Showjumpers. Stacy Gregg

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СКАЧАТЬ a hundred riders gathered on the pebble forecourt, their horses breathing steam from their nostrils as they waited for the hunt to throw off.

      The horses were classic hunters, stocky types with thick strong legs and chests that were deep through the girth. Georgie loved the way they had been clipped so that it looked as if their top and bottom halves actually belonged to two entirely different horses, joined together in the middle.

      The riders all looked far more dressed up than Georgie had expected and despite the early morning hour they were drinking port, sipping away at the stirrup cups that were handed to them by servants carrying silver trays. Patricia Kirkwood, dressed in a black velvet hunting coat and lace cravat, was holding court amid a group of shrill and overbearing riders who were behaving more like they were at a cocktail party than a hunt.

      “Avert your eyes!” There was a whisper in Georgie’s ear and she turned around to see Damien Danforth standing behind her. “If you stare at one of those gorgons directly you could turn to stone,” he deadpanned.

      “Watch it – they might hear you!” Georgie was taken aback.

      “Who cares?” Damien sniffed. “If you had to spend ten minutes in a room with Patricia’s awful friends you’d see I’m simply telling the truth.”

      He gave Georgie a dark look. “I blame you, you know. You British were the ones who invented all this hunting nonsense and made it seem classy. Now every nouveau riche moron in Maryland wants to join the Kirkwood hunt. Honestly, I don’t think half of them know one end of a horse from the other.”

      “You’re exaggerating,” Georgie smiled.

      “I’m not!” Damien insisted. He pointed to a rider seated on an enormous dark brown hunter. “That’s Heatley Fletcher,” he said. “Local lawyer and multi-millionaire. Do you notice anything odd about his horse?”

      Heatley’s big brown hunter stood out with its hot-pink leg bandages.

      “A bit flamboyant,” Georgie admitted.

      “You know why?” Damien whispered. “Heatley is famous for turning up at a hunt and not even recognising his own horse. He’s had to be asked twice this season to dismount because he got on the wrong one. Finally his groom came up with the solution of putting coloured bandages on Heatley’s hunter so he won’t embarrass himself any more.”

      “Of course,” Damien added, “the bandages don’t stop Heatley from falling off. He usually plummets at the first hedge because he can’t actually ride.”

      “He can’t ride?” Georgie was horrified. “Then what’s he doing hunting?”

      Damien sighed. “Being invited on the Kirkwood hunt is like being invited to the Vanity Fair party at the Oscars. So they all come. And they all drop like flies at the first spar.”

      “You seem to know this place and the Kirkwoods pretty well,” Georgie said.

      Damien gave her a long-suffering look. “James and I met at boarding school when we were nine years old. He’s one of my best friends,” he paused, “although I often wonder how James turned out the way he did…”

      “Talking about me?”

      It was James. Georgie had no idea how long he’d been standing there behind them.

      “I was just telling her the Kirkwood secrets,” Damien said.

      “Don’t,” James warned him. “You’ll put her off!” Smiling at Georgie, he clasped his arms possessively around her waist. Georgie was shocked by this sudden public display of affection.

      “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go to the stables and I’ll introduce you to your horse.”

      The stables turned out to be utterly beautiful. Patricia Kirkwood had clearly never thought of bringing her fashion sense outside so the interior was mercifully untouched. The stable block had bare flagstone floors and high-vaulted ceilings with wooden beams.

      James led Georgie to one of the loose boxes on the far right-hand side. “You’ve been given Belvedere,” he told her, unbolting the top of the stall door.

      Belvedere was a heavily built brown horse, part-draught with a broad white blaze and a face that was so immense and solid that the throat lash of his bridle could barely fit around his broad cheeks. Still, his eyes were bright and kind, and he met Georgie’s gaze keenly. His ears pricked forward as she approached him and took his reins.

      “He’s lovely,” she said. “He has such an honest face.”

      “Belvedere’s a reliable jumper,” James assured her as he legged her up. “I would have preferred to put you on something with a bit more class like Tinkerbell, but Dad said she’s not for first-timers.”

      Georgie suspected that what Mr Kirkwood really meant was that he didn’t consider her good enough for his best horses, so he’d stuck her with a draught horse. Still, she wasn’t complaining. She really liked Belvedere, although sitting astride him felt weird after riding Belle. His heavy physique bulged out beneath her, the barrel of his belly forcing her legs to stick out like she was doing the splits.

      As she lumbered back across the lawn trying to get used to Belvedere’s cumbersome trot, Georgie caught sight of the showjumperettes. Kennedy and her friends were mounted up on elegant, well-bred hunters and all of them wore sleek black riding coats with frilled stocks at their throats and top hats instead of helmets. Next to them on her draught horse in her borrowed country tweeds Georgie looked like an unsophisticated hick. She could see from Kennedy’s smirk that this had been her intention all along.

      “Interesting choice of outfit,” she said to Georgie. “Beige is really your colour, isn’t it?”

      “Thanks, Kennedy,” Georgie replied sarcastically. “Oh, and by the way, Abraham Lincoln called – he wants his top hat back.”

      Kennedy’s expression turned fierce. “You obviously know nothing about hunting. If you get in Dad’s way today, he’ll feed you to the hounds.”

      “Calm down, Kennedy,” James said, “I was just about to tell her the rules.”

      He smiled at Georgie. “There’s really only one rule. My dad is the master of the hunt and you must never overtake him on the field. Those other guys with him in red coats are Dad’s henchmen – the whippers-in, and the field masters. They’ll try and boss you around, but don’t worry, just do as I say and no matter what, always stick with me.

      OK?”

      Georgie didn’t have time to reply. Randolph Kirkwood raised the horn to his lips, giving a long, low blast. Then he set off at a brisk trot, the hounds following obediently at the heels of his great, grey hunter. The pack scampered across the pebbled driveway, heading to the right of the house towards a low stone bridge that crossed a small stream, leading out into the pasture beyond. They kept alongside their master in tight formation until they reached the field, and then they began to fan out, casting for the scent.

      Two hounds to the far left of the field began baying, and soon the others had joined in their howling chorus. Randolph Kirkwood gave another toot on his horn to alert the riders behind him and then the hunt was off and galloping.

      The hounds covered the ground СКАЧАТЬ