Diana the Huntress

Title Page
Dedication
HONEST JOHN BULL
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
About the Author
Titles by M. C. Beaton
Copyright

ONE

Had she not had four extremely beautiful elder sisters, Diana Armitage might have been accounted very well in her way. She had heavy black hair and enormous dark eyes and a pale golden skin. But she affected mannish airs and lacked the charm and delicacy of her sisters and so was considered something of a cuckoo in the Armitage nest.

Her father, the vicar of St Charles and St Jude in the village of Hopeworth, the Reverend Charles Armitage, had devoted his life to the hunt rather than to the spiritual well-being of his parishioners. Such was his obsession with the sport that he allowed Diana to hunt – provided she dressed as a man – a disgraceful state of affairs which suited the gypsy-like Diana very well. It was a well-kept secret. Diana, in a buckram-wadded coat to hide her generous bosom and with her tresses pushed up under a hard hat, acquired all the grace and
ease of movement she lacked in the drawing room. Mrs Armitage, her mother, was prey to imaginary ills and mostly kept to her bedchamber, and was therefore not aware of the scandalous behaviour of her daughter.

Diana’s four elder sisters had all married well. Minerva had married Lord Sylvester Comfrey;
Annabelle
, the Marquess of Brabington; Deirdre, Lord Harry Desire, and Daphne, Mr Simon Garfield.

Frederica, the youngest of the Armitage girls, had become a quiet, wispy, bookish thing. No one paid much attention to
her
. But Diana was so robust, so wild, and so terribly bad-mannered and gauche that it was hard to feel comfortable about her future. The vicar was torn between admiration for his daughter’s
prowess
on the hunting field and fear for her future, although he tried to console himself with the thought that four well-married daughters was enough.

The twins, Peregrine and James, would soon be going up to Oxford. Boys were never any trouble and, if they got into a scrape, that was only to be expected.

Diana visited her married sisters as little as possible. She complained that they were always trying to marry her off to some ‘Bond Street Fribble’, and did not know how often and how furiously her sisters, especially Minerva, wrote to the vicar to beg Papa to let Diana come to town for an extended period so that she could at least get the smell of the stables out of her clothes.

Perhaps the vicar might have paid heed had he not become consumed with ambition to hunt down an old grey dog fox which had been making his life a misery for the past few years. Try as he would, the vicar could
never catch the beast and often thought the old fox was the devil himself come to mock him.

Diana had been invaluable during cubhunting where the young hounds were taught to hunt the fox with the older dog-hounds and bitches.

That cold November day, he was to ride over to the other side of Hopeminster to pay a call on Mr and Mrs Chumley, friends of his son-in-law, Mr Garfield. The vicar planned to go hunting on the morrow, and to ease his conscience he was first taking Diana on a social call. To see Diana struck dumb by polite company always eased the vicar’s conscience. The girl was only at home on the hunting field. So why not let her hunt! It was not as if any of the local county knew that the handsome young man who hunted alongside the vicar was his daughter. Even old Squire Radford did not know, and the squire was the vicar’s oldest and closest friend.

The old dog fox had not been seen in the
neighbourhood
for some time until two days ago, and the vicar had been up early destroying every earth and every place that a fox might get into. He returned to the vicarage to change his muddy clothes and prepare to go out with Diana to call on the Chumleys. The dark silence of the vicarage hit him afresh. Not so long ago, when all the girls were at home – and the twins – there seemed to be a constant coming and going.

Now the rooms seemed smaller and darker. Mrs Armitage had just tried some new purge to cleanse the blood, and the results had been so violent that she was now prostrate abovestairs being administered to by the maid, Sarah. Frederica was in the parlour, curled up on
the window seat with her head in a book. Her once curly hair now surrounded her pinched little face in wisps.

‘Where is Diana?’ asked the vicar.

Frederica looked at him with large, drowned eyes and slowly put a finger on the page to mark her place.

‘Dressing, Papa,’ she said, looking at him
beseechingly
. The vicar knew that look of old. It meant, ‘Please do go away and leave me to my book.’

‘Go and find Sarah and send her to me immediately,’ snapped the vicar.

Frederica sighed and put down her book and drifted from the room as if floating under water.

Betty, who had acted as lady’s maid to the four elder sisters, was now happily married to the coachman, John Summer. The vicar was still parsimonious when it came to engaging servants and so although Sarah was lady’s maid, she was also parlour maid and chaperone. John Summer was still groom, kennel master and whipper-in as well as coachman.

Sarah came tripping in and the vicar eyed her in the sort of way no gentleman, least of all a vicar, should eye one of his servants. There was no denying that Sarah was a full-blown country rose. Her blonde hair gleamed with health and her impertinent breasts thrust out gloriously against her apron. The vicar’s little shoe-button eyes gleamed appreciatively in his round face and he tried to pull in his stomach.

‘What’s Miss Diana wearing?’ he demanded.

Sarah giggled. ‘Miss Diana is wearing that old purple gown she always wears when she is going calling, sir.’

‘Well, see here, miss, you go upstairs direct and tell that daughter of mine she’s to wear the muslin Minerva sent her and that pelisse thing,
and
the new bonnet that goes with it or I’ll take the whip to her. Run along with you.’

Sarah giggled again and tossed her head so that the jaunty little streamers on her cap flicked the vicar on the face.

The vicar followed her out. He had to change himself and, besides, watching Sarah mount the stairs was a sight not to be missed.

His stomach rumbled. He never could get used to these newfangled hours. They would reach the
Chumleys
by four in the afternoon, which was the time any civilized creature should be sitting down to dinner. But the Chumleys kept London hours, and so he would get nothing but tea. His breakfast of beef steak and porter, oysters, bread and butter, eggs, muffins, prawns and fried ham seemed a long time ago.

He fished in the cupboard under the toilet table, where he kept his bottle of moonshine – smuggled white brandy – and took a hearty pull. He began to dream about the following day’s hunting. Surely he would catch that fox at last and prove to himself that it was no supernatural being, but vermin like all the others.

He drank and dreamed, and dreamed and drank, only suddenly becoming aware of the time when Sarah scratched at the door and called out that Miss Diana was belowstairs, waiting for him.

He finished his toilet in a scrambled rush, crammed
his shovel hat on his head, and made his way downstairs. Sarah rushed to hold open the parlour door for him.

For one moment, the vicar thought the elegant lady in front of him was a stranger. Then he realized it was indeed Diana. But what a transformation!

Her black hair curled from under the smartest of bonnets, the brim lined with wine-coloured silk. Her muslin gown was of pale gold, embroidered with sheaves of corn and wild flowers and tied under her bosom with two long satin ribbons. Her pelisse was of the same burgundy colour as her bonnet.

The clever choice of colours set off the honey of her skin. When she was in repose, with her strong tanned hands hidden by doeskin gloves and with her large mouth – too large for beauty – softened by dreams and her enormous eyes veiled yet sparkling like wisps of cloud crossing the starry sky at night, there was something about her that was beyond the beauty of her elder sisters.

Then the spell was broken. Diana became aware of her father watching her and said harshly, ‘Shall we go, Papa? As soon as this call is over and done with, I shall be glad to return to a more civilized form of dress.’

‘More uncivilized, you mean,’ said the vicar sourly. ‘You cannot claim that what you are wearing is uncomfortable.’

‘Not indoors in front of the fire, Papa. Outside, I shall probably freeze to death. Are you taking your racing curricle?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then I hope the Chumleys like the sight of blue ladies. Oh, do I have to go, Papa? I am persuaded they will not like me.’

‘And if they do, you will soon make sure that they don’t,’ grumbled the vicar. ‘Soon as you’re in the drawing room, you seem to delight in behaving in as uncouth a manner as possible. Come along, then.’

Diana followed her father from the vicarage. She wondered if she told her father the real reason for her gauche behaviour in society, whether he would
understand
.

For the fact was that Diana Armitage was painfully shy anywhere off the hunting field. She feared men, she admired them, she longed to be one. Social behaviour was a genteel prison. There was no freedom of speech. One had to be gratified by everything that happened, whether it was a pleasure or a pain. She pulled the rugs tightly about her as they set off down the Hopeminster road.

The vicar slowed his team as they came abreast of the small figure of Squire Radford walking along the road beside the village pond. The squire waved his arm, signalling the vicar to stop.

Squire Radford removed his old-fashioned tricorne and bowed from the waist.

‘You are in looks, Miss Diana,’ he said. ‘Do you go to the Chumleys, Charles?’

‘Yes, Jimmy. Bit o’ company for Diana.’

‘The reason I stopped you,’ said the squire in his high, precise voice, ‘is because I have a desire to hunt with you tomorrow.’

‘Wouldn’t do that, Jimmy,’ said the vicar hurriedly, thinking of Diana’s masquerade. ‘Bound to be
uncommon
sharp. Bad weather for old bones.’

‘So is a sedentary life,’ smiled the squire. ‘Expect me on the morrow, Charles.’ He bowed again. The vicar impatiently flapped the reins.

‘Well, here’s a problem,’ said the vicar when they had bowled along some distance out of Hopeworth village. ‘Can’t go hunting tomorrow, Diana. Not with Jimmy Radford’s sharp old eyes on you.’

Unshed tears of frustration filmed Diana’s dark eyes. But, unlike her sisters, she did not trouble to argue with the vicar. The answer would be ‘no’, no matter what she said. Some way or other she would go.

But Diana, who had been secretly pleased with her new fashionable appearance and who had planned to be as feminine as possible at the Chumleys in order to please her father, now decided to be as awful as possible.

When people retreated from you in disgust, they left you alone. And if being alone was a rather miserable state of affairs, there was always the consolation of being left in peace to dream of the next day’s hunting. Diana had no interest in the kill. Only in the thrill of fast, often dangerous, hard exercise.

Diana still remembered her first ride in the way other, more genteel misses, remembered their first love. She had taken out one of her father’s hunters and had ridden off, sailing across stone walls, across little brooks, over flat fields with her hair streaming out behind her, drunk with freedom, only returning when the light was fading, shaken all over and practically
unable to move hand or foot for a week and never once regretting a moment of it.

They reached the crossroads, Diana closing her eyes until they were safely past. For suicides were buried at crossroads, and superstitious Diana was sure their ghosts walked even during the day. When she opened her eyes, the sun was piercing through a bank of angry black clouds, great shafts of yellow light, the kind that angels ascend and descend in the Bible pictures.

The vicar muttered something under his breath and the curricle rolled to a stop. Beside the road, two or three lean ponies were cropping the grass. A little way into a small wood stood a shabby tent with smoke curling out of it, a light cart at its side.

‘Egyptians,’ grumbled the vicar. ‘Bad cess to ’em. Hey! You!’ he shouted, climbing down from the curricle and striding forward.

A woman emerged from the tent. Her coarse hair hung down to her waist. She wore a low bodice and a dirty petticoat and her skin was dark and swarthy.

‘Where is your man?’ demanded the vicar.

‘Oh, delicate Jesus, your honour,’ said the gypsy woman with an odd bobbing curtsy. ‘Gone I know not where.’

‘And you won’t say so either, will you?’ snorted the vicar. ‘Gone to steal hens, heh! Tell him that Charles Armitage says you must be gone by sundown.’

The woman’s eyes flashed and she began to mutter something in a strange tongue. The vicar strode back to the curricle and mounted, ignoring the stream of incomprehensible Romany directed at his back.

Diana stared in terror. She had heard of the gypsies, but had never seen any near Hopeworth before. Surely this terrifying-looking woman was a witch.

As the vicar picked up the reins, the gypsy came running up and put a filthy hand on the side of the carriage.