sketch your ladyship this-morning? You could tell more from that.’
‘It will not take long?’ He shook his head. ‘Very well. If you have not hidden your things, I will ring for them.’
His relief and happiness were so obvious that she felt a tremor of alarm. She had no intention of employing him unless she liked his work.
‘I have not made up my mind, you understand,’ she said abruptly .
‘Oh no, I didn’t think that. I was afraid you weren’t going to see what I can do. Now I’m to have a proper chance I feel quite satisfied. It was just having a chance, you see, your ladyship.’
His eagerness to avoid seeming presumptuous amused her, but she kept this to herself, and after a footman had been despatched for the artist’s things, resumed her position at the window with her back to the room. In two hours she would be entertaining a dozen or so members of the hunt and their wives. Already she imagined the clash of their boots and their laughter echoing in the tall marble-paved hall, as they tossed aside their whips and jocularly threw their hats onto the heads of the row of classical busts at the foot of the stairs. And at their centre would be Harry’s bright smile and good-natured voice. Whether talking to women, playing cards, shooting with a keeper, or sipping madeira with a friend, he was always cheerful and self-assured; always when there was company and yet, alone with her, his buoyancy deserted him. If he could only confess his fears, she thought, perhaps then … She closed her eyes, imagining herself politely inquiring about the chase. Who had been first at the kill, who had fallen at Dinsley Water, who had not fallen at Dinsley Water, who had taken the brush? How had Colonel Yates’s new mare run, had those in carriages been able to see much? Then they would eat and later she would dispense tea and then they would play cards and some dine, and all the time her face wouldache with smiling and her mind be numbed by the triviality of everything she was saying. She heard Strickland come up.
‘Now where should I sit, Mr Strickland? Wherever the light is best, tell me. Anything can be moved.’
*
Although the sun was quite warm, there were still long white streamers of mist lying along the banks of the distant river. Poised at the top of a gently sloping ploughed field, the ragged line of scarlet, green and mulberry coated riders held their horses in check, while grooms tightened girths, attended to stirrup leathers and examined saddles and reins. Flasks were handed round and several gentlemen lit cigars. Below them, several hundred yards across the field, was Swaleham Gorse, a nine-acre covert of gorse, blackberry bushes and stunted blackthorns, overshadowed by a few tall and spiky Scotch firs. Except for the occasional snort of a horse or a spur clinking against a stirrup iron, all was quiet.
Even an indifferent judge of a horse would have admired the solitary hunter several paces in front of the other mounts. His accurate and easy step, dark brown muzzle, gleaming coat and silky mane, marked him out as a horse worthy of his rider: the Master of the Hunt. From his back, Lord Goodchild watched one of his whips canter over to the right of the covert and rein in behind a thick blackthorn screen. From inside the thicket came the faint crack of twigs and branches as the other two whips wound their way through the tangled undergrowth. Although there were eighteen couple of hounds in there with them and a fox had been scented, they had not managed to force him from his stronghold. For minutes at a time no dog was visible; then one or two would come into view, noses down and sterns up, as they crossed a thinner part of the evergreen.
As Goodchild gazed out across his land towards the twisting river and the distant hills, his anticipation of the coming chase was marred by other thoughts. If Helen really did refuse to accept the loss of Audley House, what then? Would she prove mad enough to try to force
‘It will not take long?’ He shook his head. ‘Very well. If you have not hidden your things, I will ring for them.’
His relief and happiness were so obvious that she felt a tremor of alarm. She had no intention of employing him unless she liked his work.
‘I have not made up my mind, you understand,’ she said abruptly .
‘Oh no, I didn’t think that. I was afraid you weren’t going to see what I can do. Now I’m to have a proper chance I feel quite satisfied. It was just having a chance, you see, your ladyship.’
His eagerness to avoid seeming presumptuous amused her, but she kept this to herself, and after a footman had been despatched for the artist’s things, resumed her position at the window with her back to the room. In two hours she would be entertaining a dozen or so members of the hunt and their wives. Already she imagined the clash of their boots and their laughter echoing in the tall marble-paved hall, as they tossed aside their whips and jocularly threw their hats onto the heads of the row of classical busts at the foot of the stairs. And at their centre would be Harry’s bright smile and good-natured voice. Whether talking to women, playing cards, shooting with a keeper, or sipping madeira with a friend, he was always cheerful and self-assured; always when there was company and yet, alone with her, his buoyancy deserted him. If he could only confess his fears, she thought, perhaps then … She closed her eyes, imagining herself politely inquiring about the chase. Who had been first at the kill, who had fallen at Dinsley Water, who had not fallen at Dinsley Water, who had taken the brush? How had Colonel Yates’s new mare run, had those in carriages been able to see much? Then they would eat and later she would dispense tea and then they would play cards and some dine, and all the time her face wouldache with smiling and her mind be numbed by the triviality of everything she was saying. She heard Strickland come up.
‘Now where should I sit, Mr Strickland? Wherever the light is best, tell me. Anything can be moved.’
*
Although the sun was quite warm, there were still long white streamers of mist lying along the banks of the distant river. Poised at the top of a gently sloping ploughed field, the ragged line of scarlet, green and mulberry coated riders held their horses in check, while grooms tightened girths, attended to stirrup leathers and examined saddles and reins. Flasks were handed round and several gentlemen lit cigars. Below them, several hundred yards across the field, was Swaleham Gorse, a nine-acre covert of gorse, blackberry bushes and stunted blackthorns, overshadowed by a few tall and spiky Scotch firs. Except for the occasional snort of a horse or a spur clinking against a stirrup iron, all was quiet.
Even an indifferent judge of a horse would have admired the solitary hunter several paces in front of the other mounts. His accurate and easy step, dark brown muzzle, gleaming coat and silky mane, marked him out as a horse worthy of his rider: the Master of the Hunt. From his back, Lord Goodchild watched one of his whips canter over to the right of the covert and rein in behind a thick blackthorn screen. From inside the thicket came the faint crack of twigs and branches as the other two whips wound their way through the tangled undergrowth. Although there were eighteen couple of hounds in there with them and a fox had been scented, they had not managed to force him from his stronghold. For minutes at a time no dog was visible; then one or two would come into view, noses down and sterns up, as they crossed a thinner part of the evergreen.
As Goodchild gazed out across his land towards the twisting river and the distant hills, his anticipation of the coming chase was marred by other thoughts. If Helen really did refuse to accept the loss of Audley House, what then? Would she prove mad enough to try to force
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