Showjumpers. Stacy Gregg
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– as well as a mountain of schoolwork. Despite being an equestrian academy, Blainford didn’t cut students any slack when it came to academic subjects like English and Maths. But it was cross-country class with Tara Kelly that really had Georgie stressed out. In their half-term exam, Georgie had finished halfway up the class rankings and so had avoided elimination. However, Tara had already promised that the next half-term would be even more challenging than the first.
“Tara is a total dragon. Her class is a nightmare,” James said. “Although you seem to cope.”
“I’m still alive, if that’s what you mean,” Georgie replied.
“All you cross-country students are the same,” James said. “You act like it’s so important…”
“But it is!” Georgie said. “James, I came here to become an eventer and Tara is the best instructor in the business. Being in her class matters to me more than anything.”
As the pilot had promised, the weather was good all the way to Maryland. Almost exactly an hour after they had taken off, the plane began its descent. They came down through the clouds and then suddenly the skies were clear and they were close enough for Georgie to see the tops of the trees and cattle grazing on velvet-green pastures.
“That’s the house down there,” James said, leaning over and pointing out the grey shingled roofline of a massive country mansion.
Alice had warned Georgie that the Kirkwoods owned the grandest house in Maryland, but even so, Georgie hadn’t really expected anything on this vast scale. The Kirkwood property was like an English country estate. Spanning out around the house in all directions were vast, formal gardens. From above, the hedges and topiary created an elaborate maze, dotted with fountains and statuary. Beyond the gardens, James pointed out guest cottages made from the same grey stone as the main house, and stable blocks for the horses, polo fields and dressage arenas.
Georgie could hear the clunk beneath the belly of the aircraft as the plane lowered its landing gear. She looked out of the window at the green, grassy airstrip rushing up at them and watched as a handful of black-faced sheep grazing the pasture below them scattered out of their path.
Seconds later the plane struck the ground with a vigorous bounce. There were a few more bumps and thuds as they bounced across the airstrip and then the plane was turning around and heading towards the hangar at the rear of the mansion.
As the others disembarked, Georgie reached for her bag.
“Leave it,” James instructed. “You don’t have to carry your own bags around here.”
If the Kirkwood mansion had looked like a grand affair from the sky, it was no less daunting when you were standing on the doorstep. From the front, the building had even more of a stately air, with dark ivy growing vigorously up the walls almost to the roofline and a beige pebbled forecourt at the front entrance, with a large fountain for the cars to drive around.
James rang the bell and a few moments later the front door swung wide open. Georgie was confronted with an attractive woman in a dark navy suit, her hair pulled back in a tight elegant bun that accentuated her wide blue eyes. She looked nothing like James, but Georgie wasn’t surprised by this. After all, James had told her that he had a stepmother.
“Georgie,” James said, “this is Frances.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Kirkwood,” Georgie said. Trying her hardest to be polite, she extended her hand to shake, but the woman made no effort to take it. Georgie thought that perhaps a curtsy might be more appropriate. She withdrew her hand and dipped down at the knees, doing a little bow. As she rose up again she saw that the woman was staring at her in utter bewilderment.
Kennedy gave a snicker. “Frances is our maid,” she informed Georgie as she barged past with Tori, Arden and the boys behind her. “The stepmom doesn’t answer the bell around here.”
“Where is Patricia?” James asked Frances.
“Your stepmother is on her way back from Paris,” the maid replied. “And your father—”
She was interrupted by the deep sonorous boom of a hunting horn that made Georgie spin around. Across the green lawns of the Kirkwood gardens, darting in between bushes and leaping over hedges, came the fox hounds. The pack was running with their tongues lolling out and tails held erect. They must have been at the end of a run because their tan, black and white coats were covered in burrs and mud.
When they reached the elegant fountain in the forecourt the hounds began to leap straight in, some of them lowering themselves to sink down beneath the water and cool off, others standing on all fours in the shallow fountain, lapping away at the water. The horn sounded again and Georgie saw a man appear astride a magnificent grey hunter. He wore a red jacket that signified that he was the master of the hounds. He had the horn in one hand and with the other he kept a light grasp on the reins as he rode directly down the middle of the carefully mown lawn, jumping metre-high topiary hedges as if they weren’t even there.
“Ohmygod!” Georgie was stunned.
“I know!” James nodded. “Just as well Patricia isn’t here. She’d give him a telling-off for galloping across the front lawn like that.”
The man cantered the horse across the pebbled forecourt and pulled his mount up right in front of Georgie and James. When he vaulted down to stand beside them, he towered over James. He was as solidly built as his hunter and his red hair was greying at the temples beneath his velvet riding hat. He pulled off his brown leather gloves and shook hands with James in a brisk fashion.
“The hounds had a good run today,” the man said. “They’re in good shape for the hunt tomorrow. I assume you’re joining us at ten to throw off?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” James confirmed.
“Hunting?” Georgie was horrified.
“You don’t hunt?” The hunt master frowned.
“I can’t even believe you’d ask me that!” Georgie said. “Chasing after a poor little fox on horseback and killing it like that! It’s cruel and barbaric.”
“Now wait a minute…” the man tried to say.
But Georgie was in full swing. “I think it’s pathetic. All those dogs set against one poor fox as some sort of ghastly entertainment.”
“But—” the hunt master tried again.
“It’s outlawed in Britain, you know,” Georgie continued. “I’d have thought America would ban it too – like any civilised society.”
This last sentence was something Georgie had heard in Social Studies the week before and she was quite pleased to be able to use it to bold effect.
The hunt master sighed. “Are you finished?”
Georgie nodded emphatically.
“Right,” the hunt master said. “Firstly, they’re not called dogs. They must always be referred to as hounds. Secondly, we are not hunting foxes. No fox has ever been hunted on Kirkwood land – we hunt an aniseed lure and no animals are killed for our pleasure. And as for being civilised, I find it is always good manners to greet your host before you begin to rain torrents of abuse on them for crimes they have not committed.”
Georgie felt her stomach do a flip-flop. She’d just made a major mistake.
“Georgie,” James sighed, “I didn’t get the chance to introduce you. This is my father.”
The huntsman extended his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, young lady,” he said in a tone that indicated it was anything but. “I’m Randolph Kirkwood.”
Mrs Kirkwood arrived home from Paris late that