Chapter 45. The Thrill of the Chase

The hunting season, a grand affair commencing in September with the pursuit of fowl, reached its zenith in November with the most exhilarating of spectacles: the fox hunt. Initially, the aristocracy, in their infinite wisdom, deemed deer hunting the ultimate symbol of status. Foxes, those varmints who dared to prey upon livestock, were considered mere "pests," left to the attentions of the common folk. However, as deer populations dwindled with the predictable efficiency of aristocratic pursuits, the fox rose in prominence. The formal fox hunting season, therefore, properly began in the first week of November. The hunt, of course, required the assistance of hounds, to flush the creatures from their shrubby dens, unearth them, and chase them across the open fields until, utterly exhausted, they could be seized and dispatched – either by tooth or, for the less athletically inclined, by shot. The hunters, mounted on steeds of varying degrees of pedigree, followed close behind, leaping over hedges and ditches with a recklessness that frequently resulted in broken limbs and, occasionally, the more permanent inconvenience of a broken neck. Yet, such trifles did little to deter the enthusiasm and determination of the hunting set. Only the most skilled riders and hunters dared participate in such a vigorous undertaking. Ladies, constrained as they were by the precariousness of the sidesaddle, generally refrained from the full gallop, preferring to observe the spectacle from the relative safety of carriages or, if feeling particularly daring, at a sedate trot. Alicia, however, was quite a different creature on horseback. She was bolder, more fearless, more… alive. A fiery glint sparked in her eyes, transforming her into something akin to a Valkyrie – albeit one with a rather more refined taste in riding habits. The Marquis's huntsmen, ever diligent, had sealed the foxholes the previous night. The poor creatures, deprived of their subterranean refuge, were forced to seek shelter above ground, thus rendering themselves vulnerable to the keen noses and relentless pursuit of the hounds. The vast expanse of the field, bordering the woods, was adorned with tents, colorful ropes, and fluttering flags, creating a scene of vibrant, almost aggressive, anticipation. "The wind is rather brisk today," Alicia commented, her brow slightly furrowed, the ribbons of her bonnet dancing in the breeze. "Indeed," he replied, gently adjusting her hat. She glanced at him, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. Cavendish grinned, his usual mischievous air returning. "Let us have a wager. Whoever bags the most foxes wins." Hunting, like riding, was one of Alicia's great passions. She had, of course, abstained the previous year due to the rather inconvenient passing of the old Duke, her husband's father. A most regrettable interruption to the annual autumn and winter rituals. Since her early teens, she had been a keen observer of the hunt, watching the fishing, the shooting of birds, the pursuit of pheasants and hares. The Duke and Duchess, remarkably liberal in their parenting, had permitted her presence, allowing her to witness the proceedings from the carriage and, upon reaching a suitable age, to mount a pony of her own. She was, it must be said, not a conventional aristocratic lady. Few women, save for the singularly unconventional Lady Salisbury in her youth, truly participated in the hunt, given the exceptional horsemanship and inherent risks involved. However, the wearing of exquisitely tailored riding habits, particularly those modeled after military uniforms (a fashion born of the recent wartime period), was exceedingly popular. The ladies of the field, therefore, presented a dazzling array of sartorial splendor, some mounted, others perched gracefully in carriages beneath parasols. Alicia and William Cavendish, however, were positioned at the forefront of the hunting party, both being exceptionally proficient in the art of the chase. Some gentlemen, even those advanced in years – some well into their fifties! – still insisted on indulging their passion. The thrill of the fox hunt, accompanied by the blare of the horn and the baying of dozens of hounds, was undeniably intoxicating. "You frightened away that stag last time," Alicia remarked, her brow still creased with the memory. See? She held a grudge with the tenacity of a particularly stubborn bulldog. The Scottish Highlands, of course, were renowned as prime hunting grounds, where one could stalk wild deer through the moors and forests, rifle in hand. Alicia's maternal grandmother had bequeathed a considerable expanse of Scottish land, including the imposing Dunrobin Castle. Each visit to the Highlands found Alicia habitually accompanying the huntsmen, and she had even trained her own falcon, a fierce creature that would return at her call and could snatch a hare with impressive efficiency. Whistling softly, she would ride across the cold, green tundra. Extending her arm, the soaring falcon, talons hooked, would swoop down, folding its wings and perching regally upon her shoulder. She never failed to elicit his admiration. The previous year, they had journeyed to the Highlands together, tracking a magnificent stag with truly impressive antlers. He, in his eagerness, had fired prematurely, startling the creature. "You still remember that," he said, a hint of surprise in his voice. He had been overly confident in his marksmanship, merely grazing the stag's hide when a closer shot would have been ideal. Alicia, who had been poised to take her own shot, had cast him a look of utter disdain, lowered her rifle, and, with a flick of the reins, turned her horse and departed. Her little falcon had followed, emitting a long, piercing shriek. She reminded him of his past blunders in cricket. "William George, you never reflect upon your own failings." "Why should I, when I am so clearly without fault?" his arched eyebrow seemed to say. Though, verbally, he offered, "It was entirely my fault, my dear cousin. I must have been addled by my excessive legal studies, reduced to a mere bookish drone." The qualification of a barrister was a rare accomplishment, requiring a higher education followed by arduous study at the Inns of Court, the approval of a senior barrister, a period of pupillage, and finally, a rigorous examination. Typically, one did not achieve this distinction before the age of twenty-five. A mere eight hundred men in the entire country held such a qualification. William Cavendish had always been inordinately proud of achieving this feat in a mere two years, despite rarely practicing law and having absolutely no need to earn a living through such endeavors. He tilted his head, a smile playing on his lips. He rather enjoyed observing her annoyance and emotional fluctuations; he even suspected that his errant shot had been, perhaps, not entirely accidental. The consequence of his actions, of course, was that Alicia had banished him, refusing to attend the planned viewing of Scottish bagpipes, Highland dances, and a wedding at her grandmother's clan, the Sutherlands. A Scottish wedding, it should be noted, involved the groom donning the tartan of his family and presenting the bride with a folded length of the same. Cavendish, being decidedly not Scottish, raised the intriguing question of whether she would present him with a Sutherland tartan. "Those antlers would have looked splendid mounted on the wall," Alicia commented, adjusting her rifle, testing its weight and balance, preparing for the chase. She glanced up at him, aware that his thoughts had, as usual, drifted into some fantastical realm. Each gentleman participating in the hunt was attended by an assistant, responsible for loading the firearms. A shotgun, loaded with lead shot and powder, and ignited by a flintlock mechanism, could only be fired once before requiring reloading, a process that, even for the most skilled, consumed a minute or two. Hence, the assistant would hand the hunter a freshly loaded weapon, allowing for a continuous barrage. Three or four such weapons were typically kept at the ready. The assistant would then reload the spent firearms, ensuring a seamless rhythm to the hunt. Lead shot, wrapped in oiled paper, had to be rammed to the bottom of the barrel with a long rod, a precise technique crucial to avoid the rather unpleasant possibility of the weapon exploding. William Cavendish, his attention returning to the present, offered a gentle caution, his gaze soft, "Be careful, Alicia. Do not ride too fast. Slow down when crossing streams, watch for stones and logs, and avoid unnecessary jumps… perhaps take a detour…" Alicia blinked, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. Her cousin was typically a man who pursued excitement in all its forms. He seemed to care for nothing. "I know," she replied, a touch of amusement in her voice. He was always so concerned. Even now, despite the presence of three assistants, he insisted on taking on the role of her protector. He gazed at the pale skin of her neck, exposed beneath the ribbons of her bonnet, and smiled faintly. A commotion erupted from the woods, the first wave of hounds, accompanied by the huntsmen's shouts and the cracking of whips, flushed the foxes from their hiding places, driving them towards the open field. A flurry of various-colored forms darted out, heading towards the opposite side, eliciting excited cries from the assembled company. The hunting horn blared, and the eager horses, spurred on by their riders, surged forward, a pack of meticulously bred foxhounds streaming alongside. The carriages bearing spectators followed in the wake of the galloping hunters. William Cavendish watched the figure in the dark blue riding habit, whip raised, a shout of exhilaration escaping her lips, and he followed, a smile spreading across his face. The foxes scattered in all directions, the hounds even more enthusiastic than the humans, their hunting instincts fully aroused. They traversed woods, marshes, and fields, pursuing their quarry with relentless energy. Reaching firing distance of a fox that had noticeably slowed, its energy clearly flagging, Alicia raised her rifle, patiently waiting, calculating the trajectory, and fired. The shot grazed the fox, crippling its leg, causing it to scramble even faster. William Cavendish handed her another loaded rifle, "Quickly!" Their horses kept pace, their partnership honed by years of shared experience. Alicia took the rifle with practiced ease, urged her horse forward, and this time, her aim was true. "Bravo, Alicia!" Cavendish began to cheer, but his girl, with a coolness that bordered on indifference, rode away, already in pursuit of her next quarry. One was not sufficient. The day's success would be measured by the number of foxes bagged, and she was clearly determined to be among the top performers, rivaling even the legendary Lady Salisbury, whose hunting skills were said to surpass those of most men. The attendant behind them dismounted to retrieve the fox, its back fur undamaged, suitable for a rather smart neck ruff, Cavendish observed. He looked up, eager to follow Alicia. He saw her urge her horse to leap over a rushing stream, landing gracefully before raising her rifle once more. "Oh, dear!" he exclaimed, a surge of alarm coursing through him. Such recklessness! He could not bear the thought of her breaking her neck. He conveniently forgot that he had, in the past, been the one to encourage such daring, whispering, Yes, Allie, don't stop hunting, you must keep running, every shot must be decisive, keep up with the prey. And, What streams and bushes? Just jump over them, don't worry, go, best little hunter. She bagged another. Cavendish frowned, riding towards her. He dared not leave her side; she was utterly mad. The fox hunt continued throughout the day, lasting until dusk. Alicia bagged six foxes, placing her among the top hunters. By the end, the quarry was scarce, having been claimed by the numerous participants. She had also shot two hares and, on a whim, captured a fledgling rook. William Cavendish? If his wife's kills were counted as his own, then he had performed admirably. In addition to his vigilant oversight, his accompanying hounds had managed to capture two foxes. "You lost," she declared, still focused on the competition. Alicia dismounted with a graceful agility, her spirits high. "My dear girl, you jumped that enormous hedge!" If the horse had been startled! At this rate, sooner or later, she would break her neck. A broken leg would be a blessing. So many accidents happened every year while driving and riding, he dared not think about it. William Cavendish followed, dismounting with a frustrated air. He proceeded to enumerate Alicia's various acts of daring throughout the day. "Dangerous? Wasn't it you who taught me?" Her marksmanship, her horsemanship, all had been honed under his tutelage. He reveled in the feeling of being admired, particularly by Alicia. Alas, she offered no such adoration, merely observing and imitating with a cool detachment, mastering any skill with remarkable speed. He paused, blinking. It dawned on him, with a touch of chagrin, that he might, indeed, be the root cause of her recklessness. They walked side-by-side. Only after dismounting did she feel a slight fatigue, an ache in her lower back and legs, despite the occasional breaks during the hunt. Alicia observed the ever-changing expressions on her husband's face. A sudden realization struck her, a memory of a similar scenario. When he had engaged in a fistfight, she had experienced a similar, inexplicable unease. She, too, had felt… a sense of danger. A feeling she had rarely acknowledged before. She knew her cousin was a man who embraced risk and relished challenges. "Is that what it is?" she asked aloud. They were not arguing, not quarreling, but rather experiencing a shared resonance, a synchronized heartbeat. Yes, everything had changed, quite suddenly. William Cavendish stopped, gently touching her cheek, smudged with dirt. "I believe it is because we care for each other so deeply." Alicia tilted her head, feeling the warmth of his fingertips. "Is that so?" He shrugged, a feigned nonchalance masking the complexity of his emotions, and said, deliberately or perhaps not, "As you once said, you know I love you. This is a manifestation of that love." And, by extension, you love me. Cavendish found solace in his own twisted logic. So, this was love? Alicia nodded thoughtfully, accepting his explanation. They spoke of different things, on different wavelengths, yet somehow, they understood each other perfectly.