An Irish Country Love Story Page 8

  O’Reilly knew this might be her and the marquis’s last chance to ride to the hounds. “John told me last autumn when he and I were snipe shooting that he was being forced to sell his thoroughbred hunters. The family will keep on a couple of hacks like Lars’s mount. John’ll continue to provide kennels for the hounds because it’s the annual subscriptions of the members of the hunt that pay for them and the hunt servants. It’s sad,” O’Reilly said. “They both love hunting, but it’s a huge expense running the estate.”

  “I didn’t know about the horses,” Kitty said. “It is a pity, but I suppose the days of keeping a stableful of hunters is over for the MacNeills. Life is changing for the aristocracy.”

  The three equestrians were surrounded by the pack of liver, white, and black hounds that milled round the horses’ legs, barking and baying, legs stiff, tails erect.

  “The dogs are raring to go. I’d better get things moving,” O’Reilly said. He raised his voice and called, “Right. Let’s get ourselves organised. You all know the hills, and we don’t want to be tripping over each other. We need to cover as much ground as possible.” He turned to the marquis. “So I propose, my lord, that you, Lady Myrna, and Mister O’Reilly take the centre section, which is about a quarter of a mile wide and mostly heather and bracken. Better going for the horses. But please hang on here until the rest of the search party’s in place.”

  “We’ll do that,” the marquis said. “Let the hounds quarter it. If the dog’s there they’ll find him and they won’t hurt him. They like other dogs.”

  “Thank you, sir.” O’Reilly turned back to the others. “I need you folks to space out at equal intervals from both sides of the area the hunt will be covering to the far edges of the woods and thickets.” The group were all experienced outdoorsmen and needed no further instructions from him. Surely if poor old Jasper were out here he’d be found? He might even remember the culvert he’d taken cover in as a puppy where Sonny had found Jasper sixteen years ago.

  “Now,” said O’Reilly, “this morning we’ll be climbing up to the crest, where Mister Bishop will have lunch laid on beside the old watchtower. Let’s hope we’ve found Jasper by then. If not, we’ll take a break and then cover the other side of the hills as far as the Comber Road in the afternoon. At least it will be easier going downhill.”

  A piped series of pee-wit, pee-wit came from overhead and he looked up. “Green plover, also called lapwing,” he said to Kitty, who had been a city girl until she’d married him. The birds, with their green-tinted backs, white bellies, and black breasts, throats, crowns, and crests, tumbled across the cold, eggshell-blue sky.

  “They really are pretty,” she said. “I’ve never seen them before. I remember how much your father loved birds. How you and Lars set up a feeding table right outside his window in Dublin.”

  O’Reilly smiled. “Father did love his birds,” he said. “Bless him. So does Lars.”

  Lars’s mare whinnied loudly. O’Reilly looked over to see her tossing her head and mane, Lars with eyes wide, clenching his teeth, his hands clutching the reins, and Myrna sidling her horse over and calming the animal.

  “I think,” O’Reilly called, “it’s time to get moving. Any questions?” He waited, but none came. “Let’s get started.” He produced a referee’s whistle. “I’ll give us a wheep on this when we’re all ready so we can start together.”

  There were general mutterings of assent. O’Reilly waited as searchers strode past him to take up their positions. Patches of snow were scattered on the lower slopes, and the ridgeline was covered and glistening in the weak morning sunlight. The breath of horses, dogs, and people hung on the crisp, still air.

  “So, big brother,” O’Reilly said as he moved to stand in front of Lars’s mount and stroke the horse’s soft cheek, smelling her hay-sweet breath, “since when have you been riding?”

  “Since he started coming to Ballybucklebo House to help us give most of our lands to the National Trust,” said the marquis.

  “Your brother, Fingal, is working like a demon for us,” said Myrna. “And we’re so grateful. It looks as though we’ll still have the rights to live there, farm there, and shoot there. He is remarkably industrious and creative.” She looked at him and nodded her head. “But he’s shy, and does not get nearly enough exercise. I’ve taken him in hand.”

  Lars sighed and smiled. “She insists we go riding twice a week, and talked me into coming today. I’ve learned how to get on—”

  “Mount,” Myrna said. “Mount. Let’s get the terms right. I’d have thought solicitors were sticklers for exactitude when it comes to language.” She shook her head but was still smiling. “You, my dear Lars, may know about tort and res ipsa loquitor, and the names and breeding habits of hundreds of orchids, but when we started you couldn’t tell a cannon from a pastern or a hock from a gaskin.”

  “Those are parts of a horse, but I won’t tell you which ones,” Lars said, glancing at Myrna with a grin.

  “I’m sure I hardly know one end of a horse from the other.” Kitty smiled and winked at O’Reilly. “But I’m impressed. And you’re learning, Lars?”

  “So far, Kitty, I can walk and trot and we’re working on my cantering…” He laughed.

  Goodness, O’Reilly thought, my usually reserved brother seems to be coming out of himself.

  “And so far—so far, I haven’t fallen off.”

  “There are only two kinds of horsemen,” said Myrna. “Those who have fallen off and those who are going to. You will, someday. But not today.”

  This coming from a woman who not so long ago had been thrown and had fractured her now-healed femur. She’d been very brave throughout the whole thing and O’Reilly had got to know and like Lady Myrna Ferguson better and better.

  “You’ll be fine, Lars. This is Rubidium, thirty-seventh element in the periodic table. Ruby for short. She’s as good a horse as there is. Gentle as a kitten. You’ll be perfectly safe with Ruby.”

  A voice O’Reilly recognised came from the left. Donal Donnelly had been released from work today by his boss, Bertie Bishop, to take part. “All set this side, sir.”

  “Same here,” came from Lenny Brown on O’Reilly’s right.

  “Right, come on, Kitty. See you all for lunch,” O’Reilly said. “And no galloping, Lars. Kitty and I are off duty and don’t want to be setting any broken bones.”

  The marquis saluted by touching his crop to the peak of his hard hat.

  O’Reilly took Kitty’s hand and together they trudged fifty yards from the open area. Donal stood fifty yards farther out.

  O’Reilly put his whistle between his lips, looked to each side, nodded to himself, and blew a long blast. “Hey on out, Arthur,” he said, and the big dog obeyed.

  The small ploughed field smelt of earth, and mud clung to his boots. He didn’t expect to find Jasper here. There seemed to be nowhere to hide, but they wouldn’t know until they’d walked it. “Not finding the going too bad, pet?” O’Reilly asked.

  “Not one bit,” she said, matching him pace for pace. “It feels so good to just walk in the open air. I wish I could take a walk when I’m at the hospital, but it’s so darn busy I usually just grab a bite at mealtime and keep working.”

  Before O’Reilly could follow up on that cue, she’d changed the subject. “Arthur’s having fun. Look.”

  The big Lab was running along the edge of a drainage ditch, nose to the ground, tail in the air.

  She pointed at a herd of cows grazing in the next field. “What kind are those?”

  “Dexters,” he said. “Good for both milk and beef.”

  A sudden hoarse craking and clattering of pinions accompanied two teal as they sprang into the air and flew away.

  “Pretty wee birds,” O’Reilly said. “Tasty roasted too. Don’t let Lars hear me say that, though.”

  “As long as you don’t expect me to pluck and gut them, I’ll cook them for you anytime.” She looked him in the eye. “Aren’t the eye patches on the
lead bird pretty? I think teal blue would be a very good colour for the dining room.”

  So she wasn’t going to drop the quest for new curtains. O’Reilly opened a gate standing in the middle of the open field. There was no flanking wall, fence, nor hedge. The gate closed off the bridge over the drainage ditch that flowed between the two fields. “And I think that today we’re looking for a lost dog. We’re getting close to culverts where he may be hiding.” Cows had wandered over, and he moved closer to Kitty, not wanting her frightened by so many big animals. He needn’t have worried.

  She clapped her hands, yelling, “Get away to hell out of that,” and they lumbered off. “I’m not a complete city girl,” she said. “Dad used to take us on picnics in farmers’ fields in County Wicklow. They call it the garden of Ireland, so green, and Glendalough is stunning. Mum loved Saint Kevin’s Monastery.”

  O’Reilly sang,

  In Glendalough lived an ould saint,

  Renowned for learning and piety

  His manners were curious and quaint

  And he looked upon girls with disparity.

  “But I don’t. I love you, city girl,” said O’Reilly, closing the gate. He took her hand and together they followed Arthur as he crashed through several clumps of yellow-flowered gorse, scattering their almond scent, and rabbits that scuttled off, white tails bobbing. O’Reilly and Kitty spent most of the time avoiding stepping in steaming piles of fresh cow clap.

  He clambered atop a low dry stone wall and held out his hand. “Let me help you.”

  Kitty took his hand and he hauled her up. He was going to jump down when Kitty held her free hand above her eyes and said, “Good Lord, whatever’s going on over there? And listen to that.”

  As they had progressed, O’Reilly had glanced from time to time to the clear area to his right. The pack was spread out across the fields and the three equestrians spaced out across the ground had been following the dogs at a leisurely walk. Things had changed. “Holy Moses,” he said, “I think they’ve started a fox and the hounds are off in full cry.” The air was rent by the belling of twenty foxhounds now racing along in a much tighter pack close on the heels of a low russet animal tearing diagonally to cross in front of where O’Reilly and Kitty stood.

  Myrna could be heard yelling, “Tallyho,” the traditional cry of a hunter who has the fox in view. She was leading, crouched low in the saddle, her horse’s hooves pounding on the turf. O’Reilly could hear the animal snorting. “Stay up there, Kitty,” O’Reilly said. “This could get exciting. Usually in a hunt, the huntsman and the whippers-in control the dogs. I can see John. He’s trying to get ahead of them to stop them, but Myrna’s got her blood up, and … oh Lord, look at Lars.”

  “Heaven help the poor man,” Kitty said, then yelled, “Hang on, Lars!”

  Lars’s mare knew her duty. She might be named for a chemical element, but she was a horse. And she had a rider on her back, and ahead the pack was after a fox. Her job, even if she wasn’t thoroughbred, was to join in. The little mare was stretched out in a full gallop, bounding forward, nostrils flaring. Lars clearly neither knew his duty nor was able to carry it out. No yells of “view halloo,” no soaring along in rhythm with his mount. O’Reilly’s poor brother was crouched forward on the horse’s neck and had both arms wrapped round it. One rein had worked loose from his grasp and was flying free. Fear was in his eyes. And unless checked, he’d tear past within yards of where O’Reilly and Kitty stood, heading straight for trees with low branches.

  “Stay put,” O’Reilly said to Kitty, and before she could protest he’d jumped down, taken a few paces, and now stood directly in the horse’s path, hoping to God he correctly recalled reading that horses had a pathological aversion to trampling on people. If Ruby was as gentle as Myrna said, surely she’d stop.

  He glanced at Kitty, who stood on the wall staring at him, hands clasped in supplication in front of her face. She was silent, apparently understanding that the last thing he needed was to be distracted by cries of “Take care!” or “Look out!”

  Horse and rider were so close he could smell the animal’s sweat, was almost deafened by the sounds of hooves. As they swept by, he yelled, “Whoa,” grabbed the free rein, and hauled, trying to force the animal’s head to the side and down. The stink of the horse’s sweat was overpowering. He was jerked off his feet, thought both arms had been yanked from their sockets, avoided the flying nearside front hoof, and to his great relief realised the animal was slowing down.

  He was dragged for several yards before the horse stopped, looked down at him with huge, apologetic, liquid brown eyes, tried to shake her head, and made a rubbery sound with her lips.

  O’Reilly, feeling bruised, but knowing nothing was broken, got to his feet. He held on to the rein, and gentled the beast. “Easy, Ruby, easy old girl. Easy.”

  She nuzzled him as a breathless Lars slipped from the saddle.

  “You all right, brother?” Lars gasped.

  “I’ll live,” O’Reilly said. “How about you?”

  “I don’t give a damn what Myrna’s going to think. I never want to see one of these blasted creatures again. What in the name of the wee man was she playing at, tearing off with the pack after that fox. Someone, and that someone was me, could have been killed.”

  “All right, Fingal? Lars?” Kitty had scrambled off the wall and was standing close to O’Reilly. “I thought you were both going to get marmalized. I think, Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly, that you’ve seen too many Westerns. You are not John Wayne.” Her eyes blazed, but O’Reilly knew her anger was that of relief that both men were safe and sound—or in his case relatively sound. He ached in muscles he’d forgotten he had. He was going to be stiff for a few days.

  “Come on, Kitty,” he said. “I’ve had worse boxing or playing rugby.” And, O’Reilly thought, but would not consider voicing, a few bruises were nothing to what might very well have happened to Lars among the trees if the horse hadn’t been stopped.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, pet. Honestly. I’m like James Bond’s martinis, a bit shaken, but not stirred.”

  She laughed, shook her head, and said, “Do you see why I love your buck eejit of a little brother, Lars? He’s not quite right in the head.” She pecked his cheek, stepped back, and said, “All right. We’re all safe. Now what?”

  “Lord knows where John and Myrna have got to, but I’ll bet when they get things straightened out they’ll come back this way and continue the search. Lars, I seem to remember an adage about immediately remounting if you are thrown—”

  “I was not thrown, but I could have been. And I have no intention of getting back on Ruby.”

  “Someone has to get the horse back to Ballybucklebo House, and it’s not going to be me. I think,” and he looked his brother right in the eye, “it would put your stock up with Myrna if you carry on.” He inclined his head to one side. Something about the way she’d teased Lars about his orchids and calmed his horse for him had set bells ringing for O’Reilly. Could his confirmed bachelor of a big brother have stirred something in Myrna Ferguson?

  “Lady Myrna is a force of nature but she’s been very good to me.” Lars grinned. He cocked his head, frowned at the now docile animal, and blew out his breath through pursed lips. “All right. Give me the reins.” He stood on the left side of the horse, held the reins in his left hand, and with it grabbed the front of the saddle. “I could use a boost, Fingal.” Lars faced to the animal’s rear.

  O’Reilly bent, locked his hands into a shallow cup, and said, “Right foot in here.” In a moment O’Reilly had straightened and thrust his hands up. Bruised muscles in his arms protested, but he kept a straight face.

  Lars, as if he’d been mounting horses for years, landed in the saddle. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll wait back in that treeless bit and see you both later for lunch. Keep an eye on him, Kitty, and Finn? Thank you for everything.” He bent forward, nudged the horse’s flanks with his boots, clicked his tongue, and
said, “Walk on.”

  O’Reilly watched his brother, swaying rhythmically in the saddle, walk the horse back to the open field where farther ahead the pack, with John and Myrna in the lead, were emerging from the woods.

  “I hope,” said Kitty, “the poor old fox got away.” She moved closer to him. “And,” she kissed him soundly, “I hope I never ever have to watch you nearly getting yourself killed. That was a very brave thing you did.”

  “Och,” said O’Reilly, always uncomfortable with praise, even if it did come from the woman he loved. “I only did what had to be done.” And, not giving her a chance to continue, said, “We’d better try to catch up with the others. Come on, old girl. Jasper’s got to be waiting for us somewhere.”

  9

  Flowing Water Near the House

  “Okay. Unless I ring you back, Dapper, to say I can’t get away, I’ll see you here as soon as you’re finished with your client. I’ve just finished my home visits for the morning.” Barry put the phone down and went into the dining room. “Busy surgery, Nonie?” he asked.

  “Pretty routine for a Tuesday,” she said, exhaling cigarette smoke. “Sorry about the cigarette,” she said, waving her hands in the air. “I thought I had time for a quick one. Fingal and Kitty are out and Kinky’s busy getting your lunch ready.” She patted the chair next to hers. “Come and sit down. I was starving and Kinky’s such a dear she served me first. Her cream of chicken soup was out of this world and she’ll do you a heavenly Welsh rarebit.”

  “Actually,” Barry said, “it’s only twelve so I’m going to skip lunch if you’ll do me a favour.”

  “For you, Barry? Anything. I’m so glad I have the afternoon off.” Her smile was inviting and there was a hint of huskiness in her voice.