Foxhunt by Luke Francis Beirne

Author:Luke Francis Beirne
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Baraka Fiction

II

The Foxhunt

1

London, 1951: The road wound through hills, trees, and fences. Acres of carefully manicured land passed them by. The trees were sturdy and pruned—the flowers wild but kempt. The early morning light carried through the trees at the end of the field with carefree ease.

“It’s a brutal sport, I know.”

Milne looked over at Carson, who had spoken suddenly and apologetically. “It’s alright,” he said. “They’ll go ahead whether we’re here or not, I suppose.” He watched the fields roll past as they drove. “Who owns all of this land?”

“This is all his,” Carson said.

“All of it?”

“Everything since we passed through the gate. This is Pankhurst Estate.”

“How much land is this?”

“More than their due.”

The road twisted into a cluster of oaks. They followed it, slipping momentarily into woodland. When they emerged around the bend, a stone manor stood out along the sky, carefully positioned on a hill.

“Have you thought any more about going to Colombia?” Carson asked.

“Of course I’ll go,” Milne said. “How could I pass it up?”

“Wonderful,” Carson said. “It’ll be a damned good trip. I’ll let Nicolas know.”

The road wound up to the entryway, where three cars were visible. A carriage house hinted at more. “It looks like most of the others are already here,” Carson said.

The driver traced the path. He was emotionless and silent. His body was still except for the gentle shifting of his arms. When he rolled to a stop in front of the house, he quickly stepped out of the car and opened the back doors—Milne and Carson stepped out. Immediately, Milne felt the fresh air blanket his face. He breathed deeply: cool and hard, it filled his lungs.

He looked down over the landscape. An endless, cascading sea of green met his eyes. Forests and fields stretched in all directions. He walked around to the trunk of the car. The driver stepped in front of him: “Your bags will be taken care of, sir.”

Carson was walking up the steps to the front door. He followed behind. As soon as they approached the door, it opened. They were greeted by a butler in a perfectly fitted uniform. “Good morning, Mr. Ward,” he said. “Please come in.” They stepped inside and their coats were taken from them. “I will show you to the study,” the butler said.

He led them past a massive staircase in the entryway and down a large hallway hidden behind it. The ceilings were higher than any other house that Milne had been in. At the end of the hallway, light streamed in through a broad window. The rest of the hall was dark. They passed three doors and entered the fourth.

The windows along the outer wall ran nearly from floor to ceiling. Curtains hung the length, tied with frayed rope. Harry Pankhurst Jr. was in the corner next to the door, filling glasses generously from a decanter. “Carson, welcome! I’m glad you made it. Drop of brandy?”

“It’s eight in the morning, Harry.”

“It’s hunt day, Carson. Everything’s game.” Pankhurst shifted his gaze to Milne.

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