proportion.
Just as he and Billy mounted their horses the local photographer arrived, pushing his way through the ring of admirers.
“Hello, Rupert, can I have a photograph of you and Billy?”
“Okay,” said Rupert, gazing unsmiling into the camera.
“I’m not looking my best,” grumbled Billy. “I haven’t washed my hair.”
“Good chance for publicity,” said Maureen sententiously, and barging her way through, she handed Rupert an anti-hunting leaflet.
“Thank you very much,” he said politely. “Can I have one for Billy?”
Maureen turned round to face the camera between them.
“Can I borrow your lighter, Billy?” said Rupert. Next minute he had set fire to the two leaflets and dropped them flaming at Maureen’s feet.
“You’re not even man enough to read them,” she said furiously.
Rupert looked her up and down. “It’s rather hard to tell what sex you are,” he drawled, “but you’re certainly not good-looking enough to hold such extreme views. Go away, you’re frightening my horse.”
The crowd screamed with laughter. Maureen flounced back to Helen. “The bastard, did you hear what he said?”
Over Maureen’s head, for a second, Rupert’s eyes met Helen’s. Then he looked away without interest. They’re right. He’s poisonous, she thought.
At that moment a beautiful, but over-made-up woman, her black coat straining over a splendid bosom, trotted up to Rupert with a proprietorial air.
“Darling, how are you feeling? I actually made it.”
Simultaneously the landlord arrived with the two filled flasks. As he handed one of them to Rupert she grabbed it, taking a large swig.
“Don’t drink it all,” snapped Rupert.
“Darling,” she said fondly, screwing back the top, and handing it to him, “you can come home later and drink as much of ours as you like.”
Rupert put a long booted leg forward and pulled up the mare’s girths.
“I don’t know if I’ll need Monty as well,” he said to the groom. “With these bloody hunt saboteurs about, we may not get much action. If you lose us, wait at the Spotted Cow.”
The next moment the hunt clattered off. Helen was amazed to see Nigel suddenly leap out of a hawthorn bush and squirt the hounds with Anti-mate. Next minute a little girl had rushed up and kicked him so hard on the ankles that he dropped the aerosol can with a yell.
“Stop it, you horrid man,” she screamed.
Rupert Campbell-Black, who was passing, grinned down at her: “Well done, angel. I’ll marry you when you grow up.”
The saboteurs leapt into their five cars.
“Keep your eyes peeled for foxes,” hissed Paul. Nigel was still grumbling about his ankle.
Hurtling down a country lane, sending the catkins shivering, they found hounds being put into the palest green larch covert. The saboteurs parked above it and the next moment a posse, including Nigel and Paul, vaulted over the fence and, armed with Anti-mate, disappeared after them. Judging by the expletives and the shaking of fists, they were causing havoc in the woods. The master decided to move on.
“Out of my way,” he said bossily to a group of girl riders, “you’re not with the pony club now. I expect you’ve only come out to gaze at Rupert Campbell-Black.”
The saboteurs moved off in search of fresh sport. Stopping in a layby to spray pepper, they got stuck in the mud. Two foot-followers, not realizing who they were, pushed them out.
The next two hours were like being at a race meeting, permanently under starter’s orders. Every time the hunt picked up a scent the Antis managed to foil them.
Later, Maureen and Helen hung over a gate watching a sluggish stream choking its way through overhanging osiers and pussy willows. Fat celandines were pushing their way through the dead leaves. Helen gloried in the spring sunshine beating through her dark green jersey.
“Are the saboteurs anti-fishing as well?” she asked.
“Oh, yes,” said Maureen earnestly. “Our more extreme members feel it’s cruel to the worm.”
Helen’s stomach gave an ominous rumble.
“I’m starving,” said Maureen. “Thank God I had a cooked breakfast. We’re all rendezvousing at the Spotted Cow at one o’clock.”
Helen, who had had no breakfast and only scrambled eggs the previous night, had visions of gins and tonics and pub steak and kidney pudding. The plowed brown fields in their evenness reminded her of mince. Perhaps there’d be shepherd’s pie for lunch.
But in the end, they only stopped at the village shop to buy oranges and some Perrier.
“Can’t squander the saboteurs’ funds on food and drink,” said Nigel, offering her his bottle of Perrier.
Helen suddenly thought how much she’d prefer to share a flask of brandy with Rupert Campbell-Black. If she’d been out with him, she figured, he’d have made sure she was properly looked after.
The saboteurs were parked outside the Spotted Cow as the hunt came past, looking understandably bootfaced after such an abortive morning.
“Pull the choke out,” whispered Paul. “It’ll muddle the hounds.”
On the other side of another wood, the hats of the riders could be seen moving ceaselessly back and forth.
Another posse of saboteurs moved in from the right, view-hallooing to distract the hounds and throwing in a couple of firecrackers, which set the already excited horses plunging.
“Pa, pa, pa, pa,” came the tender melancholy note of the horn.
“Oh, good. I mean, oh dear!” said Helen. “They’ve found a fox.”
“That’s Paul,” said Maureen smugly. “He can blow a horn as well as any huntsman.”
Two women supporters in green quilted coats and tweed skirts parked nearby and got out of their car.
“Bloody Antis,” said one, incongruously smoothing a wildlife sanctuary sticker on her windscreen.
“Have you heard how the Paignton-Laceys” dance went?” said her friend.
“Fiona’s not up yet this morning, but I saw Primrose, who said it was frightfully good. More chaps than girls for a change. Rupert Campbell-Black disgraced himself as usual. Got off with Gabriella. Evidently they disappeared for hours and hours. Charlie got quite frantic. They’ve only been married a year.”
“Better than Marcia’s dance,” said the first one. “Evidently he got simply plastered and docked the tails of all the yew peacocks; I mean they’ve taken literally hundreds of years to grow. I’d have sued the little beast.”
“He gets away with it,” said the first one, “because he is so frightfully attractive.”
Suddenly she gave an enraged bellow as Nigel and Paul, spattered with mud, their hands cut and bleeding from the under-growth, tore up the hill with the heavies hot on their trail, and leapt into the car.
Taking off, Paul shook off the heavies, finally stopping at the edge of a beech wood looking down a valley. In the back, Nigel was noisily sucking an orange. Getting out of the car, Helen caught her breath, for there, slowly riding up the hill, came Rupert Campbell-Black, his gleaming bay mare and his red coat the only splashes of color against the greens and browns. Gaining the top of the hill, he paused, trying to work out which way the hounds might run. The sun, which had been hovering in the wings like an actor waiting to make an entrance, broke away from the clouds, warming the brown fields. Nigel got out of the car, wiping his hands on his trousers.
“ ‘To one who has been long in city pent,’ ” he said pompously as he edged towards Helen: “ ‘ ’Tis very sweet to look into the fair and open face of heaven.’ ”
Helen, who privately thought it would be much sweeter to look into the fair and very close face of Rupert Campbell-Black, edged away again.
“I think they’re going to draw this covert,” said Nigel, vanishing into the beech copse, followed by Paul.
A hound spoke. Then the triumphant chorus rang out and there was the wild cry of the true horn. Suddenly, with the master cheering them on the line, hounds streamed down the valley in a dappled cloud. Then came the field, galloping, jumping, barging through gates with a clash of stirrups. There was Rupert, looking in a completely different class to the others, riding so easily and fluidly, almost nibbling his horse’s ears as he seemed to lift her
