Mistress of the Hunt (9 page)

As the carriage passed the beautiful little church known as much for its lovely Georgian pews and gallery as for the melodious chimes in its tower, and entered the central square where the six roads converged, Philippa was relieved to discover that Melton Mowbray was bustling with nattily dressed sporting gentlemen. She had feared she would find Mr. Assheton-Smith away from home, since Monday was a day particularly set aside for the Quorn’s fastest, most popular hunts; however, she had had it on the authority of her young footman Stephen, a hunting enthusiast, that no one would wish to hunt with the ground frozen hard, as it seemed to have been overnight.

“Won’t carry a scent,” he had said loftily at the breakfast table that morning. “ ’Tis one thing after a slow freeze, m’lady, but quite another when the fields freeze over quickly after being soaked through, like they’ve been. November scent be right flighty, they say.”

Of course, it was entirely possible that so intrepid a hunter as Mr. Thomas Assheton-Smith was known to be might have gone out regardless. But Philippa was ready to take the chance he had not, in order to speak with him.

Their coachman followed the Nottingham Road to Grimston, then crossed the river to turn south through Barrow-upon-Soar to Quomdon Hall. The hall itself would have been pretty, Philippa thought as the carriage passed through the entrance gates, were it not surrounded by kennels and stables. That it was, was not particularly surprising, of course, since according to her knowledgeable footman, the Quorn’s kennels were the second most extensive in all England, and one of the stables alone held twenty-eight horses so arranged that when a spectator stood in the center of it his eye commanded each individual animal. The young footman had further informed her that the stables were provided with seats and lighted by powerful lamps, so as to form a high treat to the eye of any sportsman on a winter’s evening. In addition to this, he assured her, there were any number of loose boxes, and even an exercise ride under cover, for bad weather.

“I do hope Mr. Assheton-Smith is at home,” she said now to her companion. “He is said to be nearly as determined a hunter as Squire Osbaldeston, you know, but Stephen Footman assured me that he would not go out upon such a day as today.”

She looked pointedly at the young footman, who had swung down from his perch at the back of the carriage when it stopped and was at that moment opening the carriage door and letting down the steps. His twinkling eyes told her he had heard her, but his expression was properly blank as he extended his hand to assist her from the carriage.

He hurried ahead of them, so that by the time they had ascended the broad white steps of Quorndon Hall, the front door had been opened wide, and a butler who looked quite elderly enough to have been passed along with the property to the various Masters of the Quorn bowed low and admitted them to the entrance hall.

The ladies were guided at once into a drawing room that, despite the clear lack of a feminine touch, was perfectly comfortable. They were not offered refreshment, only the information that their host would be along shortly.

Mr. Thomas Assheton-Smith, at thirty-seven, was not a man noted for his mastery of the social graces nor for the evenness of his temper, but he was cordial enough when he entered his drawing room, and if he was astonished to find that masculine chamber in the possession of two ladies of quality, he gave no more sign of his emotion than a slight tightening of his narrow lower jaw and a wary glint in his deep-set blue eyes. He was tall for a hunting man, being a shade over five-foot-ten in his boots, but he was very thin—not more than ten stone—and built like whipcord, with hands that looked a size too large for the rest of him. His dark hair was neatly though not fashionably styled, and his well-cut brown coat hung loosely from his lanky shoulders. Even his buckskins fit him loosely, as though he could not bear to be confined in modern, tight fashions. If his bow was casual, it did not lack polish, for Mr. Assheton-Smith was a man of breeding, having descended from an excellent family and having, moreover, enjoyed the benefits of an Eton-and-Oxford education. His general manner, however, was more that of a curt country squire than that of a gentleman, and he seemed, once Philippa and Miss Pellerin had introduced themselves, to be under the impression that they had come to collect a subscription for the church poor box at Barrow-upon-Soar.

“Always glad to dig into m’ pockets for a worthy cause, ladies. How much d’ye need?”

Philippa chuckled, extending her hand to him as he stepped nearer. “I cannot blame you for thinking we have come to dun you, sir,” she said, “for I cannot believe you have had many ladies approach you with the object I have in mind.”

“And what object might that be, ma’am?” he asked, just touching her hand with two fingers of his own.

“Why, to hunt with the Quorn, sir. I should account it a great privilege if you would allow me to join the meet for your Friday hunt,” she added, rushing her fence.

“Ladies don’t hunt in Leicestershire,” Mr. Assheton-Smith said flatly.

“To be sure, ’tis not the fashion to do so at present, sir, but I have a fancy to set a new fashion. I ride very well,” she went on quickly when she saw his eyes narrow, “so I shall not disgrace you, and I have hunted twice with the Belvoir without coming to grief.”

“If you have never fallen, I cannot think you much of a hunter, ma’am,” Assheton-Smith retorted, adding without a trace of false modesty, “I am accounted the best rider in the shires, you know. Rode cheap, small horses when I came here seven years ago and rode just as well on them as I do now on the living best, and I can tell you, ma’am, I have fallen in every field in Leicestershire. Once I fell eight times in a single run. Falling is a fine art, for there is no place you cannot get over with a fall, but if you have never fallen, then you have never learned to throw your heart over so that your horse may follow it. In short, ma’am, there is no place for you in my hunt.”

“But surely,” Philippa protested, “whether I come to harm should be my own concern, sir. You do not require that a gentleman must have fallen in a hunt before you allow him to ride with the Quorn.”

“Different matter,” he said shortly. He had not taken a seat but remained standing, glowering down at them. There was a small silence; then he repeated in even firmer tones, “Entirely different matter. Fact is, m’lady, a Melton hunt ain’t no place for a woman. The fields are rowdy, and the men don’t watch their language as they would in a drawing room. The pace is faster than anywhere else, and the riding rougher. Fact is,” he added, glaring at her now, “the right place for a woman is a sofa, not a saddle, and that’s the whole of it, rump and stump.”

Though she longed to hit him, Philippa took leave of Mr. Assheton-Smith shortly thereafter with as much haughty dignity as she could muster. Thick silence ensued in the carriage until they had passed well beyond the gates of Quorndon Hall, and then; unable to contain herself a moment longer, she said explosively, “Dreadful man!”

“Well, do you know, I do not believe he is commonly accounted so,” said Miss Pellerin conversationally. “He is very wealthy, you know, and he disapproves strongly of gambling and drinking, which must set a good example for all those young sportsmen who gather in Melton Mowbray to cut such capers every year. They say, too, that he goes to church every Sunday, and on foot, too, which accounts for his being so willing to donate his money when he thought we were seeking aid for the poor.”

“They say,” retorted her companion in minatory tones, “that he once kicked a sheepdog and then threatened to fight the shepherd merely for daring to get in the way of his precious hounds. So much for his setting a good example. He cannot even catch a wife, which is scarcely cause for astonishment when his appalling temper is legendary and his reputation for settling every dispute with his fists, I venture to say, is a good deal more widely known than his Sunday principles.”

“No doubt you are in the right of it, my love, but I daresay you will find few people who will take your side in this matter. Though it made you angry to hear Mr. Assheton-Smith say so, most men, I fear, will agree with him and refuse to allow a woman in the hunting field.”

“Pooh,” retorted Philippa rudely. “Many women hunt with their families, all over England, just as I did at Toddleigh. ’Tis only in the shires that men are so fusty.”

“But the society of true huntsmen is not such that a well-bred woman would seek to join them,” said her companion in some distress. “Truly, my dear, you would not wish to sit with gentlemen over their port after dinner, as they say that dreadful Harriette Wilson did when she came into Leicestershire, and I am persuaded that sporting gentlemen behave much more disagreeably on the hunting field. You know perfectly well that gentlemen in gentlemen’s company use language and manners which must only offend a lady.”

“Then they must learn to behave better.”

“Oh, but surely one would not wish them to be civilized all the time, as we poor females must be, for that would be to change them quite beyond recognition. I daresay any gentleman forced to maintain for an unlimited span of time that elevated standard set by polite society as acceptable to females would soon be driven to distraction.”

“No doubt,” said Philippa dryly, “but I do not desire to inflict my presence on them indefinitely, after all. I wish merely to share the excitement of the hunt. I do not even wish to be in at the kill, for one can imagine nothing so disgusting, nor yet so damaging to one’s sensibilities—not to mention to the poor fox—as to watch a pack of hounds reaping the reward of a successful chase. I but long for activity—strenuous activity. I was used as a girl to ride hard and long on my father’s estates in Yorkshire, which is much rougher ground, I promise you, than these grassy fields. Why, every field in Leicestershire is closely examined several times a week for holes down which an enterprising fox might dive at the height of the chase, and when such holes are discovered, they are immediately stopped up. In Yorkshire, one must always be as wary of the terrain underfoot as of what lies ahead.”

“Well, as to that, I do not know, but they do say that Leicestershire is hard-riding country. Perhaps,” she added rapidly and in more conciliatory tones, “if you truly wish to ride with a field, you will indeed contrive to convince Rochford to allow you to ride with the Wyvern from time to time. That would be much wiser, I’m thinking, than to ride with the Quorn. Why, mercy me, my love, they say there can be as many as three hundred riders in a single field with Mr. Assheton-Smith. You cannot wish to ride in such a crush as that.”

“Well, I am not by any means certain, either, that I wish to be beholden to Viscount Rochford,” said Philippa. “I have thought about it, ma’am, and if he should be on the lookout for a wife, I can think of nothing more uncomfortable than to put myself in a position where he might believe me willing to pay serious heed to his addresses.”

“But, my dear, you have only met the gentleman once.”

“Once was enough, ma’am, truly. You must confess I have had a deal of experience in that regard, whatever my experience with hunting may be. At first he was merely polite, if you recall, when we met him with their graces in the saloon, but he did make a point at that time of establishing my relationship to Wakefield. Later, on the terrace, after I had spoken to Jessalyn and he had had words with his sister, he was much more affable.” For a moment, involuntarily, she fell silent as she remembered the odd sensations that had taken hold of her body when he had smiled down at her, and it was almost as though Rochford were again beside her, right there in the carriage. Her skin tingled warmly at the thought of him, as though she expected to feel his touch. Really, she thought, the sensation was most disconcerting. Then, realizing that her companion must be expecting her to explain herself with somewhat more clarity, she added hastily, “You must see, ma’am, that not immediately having realized the full extent of my eligibility, he must have made inquiries in the meantime and discovered that I am completely worthy of his interest. Oh, dear, I sound exactly like a conceited schoolgirl, do I not?”

Miss Pellerin smiled gently, neither agreeing nor denying. “Mightn’t he merely have spoken as he would, in a quite friendly fashion, to anyone who had been caught in such a coil as the two of you were caught up in, my dear?”

Philippa paused, considering this possibility. “I suppose he might at that,” she agreed slowly. “I confess I should like to discover that I have misjudged him. Still, in the event that my first impression was the correct one, I believe I shall approach Lord Lonsdale tomorrow in the hope that it will not then be necessary to put myself under obligation to Rochford.”

“I do not believe your luck will be any the better with the Cottesmore than with the Quorn,” replied her companion. “ ’Tis a smaller hunt, I believe, but I have never heard of any lady riding with it, although Letty Lade may have done so. You will not look to her to be a pattern card for your own behavior, however.”

“No, of course not. I should not like anyone to think of me in the same thought as Sir John Lade’s wife or Miss Wilson, I promise you.” Not that either thing would be likely, she told herself. Not when Harriette Wilson was an infamous courtesan and when Letty Lade’s greatest claim to fame was the intriguing fact that she had once been mistress to a notorious highwayman with the interesting name of Sixteen-String Jack, who had perished—laughing, by all accounts—on the gallows at Tyburn Hill. Still, the thought put Philippa in mind of something else. “Truly, ma’am, I have no wish to be thought fast—or to be the only female in the field, for that matter.”

“Well, I hope you are not expecting me to join you, Philippa, for I tell you to your face that I cannot consider such a thing at my age.”

Philippa glanced at the plump figure beside her and, with laughing eyes, declared that the exercise might do her companion a great deal of good.

Miss Pellerin replied placidly, “No doubt it would, but I should infinitely prefer a daily walk round the garden if it is all the same to you, my dear.”