Beryl arrived at the Garrison Hunt Club well before the appointed start time. She wore a dark blue velvet riding habit, derby, and face net. She kept the net up and off her face for the moment. There would be plenty of time, once the hounds were released from the kennels, to adjust it.
Lord Springfield accompanied her. He’d called for her at the house, something no doubt engineered by her mother. She had been throwing them together constantly for the last month. After the dinner party, Mother had gushed and preened by turns at how much Lord Springfield had enjoyed Beryl’s company, and what a catch he was, and wouldn’t it be something to be known as Lady Springfield?
Beryl had said nothing. Lord Springfield was a nice man, but much like the rest of the eligible bachelors her parents had paraded through her life, she felt nothing for him beyond polite interest.
Not like what she felt for Gard Kennedy.
Which was ridiculous, since they had only met a few weeks ago, and that first meeting had not exactly been cordial, what with him pointing out every flaw he saw in her riding and doubting whether someone of her social standing could be serious about horsemanship.
But she thought she had begun to dispel his doubts. And he had been correct in his assessment of her riding, something that made her wince considering she’d thought herself quite proficient up until now. It was seeing the difference between Lacey’s demeanor with Gard in the saddle as opposed to when she was riding the mare that showed he was right about her riding deficiencies.
“Is this a large kennel?” Lord Springfield looked over the early arrivals as he tugged on his gloves.
“They have a large kennel, but not all the hounds will hunt during this trial. Probably a dozen pairs will go out today.”
“Good. And is the Master competent?”
The way he said it set Beryl’s teeth on edge. Perhaps he didn’t mean to be patronizing, but that’s how it felt.
“He’s an excellent Master of Hounds. Speaking of whom, we should go and greet him.”
Before they could cross the grass to where the large man in the red hunting coat stood talking to his whippers-in, Beryl spied Gard and Asa approaching on horseback. Her heart rate kicked up, and she had to take a steadying breath. Gard rode Spanky and led Lacey, and Asa rode Bandit, the mount Lord Springfield had leased from the Schmidts for the summer.
Beryl changed course, going to greet them. Lacey nudged her hand for a treat, but she had to settle for some pats. Beryl had stuck to the feeding schedule Gard had set up for the mare, and it was already paying dividends. Lacey was getting fitter and leaner by the day.
She glanced at Gard’s attire, thankful that he’d gotten it right. Hunt etiquette was strict, and everyone was expected to adhere to it. With his black jacket, buff breeches, and black hunt cap and boots, he would blend right into the field of riders. Except that he would be by far the handsomest.
“Looks like a good day for it.” Gard slid from the saddle. He loosened Spanky’s girth while Asa did the same for Bandit.
“Hello, Asa. Thank you for helping get the horses here.” Beryl smiled at the old horseman. “They look to be in fine form.”
“My pleasure, Miss Beryl.” He bobbed his snowy head. “I’ll be right here to get ’em back home when you return.” He pulled a book from his pocket and went to sit in the shade of a huge pine tree away from the horses and people arriving.
Lord Springfield looked Bandit over. “I hope he gives me a good ride today. I’m wondering about switching to another horse for the rest of the summer. Do you think Schmidt would lease that stallion Arcturus to me? I imagine he’d be exhilarating over fences.”
Gard ran his hand down Bandit’s nose. “I don’t think Schmidt is interested in leasing Arcturus. Bandit will give you a nice ride, though I’ve noticed he likes to lie on your left leg. He could do with some straightening going into a jump.”
Lord Springfield’s eyes blazed. He took Bandit’s reins and led him away. Beryl almost laughed. Gard had no compunctions about giving out riding instructions, even to haughty English lords. Maybe that was what she liked most about him. The horses came first.
Taking Beryl’s arm, Gard guided her to the far side of the horses, keeping his voice low. “What’s the procedure here? I don’t want to do something stupid. Can you run through how things will go?”
“Of course.” She searched the growing group. “That tall man over by the fence is the Huntsman. He rides first and he manages the hounds. He carries the horn, and he’ll signal the pack as he rides. Helping him are the Whippers-in, or the Whips. They encourage the hounds who are straying or lagging to stay on track, and they keep an eye out for the quarry. After the Whips comes the Master. He’s actually in charge of the entire hunt. We’ll be part of the Field, and we come after the Master.”
At that moment, the handlers brought the pack around from the kennels. Beryl estimated twenty pairs—large, athletic, tricolored. Tails wagging, ears flopping, they went straight to the Huntsman, who patted and rubbed and greeted them.
Beryl took that time to introduce Gard to the Master, mentioning that Lord Springfield was also in attendance. The Master shook their hands, cordial and welcoming. “Beryl, always good to see you and meet your friends. The Field is small today, so we’ll all stay together, but if either of you is a novice jumper, hang to the back.”
Soon they were all mounted, and the Huntsman led them out. Beryl lowered the net on her hat brim to protect her face, and found herself neatly sandwiched between Gard and Lord Springfield.
“The Master said you’d stay together today. Is that unusual?” Gard asked as they trotted down the road.
“When the Field is large, they are divided into Flights. The First Flight goes with the Master and is made up of experienced hunters or good jumpers. The Second Flight is reserved for those who either don’t jump at all or those who are visiting or those who like to pick and choose which jumps they will take. But with only twenty or so of us in the Field today, there’s no need for Flights.”
“I say, Beryl,” Lord Springfield nudged Bandit closer. He smiled at her, brows raised. “I’m looking forward to seeing how that mare goes today. Your father has named his price, and I’m thinking it over. I would’ve ridden her myself, but your groom here refused.” He looked down his rather long nose and sniffed. “Something about not interfering with your lesson progress?” He said it as if he suspected Gard was being deliberately obstructive.
Though her throat was tight, Beryl said, firmly, “Gard is not my groom. And he’s correct. Lacey and I have been working very hard, aiming at competing at Deep Haven at the end of the summer, and today’s ride is part of that training.” Her father had named a price for Lacey? Without even telling her?
The Field followed the pack as they left the road and approached a covert. The Huntsman blew his horn—a short, sharp note—and the dogs spread out, noses down, casting about for the scent. They were silent, though the Huntsman’s calls of encouragement could be heard well back in the Field.
Before long, one of the hounds gave a short howl, and several more joined it. A ripple went through Lacey, and she strained at the bit, ready to be off. Beryl’s blood thrilled to the sound as the pack found the scent trail and crashed after it, baying in full throat. The Huntsman blew “Gone Away” and the Master and Field were off in pursuit.
The trail led through the woods and pastures, over streams and ditches. Beryl concentrated on meeting each obstacle just right, keeping her hands on Lacey’s withers, reins loose as they cantered along. Lord Springfield seemed to have no trouble with Bandit, rising into a two-point stance at each jump, chin up, clearly an experienced rider.
Spanky was another story. Gard fell behind, and Beryl couldn’t tell if it was deliberate or if Spanky was giving him trouble. As they came to another open hayfield, Beryl slowed Lacey, looking back. Spanky appeared over the rise, Gard firmly in the saddle, and Beryl let go the breath she’d been holding.
Gard spied her and directed Spanky alongside Lacey. “He’s not sure about all this yet, so I thought it best to keep him in the back, give him plenty of time to size up the obstacles and not get jostled by the other horses.”
She nodded. “The trail narrows up here, so we’ll have to go single file, and we’ll have to wait our turn at the next gate.”
They rejoined the Field, staying near the rear, and Beryl enjoyed every minute. Though it was only a trial, she loved the speed and the sounds and the sense of partnership with her horse.
The hounds were still hot on the scent, baying and running, and the Field worked to stay close. They entered a stretch of woods, traveling on a faint bridle path. Beryl and Lacey went ahead of Gard and Spanky. Lord Springfield on Bandit rode just in front of Beryl. When they reached the next fence on the edge of an open glade, riders milled and circled, waiting their turn.
Lord Springfield circled on Bandit, who shook his head and stomped, up on the bit, eager to run. He sidled, bumping into a chestnut who wore a bright red ribbon on his tail. Without warning, the chestnut lashed out with his hind feet, startling Bandit, who charged out of the way, Lord Springfield lurching in the saddle.
Beryl, who had started her approach to the fence, leaned forward in her saddle, readying herself for Lacey’s leap over the wooden bars, when she felt her horse veer in midair. Bandit, head up, barreled into Lacey from the left, throwing her off and sending Beryl flying out of the saddle.
The trees and earth and sky spun in a kaleidoscopic effect, and she tumbled hard to the ground on the far side of the fence. A searing pain shot up through her left wrist, and the air whooshed out of her lungs. Hooves lurched near her head, churning up clods of dirt, and someone shouted.
Before she could push herself upright, strong hands pressed her shoulders.
“Beryl? Are you all right? Be still. Don’t try to move yet.”
She turned her head to find Gard’s face very near hers. His green eyes were clouded with worry, and she wanted to reach up and touch his cheek, assure him that she was fine.
“I’m all right.” Sucking in a deep breath, she took stock of her situation. Her shoulder ached, and her head spun a little, but the most severe pain came from her wrist. “Help me up.”
He put his arm around her shoulders and eased her to a sitting position. The whirling in her head stopped, but she rested her head against his strong shoulder. His hand came up and touched her hair, cradling her head in the crook of his neck, whispering her name. “Beryl, you scared about ten years off my life … You might’ve been killed.”
Was she mistaken, or did his lips brush her forehead? She felt safe and sheltered and yet as if she were flying free all at the same time.
She looked up into his face, so close, so dear, and something charged into his eyes, making them darker and more intense. Was he going to kiss her? Her lashes fluttered closed….
Someone cleared their throat, and Beryl’s eyes popped open. A trio of riders had dismounted and stood in an arc around them. Their horses stamped and swished their tails, eager to be back on the trail, but their riders looked on with curious expressions. Embarrassment whipped heat into Beryl’s cheeks.
“Where is Lacey?” She scanned the area, hoping to see the chestnut mare.
“Lord Springfield went after her.” Gard’s voice was clipped and his mouth was tight, as if he, too, had just realized they had an audience. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?”
She winced as he helped her stand, trying to calm the flutters in her chest and the crashing disappointment of not being kissed. “Mostly my pride.” Her hair had tumbled out of its net and hung in leaf-littered tangles over her shoulders. “And my wrist hurts a bit.” Actually it hurt more than a bit, but a fox hunter was tough, and she wouldn’t crumble in front of her peers.
Gard kept his arm around her waist, which she had to admit was pretty nice. “You can all go ahead. I’ll look after Miss Valentine and see she gets home.” He spoke to the three riders who had stayed behind.
One woman lingered. “I’m so sorry. I’m afraid Clip Along started this mess. I was trying to keep him away from the other horses, but that Englishman kept circling us, in spite of the red ribbon on Clip Along’s tail, and finally he just kicked out.”
“It’s not your fault, Eugenie.” Beryl brushed her hair back with her good hand. “Perhaps the customs are different in England and he didn’t know what the red ribbon meant. I should’ve explained it better.”
Lord Springfield returned as the others were leaving, and he led Lacey behind him. He remained in the saddle. “My dear, are you injured? Where is that careless woman who caused all this?” He stared after the departing riders.
Gard’s hold on her waist tightened. “Springfield, the fault is yours. That horse you were crowding had a red ribbon braided into its tail. That’s the universal signal that the horse is a kicker. Everyone knows that. Your carelessness could’ve killed Beryl, and you could’ve ruined a good mare in the process.”
Neville’s face suffused with red and his pale eyes blazed. “Such impertinence from a hireling. You’ve been reaching above your station all summer, but you’ll never be anything but a shanty mick. Now unhand Miss Valentine, you bog jumper.”
“That’s enough. Please remember that you are both gentlemen and there is a lady present. Neville, name-calling is beneath you. Gard, thank you for your assistance.” Beryl slipped from his grasp and cradled her throbbing wrist with her good hand. “I seem to have injured my wrist and my pride, but I’m otherwise unharmed. I’m more concerned with Lacey.”
“Here, let me.” Gard unwound the stock from his neck. “Do you think you’ve broken your arm?”
She flexed her fingers, wincing, but shook her head. “Probably just a sprain.” He took her hand, sending flutters across her skin in spite of the pain. Carefully, he wrapped the wrist from the base of her fingers to halfway up her forearm.
“Can you untie your stock? I’ll make a sling.”
Lord Springfield scowled. “You aren’t a doctor. Shouldn’t you ride for help or something?”
“You’re the one still in the saddle,” Gard shot back. “I suggest you ride back to the club, let Asa know what happened, and send him for a carriage.”
“Fine.” The Englishman jerked Bandit’s head around and jabbed his sides with his heels, circling the horse and leaping the jump, disappearing down the bridle path.
Beryl managed to get her stock pin out and her stock unwound. Gard, with great gentleness, fashioned a sling and slipped her wrist into it. Would he, now that there were no spectators, perhaps kiss her?
He didn’t. Finishing with his first aid, he went to Lacey to check her over. The mare had no obvious injuries, but she was skittish, tossing her head and picking up her feet. Gard approached her slowly, loosening the reins from where Lord Springfield had tied her. “Easy, girl. You’re all right.”
Once he had her calmed, he led her around. She moved easily, no limps or head bobbing to indicate she was in pain. “I think she’s fine. Let’s get you back into the saddle and headed home.”
He didn’t interlock his fingers to give her a leg up. Instead, he spanned her waist, lifting her easily into the saddle without jarring her wrist. “Take your foot out of the stirrup.” He untied Spanky from a nearby tree where he’d been tethered, but instead of mounting the gelding, Gard poked his toe into Beryl’s stirrup and mounted Lacey, seating himself behind the saddle.
Lacey, unused to riding double, sidled a bit but quieted at Gard’s calm, “Whoa there, girl.”
His arms went around Beryl’s waist, and he picked up the reins. “We’ll take it slowly, and you be sure to tell me if you need to stop.”
Sheltered in his embrace, Beryl almost said what she was thinking … that she never wanted the journey to end.