horn drifted over the churning surface.

  Catriona hastily led her mount downstream as a tidal wave of water, horses and dogs crashed past.

  Since Catriona was unhurt and more than a match for Derek, and since Grace wasn’t wanted by either Catriona or Derek, she decided she might as well rejoin the hunt. Saluting the other two, she kicked the mare forward into the plunging mass of bodies lumbering back up the hillside. A final glance over her shoulder showed Derek dismounting to join Catriona on the stream bank.

  By now Grace felt the effects of her strenuous ride, especially in her legs and tailbone. Her arms ached. Her—recalling Peter’s smart-assed comment—“poetic nook” ached. They had been riding hard for more than ninety minutes; she estimated they had covered well over ten miles. This was probably the hardest riding that Grace had ever done. She was tired and chilled and, having had a good look at the fox, wasn’t keen to see it slaughtered.

  In full cry the pack retraced their course across meadow and field, over the stone wall and down the rocky hills. When they reached the woods, the hounds lost the scent. The sound and fury of the hunt seemed to dissolve into green silence. Horses and hounds moved through the trees. Twigs snapped. A horse whickered.

  “Yo hote, Yo hote, Yo hote,” singsonged the Whipper-in, urging the hounds on. Heads down, snuffling loudly, the hounds cast for scent in the humus.

  As they reached the edge of the trees, Grace found herself riding beside Theresa Ives.

  “Has he gone to ground?” Grace asked undervoice.

  “I don’t think so. He’s a wily one, is Charlie,” Theresa answered. There was a red welt across her cheek where she must have collided with a tree branch.

  “Charlie?” Images from numerous war movies flashed through Grace’s mind.

  “Charles James Fox? The fox.”

  Still casting for a scent dissipating as the day grew warmer, they continued slowly back the way they had come. The meadow hummed with bees. The smell of wildflowers mingled with horse and sweat. With relief Grace saw the meet point up ahead.

  And then there came a most unofficial sound, a sound that seemed equal parts anguish and a train letting off steam. Riders yanked reins, horses shied, birds took flight. Only the hounds seemed unfazed. Yards ahead, they raced in full cry up the hillock jammed with cars and horse vans.

  The pack swept through the cars and horse trailers and ran great circles around the vacant flattened turf where Sir Gerald’s silver Jaguar had been parked. Frustrated yips cut the sharp air.

  Sir Gerald had dismounted and was cursing colorfully, calling God and the entire hunt membership as his witnesses.

  It took Grace a moment to register the cause for alarm. The missing Jaguar was bouncing across the meadow heading for the main road, wildflowers strewn in its wake as the driver accelerated with shocking lack of regard for the car’s undercarriage.

  “Bloody hell!” Sir Gerald was shouting. “Hooligans! The bloody bastards! Is there nothing they won’t stoop to!”

  No head was visible over the backseat rest.

  Like a silver bullet the car shot up the main road and disappeared around a curve.

  Even the hounds seemed to be looking at each other for explanation.

  At last someone remarked, “I say. Now that is a clever fox!”

  7

  A week to the day after his departure, a parcel arrived addressed in Peter’s bold black scrawl.

  Grace opened it with trepidation, but there was no message. Apparently it was just what it seemed: items for resale. She lifted out an alligator hatbox and matching makeup case. The kinds of things glamorous film stars from the forties used to lug around. The kinds of things Peter knew Grace loved.

  The hatbox was empty, but the makeup case contained fascinating odds and ends: Limoges lipstick cases, an enamel pillbox (with tiny pink pills that Grace promptly tossed in the trash), delicate jeweled hair combs and a fragile silk scarf that still whispered scent. Precious junk, she thought. The sum of an unknown woman’s life. A pair of rhinestone cat’s-eye glasses in a velvet case made her smile.

  For laughs she slipped them out of the case and tried them on.

  “The better to see you with?” Peter inquired dryly.

  “Peter!” It came out in a yelp of surprise. “You startled me!” How had she not heard him co
me in? But he always moved quietly and with an economy of movement. Lost in her pleasantly melancholy thoughts, she hadn’t noticed a thing, and now he was standing right over her.

  She blinked up at the magnified vision of him. She had forgotten how brilliant his eyes were. She was reminded of a line by Keats: laughs the cerulean sky.

  He wore Levi’s and a lambs’ wool pullover in a muted plum color. The neck of his undershirt was crisp white against his tanned skin. He’d had time to take his jacket off.

  “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  The corner of Peter’s mouth quirked with private amusement. He removed her specs, tossing them on the desktop.

  Grace tried to keep her voice measured and hoped her cheeks weren’t as pink as they felt. “How was your trip?”

  “Interesting.” He bent and kissed her, a swift, sure, make no mistake about it kiss. Grace’s mouth seemed to tingle from the warm pressure of his.

  “Oh.”

  “What have you been up to?” he asked, smiling faintly.

  An exasperating man and far too sure of himself, but it was no use pretending she wasn’t happy to see him. The relief of having him back, of the kiss that answered one thing at least, seemed to open the floodgate; and Grace poured it all out, the weird happenings at the theater, Miss Coke’s nebulous threat, Lord Ruthven’s peculiar behavior, the caped man who had followed her from the pub. She barely paused for breath.

  Peter had the knack of listening with total attention, making a woman feel she was the only thing of interest in his world. He didn’t interrupt, he didn’t ask questions, he simply listened. At last Grace rolled to a full stop. He waited a moment to make sure she had truly run out of gas, then questioned, “Why the hell didn’t you tell me any of this before I left?”

  “I wanted to, but there wasn’t time. Besides, most of it happened after you’d gone.”

  “It’s nice to know you’ve been spending your time productively.” He raked a hand through his pale hair. “Grace, this may sound funny coming from me, but one of the chief things I like about you is your honesty. Your directness. You speak your mind. You don’t play games.” His gaze found hers, and he added simply, “I need that.”