An Irish Country Love Story by Patrick Taylor

ditches.
    John had sent word last night that he would meet the foot party and bring the ten couples of hounds of the Ballybucklebo Hunt. The marquis’s widowed sister, Lady Myrna Ferguson, was here too, and like her brother sat her black mount as if to the manner born. She must have had no classes scheduled at Queen’s University today, where she was a lecturer in inorganic chemistry.
    O’Reilly knew this might be her and the marquis’s last chance to ride to the hounds. “John told me last autumn when he and I were snipe shooting that he was being forced to sell his thoroughbred hunters. The family will keep on a couple of hacks like Lars’s mount. John’ll continue to provide kennels for the hounds because it’s the annual subscriptions of the members of the hunt that pay for them and the hunt servants. It’s sad,” O’Reilly said. “They both love hunting, but it’s a huge expense running the estate.”
    â€œI didn’t know about the horses,” Kitty said. “It is a pity, but I suppose the days of keeping a stableful of hunters is over for the MacNeills. Life is changing for the aristocracy.”
    The three equestrians were surrounded by the pack of liver, white, and black hounds that milled round the horses’ legs, barking and baying, legs stiff, tails erect.
    â€œThe dogs are raring to go. I’d better get things moving,” O’Reilly said. He raised his voice and called, “Right. Let’s get ourselves organised. You all know the hills, and we don’t want to be tripping over each other. We need to cover as much ground as possible.” He turned to the marquis. “So I propose, my lord, that you, Lady Myrna, and Mister O’Reilly take the centre section, which is about a quarter of a mile wide and mostly heather and bracken. Better going for the horses. But please hang on here until the rest of the search party’s in place.”
    â€œWe’ll do that,” the marquis said. “Let the hounds quarter it. If the dog’s there they’ll find him and they won’t hurt him. They like other dogs.”
    â€œThank you, sir.” O’Reilly turned back to the others. “I need you folks to space out at equal intervals from both sides of the area the hunt will be covering to the far edges of the woods and thickets.” The group were all experienced outdoorsmen and needed no further instructions from him. Surely if poor old Jasper were out here he’d be found? He might even remember the culvert he’d taken cover in as a puppy where Sonny had found Jasper sixteen years ago.
    â€œNow,” said O’Reilly, “this morning we’ll be climbing up to the crest, where Mister Bishop will have lunch laid on beside the old watchtower. Let’s hope we’ve found Jasper by then. If not, we’ll take a break and then cover the other side of the hills as far as the Comber Road in the afternoon. At least it will be easier going downhill.”
    A piped series of pee-wit, pee-wit came from overhead and he looked up. “Green plover, also called lapwing,” he said to Kitty, who had been a city girl until she’d married him. The birds, with their green-tinted backs, white bellies, and black breasts, throats, crowns, and crests, tumbled across the cold, eggshell-blue sky.
    â€œThey really are pretty,” she said. “I’ve never seen them before. I remember how much your father loved birds. How you and Lars set up a feeding table right outside his window in Dublin.”
    O’Reilly smiled. “Father did love his birds,” he said. “Bless him. So does Lars.”
    Lars’s mare whinnied loudly. O’Reilly looked over to see her tossing her head and mane, Lars with eyes wide, clenching his teeth, his hands clutching the reins, and Myrna sidling her horse over and calming the animal.
    â€œI think,” O’Reilly called, “it’s time