Annabelle watched, horrified, one of the three attempted to cross the traffic to join the one on the median. It cleared the first lane of traffic, but when entering the second, a massive RV came within inches of its nose. The hound stopped and crouched on the asphalt, afraid to move in either direction.
Just then, Annabelle saw Nick reach the bottom of the bluff. She kicked her horse forward, suddenly realizing that if Nick was going to help the hounds, someone would have to hold King. Samson, whose favorite gait was usually ‘whoa’, seemed to sense Annabelle’s panic and went quickly, but carefully, down the bluff. Nick had already hopped down from the saddle and was calling to the hounds that were still hesitating on the shoulder.
“Be careful, Annabelle,” said Edmund. “There isn’t much shoulder here.”
Annabelle nodded as she jumped down from Samson and took the reins of both horses. As the traffic flew by only a few feet from them, she was grateful for Samson’s natural calmness and for the fact that King, an ex-steeplechaser, was not concerned about motor vehicles. At first, not recognizing Nick’s voice, the two hounds slinked away from him. Then, one hound, understanding the language and the smell of horses if not the individual voice, began to inch toward him.
“Give me a stirrup leather!” he cried to Annabelle, who snatched one off of King’s saddle and threw it at his feet. Crouching down, he unfastened the buckle, eased the stirrup off and laid it on the ground. Nick continued to call to the hounds that had stopped on the shoulder and were watching him about twenty feet away.
“Come on, fella! Hoic! Hoic!” said Nick, borrowing words from a huntsman’s vocabulary. To his relief, one hound crawled slowly to him with its belly almost on the ground. He grabbed it by the collar and put the stirrup leather through it so the hound had room to move, but was safely caught.
He then looked to the others. While he had been securing the first hound, another had found its way to the median. Nick apparently decided those two would have to wait, since he turned his attention to the hound that had remained on the shoulder. Now that its pack-mate was standing relatively quietly by and seemed to have suffered no ill effects, the hound decided to come obediently when Nick called and allowed the stirrup leather to be slipped through its collar. Nick then had two hounds on a stirrup leather, like fish on a string.
“Two down, two to go!” said Edmund breathlessly.
“He’s pretty amazing with hounds, isn’t he?” Annabelle asked in a murmur. Edmund chuckled, “Of, course! That’s why I nominated him to be a Joint Master!”
Annabelle wanted to question Edmund about that statement as she had always believed his admiration for her had been the chief reason, but the problem of what to do about the hounds in the median had become urgent. She had already removed the other stirrup from its leather from King’s saddle and held it out to Nick. “Here, you hold these two,” he said. “I’ll cross over and see if I can grab the others.”
The two stranded foxhounds were weaving back and forth, contemplating trying their luck to cross the southbound lanes. Nick waited for a clear spot and ran across the road carrying the stirrup leather. The hounds were frightened by his rapid approach and both darted away from him to the edge of the grass, almost into the traffic.
Annabelle winced in apprehension, but didn’t dare make a sound. However, Edmund, who knew all of the Hill County hounds by name, yelled “Here Fallon! Here boy! Here Sandman!”
Annabelle looked at Nick who appeared not to hear him, but she saw the hounds turn their heads sideways, listening and looking for the source of the well known voice.
Nick continued to move toward the median, crouching low, making himself as small and unthreatening as possible. He called softly to them, “Hoic, hoic, here.” After a couple of breathtaking moments, and right when Annabelle thought they might take off onto the highway with even Edmund being silent, the two hounds came to Nick with heads low and tails wagging cautiously. Without further ado, he slipped the stirrup leather through their collars and led them across the road to safety.
“Good job, Kiddo!” said a pleased voice in Annabelle’s ear. “I’m proud of you both. I really am.”
CHAPTER VIII
AN INVITATION
The fox hunters at the Robertson’s Hunt Tea were abuzz with stories of Nick’s heroic hound rescue. Annabelle, who normally loved the limelight, minimized her own role in the drama because she could have never explained how she uncannily knew the hounds had been in danger and exactly where to find them. She felt sure that as soon as Nick had a moment to think, he would be asking her, himself. She decided to ask Edmund to come up with a satisfactory explanation sometime in the next few hours.
In the meantime, she was enjoying hearing Nick praised by all. In reality, only a man who had handled hounds all of his life, like Nick Farley, could have successfully caught and held the frightened animals, even if the information about their whereabouts was provided via ghostly intervention. Annabelle was proud of Nick and happy she had helped (along with Edmund) save the precious hounds. She flitted about at the party, making frequent trips to the bar for more wine and tasting the delicious hors d’oeuvres Marguerite had strategically placed around the house.
Dinner was served buffet style offering beef stroganoff made with tenderloin, mushrooms, and sour cream atop buttery egg noodles, a salad of fresh field greens sprinkled liberally with goat cheese and pepper, fresh steamed asparagus, and an assortment of miniature pies for dessert—chocolate, chess, and key lime—that rounded out the menu.
Annabelle relished the Saturday parties held after fox hunting almost as much as hunting itself. In her opinion, there was nothing more pleasing after a day of riding than the gathering of tired, happy, mud-splattered friends by a warm fireside accompanied by plenty of good food and drinks. She spied Edmund hovering around and listening to the tales told by riders from the three different Flights. She knew he was hearing accounts of great daring-do, often more imagined than real, and having a good chuckle. Several hunters had fallen off of their horses at some point, none badly hurt. They were surrounded by concerned compatriots who wanted to sympathize with their bruises and to hear either the gory details of their dismounts, or snicker at the braggadocio that accompanied “not my fault”.
Today’s opinion was that the four rescued hounds had been hot on the scent of a coyote that had led them to the interstate and had successfully dashed across to safety. One of the First Flight riders had been the first to see the coyote earlier in the run and, as such, had the honor of shouting “Tally-ho!” to alert the Huntsman and Masters that the chased game had been viewed. Annabelle heard this tale recounted as she drifted from conversation to conversation, Edmund at her heels, loudly confirming or denying the veracity of each story in her ear.
As she waited in line at the bar, Annabelle glanced around to see visiting Master Richter Davenport in a quiet corner talking with Charles, his host, and Felicia Blackwell, one of Hill County’s oldest and most venerated members, who was known affectionately to one and all as “Miss Felicia”. His face and manner were very serious, unlike most of the other party guests she observed who were smiling and laughing. Annabelle continued to watch Davenport through lowered eyelids and thought he would have been a very handsome man with his dark hair and blue eyes if his expression wasn’t so cold and arrogant.
“I see you’re checking out the young Master,” said Edmund, with a sneer in his voice. “God, but you’re fickle! I haven’t even been dead two weeks…”
Annabelle, who had just worked her way through the line to the crowded bar, couldn’t afford to reply so she just asked the bartender to refill her wine glass. Edmund continued to discuss Richter Davenport.
“I’ve known that young man for most of his life”, said Edmund. “He’s a great Huntsman and an incredibly bold rider. He’s definitely not a people-person, however. He’s managed to alienate quite a few of the Waterford members and even more of their landowners since becoming Master a couple of years ago.”
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Annabelle, with Edmund in tow, watched as Richter and Miss Felicia put their heads together in an intense discussion until Charles, with drink in hand, joined them. Making up her mind not to forego hearing Miss Felicia’s views on Nick’s recent exploits despite Richter’s attempt to monopolize her, Annabelle approached the small group. She also thought it would be amusing to see how Edmund reacted in close proximity to a prospective rival.
Felicia Blackwell was well into her seventies and had hunted with Hill County since its beginnings in the 1930’s. Her father, Tennent Blackwell, had been one of the Hunt’s three founding members, and Felicia was still among the largest landowners in Guilford. Her homestead, Blackwood Farm, was only one of her several hunt country properties. Miss Felicia was still a bold horsewoman despite her grand age. She had made the transition from riding sidesaddle as a child to riding astride as an adult so successfully that she won many a point-to-point race as a young woman. Annabelle adored her and frequently wished aloud she had been blessed with even a fraction of the older woman’s riding ability. She rarely missed an opportunity to hear Miss Felicia’s perspective on a day’s hunting.
“Well, Annabelle,” said Felicia heartily, smiling from ear to ear. “I understand your husband is quite the hero of the day.
Do you know Richter Davenport, Master of the Waterford Hounds? He’s here visiting our Charles.”
Annabelle shook hands with Davenport who looked rather bored and irritated by the interruption. It was apparent from his reaction that Edmund need not be jealous on his account. Felicia loudly continued her praise of Nick Farley. “You know, Annabelle, one of the hounds Nick saved was Fallon who won the Virginia Hound Show for us last year.”
“I’m the one that told you where to look for the hounds or they would have been killed in the traffic,” said Edmund petulantly. “I hope you realize that Nick is only a hero because of me.”
Annabelle decided she had to find a way to reply.
“Yes, it was a good thing we were there. And Nick is so good with hounds. I believe that’s one reason Edmund Evans proposed him for Joint Mastership. At least that’s what he told me.”
“Touché, Kiddo!” said Edmund with a sheepish smile on his ghostly face. In Annabelle’s opinion, Edmund’s willingness to admit when he was bested was one of his more admirable qualities.
Charles added his commendation to Felicia’s, adding that the other Masters were grateful to Nick for his timely intervention. Aside from her defense of her husband’s talents to Edmund, it was clear to Annabelle that Hill County collectively assumed Nick’s skill as a fox hunter had led him to the hounds and that she had merely followed him. Unfortunately, she knew Nick’s natural generosity would make him want to extend the credit to her unless she specifically asked him not to mention her vital contribution. She decided to excuse herself from the group to find Nick before he publicly branded her a “hound psychic”.
Just as she opened her mouth to speak, Charles patted her arm and said with a twinkle in his eye, “You never know where these Farleys will turn up. This one gave me a hell of a scare earlier in the week.”
Annabelle froze, realizing Charles was referring to her unexpected appearance in Edmund’s house on Monday night.
“Oh, no, what has she been up to now?” asked Miss Felicia, smiling at Annabelle who was trying to keep a calm expression on her face. Edmund had disappeared.
“Edmund’s burglar alarm went off in the middle of the night on Monday. Naturally, I grabbed my shotgun and went down there to see what was going on.”
“Naturally,” said Miss Felicia, implying that Charles’ reaction was somewhat overzealous.
He paused briefly as if surprised by her sarcasm.
“Go on,” said Richter Davenport, Annabelle noting he was showing more interest in Charles’ story than in any topic so far.
“Well, anyway, I went over there and who do I find fumbling around in the pitch black dark—Annabelle, here!”
Annabelle smiled sickly. “I needed to retrieve a valuable book I had loaned to Edmund. I was worried that it might get catalogued with the rest of his library.”
“Annabelle, I can’t believe you sometimes,” said Felicia, shaking her head in dismay at Annabelle’s notorious lack of common sense. “This crazy thing could have shot you,” gesturing toward Charles who now looked rather sheepish. “Why on earth did you go over there in the middle of the night?”
“In the first place, it was not the middle of the night,” said
Annabelle, relieved that no one seemed to question the purpose of her visit, merely her timing. “It was around nine o’clock. I just forgot about the alarm system.”
Miss Felicia scolded the young Master, “You ought to have called the police if you were concerned, Charles, and not gone running around in the dark with a firearm.”
Annabelle smiled genuinely now. Miss Felicia, bless her, had taken the focus off of Annabelle’s poor judgment and placed it squarely on Charles and his shotgun.
While Charles was sputtering in trying to defend himself to the older lady, Annabelle stole a glance at Richter Davenport. He did not seem amused in the slightest by Charles’ discomfiture. In fact, he was staring directly at Annabelle. When she met his cold blue eyes, he gave her a slow, knowing smile. Annabelle took a gulp of her wine. Something about the man really gave her the creeps. “He looks as if he knows what I look like in my underwear, and he isn’t impressed,” she admitted to herself.
“Excuse me,” she said to Felicia and Charles. “I need to find the ‘hero’ and speak to him for a moment.” Annabelle moved away and into the crowded dining room, her desire to get some advice from Edmund about Nick outweighing her desire to escape Davenport.
Many people were already lined up in front of the buffet, drinks balanced carefully as they filled their plates with steaming food. Nick was not among them. Annabelle’s stomach growled as she passed the diners, reminding her of the great deal of energy she had expended since her modest breakfast. She was tempted to stop and take a place in line, but decided she had better find Edmund and Nick first.
Annabelle walked into the foyer where she noticed a few hors d’oeuvres remaining on a silver tray. She grabbed three gratefully and stuffed them down, then moved on in search of Nick. As she entered the living room and was scanning the group by the huge fireplace, she heard someone call her name.
“Annabelle! Hello, old girl!” It was Randall Dodge whom Annabelle suddenly realized she had not seen since the night of the Masters’ Ball when she was looking for Edmund. She walked over and took his hand.
“I didn’t realize you were out today,” she said.
“I just got in last night”, said Randall. Annabelle had heard that business commitments had kept Randall out of the county for the past several weeks. He had even missed Edmund’s memorial service, but had sent a gigantic wreath as a token of remembrance.
“I hear you’ve been breaking and entering,” said Randall with a grin. Annabelle was glad to see he was back to his usual manner of flirting and teasing with her instead of brushing her off as he had done on the night of the Masters’ Ball.
“Oh, that,” said Annabelle, inwardly furious with Charles for telling everyone about their little adventure at Edmund’s. “Your crazy friend almost shot me!” she said, hoping to again change the focus from her odd behavior to Charles’ spirited defense of Edmund’s property.
The strategy didn’t work so well this time.
“What were you doing there, Annabelle?” asked Randall, looking slyly at her.
She instinctively glanced away from him, knowing as she did so that she was betraying herself. She forced her eyes to meet his. “I was trying to locate an antique hunting book I had loaned Edmund. Didn’t Charles tell you that part?”
“Yes, that’s what he said, but I didn’t quite buy it,” said Randall. “I figured you were missing your ‘sweetie’ and went to look for his ghost.”
Annabelle rolled her eyes, thinking how p
leased and flattered Edmund would be by Randall’s accusation. “No, I’m afraid I had a very practical reason for being there,” said Annabelle, wishing to put an end to the discussion.
As it happened, Randall changed the subject himself. “Oh, Annabelle, I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” he said, taking her elbow and easing a little closer as he spoke.
“Remember the night of the Ball when we met out in the gallery?”
Annabelle nodded. “Of course, I do. I haven’t forgotten anything about that night.”
Just at that moment, Nick joined them, scotch-and-soda in hand. He put his arm around Annabelle’s waist. “My hero,” he said, giving her a kiss.
“Nick! There you are! “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Annabelle placed her hand on Randall’s arm. “What were you going to ask me?”
It was as if a shade had been pulled down over Randall’s eyes. “Nothing that won’t wait”, he replied, adding, “Nick, congratulations, old man!”
“Let’s eat, darling,” said Annabelle. “I’m famished!” Nick went with her obligingly. Although in her forties, Annabelle was as constantly hungry as when she was a teenager. At times, she shuddered to think what her weight would be if she ever stopped riding daily and working around their farm. After ten years of marriage, Nick appeared to accept her voracious appetite as a fact of life.
As the Farleys spooned fragrant stroganoff onto their plates, Annabelle heard Edmund’s disembodied voice whisper in her ear.
“If he wants to know how you knew where the hounds would be, tell him you just went with the worst case scenario”, he said. Annabelle nodded slightly, thankful that Edmund had hung-around and anticipated Nick’s question.
It was not until they were comfortably seated beside one of the Robertson’s hearths that she finally got to speak to her now famous husband. “Well, you’re definitely the ‘Hero of the Day’, if not for the whole season,” she said, smiling proudly at Nick.
The Masters Ball Page 6