Verse of the Vampyre (7 page)

It shook Grace, but there were a dozen explanations, and she was happy to seize on the first one, which was that the woman had just been passing by.

That explanation didn’t work so well when Grace spotted her the next afternoon, across the road from Craddock House.

Grace had been indulging in some Cinderella-like daydreaming as she dusted cups of a Czech lusterware tea set. Her thoughts were preoccupied with what to wear to the Hunt Ball. Her budget was limited, and she had previously planned to wear her good black dress.

It was against her principles to “compete” for a man’s attention, but common sense told her Catriona Ruthven would use every weapon in her arsenal if she was after Peter. Grace intended to stick to her principles, but the less-disciplined portion of her brain kept picturing herself sweeping into the Hunt Ball in a drop-dead glamour dress.

She was smiling at this vision when she noticed movement in the trees across the way. She went to the window.

Yes, the woman in black was standing outside the shop. Just standing there, staring.

Grace headed for the door, hesitated, then went outside, crossing the lawn.

“Can I help you?” she called.

The woman stared. She was wearing a black dress, black walking boots and a black scarf. Nothing too sinister about her, unless you were the fashion police, but creepy all the same.

“What do you want?” Grace called.

The woman continued to gaze unspeaking.

It was too bizarre. Grace went back inside and considered calling the police, but again she didn’t want to bring attention to Peter or his shop.

Was she the local witch, Miss Coke? Or merely some deranged homeless person? Was she practicing witchcraft or intimidation?

Grace watched the woman for a few minutes more and decided that her uneasy attention was what Miss Coke (if it was Miss Coke) wanted.

However, after this unpleasant experience Grace concluded that she did deserve a treat of some kind. Since she couldn’t afford a ball gown, she resorted to the time-honored tradition of having her hair done. She’d been wearing her long chestnut locks in the same simple style since she’d started teaching, and she felt it was time to make a change; maybe go for something more contemporary—even a bit sexier.

Halfway through the perm process she realized it might look like she was copying Catriona’s signature style. She stared at her wired-for-sound reflection, thinking that if this kept up she would end up like the narrator of
Rebecca,
trying to compete with a ghost.

But in the end, she needn’t have worried. Her soft curls looked nothing like Catriona’s coppery mane, and the new sophisticated cut flattered her fine features. Grace felt so thrilled with the result she splurged and bought her favorite brand of lipstick and eye shadow in the new “Fall Palette.”

Her efforts must have been successful, because Derek Derrick flirted with her quite outrageously at rehearsal that night—much to the chagrin of Theresa Ives.

They formed a truce later when she caught Theresa on her way out after rehearsal. Derrick waited, holding Theresa’s white raincoat, as Grace said, “This may sound strange, but I wanted to ask you…do you know anything about a woman named Miss Coke?”

“That woman!”

“What does she look like? Tall, thin, dressed in black?”

“That’s her.” Theresa’s face changed. “Don’t tell me she’s after you!”

“I’m not sure what she’s after, but she’s been following me around. Has she ever said anything to you? Threatened you?”

“She doesn’t say anything,” Theresa told her. “That’s why the police won’t do anything. She simply stares in that ghastly way like—like Isis.”

“Isis?”

“Or whatever her name was. The goddess of revenge.”

“Nemesis, you mean?” The Honorable Allegra Clairmont-Brougham, a model-thin rather handsome woman in her forties, tied the belt on her camel hair coat. Grace realized that their conversation was more public than she had planned. “I suppose you’re speaking of Miss Coke. Just ignore her,” Allegra instructed Grace.

“That’s easy for you to say,” Theresa said, pouting. Derek put a hand on her shoulder in a gesture both comforting and proprietary. Grace’s gaze caught that of the Hon. Al. It wasn’t often they saw eye to eye, but apparently on this point, they were agreed.

“It’s easy enough to do,” Allegra retorted.

Grace said, “But if she’s harassing people—”

Allegra tossed her black hair. “Oh, harassing! She’s a harmless old crackpot.”

“But I heard that”—it sounded silly but Grace pressed on—“bad things have happened to people who…got on Miss Coke’s bad side.”

Allegra made another impatient sound. If she wasn’t careful, in a few years she would be saying “bah!” or “pshaw!” like Lady Vee. “
Anyone
can break his neck foxhunting,” she said, and swept out through the theater doors.

T
he dawn cast an eerie bloodred tint over the dale.

A covey of quail started from the underbrush as Grace swung up into the saddle. The mare sidled, hooves powdering the frost on the ground. Grace quickly righted herself, putting a hand to her black velvet cap. Safely mounted, she looked around, past the horse trailers and Land Rovers and milling people in the “north forty” of Ives Manor, to the vista beyond.

In the distance she could see mountains, towering and dark, and she reflected on the irony that it was really those mountains that made Lakeland unforgettable.

O! for the crags that are wild and majestic, the steep, frowning glories of dark Lochnagar,
Lord Byron had written of Scotland, but his words held true for Helvellyn or Scafell Pike, England’s highest mountain. The crags and fells of the Lake District gave the country its distinctive character, a character reflected in the “kept-stone” spirit of its natives.

Grace had yet to hike any mountains, and she resolved that before she left this island—assuming she did not break her neck that morning—she was going to treat herself to scaling one of those slate-and-granite ridges right up to the point where earth met sky.

That said, she was just as glad that today’s meet was on relatively flat land, although she knew that beyond the immediate fields and woods were heather-topped hills studded with stony outcrops, and it was as easy to take a header down a little hill as a big one.

The mare snorted and tossed her head. She was on loan from the Ives stable, and Grace was not too sure of her. She was not too sure of any of this, but she loved the smell of horse and leather and crisp morning air…she wasn’t quite as crazy about the whiff from the flask Sir Gerald Ives waved under her nose.

“Have a nip,” he invited.

Sir Gerald was about fifty, big and rawboned with a face like a slab of good English beef.

“Good morning!” Grace said.

“She suits you.” He again proffered Grace a swig from the silver flask, which she declined. “Takes the chill off.”

“Oh gosh, no thanks. I don’t eat breakfast.”

She was joking but the baronet replied seriously, “You should have had your breakfast. Takes a hell of a lot out of you, hunting.” His breath smoked in the chill air. It was about five-thirty in the morning, cold but reasonably dry—though in the Lake District a cloudless sky could be a temporary phenomenon.

Shrugging, Sir Gerald recapped the flask, his attention wandering. He rode a big, bad-tempered black, who chewed his bit with neurotic fervor. Grace resolved to stay well out of their way.

Already the red sky was paling to pink, and as the sun rose the fields shimmered gold; the surrounding trees seemed to blaze into life, foliage brilliant in scarlet, orange and yellows. The clearing was crowded with cars and horse trailers, but nobody seemed to be interested in the splendid scenery.

As Grace watched, horses were saddled and mounted swiftly. Riders greeted each other jovially. Thermos cups of coffee or something stronger were handed round. A young woman was slathering her face with sunscreen.

Do ye ken John Peel at the break of day, do ye ken John Peel in his coat so gay…

Several of the men, including Sir Gerald, wore scarlet coats. Everyone else was dressed in black hunt coat, white shirt, white stock tie, and black riding boots.

She smiled a little at the memory of a quote, though she couldn’t remember where she had heard it: “
It isn’t mere convention. Everyone can see that the people who hunt are the right people, and the people who don’t are the wrong ones.”
She knew what Peter would make of such nonsense, but probably many of the people here believed it.

She wondered if she really looked the part in her secondhand black jacket and brand-new breeches, or if something about her gave her away as an American. She put a hand up to check her cap again, but the eighty-seven bobby pins she had used seemed to be holding her hair in place.

She thought it interesting that although every child present wore a sturdy helmet, not one adult had deigned to safeguard his head—herself included.

A pack of lightly built fell hounds snuffled the covert, tails wagging, noses sniffing the air, sneezing violently as they worked the area for the scent of the fox. The Huntsman, a weathered-looking man by the name of Milliken, was in conversation with Theresa Ives, looking very smart indeed in her riding kit.

As Grace watched, Derek Derrick brought his horse beside Theresa’s, and the woman turned, smiling. Derek made a fine figure in his black coat. He could have ridden straight off the set of
The List of Adrian Messenger
.

“Your first ever hunt, is it?” Sir Gerald asked, clearly doing his duty as MFH and local gentry. “You should have joined us for cubbing season.”

Grace might be yet undecided about foxhunting in principle, but she was squarely against the idea of hunting baby foxes. However, she was the guest. She murmured something about scheduling conflicts, and Sir Gerald said, “The hunt requires discipline and commitment. It builds character. That’s why we encourage the children to participate.”

“Do you have children?” Grace was surprised.

“No.”

“Hoick together!” called the Whipper-in to straying hounds. The Whipper-in was the Huntsman’s right-hand man. “Hoick, hoick.”

There were a number of familiar faces present in the field, which consisted of about seventy. Grace spotted Chief Constable Heron on an enormous gray hunter.

If she got the chance, she wanted to ask the chief constable about the rumors surrounding Bill Jones’s death. But at the moment he was in conversation with the Hon. Al. Tall and boyishly slim, Al had the perfect figure for riding clothes. The chief constable sat as straight as a cavalry officer. He wore a scarlet jacket with a navy collar, which Grace understood to mean he had been awarded colors.

Al’s collar, too, was navy. She was the official Field Master, which Grace found interesting. She would have expected Theresa, a devoted sportswoman and Sir Gerald’s lady, to have been awarded that honor.

As though on cue, Theresa’s laugh rang out, earning disapproving looks. Sir Gerald’s hunter backed up as though his hands on the reins had suddenly tightened. Grace glanced his way.

“Good hunting, then!” he told her curtly. He trotted off to join his wife and her companion.

A heavyset man on a motorbike gunned the engine, catching Grace’s attention. A pair of bright-eyed terriers sat in a cage on the back of the bike.

This, she realized, must be the Terrier Man, the person whose job it was to dig out and bolt (or shoot as the case might be) the fox when it went to ground.

Grace wondered how she would feel if she saw a fox shot. Her mount tossed its head restively and worked the bit. She stroked its neck with the butt of her crop.

Feeling a tiny bit on the outside, she spoke to the mare, whose ears twitched in response. Grace was a little anxious, although not about her riding skills. While other small girls her age had been shuttled to dance and music lessons, Grace had been learning dressage. She frequently substituted for St. Anne’s riding instructor when he was ill or on vacation. No, her uncertainty revolved around hunt protocol, which she knew was rigorous. She prayed she wasn’t going to inadvertently commit a faux pas like passing the Field Master or getting in the way of a hound.

Smiling at faces she recognized, she guided her horse through the crowd, declining offers of the stirrup cup. She couldn’t help hearing bits and pieces of the conversations flowing around her as the Innisdale Pack greeted each other, talking and laughing. She knew that for most of these people, the hunt was a social event, and the killing of a fox was incidental.

“The police are always on the verge of making an arrest, aren’t they? I don’t suppose it really means anything.”

“At last estimate the ban would leave over fourteen thousand hounds jobless. That doesn’t include terriers, harriers, beagles, bassets…”

“Scottish, my dear. One of these obscure titles.
He’s
very well known in theater circles.”

It was at that moment that Grace spied Catriona Ruthven, sleek and stylish in black livery. She was mounted on a leggy sorrel whose burnished coat seemed color-coordinated with Catriona’s coppery hair. The horse danced nervously but was easily checked by its rider. They made a lovely picture.

Grace glanced around, seeking Lord Ruthven, but couldn’t see him. Perhaps he didn’t ride to hounds. He didn’t seem like the sporty type. In fact, she couldn’t remember if she had ever seen him out in the fresh air and sunshine.

She wondered if Catriona’s hunter was also on loan or if the Ruthvens kept their own stable. She began to consider the size and nature of the Ruthven household.

She knew they had taken one of the large Georgian houses at the edge of the village. The Monkton estate. An old house with a mysterious past. And how appropriate, although it was a big place for two.
Was
it just the two of them? Grace couldn’t imagine the Ruthvens with children, but then she knew so little about them.

If Catriona was up to no good, surely her husband would have to know about it? Was that why he had followed her to the cemetery that night? Did he suspect her of something? Or was he in on it, too—assuming there was anything to be in on.

Servants would probably be aware of any irregularities in the household. Did they have a large staff? She seemed to recall the village gossips reporting that the newcomers had a German man working for them.

A thought occurred: Did Mrs. Mac “do” for the Ruthvens? If so, did that have any special significance?

Grace continued to study Catriona. As background to her thoughts, one of those snooty voices was droning, “They need about a three-hour head start to effectively disrupt a hunt. Changing the meet location at the last minute helps prevent the sort of fiasco we had last week when one of the hooligans called the pub and informed them the hunt had been canceled owing to rain…”

Saboteurs, Grace realized. The speaker was talking about organized efforts to disrupt the hunt by antihunt protestors. Sabs were inventive. Their tactics included everything from “prebeating” the planned covert, spraying foliage with scent dullers like citronella, opening up blocked earths so that cornered foxes might escape, and setting “rook scarers,” various noise devices to scare the animals away.

Allegra guided her horse up to Grace. Her cheeks were flushed with cold and excitement. “Watch yourself,” she said curtly. “The terrain’s bloody past the ash grove. We’re one of the few Lake District packs to hunt on horseback. Most hunt on foot.”

Grace was still trying to reconcile the picture of a foxhunt on foot when a white-muzzled bitch lifted her head and let out a baying sound.

“Fiver’s hit a line,” Allegra exclaimed, and reined her mount away.

This Grace knew was the opening. The other hounds circled Fiver, the strike hound, barking and whining, “honoring” her voice, and the Huntsman’s horn rang out, startling against the babble of hounds.

A frisson glided down Grace’s spine. Were these crisp silvery notes from “The Peeler,” the hunting horn that local legend claimed once belonged to John Peel—now the property of Sir Gerald Ives?

And then there was no time to think about anything because the chase was on.

The hounds tore off in full cry, presumably in chase of a fox invisible to Grace, who was busy guiding the mare through the heaving crowd of horses and riders.

“Tally ho!” shouted Derek Derrick, passing Grace at a gallop.

“Ass,” grunted someone near Grace. She glanced back, then out of the corner of her eye caught movement.

Catriona veered her way. The sorrel kicked out at Grace’s bay. The bay shied, eyes rolling, her muzzle wrinkling to bite. Grace tightened her knees, guiding the mare clear of Catriona’s horse.

“Hey!” she protested.

“Ride ’em cowboy,” Catriona quipped, urging her horse past. She was lost in the lunge of riders heading for the woods beyond.

Grace dug her heels into the bay.

Choose your line, she warned herself. Pace yourself. Don’t crowd. Don’t thrust.

The thud of hooves was like thunder as they crossed a mile or so of meadow. The trees neared, towering.

Grace ducked a low branch and slowed her horse, as it fought the bit. The woods were alive with the babble of hounds, the pounding of hooves on damp ground, the crackle of dead leaves and breaking branches.

What happened to the rule about going slow in woodland? Grace asked herself as riders charged ahead. Despite the mare’s displeasure she took it more cautiously, while the hounds tore through the woods, followed by riders weaving in and out of trees, red and black coats flashing. She was still in the rear as dogs and horses burst out of the forest covert in arrow formation, chasing across the acres of green-and-gold checkerboard.

To horse and away, to the heart of the fray! Fling care to the Devil for one merry day!

It’s just like the books! Grace thought delightedly, as the field fanned out before her.

Her heart was in her mouth as they approached the first jump, one of the endless snaking stone walls left by Roman armies. It had been nearly two years since she’d jumped, and never in a crowd. She felt the mare’s muscles bunch and instinctively leaned forward. And then they were soaring. The mare landed cleanly and sprang forward. Grace laughed with sheer exhilaration.