It was only when I went out onto the driveway that I realised how truly beautiful the house was.
And how massive. Ever seen Brideshead Revisited? Remember that fricking huge house with the fountain and the dome and the massive servants’ wings and stable blocks and the thousands of windows and dozens of pillars? It was just like that. It was so huge, and so stunning, that it was hard to believe that it belonged to one family. Then I remembered that the de Warlencourts didn’t just own this house, they had a London house too. And probably a ton of other houses. I was definitely in the Land of Oz.
I walked towards where the cars and the boys were, my wellies crunching on the gravel. Servants in long black coats went about with silver trays, handing out some small strong drink. I took one and downed it, as that seemed to be the thing to do. I thought it was a mistake to start with as it mingled vomitously with my black pudding. But after a while it began to warm my stomach, giving me the courage to stride up to the boys.
Henry said, ‘Greer! Good morning. Did you sleep well?’
I smiled at him sweetly. ‘Yes, thanks,’ I said. I wasn’t sure what I thought about him now – I thought I had seen, last night, some sort of relish in his eyes, a keen enjoyment of what had happened to me, to Chanel. But today it was hard to believe. He was friendly, very normal and very, very handsome.
Piers and Cookson, taking as ever their master’s lead, smiled too, the cracks about my mum and Chanel’s apparently forgotten. In the cold light of day it seemed hard to believe that that nasty little scene at dinner had really happened. They looked completely at home in their hunting clothes, and that was saying something, because Piers, I’m not kidding, had on a deerstalker, exactly like you see Sherlock Holmes wearing in films. But he didn’t even look ridiculous, I guess because we were about to go, well, deer-stalking. I didn’t really know what to say to any of them; their very ease was intimidating. But the hounds came to my rescue; they circled around me, jumping up and licking, and thumping my wellies with their tails, until Henry and I both collapsed with laughter. ‘Sorry,’ he said, and shoved them off. ‘Arcas, behave! Get down, Ladon! Down, Tigris!’
‘Cute names,’ I said, and fell to my knees to pet them while they slobbered all over me.
‘How lovely,’ he said, looking down fondly, hands in pockets. ‘I didn’t imagine you would like animals.’
‘I’ve grown up with wildlife,’ I said.
‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘Your father and his filming.’
I was a bit surprised – I didn’t know he’d heard my conversation with Piers at dinner. Maybe the boys all compared notes last night after the girls had left. I was still pissed off about what had happened at dinner, and I didn’t want to let him off the hook so easily. ‘Do you like animals?’ I asked. ‘Or just killing them?’
‘Both,’ he said, and as if to prove his point his groom walked the horse up to him, and he stroked its velvety neck. Despite my wildlife boast I backed off a bit from the massive creature, the hounds yipped and Henry, like the Crusader of whose blood he was born, vaulted onto the horse and gathered the reins. It was an impressive move, and I had to fight hard to be all wry and sardonic and all the other things I prided myself on being in the face of Henry’s charms. Henry called down, from horseback, ‘If you’ll forgive me, I’m going to ride ahead; I’m the harbourer today.’
Still brave with the fiery little drink, I said, ‘I don’t know what that is.’
The perfect smile widened. He leaned down to place a warm glove on my shoulder, but didn’t explain. ‘See you up there. You’re coming with the girls in the shooting brake. Have fun.’ He turned the horse’s head with the reins and kicked its glossy sides. The horse took off in a whirl of hoofs and Henry rode it easily, thundering down the drive with the hounds running in his wake.
I watched him, feeling a bit like Guinevere in First Knight watching Lancelot ride away. I’m not going to lie; Henry riding down the drive of that palace of a house, on a black horse, with the hounds at his heels, was one of the most exciting things I’ve ever seen. I decided in that moment that while Piers and Cookson were clearly tossers, Henry was really OK.
A dry voice spoke at my back. ‘The harbourer rides ahead of the rest of the hunt party on horseback.’ I turned to see Shafeen standing behind me. Once again he looked absolutely right. He suited the muted autumnal colours as much as he’d suited the white tie last night. At the same time he looked somehow different from the others, without looking out of place. He had decided against the hat, as I had, but it had been the right choice – his dark hair, no longer slicked back, blew softly around his face. But he still looked stern, and he sounded it too. ‘The harbourer’s job is to single out a stag from the herd to be hunted by the rest of the party.’
‘OK,’ I said. I didn’t really know what to say to him either – last night he’d jumped in to save us with his tiger-mother tale, but then he’d told me I was just like the Medievals. Having imparted his lesson, he didn’t seem inclined to go on chatting, so I looked around for other company. I could see the Medieval girls walking up the drive, and I did a double take.
There were four of them.
As they came closer I could see that there were the three sirens, and Chanel. They were all talking and laughing, their blonde hair bouncing as they walked. They looked like an advert, and actually appeared to be walking in slow motion. There were tiny variations in their costume, the colour of their hats, the cut of the waxed jackets, the knot of the silk scarves at the throat. Charlotte was wrapped in one of those massive tartan shawls that are so big they look like a blanket. But from a distance they looked completely interchangeable.
As they got nearer I could actually see there was a difference, and the odd one out was Chanel. I knew immediately that all the clothes she was wearing were her own – they hadn’t been put out on her bed by a sulky servant. She’d bought them all, brand new. As she got close I could see that her wellies were box fresh – with a little red-and-white tab saying ‘Hunter’ on the front. Her jumper was too bright, her trousers too tight, her waxed jacket not weathered and seasoned like mine but pristine. Whichever one of the Medieval girls had been sent to dress Chanel before she left STAGS must have struck out – Chanel obviously already had all the right gear, probably ordered the best of the best the minute she’d got The Invitation. And, man, did she look excited. Her eyes were shining and her cheeks as pink as they had been last night at dinner – before, you know, the incident.
I greeted the girls as soon as they came close, and they all smiled nicely enough, but they ended the conversation they’d been having as they walked, and didn’t start it again, as if they didn’t want to talk about whatever it was in front of me. I moved next to Chanel and grinned conspiratorially. I’d really felt for her last night, and wanted to let her know she had an ally. ‘Bit weird this, isn’t it?’
She looked down her nose at me. ‘I think it’s perfectly divine,’ she said coldly, shutting me down. She sounded just like them. Then she did this freaky thing: she lifted her hair with her hand and flipped it to the opposite parting. It fell perfectly. It was their move, the tic of the sirens; they tossed their hair around 24/7 and now Chanel was doing it too. In fact, she performed it perfectly. God, I thought, she’d make a perfect Medieval. She had bounced back, it seemed, from the ridicule of last night’s dinner and embedded herself right at the heart of the sirens. Very clearly she thought she was their friend, and not mine.
I see, I thought. Four against one.
‘Come on, girls!’ trilled Charlotte in her role as fake-hostess. ‘We’re going in the shooting brake.’ Apparently this was a long car with wooden panels down the side, the most Medieval car you’ve ever seen. We could all sit easily, if not comfortably, in the back. We set off bumpily up the hill, following Henry’s path.
The huntin’ had begun.