The morning of the hunt dawned red. I suppose I should have taken that as an omen. As Queenie helped me to dress, I found that I was anticipating the day with equal mixture of excitement and dread. I have always adored hunting. One feels sorry for the poor fox, I suppose, although the fox is so rarely caught and killed. But hunting is in one’s blood. Setting out on a crisp morning, the horse’s breath coming out like dragon’s smoke, the sound of the hooves echoing through a silent village, and then the moment when the hounds pick up the scent and off they go, tails in the air and baying—from then on it’s pure adrenaline with fields and copses flying by, ditches and walls to be leaped. Normally I would need no excuse to join a hunt, but today I would be responsible for Jack. And hunts are absolutely laden with protocol.

I had long ago given up hoping that my morning tea might arrive when I wanted it, but I reached across and tugged hopefully on the bell pull. Almost immediately there was a tap on my door. I began to feel more charitable about Queenie as I called, “Come in.”

Instead of Queenie, a shy maid I hadn’t seen before came in with my tray.

“Your tea, my lady,” she said and put it on the bedside table.

“Thank you. What happened to my maid?”

“I don’t know, my lady. I haven’t seen her yet this morning, so Mrs. Broad said I should bring your tea as you’ll want to get going for the hunt.”

“Most kind,” I said, knowing full well that Queenie had overslept once again.

“Do you want me to stay and help you dress, my lady?” she asked.

“I think I can manage,” I said. She curtsied and left.

I washed and got into my riding attire. I had my breeches and boots with me, but not a hunting jacket or hunting whip. These had been lent to me by Irene, who declared herself too frail and upset to think about hunting, and not having a horse of her own anyway. As I went downstairs, I saw a man standing in the hallway, smartly turned out in hunting attire. For a second my heart leaped that Darcy had come for the hunt after all.

“Good morning,” I said. “Fine day for a hunt, isn’t it?”

“Good day, Georgie.” He turned around and I was shocked to see it was Jack. He grinned. “I look like a right ponce, don’t I?” he said. “That Frederick said this is what I had to wear. The blokes at home would laugh themselves silly if they saw me like this.”

“You look perfect,” I said. “Just right.”

“I thought people wore red jackets for hunting, but Frederick said that black was correct.”

“It is,” I said. “Pink jackets are an honor bestowed by the master.”