The Last Baronet Page 28

  With the reins lying loose on the horse’s neck, Tony managed to down a couple of glasses of port and felt rather better. The Hunt Secretary rode up to them with a felt bag on the end of a stick. ‘Cap for the BFSS and the Hunt Servant’s Benefit Fund, if you would be so kind.’

  Tony had purchased a slim but informative book entitled Riding to Hounds from Foyles, and was prepared for this, stuffing into the bag what seemed to Nicola an excessive amount of notes. The Hunt Secretary bypassed Nicola with a rueful smile, knowing rather better than to attempt to extract hard cash from a Rushbroke.

  As they rode around the edge of the gathering in order to calm the grey gelding’s nerves, Tony caught a glimpse of himself in the windows of the Pickwick Restaurant. He was enchanted by what he saw. The grey gelding was a dashing mount indeed with a noble head carriage and a high-stepping walk. As for Tony himself, why, with the possible exception of the hunt staff, (who had the undoubted advantage of the green livery) he was certainly the best turned out rider at the meet. Leaning down in the saddle, he helped himself to a further goblet of port from a passing tray. Nicola relieved him of the empty glass in dismay and suggested they might go home. Waving cheerily to Tom and Mary, who were watching with faces quite stiff with amazement from the window of the Sam Weller bar, Tony clapped the grey gelding confidently on its neck. ‘No fear,’ he said. ‘I’m not giving up now. I’m only just getting into the swing of it. I wouldn’t miss this for anything.’

  A burst on the horn signalled that it was time to move off. Goblets were hastily replaced on trays. Flasks were returned to pockets. Gloves were pulled on. Chinstraps were tightened. Reins were gathered up. As hounds and hunt staff swept across the forecourt the grey horse shot backwards and nearly pitched Tony over his shoulder.

  Excitement was intense. The Field Master followed on after hounds and the followers fell in behind, the horses skittering and plunging and flinging their heads in an agony of impatience to be out in the open and away. Tony was carried away in the throng, overcome with the thrill of it, all care and caution gone to the wind, stirrup to stirrup with complete strangers, the grey gelding’s face in another horse’s tail, mopped along with the crash and clatter of hooves in his ears, his reins loose, and one hand gripping the horse’s mane. Nicola, a few horses back, could only pray that he would manage, somehow, to live to tell the tale.

  As the horses vanished down the lane towards the first draw, the car followers ran for their vehicles. Tom, Mavis, Yvonne, Norman and Mary scrambled into Vivian’s ancient Rover.

  ‘What on earth does he think he’s doing,’ groaned Mary in anguish. ‘He can’t even ride!’

  ‘Damn fool’s likely to get himself killed.’ Vivian engaged the ignition and pulled out the choke which resulted in a loud explosion accompanied by a cloud of black smoke from the exhaust. The car leapt forward. The story of this Christmas, thought Norman, would keep Elsie and Genevra spellbound for months.

  In the flurry of the departure, as Harry helped Madam into the Rolls Royce, with the family jumping about and sneezing and yelping, eyes popping and positively beside themselves with excitement, nobody noticed that the youngest Shih Tzu was not amongst them.

  *

  Held up by the Master at the edge of a stubblefield, the field fumed and fretted up and down alongside a deep and overgrown ditch. Tony, having survived the ride along the lane which had been, for him, every bit as thrilling as anything he had experienced in his life before, managed, in between some disconcerting leaps by the grey horse, to remove the stopper from his flask and pour into his throat a good quantity of Hine brandy. Nicola, who had given up suggesting they should go home, sat on the chestnut livery resignedly, conveniently placed to offer assistance and first aid, hoping with all her heart that hounds would not put up a hare, but after no time at all there was a sharp burst on the horn and the Master was off at a gallop.

  The field, taken by surprise, plunged and bucketed after him. The grey horse had leapt in the air and galloped off with the best of them before Nicola could even gather her wits.

  Flask and stopper were lost as Tony, flung half out of the saddle, flattened himself along the horse’s neck and, clinging to its mane, inched his way desperately back into the saddle as the horse fled across the stubble. The ground rushed past at a terrifying rate, the wind stung his eyes and a powerful thudding of hooves surrounded him. As Tony regained the saddle a wide ditch yawned ahead. He closed his eyes in terror as the horse gathered itself for the jump.

  Galloping along behind with her heart in her mouth, the chestnut livery being no match for the grey gelding’s raking stride, Nicola saw the grey steady himself, lengthen into the approach to the ditch and fly over it in copybook style. Tony appeared to take the obstacle quite separately, there being several feet of daylight between himself and the horse, but saddle and man were miraculously reunited on the landing and the grey horse galloped relentlessly on.

  The hare ran in a large circle and hounds were almost back alongside the Cricket in the Hearth when they checked at a ditch and began to cast about in an uncertain manner, running up and down distractedly with their noses to the ground, trying to find the line. The field, thundering up behind, took heed of the Master’s raised hand, but Tony could not. The Master yelled at him to ‘Hold hard, there! Hold bloody hard!’ But how could he? Indeed, it was a miracle that he was still in the saddle. Tony knew that he could not hold on for much longer, but when he looked down and saw the ground rushing past and the grey’s great iron-shod hooves flying, his grip on the pommel tightened and his toes were thrust even more desperately down in the stirrups.

  Having received no discernible instructions from his rider, the grey gelding had done another complete lap of the headland by the time a particularly enterprising hound had picked up a fresh and interesting scent and began to speak. As one man, the rest of the pack gathered on the line and raced away in pursuit of what would later be described by onlookers in the lane as a small, unidentifiable, long-haired creature, round-headed, apparently earless, with a plumed tail, very short in the leg, with no turn of speed to speak of; a creature, in fact, so unlike a hare that even a blind man could spot the difference.

  ‘Keep back! Keep bloody back, Sir!’ roared the Master as the grey gelding thundered up to him for the second time.

  ‘Riot! ’ware cur! yelled the Huntsman to the Whipper-In as he caught sight of the quarry. ‘Riot! They’ve picked up a bloody cur!’ Both men simultaneously clapped their heels to their horse’s sides and set off after hounds at a flat out, flying gallop.

  *

  Emily had found the walk from Rushbroke Hall to the Cricket in the Hearth longer than expected. She had waited out of sight behind a yew hedge until everyone had left for the meet. Only Rupert and Anna had remained behind to prepare the buffet lunch which must be made ready for the return of their guests.

  She had emptied all her purloined canisters and packets into a plastic bag and mixed them all together. The smell had been potent and made her eyes sting. Stumbling over frozen plough, she wondered if it had been a bad idea to take the cross-country route rather than sticking to the lanes. Below her was a long stretch of stubble and beyond it, more plough. Beyond that, she hoped, was the Cricket in the Hearth.

  Where was the hunt, for heaven’s sake? The countryside all around seemed as still and silent as the grave. It was also unbearably cold. Behind her, the twisted brick chimneys of Rushbroke Hall smoked gently, promising crackling log fires, warmth and comfort. But as she adjusted her balaclava, and began seriously to contemplate calling it a day, Emily heard the rattle of hooves on the lane. Soon afterwards she heard an approaching sound like a discordant chiming of bells and realised, with a shiver of apprehension, that what she was hearing was a pack of hounds in full cry.

  Emily saw the hare first, covering the plough with enormous leaps, moving incredibly fast, well ahead of hounds who were racing along so close together that a tablecloth would have covered them. Down the plough they ca
me and onto the stubble only to falter, then check completely, fanning out in confusion on the far side of a ditch which divided the field. They had lost the scent.

  Emily had just lifted her fists into the air as a victory salute for the hare when she saw a movement on the near side of the ditch and something began to run in her direction, something far too small to be a hare, something far too hairy to be a rabbit, something with white-rimmed eyes starting out of its head with terror. At the very same moment, hounds picked up its scent and with a frightening unearthly clamour, raced after it.

  Screaming like a banshee, Emily ran towards them.

  The onlookers in the lane were now treated to the spectacle of several things happening at once. First, the grey gelding, with Tony Pomeroy still clinging to the saddle, galloped through the pack, scattering them in all directions. Secondly, a black figure wearing a balaclava hurled itself in to the melée causing the grey horse to swerve violently and precipitate its rider headlong in amongst the startled and disoriented pack. As the black figure grabbed up the quarry, something exploded, sending a reddish dust into the air. Hounds, having been inexplicably and abruptly deprived of their illegitimate prey, and no doubt mindful of the furious abuse advancing upon them in the shape of the hunt servants, began to run around distractedly, waving their sterns and sneezing uncontrollably.

  As Tony lurched to his feet, the black figure in the balaclava stared at him and said in a tone of the very greatest astonishment and incredulity, ‘Dad?’

  As the grey gelding, having lapped the stubble field with reins and stirrups flapping, returned to stand nearby with froth dripping from his flanks and mouth, and his sides pumping like a bellows, Tony looked at the black figure in the balaclava and said in absolute amazement, ‘Emily?’

  And as the hunt staff rode up to the scene with their faces scarlet with temper and exertion, and their horse’s necks plastered with sweat, Emily, with the youngest member of the Shih Tzu family clutched protectively to her chest, turned on the Huntsman. ‘I hope you realise,’ she said severely, ‘that if your hounds had killed this valuable dog today, you would most certainly have been prosecuted.’

  ‘And I hope you realise,’ returned the Huntsman in an extremely sour voice, ‘that thanks to you two, if my hounds had managed to kill anything today, it would have been a bloody miracle!’

  THIRTY FIVE

  ‘…and then this darling girl appeared out of nowhere, and I do mean out of absolutely nowhere, and simply hurled herself in front of the slavering pack…’ Clarissa Maitland-Dell was relating to Rupert the excitements of the chase. ‘I just cannot bear to imagine what would have become of my precious little dog had she not intervened when she did, and as for her father, as for Tony Pomeroy, why, he just spurred his horse right into the middle of the pack and threw himself off at a gallop. It was the most enthralling and heroic act I have ever witnessed and I shall be beholden to the Pomeroy family until my dying day.’

  If this was not an entirely accurate account of what had occurred, nobody was about to say so. Emily held the smallest Shih Tzu in her arms, the little dome of his head warm under her chin.

  ‘Of course, he can’t stay with the family now, not possibly. He is far too adventurous and independent and such a little escape artist. Emily has asked if she can keep him and I have agreed. It is the perfect solution. It has all ended in a most satisfactory manner. I will have a sliver of smoked salmon, if you please, Mr Truscott, and some egg mayonnaise. I wonder if I could trouble you for a little brown bread and butter?’

  ‘Not try it again?’ Tony looked at his wife in astonishment as they picked up their plates for the buffet. ‘Not try it again? Mary, you may not realise it but today was the most thrilling experience of my life! What a ride! What a horse! What a sport!’ Tony stuck a serving spoon into a bowl of creamy Dauphinoise potatoes with enthusiasm. ‘I have spent half a lifetime looking for something like this and not only have I every intention of trying it again, but I have decided to buy the grey gelding. Apparently the owners are willing to sell him for a very reasonable price. I can keep it at livery with Nicola, and I need to talk to you about buying one of the stable apartments. Then we can all come here whenever we need a break. Don’t you think it’s a brilliant idea? You could visit your Mother, I could ride my horse. Come to think of it, Tom could live in the apartment if he wanted to. Well, Mary, what do you think?’

  ‘Carp? You mean carp out of the moat?’ Emily gave a groan of disgust. ‘I don’t know how you can stand there and serve that, Yvonne. We were only feeding them this morning!’

  ‘Well, we wasn’t feeding this one because he’s been in the chiller since yesterday.’ Yvonne placed a meaty chunk on Tony’s plate. ‘And it’s not as if they’re pets exactly, is it? They do need thinning out a bit and the Rushbrokes have eaten them for hundreds of years, so it’s traditional. Sir Viv fishes them out with a rod and a bit of bacon rind and he does chuck the little ones back in, so it’s quite fair really. Watch out for bones, Mr Pomeroy. There might be a few left in.’

  ‘Oh, it’s quite fair,’ Emily said darkly. ‘It might not seem so fair if you’d got a metal hook through your own throat.’

  ‘Emily,’ Mary Pomeroy said warningly. ‘Let’s not ride hobby horses at dinner, please.’

  *

  ‘Well, Norman, I hope you’ve enjoyed your Christmas in the country, did you like it?’ Yvonne beamed at him over a tray bearing his morning tea and a plate of Chef’s biscuits.

  ‘Did I like it?’ Norman, in plaid thermal pyjamas courtesy of Country Cousins, sat up in his high half tester bed, propped with fat pillows, an open copy of Country Living at his side. ‘It has been the most amazing experience of my life from start to finish. Suddenly I have a family and they want to give me a home. I can’t quite get to grips with it yet; it hasn’t quite sunk in.’

  ‘So you won’t be an accountant any more then, and you’ll be saying cheery-bye to Elsie and Genevra?’ Yvonne settled the tray on the bedside table and perched on the bed. Today her hair was backcombed into an astonishing beehive with two yellow and black furry bees clipped onto it to emphasise the point.

  ‘Well, yes and no to that. I’ll still be an accountant because I’ve offered to look after the book- keeping side of things for the hotel. That, and the violin playing, should earn my keep, I think. But I will be saying goodbye to Elsie and Genevra. I shall go back to work my notice and sell my house. My, how things have changed, Yvonne! I can hardly believe it.’

  ‘I know. It’s amazing, Norman, it really is. And to think you never knew you had a daughter, and now you have a grand-daughter as well. It’s a good job you decided to come and stay here, instead of with those friends of yours, you know, the Fletcher-Smyths, the hyphenated ones, spelled with a “y”.’

  ‘Isn’t it just.’ They laughed. Norman looked at Yvonne affectionately. ‘And you? Will you go back to Elsie and Genevra?’

  ‘No fear! I’ll be giving in my notice as well because Rupert’s offered me a permanent job here; I’ll be part housemaid, part waitress and part receptionist. I’m ever so pleased Norman, because I shall be able to live with my mum, and Tom is starting as Assistant Manager at Easter, and his dad is buying one of the stable apartments so he’ll move in there eventually, I expect. It’s all so exciting and I’m ever so pleased about it. Oh, Norman, isn’t it all just brilliant!’

  *

  Mavis tapped on the door and went into Vivian’s bedroom. She placed the tray with his morning tea carefully on his bedside table and opened the curtains with a flourish. That this provoked no reaction was hardly surprising because Vivian was quite dead and had been for some hours.

  Mavis, her sixth sense on high alert, went to the bedside and looked at the occupant. Sir Vivian stared glassily upwards from a face that could have been carved out of marble. Mavis thought he looked very peaceful and that his nose, in particular, looked very fine. She straightened the collar of his pyjamas, smoothed the sheets, tweaked the pillows and replac
ed the eiderdown on the bed. When everything was tidy she said a little prayer for Vivian’s departed spirit and poured herself a cup of tea. After which she picked up the tray and went back to the kitchen to break the news.

  Dr. McLoughlin, summoned to the bedside, pronounced the cause of death to be a massive heart attack. ‘Quite sudden, there’s nay a doubt; he wouldna have known anything about it. I’ll do a wee certificate so you can register the death. He was a great man, Sir Vivian. Aye, he was a fine upstanding gentleman and we shall miss him sorely.’

  The undertakers in Rushall St. Mary were helpful and genuinely sympathetic. Nicola sat at the plank table, white-faced. Stunned. ‘Somebody should tell Mother,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll tell her,’ Anna took off her apron. Nobody was due down for breakfast for at least an hour. ‘Let me do it.’

  Lavinia was sitting up in bed looking expectant. Her face fell when she saw that Anna was not carrying a tray.

  ‘I am afraid I have some bad news,’ Anna said gently.

  ‘Oh, I do hope not,’ Lavinia said. She fumbled beneath her pillow and produced a paper tissue, making ready for tears. ‘I do so hate to receive bad news before I have had my morning tea.’

  ‘Vivian has gone,’ said Anna.

  ‘I see.’ Lavinia appeared relieved to hear this. ‘When will he be coming back?’

  ‘He won’t be coming back,’ Anna said. ‘He passed away in the night. He had a heart attack. Vivian is dead.’

  ‘What a shame.’ Lavinia looked down at the paper tissue as if she was unsure where it had come from and what should be done with it. ‘Have you any good news?’

  ‘Well, Nicola and David Williamson are to be married. Grace is coming to live with us in the summer. Norman is staying on for a few days and then he will come back here to live.’