The Country Escape

by Fiona Walker

  He called back Honour, the bitch with the unbroken chestnut coat: she was snuffling down a rabbit hole, detached from the pack as usual.

  One summer school holiday, aged about fourteen, Dougie had developed such a fierce crush on one of his father’s girl grooms that he’d got up obscenely early to walk his terrier past her shared cottage in the hope of seeing her open her curtains. He had gone out again at dusk to watch her shut them. This was quite separate from the obscene amount of showing off he’d done, in and out of the saddle, while hanging around the stables all day trying – and failing – to impress her. Nor was it an attempt to glimpse a thrilling flash of underwear or nipple. He had simply been so besotted that he wanted to see her from the very start of the day to its finish. To his increasing disquiet, he was now starting to feel the same way about Kat.

  This was, he was certain, largely down to the summer-holiday boredom of being in rural confinement. His bonus felt like the homework he was putting off – the Bolt was far more fun. That surely had to be why he counted the hours down until seven o’clock each evening, like an avid Archers fan.

  That evening when he met Kat to hack side by side through the estate, he started to plan the route for the historic Mytton challenge, searching out the best galloping stretches and short cuts through the trappy wooded sections.

  ‘So you’ve been getting to know all these coverts and gullies ready to hunt them with hounds?’ she asked, swatting midges away as they ambled alongside the river.

  He knew she was digging. She’d done it several times before – a flurry of intensive questions followed by a quick change of subject. She was so gloriously transparent and he found her pink-cheeked shiftiness adorable to watch. In turn, his tactic was to flirt with increasingly outrageous suggestions, which usually backed her off.

  ‘That’s right, to entertain estate guests, although I’d far rather entertain you covertly, naked and with champagne bubbles popping on every freckle as I drink it from your gullies.’

  She shot him a withering look, although her eyes couldn’t quite meet his and the mare started to jog, picking up on her rider’s tension. ‘Won’t all those international magnates and tycoons find trail-hunting a bit tame?’

  ‘I’ll show them some very good sport.’ He rode closer, his eyes not leaving her face, watching the bloom of a blush stealing across it to match the pink sunset.

  But she refused to back down. ‘Hard to explain the Hunting Act to a bloodthirsty banking baron, or can you bend the rules for a private foxhound pack?’

  ‘Totally different laws apply,’ he teased in an earnest voice.

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Man-hunting laws,’ he said coolly. ‘Seth’s got a regular supply from the Mumbai slums.’

  ‘That’s so unfunny.’

  ‘It’s all perfectly legal under the Seasonal Agricultural Workers Scheme.’

  His flirtation was gaining less purchase, he realized impatiently, sliding off her as she built her defences higher. Yet the dares they shared had lost no edge as they raced through the deepest dry streambeds and along high ridges, pounding down the estate’s steep parkland slopes with G-force pushing their hearts into their throats, then crossing the vast, weed-choked water meadows, like settlers chasing the best land flags in the Wild West. Dougie was amazed by her nerve. She could be pretty hairy in the saddle, but she never stopped driving and whooping. She and the mare were starting to trust one another and really have fun at last.

  He led her back through the woods along the gravel-bottomed stream, wading through its shallows. She barely batted an eyelid, he noticed. But when he suggested cutting across an edge of the lake where he knew it to be boggy but no deeper than a garden pond, Kat froze, her whole body ramrod tense. Picking up on her fear, the mare started to nap, shaking her head and backing away from the water.

  They rode the long way round. Increasingly curious to know more about the scars her ex-fiancé had left, Dougie decided to draw her out by switching the game to truth.

  ‘I’ve been engaged three times,’ he started conversationally, hoping to get a thread going. ‘They all ended in a bit of a bloodbath.’

  ‘You attacked them?’

  ‘I was talking emotionally.’ He was aware that he was wielding a broadsword conversationally when he needed a scalpel. ‘Got as far as the altar once.’

  ‘Did she jilt you?’

  ‘More an act of God, who pretty much struck us down with a trident. Good move on His part really. We weren’t ready to settle down. Besides, Iris was far too good for me.’

  She snorted disparagingly. ‘All men say that.’

  ‘Kiki was bad for me.’ Dougie – for whom this sort of conversation was akin to haemorrhaging blood from a main artery – cleared his throat uncomfortably. ‘I rushed into it. Don’t get me wrong, she’s a great girl, but we made a lousy couple. Hence I ran away here.’ He felt a physical pull of relief, like a thorn from his side, as he got to the point of the conversation at last. ‘So we’re both runaways, you and I. We have so much in common.’ He brought out the big smile, riding closer, theirs leg brushing and stirrup irons clanging.

  ‘Did she try to drown you too?’

  ‘Fire was my demon.’ He found the smile impossible to sustain as he dropped out of role. Flirting was tough when you suddenly wanted to bare your soul to somebody, and when touching them – even the clunk of two leather-booted ankles – made a tidal rapid of energy roll up your whole body.

  ‘Are you frightened of it now?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t light a lot of bonfires.’

  Kat looked across the lake as they approached it. ‘That must be such a hard thing to get over.’

  ‘No more awful than almost drowning.’

  They watched as a pair of Canada geese drifted past on the glittering black surface of the water, honking tetchily at the riders. ‘Constance always insisted that if I swam the lake my fear would go,’ she said. ‘She dived in and out of it every summer as a girl. She said it was like a hug to her. Her parents were living in India. They left her here from the age of two – it’s unimaginable now. She had a nursemaid, a nanny and later a governess too. Apparently the entire household swam in the lake one drought-stricken summer in the forties, including the kennel hounds and horses.’

  ‘Sounds bliss.’ He looked across at the evening sun, eyes creasing. ‘Shall we try it?’

  ‘Right now, I’d rather walk over burning coals.’

  This time, Dougie wasn’t fooled by Kat’s big smile, the apparently open invitation to make light of life that covered scars she’d kept hidden from everybody except Constance.

  ‘I might hold you to that,’ he said carefully. ‘Then we can ride through a lake to cool off. Take the plunge together.’

  ‘Ha-ha.’

  ‘Constance was right. You need to jump right in. Like getting back on a horse or falling in love.’

  ‘I don’t rush into things like you, Dougie, especially not that.’

  They were riding along two parallel tractor ruts, the overhead branches so low that they continually had to duck to avoid them. Dipping their heads and turning their faces as an arch of brambles loomed, they found their eyes inches apart.

  ‘Did what happened with your fiancé make you frightened of marriage proposals too?’ he asked, irritated that all his soul-baring had backfired, and now she saw him as even shallower.

  She looked at him curiously. ‘Not particularly. Why? Are you thinking of asking?’

  ‘I might.’ He put on his suavest Rhett Butler voice: ‘Did you ever think of marrying, just for fun?’

  ‘If that’s a dare, it’s not funny.’

  ‘Actually the line is something like “Fiddle-de-dee, marriage is only fun for men.”’ Dougie’s Vivien Leigh impersonation was, to his chagrin, far better than his Clark Gable. Seeing her blank face he explained, ‘It’s a scene from Gone With the Wind.’

  ‘I’ve never actually seen it,’ she confessed, a smile playing on her lips
again. ‘I didn’t have you down as a fan of epic romances.’

  ‘I have eclectic taste.’ He adopted a deep, thoughtful look. In fact, the only reason he knew it so well was because he’d been in the running for the key role in that network television series now tipped to be the biggest hit of the decade. Nagged by Abe and Kiki, he’d dutifully read the book and watched the film four times before the first casting session so that he could practically smell the rifle fire amid the cedars and swamps. He had no desire to see it again in his life, but he wasn’t about to admit that.

  ‘Are you dressing up tomorrow evening?’ he said.

  She rolled her eyes. ‘I have no choice. It’s a sanctuary fund-raiser. Cyn is lending me a dress. The skirt’s so wide I’ll take up most of a row.’

  ‘In that case, I insist on giving you a lift. You’ll never fit it into your little car.’

  ‘I’d rather walk,’ she said, too quickly for his liking. She was avoiding his gaze again, he noticed.

  ‘Then we’ll walk together. No burning coals. Never a good idea with a long skirt.’

  ‘You must have her entirely in your hold by now?’ Dollar checked later.

  ‘She’s certainly hot for more,’ he assured her.

  ‘And marriage?’

  ‘We’ve talked about it.’

  ‘Already? I am impressed. Keep the heat on. A million pounds is a very good dowry.’ Her deep voice was as modulated and emotion-free as usual.

  As soon as they rang off, Dougie called an old friend from the Ptolemy Finch crew who now worked in the BBC’s wardrobe department. ‘Micha darling, how soon can you get hold of a Confederate uniform and courier it to me?’

  Chapter 43

  The Gone With the Wind dress was a lot more flattering than the one that Cyn had persuaded Kat to wear at the village show, although almost as tight. The formal blue velvet off-the-shoulder ballgown was just the sort that the Princess of Wales would have worn to whirl around in the arms of world leaders in the eighties. It reeked of damp cupboard, its vast full-length skirt was dotted with cigarette burns from hunt balls thirty years ago, and it had a dubious brown stain on the neckline, but the bodice gave Kat a sensationally narrow waist and it certainly looked authentically war-torn. Insisting that it resembled a portrait in the movie, Cyn had matched it with a cream lace piano shawl and had even bought Kat tinted hair mousse in Boots: ‘Scarlett has raven black hair and green eyes.’ If Kat hadn’t already possessed the latter, she was certain Cyn would have demanded that she borrow Dawn’s turquoise contact lenses.

  She had no doubt that had Dawn been there she would have gone for the full Vivien Leigh movie look, incorporating several costume changes and lots of ‘fiddle-de-dee’s. In their most recent conversation she’d sighed jealously at the idea of the fancy-dress screening. ‘I just love that film. The costumes! The romance! Eardisford is so much fun compared to here. I can’t believe I’m stuck doing mani-pedis for a hen party while you’re going to a masked movie night.’

  Kat desperately needed Dawn’s expertise that evening, and was aware of looking more than a little Calamity Jane when she stomped out of the house to meet Dougie, the blue velvet skirts lifted to reveal her sensible yard clogs, the end of the lace shawl gripped between her teeth to stop it slipping off her shoulders.

  By contrast he looked sublime in a long grey military jacket with crocus yellow braiding, a high collar and gold epaulettes that shimmered as he gallantly offered her his arm.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ She hurried past him, wishing she’d been quicker at thinking up an excuse not to walk to the village with him. Riding made for a conveniently quick getaway if he dropped his voice to the predatory purr that made her pulse go bananas or looked at her in the way that sent her internal organs spinning like dancers in a ballroom.

  ‘Amazing hair.’ He strode alongside her as she set off in a spirited jog.

  The dark tinted mousse, which had proved wholly inadequate for Kat’s acres of mane, had only covered the top half before it ran out, leaving her two-tone. It was more Lady Gaga than Scarlett, but Dougie seemed enchanted. She sensed his eyes all over her as she raced along as fast as her skirts allowed. Her décolletage was embarrassingly low, and she had no strapless bra so was relying upon the boned bodice to keep her in. She crammed her scarf ends down there and shooed away Trevor the peacock, who was intent on following them. Soon they were pounding along the track through Herne Covert like a pair of unlikely Victorian power joggers. Talking was next to impossible, although Dougie made a few valiant attempts, mostly to compliment her Mo Farah speed in a ballgown and ask how exactly the ‘masked’ bit fitted.

  ‘A local printing company that supports the sanctuary is donating party face-masks of Scarlett and Rhett,’ Kat panted, tugging up the front of her dress. ‘It was Miriam’s idea.’

  ‘Just when I thought this evening couldn’t get any worse,’ he muttered. ‘You must promise to sit next to me, Kat. You’re the only reason I’m here.’

  By the time they arrived at the village hall, Kat was breathless and flustered, and incredibly relieved to see the familiar voluptuous figure of Miriam, who was dressed in an extraordinary frilly white meringue matched with a vast straw bonnet clamped to her head with a green pashmina. Her face was unrecognizable, disguised by the pouting prettiness of Vivien Leigh printed on cardboard with cut-out eyes.

  ‘That’s quite scary,’ muttered Dougie, then glanced around to see lots more big frocks and Scarlett masks, his blue eyes widening. ‘In fact, this is all quite freaky. You might need to hold my hand, Kat.’

  Miriam had spirited a tray of bright green iced drinks towards them sprigged with foliage.

  ‘What a beautiful pair you make!’ She shot Kat a very obvious wink of her painted, spike-lashed eye through one eyehole. ‘Have a mint julep – weaker than Pimm’s, so perfectly safe. Can you believe the bloody Herefordshire Life photographer hasn’t turned up? Doesn’t everyone look amazing?’

  ‘Amazing,’ Kat agreed, noticing a few Rhetts with black gambler hats and beer bellies trying to navigate their way around their masks with drinking straws to get at their mint juleps.

  ‘Jesus.’ Dougie grimaced, as he sniffed it then held it at arm’s length. ‘What’s in that?’

  Kat took a cautious sip. ‘Hopflask.’ She identified the familiar throat-burning, nose-numbing sensation. ‘Mixed with cheap Scotch, mint and lemonade, at a guess.’

  They were quickly parted as Dougie’s huge female fan club fluttered up like butterflies to a buddleia, all wearing Scarlett masks, demanding his attention and grumbling that he rarely came to the pub any more. Meanwhile Kat was cornered by Mags and Russ, both defiantly dressed in their Animal Magnetism costumes, and eager for insider information.

  She hadn’t seen Russ since their big talk, although she knew he’d been to Lake Farm several times to check on his charges, deliberately coming and going when she was out. A broken-winged buzzard and another of Mags’s RTA pheasant victims had appeared in the sanctuary’s ‘aviary wing’. He now gave an over-loud spiel about how busy he was, running between gigs, orchard-tending and badger-watching, which seemed to be more for the benefit of everyone else in the hall – most specifically Calum, who was glowering nearby with a mint julep and two young daughters – than for Kat.

  ‘I’m only here for the free drink – I’m not staying for the film,’ he explained in an undertone, relieving her of her barely touched mint julep. ‘Everett looks a total prat in that outfit. It’s fantastic he trusts you so much now. What more have you found out?’

  She looked across at him, still cornered by Scarletts, holding up his hands politely to refuse a moustached Clark Gable face mask, explaining with a charming smile that he was the far more British and heroic Leslie Howard. ‘Wasn’t she in Birds of a Feather?’ asked one of his female admirers loudly. Catching Kat’s eye, he burst out laughing, his face so unspeakably handsome it deserved to stay unmasked, she decided. She now knew when his smile was sincere and his laughte
r genuine, and when his regret was real too. For a moment, Kat could think of nothing but Dougie’s confessions of failed engagements.

  Feeling horribly duplicitous, she mumbled to Russ about the Mumbai-slum manhunt joke and his comment that different laws applied. ‘I think he’s very strait-laced when it comes to foxhunting, though,’ she added quickly. ‘He knows it’s an old field sport with new goal posts, and it has to work with the law. He talks about the Act, and laying scent trails.’

  ‘It’s all an act and a false trail, trust me,’ Russ sneered, thick bear brows lowering. ‘The hounds are a side-show, a little bit of old England for the spectacle, as is Everett with his pretty face and old-school manners. Most likely they’ll hunt rare game with guns. You can fast-track shotgun licences to shoot pretty much anything around here, apart from each other.