whickered.
“Yo hote, Yo hote, Yo hote,” singsonged the Whipper-in, urging the hounds on. Heads down, snuffling loudly, the hounds cast for scent in the humus.
As they reached the edge of the trees, Grace found herself riding beside Theresa Ives.
“Has he gone to ground?” Grace asked undervoice.
“I don’t think so. He’s a wily one, is Charlie,” Theresa answered. There was a red welt across her cheek where she must have collided with a tree branch.
“Charlie?” Images from numerous war movies flashed through Grace’s mind.
“Charles James Fox? The fox.”
Still casting for a scent dissipating as the day grew warmer, they continued slowly back the way they had come. The meadow hummed with bees. The smell of wildflowers mingled with horse and sweat. With relief Grace saw the meet point up ahead.
And then there came a most unofficial sound, a sound that seemed equal parts anguish and a train letting off steam. Riders yanked reins, horses shied, birds took flight. Only the hounds seemed unfazed. Yards ahead, they raced in full cry up the hillock jammed with cars and horse vans.
The pack swept through the cars and horse trailers and ran great circles around the vacant flattened turf where Sir Gerald’s silver Jaguar had been parked. Frustrated yips cut the sharp air.
Sir Gerald had dismounted and was cursing colorfully, calling God and the entire hunt membership as his witnesses.
It took Grace a moment to register the cause for alarm. The missing Jaguar was bouncing across the meadow heading for the main road, wildflowers strewn in its wake as the driver accelerated with shocking lack of regard for the car’s undercarriage.
“Bloody hell!” Sir Gerald was shouting. “Hooligans! The bloody bastards! Is there nothing they won’t stoop to!”
No head was visible over the backseat rest.
Like a silver bullet the car shot up the main road and disappeared around a curve.
Even the hounds seemed to be looking at each other for explanation.
At last someone remarked, “I say. Now that is a clever fox!”
7
A week to the day after his departure, a parcel arrived addressed in Peter’s bold black scrawl.
Grace opened it with trepidation, but there was no message. Apparently it was just what it seemed: items for resale. She lifted out an alligator hatbox and matching makeup case. The kinds of things glamorous film stars from the forties used to lug around. The kinds of things Peter knew Grace loved.
The hatbox was empty, but the makeup case contained fascinating odds and ends: Limoges lipstick cases, an enamel pillbox (with tiny pink pills that Grace promptly tossed in the trash), delicate jeweled hair combs and a fragile silk scarf that still whispered scent. Precious junk, she thought. The sum of an unknown woman’s life. A pair of rhinestone cat’s-eye glasses in a velvet case made her smile.
For laughs she slipped them out of the case and tried them on.
“The better to see you with?” Peter inquired dryly.
“Peter!” It came out in a yelp of surprise. “You startled me!” How had she not heard him come in? But he always moved quietly and with an economy of movement. Lost in her pleasantly melancholy thoughts, she hadn’t noticed a thing, and now he was standing right over her.
She blinked up at the magnified vision of him. She had forgotten how brilliant his eyes were. She was reminded of a line by Keats: laughs the cerulean sky.
He wore Levi’s and a lambs’ wool pullover in a muted plum color. The neck of his undershirt was crisp white against his tanned skin. He’d had time to take his jacket off.
“I didn’t hear you come in.”
The corner of Peter’s mouth quirked with private amusement. He removed her specs, tossing them on the desktop.
Grace tried to keep her voice measured and hoped her cheeks weren’t as pink as they felt. “How was your trip?”
“Interesting.” He bent and kissed her, a swift, sure, make no mistake about it kiss. Grace’s mouth seemed to
“Yo hote, Yo hote, Yo hote,” singsonged the Whipper-in, urging the hounds on. Heads down, snuffling loudly, the hounds cast for scent in the humus.
As they reached the edge of the trees, Grace found herself riding beside Theresa Ives.
“Has he gone to ground?” Grace asked undervoice.
“I don’t think so. He’s a wily one, is Charlie,” Theresa answered. There was a red welt across her cheek where she must have collided with a tree branch.
“Charlie?” Images from numerous war movies flashed through Grace’s mind.
“Charles James Fox? The fox.”
Still casting for a scent dissipating as the day grew warmer, they continued slowly back the way they had come. The meadow hummed with bees. The smell of wildflowers mingled with horse and sweat. With relief Grace saw the meet point up ahead.
And then there came a most unofficial sound, a sound that seemed equal parts anguish and a train letting off steam. Riders yanked reins, horses shied, birds took flight. Only the hounds seemed unfazed. Yards ahead, they raced in full cry up the hillock jammed with cars and horse vans.
The pack swept through the cars and horse trailers and ran great circles around the vacant flattened turf where Sir Gerald’s silver Jaguar had been parked. Frustrated yips cut the sharp air.
Sir Gerald had dismounted and was cursing colorfully, calling God and the entire hunt membership as his witnesses.
It took Grace a moment to register the cause for alarm. The missing Jaguar was bouncing across the meadow heading for the main road, wildflowers strewn in its wake as the driver accelerated with shocking lack of regard for the car’s undercarriage.
“Bloody hell!” Sir Gerald was shouting. “Hooligans! The bloody bastards! Is there nothing they won’t stoop to!”
No head was visible over the backseat rest.
Like a silver bullet the car shot up the main road and disappeared around a curve.
Even the hounds seemed to be looking at each other for explanation.
At last someone remarked, “I say. Now that is a clever fox!”
7
A week to the day after his departure, a parcel arrived addressed in Peter’s bold black scrawl.
Grace opened it with trepidation, but there was no message. Apparently it was just what it seemed: items for resale. She lifted out an alligator hatbox and matching makeup case. The kinds of things glamorous film stars from the forties used to lug around. The kinds of things Peter knew Grace loved.
The hatbox was empty, but the makeup case contained fascinating odds and ends: Limoges lipstick cases, an enamel pillbox (with tiny pink pills that Grace promptly tossed in the trash), delicate jeweled hair combs and a fragile silk scarf that still whispered scent. Precious junk, she thought. The sum of an unknown woman’s life. A pair of rhinestone cat’s-eye glasses in a velvet case made her smile.
For laughs she slipped them out of the case and tried them on.
“The better to see you with?” Peter inquired dryly.
“Peter!” It came out in a yelp of surprise. “You startled me!” How had she not heard him come in? But he always moved quietly and with an economy of movement. Lost in her pleasantly melancholy thoughts, she hadn’t noticed a thing, and now he was standing right over her.
She blinked up at the magnified vision of him. She had forgotten how brilliant his eyes were. She was reminded of a line by Keats: laughs the cerulean sky.
He wore Levi’s and a lambs’ wool pullover in a muted plum color. The neck of his undershirt was crisp white against his tanned skin. He’d had time to take his jacket off.
“I didn’t hear you come in.”
The corner of Peter’s mouth quirked with private amusement. He removed her specs, tossing them on the desktop.
Grace tried to keep her voice measured and hoped her cheeks weren’t as pink as they felt. “How was your trip?”
“Interesting.” He bent and kissed her, a swift, sure, make no mistake about it kiss. Grace’s mouth seemed to
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