“I’m glad Tiller brought the horses and I don’t have to get a trailer in here,” said Charles, glancing around at the crowded conditions. “I’m having a hard enough time finding a spot for this thing.”
“There’s Miss Felicia!” said Annabelle, gladly. “I didn’t know she was hunting here today.”
“Actually, I invited her last night,” said Randall. “I thought Charles’ great big trailer could hold another horse.”
“Oh, it was no problem,” said Charles. “It made more work for Tiller, but he was gracious about it.”
“I need to give him a generous tip”, thought Annabelle. Four horses to haul and tack up was quite a bit of work.
“Why didn’t Felicia come with us?” asked Annabelle, who would have enjoyed the hour or so in her friend’s company.
“Oh, you know her—she said she wanted her own vehicle in case we decided to stay all evening.”
“Is there a party after the hunt?”
“I don’t think so—at least not like ours. I think a few folks just stand around with a beer and talk.”
“Oh, well,” said Annabelle, disappointed. “Yet another reason to prefer hunting with Hill County”, she thought to herself.
Charles finally found a spot and they disembarked. Miss Felicia strode up, looking jaunty and fit in her old-fashioned tan breeches that were flared at the hips like Cavalry twills. The dress for weekday hunts is usually informal and allows a little more self expression than the regimented attire required for formal Meets. Felicia took full advantage of this leeway by wearing a tattersall vest, a multi-colored stock tie, and tweed coat. Every garment had been tailored for her in London and was at least twenty years old. The effect was charming in a British country house sort of way.
Thought you kids would never get here,” she said in her booming voice that had tally-hoed many a fox over the years.
“We’ve been looking for a place to park for twenty minutes,” said Charles, exaggerating only a little.
“I know.” Felicia shook her head. “I feel really sorry for these folks. Oh, well, let’s quit complaining and get on with the hunt.”
Tiller had the four horses saddled, bridled, and tied alongside Charles’ long aluminum trailer. Annabelle appreciated having her horse made ready for her, but she wished they had arrived in time for her to mount up and ride Samson for a few minutes before moving off. She hated being rushed before a hunt as it always made her feel she was forgetting something important. This was especially true in a strange place without her trailer’s well-organized tack compartment. Annabelle got a twenty-dollar bill out of her purse for Tiller, and as she did she remembered the important ‘something’ she had indeed forgotten—her flask!
“Oh, no!” she wailed.
Charles looked around, concern on his face. “What’s wrong?”
“I forgot my flask!” said Annabelle in anguish. Drinking from a flask is an old hunting tradition with the dual purpose of keeping the hunters warm in cold weather, and fortifying their courage while participating in a dangerous sport. There are even specific types of leather flask-holders that attach to hunting saddles that are different for women than for men. Many old hunting books contain recipes for mixtures to fill them with, the most well known called Hound’s Blood, a combination of brandy and ruby port. The amount any fox hunter indulged in this particular tradition varied, but everyone knew that Annabelle was a tippler who rarely started a hunt without a full flask, regardless of the weather or riding conditions.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake”, said Charles, who carried the correct men’s flask on his saddle more for looks than use as he certainly did not need ‘liquid courage’. “You can share with the rest of us. Besides, the way these folks move on, you won’t have time to drink, anyway.”
“Oh, no,” said Annabelle again, thinking from the sound of things that she would need her flask even more than usual. It was her theory that the more relaxed she was, the better she rode. “Nothing to do about it now,” she thought to herself. She saw Tiller holding Samson next to the mounting block for her to get on, and would do the same for Miss Felicia, Charles, and Randall.
“Thank you so much for helping me today, Tiller,” said Annabelle as she slipped him a folded bill.
“Thank you, Miss Annabelle,” he replied, tipping his trademark cowboy hat.
Annabelle moved Samson away from the block. He was excited today, sensing they were in new territory and among the smells of unfamiliar Waterford horses. She walked him around, knowing that forcing him to stand still would make him agitated. There was not really enough time for him to settle down before Annabelle heard the Master call everyone to gather for the Meet.
She looked through the crowd for the familiar sight of Miss Felicia on her ancient thoroughbred and rode up to her side. She intended to stick there like glue, at least until Samson relaxed.
The Master of the Waterford Hounds said very little by way of introduction, merely stating he had twelve and a half couple of hounds out that day and that they would begin drawing the covert to the west. Annabelle smiled at the fox hunting lingo that referred to hounds in pairs—twelve and a half couple indicated twenty-five hounds. As Annabelle sat her restive horse, Davenport asked Charles, as a visiting Master, to ride at his side. He tipped his cap to the other Hill County guests and took off at a brisk trot toward the woods. Randall followed close behind in First Flight with Annabelle and Felicia staying back in Second.
Unlike Warren Fitzpatrick, Waterford’s Second Flight Field Master pulled in directly behind the last of the First Flight riders who soon moved their pace from a brisk trot to a gallop. Annabelle realized what Charles had meant when he said she wouldn’t have time for her flask, and the hounds weren’t even chasing anything yet!
She wondered if they would run anything. It was not unusual for February in the south to have a few warm days, a precursor to the coming springtime. Although it was a beautiful sunny afternoon, the conditions were not ideal for running a coyote.
Annabelle felt unsure of herself so held Samson on a tight rein. The terrain was not as steep as Hill County’s, but it was trappy to negotiate, nonetheless. It seemed that every few hundred yards there was a deep, rocky streambed to cross, and, unlike Hill County’s well maintained trails, the paths through the woods could hardly be called paths at all, being more like obstacle courses of fallen trees and broken limbs that barred the way strategically at head level for most riders.
After about fifteen minutes, Annabelle’s tweed coat was splashed with mud, she had a bleeding scratch on her cheek from failing to duck in a timely manner, and she was thoroughly enjoying herself.
“It appears you didn’t need a drink after all,” said a warm voice in Annabelle’s ear. “You’re doing very well without it!”
“Why thank you Edmund,” she said, doubting she would be overheard in the commotion of galloping hooves. Then, to her surprise, Edmund was seated comfortably behind her on Samson’s generous back, and she thought she could feel his arms wrapped around her waist.
“We should have tried this when I was alive, Kiddo,” and she imagined she felt him give her a little squeeze.
They finally stopped for a moment in a small clearing, the horses sweating heavily in the warm sunshine. Most fox hunters clip their horses’ winter coats in anticipation of such spring-like days. When a horse’s heavy winter coat becomes wet with perspiration, it is itchy and uncomfortable if the weather is warm. Annabelle was glad she had recently clipped Samson, knowing his closely cropped coat would soon dry in the sun.
Randall trotted back from First Flight and joined the ladies. “Annabelle, would you like a ‘wee nip of the creature’?” Randall asked, and began removing his flask from its leather case.
“I certainly would!” said Annabelle, whose throat was dry from excitement and exertion. Unfortunately, the Field Master chose that moment to take off.
“That man doesn’t believe in easing off slowly does he?” asked Miss Felicia, gallopi
ng alongside Annabelle and Randall.
“One of these days I’ll tell you a little story about her,” said Edmund. “I knew her pretty well when I was alive.” Annabelle thought it best to ignore him with her friends in such close proximity.
“No,” she answered Miss Felicia, and wanting to let Edmund know she was glad of his presence she added, “and though it seems a little pointless since we aren’t even on a run, I am having a wonderful time!”
“Annabelle, I need to ask you something,” said Randall, riding close to her knee.
“Okay”, she replied, thinking his timing was poor but curious to hear what he had to say.
“I just need to know if you told anyone about what happened at the Ball?”
Annabelle started to answer, but they had reached a streambed that was bordered on each bank by a muddy slope. Annabelle had no choice but to follow Miss Felicia, who was already halfway across. At the moment, all of her attention was required to negotiate the crossing, even Samson needing guidance.
No sooner were they on top of the opposite bank than they heard a hound cry out. Within moments another hound seconded, followed by what sounded like the entire pack.
Miss Felicia looked back over her shoulder at Annabelle. “You’d better keep your eyes up, your heels down, and your seat well in the saddle,” she said with a grin.
Before Annabelle could guess what she meant, she saw Felicia’s horse jump up and over a huge log lying directly across the path. Samson was right on her horse’s tail with no time for Annabelle to chicken-out and try to pull him up. She instinctively grabbed a handful of her horse’s generous draft horse mane, and in a split-second they were over the log and galloping away on the other side. Apparently, ghosts didn’t weigh all that much. Annabelle was so delighted that she broke a cardinal rule in the hunting field and yelled like an Indian. Fortunately, the Field was moving too fast for many to hear except Felicia, who told her to pipe down and ride.
“Don’t worry, dear,” said Edmund. “She’s just jealous because you’re keeping up with her!”
CHAPTER XI
AN UNFORTUNATE END TO A PERFECT DAY
Annabelle felt her day was made. She had finally taken Samson over a jump in the hunt field! Although it was a log, and it wasn’t the same as jumping a coop, it was certainly a start. As they continued to fly after the hounds she grinned from ear to ear, putting herself in danger of a mud-ball in her teeth, but not caring in the slightest. Edmund appeared to be having as much fun as Annabelle—at least it sounded that way from the encouragement he was shouting into her ear as they galloped along.
The run was not to last, however. The heat and poor scenting conditions took their toll, so after about twenty minutes the hounds lost their quarry and were silent again. Annabelle was glad for a rest and sat musing happily with Edmund over her log-jumping success when Randall trotted up.
“I heard you yelling,” he said, pulling out his flask. “Was that fear or triumph?”
“Pure triumph,” she said proudly. She took the flask and drank a long draught.
“Not too much, Kiddo”, Edmund said in her ear. “You’ve done perfectly well without it today.”
“This is a celebration!” said Annabelle, addressing herself both to Edmund and her living friends.
Felicia joined them, her own flask in hand. “I would like to propose a toast,” she said in formal tones. “We’ve found out today that chickens really can fly!”
They all laughed, even Annabelle.
“I don’t care how much you tease me, we did it!” She patted Samson’s big brown neck before taking a sip from Miss Felicia’s flask. She knew what a compliment it was. Felicia rarely shared her flask with others, nor did she partake when offered. Her fastidiousness was well known.
The Field Master moved off almost before she could return the precious object. “You can’t keep it, Annabelle,” said Felicia jokingly as Annabelle returned the small sterling silver rectangle.
Annabelle feigned dismay. “Darn!”
Felicia dexterously replaced the flask into the leather case on her saddle and away they cantered.
As they rode off after the frenetic Field Master, Annabelle wished they would slow down long enough for her to chat with Randall. Just as Edmund had predicted, he was very concerned about what she had seen on the night of the Masters’ Ball. She smiled grimly, looking forward to what he had to say. She pushed back her helmet and wiped her forehead on her coat sleeve, suddenly feeling very hot with sweat breaking out on her face. She wished she could take her helmet off as it made her head feel so heavy, and she wished she could halt.
“Felicia!” she yelled as loud as she could, the effort making her feel even more ill. Unfortunately, their pace was such that she did not hear.
“Miss Felicia!” she cried again, almost choking this time. The woman looked over her shoulder at Annabelle and pulled back on her reins, stopping her horse in his tracks.
“Annabelle, you’re white as a sheet!”, and turned-back to ride alongside her ailing friend.
“What’s wrong?”, asked Randall, holding a tight rein on his prancing horse who was ready to get going with the rest of the Field.
“I’m sick,” said Annabelle weakly, falling forward on her horse’s neck.
“What on earth? Here, you’d better get down.” Felicia dismounted in a flash and grabbed Samson’s reins. “Go on, Randall”, she said. “She’s just overheated. She’ll be all right in a minute. I’ll wait with her until she’s feeling better.”
“You’re sure?” Randall replied, fighting his horse as it danced and pulled.
“I’m sure. Go on.”
“Okay,” and, to his horse’s relief, they left in a gallop. Personally, Annabelle wasn’t so sure she would be all right in a matter of minutes. She struggled to dismount from and then stood, leaning against her horse’s side. Through waves of nausea she noticed Edmund had also dismounted (actually he had just disappeared from Samson’s back and then reappeared to stand beside her). He looked thoroughly bewildered and a little disappointed, like a child whose favorite game had been interrupted for no apparent reason.
“What’s wrong, Annabelle?” he asked. “I thought we were doing so well…”
“Come, sit down and move away from that hot horse,” said Miss Felicia. She loosened the chinstrap on Annabelle’s helmet and eased her onto a fallen log. Annabelle had let herself be led like a child and sat obediently where Felicia indicated, too nauseated to even attempt to answer Edmund.
“Here, have a swig of this,” said Felicia, handing her the sterling flask. Annabelle drank some, but wished for something cold. She took a deep breath and put her head in her hands, then began to loosen her stock tie.
Felicia sat down beside her, holding both horses’ reins in one hand and patting Annabelle’s shoulder with the other. Suddenly, Annabelle knew she was going to vomit.
“Edmund, I’m going to be sick,” she gasped, while jumping to her feet and turning away from the older woman. She vomited violently into the leaves behind where they’d been sitting.
“Honey, we need to get you back to the trailers,” said Felicia. “I think you’re hallucinating. Can you walk?”
“Just let me sit here for a minute, Miss Felicia,” said Annabelle weakly. She sat back down on the log and leaned forward, head in hands again. She could feel her face slick with sweat. The older woman continued to hold the horses while making soothing noises to Annabelle. Edmund was gazing at her in distress. After a short time, Annabelle took a deep breath and stood up.
“I feel a little better,” she said cautiously.
“Well, don’t rush it,” said Felicia. “Do you think you can walk back to the trailer?”
“How far is it?”
“It’s probably a little over a mile.”
Annabelle took another deep breath. As sick as she was, she was awed at the amazing sense of direction possessed by many lifelong fox hunters. She looked doubtfully down at her field boots. They wer
e one of her prized possessions—custom cordovan leather with Spanish tops and were incredibly comfortable to ride in. They were not, however, made for walking long distances. She looked at Samson who was calmly munching greenery within his reach.
“I think I’d like to try and ride,” said Annabelle.
“You’re sure? I don’t mind walking,” said Felicia. “I can lead both horses.”
“No, I want to try and ride. It will be so much faster and probably easier than trying to walk in these boots—if my stomach can take it.”
“Well, that’s certainly true. You want to try and mount?”
“Yes. Just hold him for me.”
Miss Felicia chuckled. “I’ll hold this wild thing. He seems about to bolt any minute.”
Annabelle smiled and put her foot in the stirrup. She hesitated just a moment and then pulled herself up into the saddle. She sat quietly for a second, took a few deep breaths, and then took the reins from Felicia.
“I think I’ll be okay to ride if we just walk. It’ll still be quicker than going on foot.”
“Fine with me,” said the older woman, climbing on her horse.
The two rode in silence, negotiating the streams and logs they had galloped across earlier at a very careful pace this time. Annabelle felt weak and light-headed, grateful for Samson’s steady, plodding gait. He seemed to sense the need to go even more carefully than usual.
“That young lad is worth his weight in gold,” said a familiar voice in her ear, “and that would be a considerable amount of gold.”
Annabelle managed a smile. “I was wondering if you were around,” she said softly.
“What? You okay, dear?” asked Felicia over her shoulder.
“I just asked how much further.”
“Not much. Look—you can see the trailers through those trees.”
“Oh, thank goodness.”
In a few minutes, they were there. Annabelle slid from the saddle and handed the reins to Tiller who had been sitting inside Charles’ truck fiddling with the radio when they rode up. Surprised, he had jumped out of the cab and met them.
The Masters Ball Page 8