over a huge hedge.
“Wire on the other side,” he yelled back to Billy, who gathered his black cob together and cleared it just as easily. There was a clattering of hooves as they jumped into the road and out again, and set off towards the beech copse, which had been liberally sprayed with pepper and Anti-mate. As they entered the copse, Nigel and Paul stood on a nearby fence and started to blow a horn concerto, utterly muddling the hounds who, distracted by the pepper and the Anti-mate, charged around, frenziedly zigzagging back and forth, whimpering with frustration as they tried to pick up the scent.
Helen suddenly felt furious with Nigel and Paul. What right had they to spoil everyone’s day? She and Maureen were standing in the field skirting the copse when suddenly Nigel came hurtling out of the wood, followed by Paul. The next minute Rupert Campbell-Black galloped around the corner, riding straight at them, his eyes blazing.
“He won’t touch the girls,” screamed Nigel, promptly plunging his horn down Helen’s new dark green cashmere jersey, stretching the neckband, and disappearing over the hedge. “Chivalry will prevent him,” he called over his shoulder.
Chivalry prevented Rupert doing no such thing. He rode straight up to Helen, reined in the plunging mare, and, before Helen could stop him, leaned over, put a warm hand down the front of her jersey, and retrieved the horn.
“A good-looking Anti,” he said in mock-wonder. “I never expected to see one. What’s a pretty girl like you doing, getting mixed up with a desiccated creep like Nigel?”
“How dare you?” gasped Helen, hand to her breast as though she’d been violated.
“How dare
“All right, Helen?” asked Nigel, emerging from the under-growth.
“She’s not getting much help from you, you little rat,” said Rupert. “She’s got a very good body, though.”
Blushing crimson, hopelessly aware how unbecoming it was with her red hair, Helen gazed fixedly at Rupert’s highly polished boot.
“Don’t you insult my girlfriend,” said Nigel, striding up, slipping in a cowpat and putting his arm round Helen’s shoulders.
Equally furiously, she shrugged him off.
“On the contrary,” said Rupert, pocketing the horn. “I was being excessively polite, telling her she’s the only decent-looking girl I’d ever seen out with the Antis.” He nodded in Maureen’s direction. “What d’you use that one for, breaking down lift doors?”
For a second he made the mare plunge towards Nigel, who retreated into the hedge, then, wheeling round, he was off.
“I’ll get even with you,” screeched Nigel.
As they set off again, Helen sat in the back, stunned. Rupert was simply the most wrong but entirely romantic person she’d ever met. She was appalled how violently she felt attracted to him. She could still feel the warmth of his leisurely hand and remember the way the brilliant blue eyes had moved over her, assessing, absorbing data like a computer.
“ ‘My only love sprang from my only hate,’ ” she whispered.
As Rupert cantered back to join the despondent remains of the hunt, Gabriella, who’d earlier helped herself to his hip flask, caught up with him.
“Coo-ee, darling, where
One of the added irritations caused by the saboteurs, thought Rupert, was that it had been impossible to shake Gabriella off. Last night, belonging to someone else, with her magnificent white bosom rising out of plunging black lace, she had been a far more desirable proposition. He had taken her in a cordoned-off bedroom, hung around with tapestries. In the middle, a long line of foot-followers had actually congaed unknowing through the room, whooping and yelling and reducing them both to helpless laughter. Today, red-veined from an excess of wine, with her makeup running, her hair coming down in a lacquered mass, and her bulky thighs in too-tight breeches, she had lost all her charm, though none of her ardor. Rupert had a sudden yearning for the whippet-slim Anti, with her hair the color of the bracken still strewing the rides.
“What a bloody useless day,” he said.
“It could be improved dramatically,” said Gabriella, riding her horse alongside him. “Why don’t we slip home? Charlie’s gone shooting.”
“Probably like to count me as part of the bag,” said Rupert, looking at his watch. “It’s only a quarter to three. Worth giving it another hour.”
He was relieved to see Billy emerging from the wood, his head buried in his horse’s neck to avoid the branches.
“I feel better,” said Billy. “I’ve just been sick behind a holly bush. Have you got any brandy left, Rupe?”
“Not much,” said Rupert, handing him the flask. “Better finish it.”
Rupert’s fiendish behavior was soon relayed with relish to the rest of the Antis. Helen, unable to work up any indignation at all, picked a bunch of primroses and wrapped them in a paper handkerchief dipped in a puddle.
Briefly, Paul and Nigel had lost the hounds, but had found them again in full cry within the walls of some huge estate. Unable to get at them physically, the saboteurs launched their toughest offensive. All hell broke loose as smoke bombs and thunderflashes exploded, foghorns wailed, and horns and whistles were blown.
“Jesus Christ! Some buggers are shooting in the covert. Pull hounds out,” yelled a huntsman.
Helen hid behind an ash tree, saying her prayers as the saboteurs charged about, yelling, screaming, slipping on wet leaves, tripping over bramble cables and the long silver roots of beech trees. Hounds had gone to pieces. All Helen could hear was whimpering. Nigel shimmied up the wall to look.
“Master’s lost control,” he said happily.
To the left, the Land Rovers with the heavies were moving in threateningly. Paul seized Helen, bustling her into the front of the car.
“Let’s beat it,” he said.
“Where are Maureen and Nigel?”
“Mo’s in one of the other cars,” Paul put his foot down on the accelerator, “and Nigel’s got some ingenious plot of his own, but my lips are sealed. He’s taken Fiona’s car; said he’d join us later.”
It had started to spit with rain. Old ladies hurried home, putting on headscarves. Women rushed out into the cottage gardens, taking in washing.
“You’re not wearing your safety belt, Ellen,” said Paul. “Wouldn’t want an attractive young lady to come to any harm.”
Turning on Radio Three, he accompanied a Beethoven sonata in a reedy tenor. Helen had a feeling he was glad they’d shed the others.
“I know you’re Nige’s girl,” he said throatily.
“I am not,” said Helen tartly. “There is nothing between us.”
“That makes a difference. Didn’t want to tread on anyone’s corns. I happen to be playing at a concert at the Festival Hall next Saturday. Wonder if you’d care to come. We could have an Indian afterwards.”
Helen, who hated curry, said she’d look in her diary, which he seemed to regard as a satisfactory answer. As he rabbited on about the orchestra and the paper he was writing on shrews, Helen found it was unnecessary to make any other comment than the occasional “um.” Breathing in the apricot dusk, she wondered what Rupert Campbell-Black was doing now.
Rupert and Billy hacked back to their horse box through the pouring rain, discussing which horses they should take to the Crittleden Easter Meeting, which started on Friday. Billy, who’d put his collar up and turned his hat back to front to stop the rain running down his neck, was trying to light a cigarette.
“Did you see the girl with the Antis?” asked Rupert, in that deceptively casual way that meant he was interested.
“Bit thin,” said Billy.
“Marvelous face, though. Doesn’t sound English. How the hell did Nigel get hold of her?”
“Perhaps she likes his mind.”
“Hardly likely to be anything else.”
