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 afternoon. Georgie noticed that James and Kennedy greeted their stepmother in the same detached manner that James had used with his father on the front lawn, as if they were mere acquaintances rather than family.
Patricia Kirkwood swept into the house wearing high heels and a sharply tailored black suit, her jet-black hair swept up into a chignon and lengths of gold chains roped around her neck. She was a consultant for a major fashion house in Paris and divided her time between her office in France and the Maryland mansion.
“Working in fashion must be so glamorous,” Georgie said when they were introduced.
“It’s a juggling act,” Patricia replied. “I can be in jodhpurs on Friday riding across our estate, and back in haute couture gowns on Monday choosing fabrics for the new collections.”
Arden and Tori, who were both fashion-obsessed, made sure they were sitting next to Patricia at dinner and spent the whole time quizzing her about fashion trends.
Kennedy looked outrageously smug when Mrs Kirkwood announced that she would be taking her stepdaughter to see the runway shows next season. James however, seemed less impressed.
“I think she hates it really,” he told Georgie as he watched his stepmother flitting in and out of the dining room, her mobile phone glued to her ear, throughout the meal. “All the endless runway shows and high heels, the air kisses and back-stabbing. She works for Fabien, that French designer who wears the ridiculously big shoulder pads? Patricia is his muse. Apparently he adores her and can’t design the range without her – but the rest of his staff can’t stand her. They call her Hamburger Patty because she’s American. I think the only reason she keeps doing the job is to avoid us. She’s hardly ever home and when she is, she’s out hunting.”
It seemed that hunting was an obsession for the Kirkwoods. Patricia had returned from Paris to prepare for the hunt the next day and during dinner she was constantly distracted with preparations for tomorrow’s activities, snapping orders at various members of staff.
Mr Kirkwood, meanwhile, never appeared at dinner at all. “He’s down at the kennels with the hounds,” Frances told Mrs Kirkwood when she asked after her husband. Georgie was relieved to hear it. After her misguided outburst she didn’t really fancy sitting down to dinner with him.
“Why didn’t you tell me he was your dad?” she groaned to James.
“I was having too much fun watching you,” James grinned. “Dad was totally stunned to have someone disagree with him. It doesn’t happen very often.”
Neither Mr or Mrs Kirkwood seemed to show much interest in Georgie – or in any of the teenagers, including their own children.
“This house is so big,” James told Georgie, “I came home once for mid-term break and it took them the whole week to realise I was even here!”
He’d meant the story to be funny, but Georgie thought how awful it would be to come back to an empty mansion and for no one even to notice you were home.
James had given her a quick tour of the ground floor before dinner and Georgie had been overwhelmed by the luxury and size of the mansion.
“Don’t leave me behind,” she told James as she trailed after him. “I may never find my way out of here on my own.”
“Guests have been known to disappear,” James agreed with a wink.
The maze of corridors was so confusing that when it was time to go to bed, Georgie had to rely on Frances as a guide. Georgie followed the clack-clack of the maid’s court shoes on the parquet floor as she led the way. At the end of the main hall they climbed the grand staircase that led to the west wing of the house. Georgie’s guest room was the fifth on the left and had its own bathroom and dressing room.
“You’ll
