“Which part?” I asked.
The waiter brought the food and I, of course, let him relish the first few bites without interruption. I, too, was beginning to appreciate food for its flavor and not just as a means to end a stomach ache. He smiled his approval of the selection, then leaned away from the table – collecting his thoughts. The lighthearted mood he radiated prior to dinner clouded, somewhat. He seemed to be gathering his thoughts.
“Elliott, I told you I have all kinds of crazy mixed up emotions surrounding women, and this is one of them,” he said. “Now that I’ve dashed any hope of my being able to live without you, I want to do this right.”
“You, who you are, and what you represent are all way too important to me to just, well, take you, dating you, that is…lightly,” he said. “If this works out and I do mean if, then I want our first night together to be…the night you become my wife.”
I was speechless.
Eating in silence, say something to him. What to say? I am so amazed that he is making this statement and not me. But it is exactly how I feel. How I believe. How I was raised to respect and honor love and marriage. How can I say that without sounding…trite?
Still speechless.
The waiter returned to refill our drinks. I took a large gulp of water and still could not make any words form on my lips.
“Say something before he misinterprets your silence!” Grand was screaming.
I put down my utensils and reached for his hands. He gave them to me, a puzzled expression on his face. I closed my eyes and brought his hands to my lips squeezing them gently, imploring him to understand how I was feeling, and looked back up at him.
“You, Griffen, truly are my gift. I know that now with all my heart.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Chapter 19 - The Shoot
When I bestride him, I soar, I am a hawk: he trots the air; the earth sings when he touches it; the basest horn of his hoof is more musical than the pipe of Hermes.
–William Shakespeare, Henry V
Griffen said he and Fionan would pick me up at 6:30, so breakfast came early the next morning.
Daddy had been amused and truly happy about the day we spent together. I was hoping that Fionan was his spy, but he assured me that he trusts Griffen. I grudgingly agreed, for I did not want to him to know how quickly and shamelessly I was falling for him. He left me with my remaining strawberries to catch an early run before his string of meetings.
After he left, I thought about how Griffen and Fionan had been conspiring the evening before, so there was no telling what he had prepared for today. I’d never seen him so excited. I was to wear my Barbour and the hat I acquired at the tack store as well as anything that was in “the color of a pheasant.” I wasn’t sure what colors were in a pheasant, and I certainly was not going to ask. So, I opted for muted browns, grays, and gold.
This was even more strange than getting wardrobe advice from Christopher and Ben. He was telling me what to wear in another country for a day-hike? I chose a layer of light long underwear, khakis, a dark purple turtleneck, and my chocolate sweater.
As always, he was ever so prompt.
“Good morning, my Elliott,” he said and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Your chariot awaits.”
I gaped at him. He was dressed in the most ridiculous outfit I had ever seen. Griffen had on a tweed hat, coat, and vest, tall olive socks that went up to his knees, some kind of red flag just below his knees, and short, knicker-looking pants with brown eyelet shoes that looked like something my grandfather would wear. He seemed to be serious about this, so I stifled my laugh.
“Sherlock Holmes, I presume?” I grinned.
“Very funny,” no humor in his answer. At all.
“Are we going to solve a murder today?” I asked, innocently, of course. I could not let this drop.
“Do you really not have any idea what we are doing?” he asked, now donning his smirk again.
“None.”
“Well, good, ” he said, not hiding his pleasure at this revelation very well. “We have a pretty good drive, so let’s go.”
We climbed into the dark green Range Rover and off we went. I still wasn’t used to riding on the left side of the road. The drive, again, was spectacular. Fionan was also dressed like Griffen, but in a different tweed. I noticed that while his coat and pants weren’t cut from exactly the same tweed cloth, they still matched, and I was beginning to think this must be some kind of community party we were attending. I assaulted them both with questions, but neither was helping me solve the mystery. The more I asked, the more amused they got.
At last, we were pulling into a long drive. The grounds were immaculate and large birds were strolling along the lawn.
“Is that a…golf course?” I asked. Surely we are not playing golf. Or, rather, surely they don’t expect me to know how to play golf. Maybe this is what they wear for golf in Scotland.
“Aye, that is a golf course for sure,” Fionan said. He could hardly contain his mirth. They were getting on my nerves.
“What kind of birds are those…on the course?” I asked.
“You tell me,” Griffen said.
“I would not have asked if I knew what they were,” I snapped.
The immaculate green grass was peppered with birds a little larger than chickens. From a distance, they looked stately, but they were too dark to identify from the drive. Behind them, stone fences that looked like they had been placed there centuries before ringed the course. I could not get enough of admiring the old stone everywhere – that’s just not something a Mississippi girl sees daily.
“Look closely at this one, coming up – over there,” he said.
The long tail was unmistakable this time.
“A pheasant!” I said. “It’s beautiful! Wow, is that what all of those pretty birds are? There are so many!”
“Aye, it is, lassie,” Fionan said. “And fine sport they provide as well. The best.”
Sport? What sport? And then it dawned on me.
“Are you going to shoot them?” I asked, my throat constricting. I did not want to hear the answer.
“Aye lass, he’s going to try,” Fionan said. “But I dare say they certainly have the advantage!”
I didn’t have time to recover before we arrived at the base of an enormous castle that made Hogwarts look small in comparison. I felt like we’d driven back a century and the clothing now made a little more sense. Tweeds of every color and texture set the tone and, although there weren’t many, ladies were draped on the arms of some shooters. They looked so graceful, so elegant, with their muted scarves, beautiful woolen coats and, of course, their festive, but oh, so appropriate hats.
They monitored our approach. Pointed but indirect gazes revealed they were a tightly knit group. I was uneasy and felt unusually self-conscious, so I made a huge effort to be seen and not heard – hoping my childhood training and manners would shield me from acting too out-of-place. I also noticed the admiring glances the ladies gave to Griffen and Fionan, noting that they looked much better in their outfits than the others – even if the outfits still were strange to me.
Greetings were brisk, but not unfriendly, and Fionan said this party was shooting together all week, but they had an opening, or “peg”, available for us this morning. Griffen’s uncle had made the arrangements, as he was a regular at this estate.
The air was festive and celebratory, similar to a horse show, but much more reserved. I could sense the camaraderie among the shooters but something else, as well. Most likely, this was something competitive since it involved so many men, but I still was uncertain. And still very quiet.
As we were introduced all around, I detected a bit of a challenge in the men’s eyes as they welcomed us. Several of them knew Griffen’s uncle, but had not met him. From the sounds of their banter, Griffen would have some big shoes to fill riding in on his reputation. As Fionan and Griffen gathered their gear, the others’ eyes passed politely over me, but held at the sight of the guns. Although
I did not know what they saw, I certainly knew what they registered – admiration.
Griffen’s gun case was rectangular and wrapped in well-worn leather. The guns were in pieces in their own partitioned compartments within the case, and Griffen was putting them together as efficiently as if they were his own – like he had done this before a number of times. His ease and manner with these guns reminded me how he worked around horses – smoothly, confidently, and with great respect for the associated gear and its presentation. The guns’ case smelled of freshly cleaned metal and the inside was padded with green billiard cloth much like my mother’s silver service. As I leaned in for a closer inspection, I could see the intricate engraving on them.
“Griffen, those guns are….really pretty,” I said. “In fact, they look like works of…art…or something.”
“You have expensive taste, Elliott,” he smiled. “These belong to the estate’s owner, Mr. Hamish. He and my uncle were roommates in college. The only reason I get to shoot them is that he likes to brag on how great they are, and we happen to be the same size.”
“Guns have to fit?” I asked, amazed.
“Exactly,” he smiled.
Fionan picked up one gun and a big leather bag that looked like a purse.
“Speed bag,” he explained, “for the shells.”
I noticed a few of the men asking to hold his gun and that their guns, too, were equally as lovely. They admired these weapons like we admired our horses – but with even more reverence. I heard names like McKay Brown, Purdey, and Holland and Holland.
Soon, Angus, the gamekeeper, called the group together.
Griffen whispered, “Now he’s going to explain the hunt program, then we’ll draw for pegs.”
Was there no end to the mystery? Drawing for pegs?
Suddenly, Angus pulled a small silver box from his coat pocket and passed it to the shooter on his right. The man opened the box and withdrew what looked like a small white toothpick, inspected it, then smiled briefly. When Griffen’s turn came, I took a closer look and found that the “toothpick” was actually ivory and engraved. Griffen looked at me with a mild frown.
“We just drew the worst spot in the line…the far end,” he said.
After everyone received their pegs, Griffen, Fionan, and I returned to the Range Rover and were driven to the place we would shoot. We walked with the group to our pegs. Other people ranged across the moor and disappeared to their assigned locations. Each person, or gun, had with him a loader and, in some cases, a spectator. In our case, I assumed Fionan was our “loader” and I was the spectator, which suited me just fine. Fionan, however, had a gun, too, and I was not sure yet of the significance.
Griffen’s gun was assembled, but encased in a gun slip as an extra precaution that none were loaded. This was somewhat comforting to note that if people stumbled around me I was not yet likely to lose a limb. Having had no real experience with firearms, I was decidedly nervous, but determined not to show it. In keeping with the other ladies in the party, I took his right arm in my left hand, and he raised his eyebrow at my gesture.
“Trying to distract me already, are you?” he growled under his breath and glanced down to deliver a wink.
“Anything for the birds,” I challenged, not loud enough, however, for anyone else to hear…yet. “I’m on their side.”
He glared a little at this remark, but otherwise kept his thoughts to himself.
I watched the other shooter to our left get ready and noted his “spectator” was now sitting politely behind him on a “shooting stick”. They, however, only held one gun between them. I stepped back to follow suit and watch. Still more people appeared behind us with sleek Labrador retrievers – two and three to a group, some black and others yellow. They were quiet and remarkably obedient, but panting in anticipation. I resisted the urge to go pet them – electing to remain silent, still, and supportive for whatever was about to happen. Everyone watched the skies.
More unfamiliar sensations. I could hear occasional muffled shouts and whistles from deep in the woods in front of us. Then a rhythmic tap, tap, tap. Fionan caught my quizzical look.
“Those are the beaters hitting trees with their walking sticks,” he said.
I wondered why.
“Over!” Fionan called.
A pair of birds floated effortlessly overhead and Griffen’s gun popped twice – two down. He turned around and grinned at me smugly as the three that flew over the neighboring peg escaped their shot.
“I’ll have to be more alert next time,” I said quietly, hoping to worry him that I’d upset the flight. But I had to admit that the whole scene was rather cool. The birds stopped in mid-flight. I supposed that if there was an elegant way to die, this would be it.
Several more flew over – few escaped. A pair flew between the pegs and neither shooter risked taking the low bird. The shoot looked more like a performance, a ballet in the skies. Birds soaring and falling, but all to the perfect rhythm of shooter, and loader, and again and again. Sometimes fast, other times, slow, but all accomplished with fluidity and precision. I marveled at the way these gentlemen made this look so effortless.
Soon the sky blackened with more birds than I had ever seen. There must have been fifty in one wave, and I was caught completely off guard.
Gunfire cracked up and down the line, interspersed with pheasants’ cackling.
Griffen was shooting constantly, and each time one gun was empty, Fionan handed him the other and this continued for several minutes. Birds were falling all around making soft thwumping sounds. Fionan kept cheering “well killed, sir,” and all in all, the festive atmosphere was infectious.
After that flight, there was a minute’s break, then wave after wave kept coming. This time, I watched Griffen as he expertly waited on shots that seemed to be ones that he would be able to kill “well” as Fionan said. Behind me the dogs sat – still but for their eyes…panting eagerly. I could not wait to see them in action.
A horn sounded, and guns were unloaded. The retrievers charged to their task, picking up bird after bird and gently bringing all to hand. Watching the handlers work their dogs was magical, and I was not eager to leave them when Griffen indicated I was to walk to the trucks.
“Well?” he asked as I assumed my oh-so-proper position at his side.
“Murderer,” I said. “You were right about yourself.” But my words held no malice.
This was no murder. It was a well-choreographed performance with the most complicated set of rules and manners and sportsmanship that I had ever encountered. Calling this murder would be akin to saying horse shows were cruel to the horses.
He ignored the jibe, “we’ll have peg number three at the next place,” he said. “Still not the best location, but we certainly held our own at this one.”
“What do they do with all the birds?” I asked.
“They get eaten,” he said. “Better life for them than to have been raised in a pen, don’t you think?”
“When you put it that way, of course,” I said.
“The next spot may not be as good as that,” he said. “But we can hope!”
“For the pheasants’ sake, I hope not!” I said and he actually blushed. Fabulous. He looks like a little boy.
He squeezed my hand in his arm and for a moment, I wished we were not in such crowded company. But oh, how fun it was to have him parade me around and delighting in showing me how he shoots. He was positively floating, and I loved watching him have so much fun.
“Wait ’til you see Panzer in action when we get home,” he grinned. “Duck hunting is a little rougher than this, but it’s really fun, too. And the best in the world is in Mississippi.”
I really liked how he said we and home in the same sentence. Perhaps this fairy tale would last longer than three days…
Soon we were at our next location. Unlike the former open place, this area felt like we were walking in Hansel and Gretel’s thick forest. Lush vegetation surrounded us, and we crossed
several rocky brooks bubbling through the underbrush. After we were settled into our peg, a lovely Scottish girl joined us with three retrievers.
“Would it be so terrible for me to sit with her?” I asked.
“No problem, I am sure. Just make sure she doesn’t mind,” he said, a hint of disappointment in his tone.
“I’ll be sure to watch you, too,” I smiled.
Mary did not mind our company, and her dogs were delighted to have a new person scratch their ears. They knew what was coming and were polite, but all business. Their golden brown eyes scanned the skies for the birds they knew would come.
Again the birds came, tentatively at first, then in waves, then a trickle here and there, and too soon the horn sounded. By now, I was positively enjoying the spectacle, despite my preconceptions. I left Mary to her work and was making my way back to Griffen when I felt, then heard an explosion to my right.
“Here here! Aye – unload – unload your gun…Damn it man!” Fionan shouted and ran toward the next peg. Griffen was immediately at my side, rage burning in his eyes.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, for I was somehow on the ground.
“N…n…no,” I stammered. “I don’t think so.”
He helped me up as he muttered some angry expletives not quite under his breath, but with much fury. His eyes bore into the man on our right, and I feared for his safety. Fionan and the other man’s loader were already alongside the man who was insisting on making his way over to us, apologizing profusely with each step.
“Accident, sir, I am so sorry, and the lady, are you all right, miss?” he stammered.
“Yes, of course,” I said, a little confused. “I’m fine.”
“I don’t know what happened, my gun,” he said. “Must have discharged accidentally. I am so glad you weren’t hurt.”
“I’m fine, sir,” I said mostly to Griffen. “I must have stumbled.”
Griffen’s face was stone, but he managed to nod at the desperately pleading man – I was still a little worried he was going to punch him.
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