Until the Colours Fade by Tim Jeal Page B

a separation? Even if she could establish his adultery with Dolly Carstairs, she would not have grounds for a divorce; the law might be an ass, but at least it protected husbands from spiteful and jealous wives. Not that Helen was jealous, but she would still use any weapon she could to retain Audley House, possibly blackmail. While Goodchild could face a scandal, he knew that Joseph Braithewaite could not withthe election growing closer. His noncomformist voters would not take it kindly if his proposer were to be exposed as a philanderer. The upshot of the matter might be the withdrawal of Joseph’s loan and that would place more than Audley House in jeopardy. As it was, Dolly’s husband was extracting five hundred a year in exchange for his complicity. Then there was the horror of polling day itself. Goodchild shuddered as he thought of the web of difficulties which hemmed him in. Seconds later he heard a single note of the huntsman’s horn from the covert, followed by several sharp shrill blasts as the fox broke and ran.
    He watched fascinated as the animal hesitated for a moment in the clear light of the open field; a second and he might have darted back to safety, but then he saw the first of the hounds streaking out of the thicket cutting off his retreat. For the first time in his life, Goodchild felt that he knew what it was like to be a fox. His whip was raised and his heels poised as he saw, at the far end of the line of riders, a bolting horse careering towards the hounds.
    ‘Hold hard, God dammit, hold hard!’ he roared.
    Another moment and the fox would be headed, and either get back into the covert or run straight into the mouths of the hounds. He was shouting again when he recognised the rider: Humphrey, his own son. The boy’s teeth were clenched together with rage and terror as he pulled at the reins twisted round his whitened knuckles; he was trying with all his might to turn the animal, but in vain; no cuts of the whip or use of his spurs made the horse obey the reins. A loud groan rose from all the riders as the fox bolted into the midst of the pack where he was torn apart. Goodchild cantered across to the huntsman and shouted:
    ‘Send back the hounds, there will be no run today.’
    Humphrey’s face was wet with tears and anger as his father rode past him with averted eyes. Never had Goodchild so much wanted to see a fox have a fair run. He had never asked the boy to excel with his tutor, never sworn at him if he knew no Cicero and less Virgil, never asked that he should do anything except ride decently to hounds. A year ago, shortly after Humphrey’s twelfth birthday, Goodchild had pressed Helen hard to consent to her only child going away to Eton or Rugby, but she had refused out of hand. No blacking other boys’ boots or cleaning their candlesticks for her boy, her Humphrey. No wonder the fool was good for nothing. For a few moments Goodchild’s fury made him forget everything else, but then he saw George Braithwaite riding towards him; he turned his horse at once, seeing several ofhis tenant farmers doff their hats as he passed. To have to endure George’s cheerfulness on such a morning would be beyond endurance . He could imagine what Helen would say when he got in. ‘I see that the world is quite over when a morning’s sport is lost; perhaps you would like to flog your son like one of your troopers .’ He was thinking of Dolly Carstairs, when George’s voice sounded in his ear.
    ‘I say, my lord, you’re in a deuced hurry to be off. Why not draw the covert again? Devilish shame if we don’t get a run, wouldn’t you say?’
    Goodchild’s eye passed from the black silk facings of George’s scarlet coat to his waistcoat, which was not only embroidered with foxes’ masks, but also sported fox teeth buttons. Longing to scream at him, Goodchild forced a smile.
    ‘All gone to earth I’d say, George. Too bad.’
    ‘Wouldn’t care to be in Master Humphrey’s boots,’ chuckled