The goal of a rook hunt was to catch the fledglings as they woke. The young birds had the tender meat and there was no sense hunting birds if you couldn’t eat them. The low mist drifting across the ground helped to conceal the men’s stealthy advance upon the trees.
As the sun began to rise, the nests high in the trees’ branches stirred. Against the dawning sky, the birds perched on limbs as if needing to shake themselves awake in the manner of grumpy old men in the morning.
Without a word, the Three Bucks raised their guns. Mr. Fullerton raised his as well, while still sitting in his chair. It was unloaded. Evans was not so silly as to give the drink-addled Fullerton a loaded weapon.
Sir Lionel raised a glass of port. “Here’s to the hunt,” he shouted.
The clicks and wheezes of the birds went silent as nowtheylistened.
It was of no mind. The Bucks had expected Sir Lionel to do something loud and silly. They fired, knowing that they had best not miss their opportunity. Rooks were clever creatures. The old ones would be gone in a flash. But the fledglings, well, they were like Winderton, not so wise.
After each shot, the gun was handed to a groom who offered a freshly reloaded one. The village lads began zigzagging under the trees, stuffing dead birds in their sacks. The hunters’ aim was true and a good number were killed.
And then it was done. The birds were gone. They were either flown or bagged.
Mars laughed his satisfaction. He lowered his gun. “Excellent shooting! I’m glad to be rid of those pests.” He looked to the boys. “C’mon, lads, all of you, join us at The Garland for breakfast. Andy promises to have a good one for us. We will count the birds there.”
That was met with cheers.
“To The Garland,” Sir Lionel now shouted, leaning sideways in his chair. “Pick up the pace, lads. We can’t keep Andy waiting.” His footmen set off at a trot and, of course, Fullerton had to give chase. Both men appeared ready to be bounced out of his chair at any moment. Still the footmen did not stop and led the way to breakfast.
“Evans, you and the others are to come as well,” Mars ordered. “If I know Andy, there will be food for a hundred.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Evans waved a hurrying hand to his men. “Move this along. We must take everything to the house before we can break our fast.” He didn’t have to speak twice.
Bran’s horse, Orion, a huge blood bay gelding, and mounts for Ned and Mars were brought to them by a groom. Orion was not pleased to find himself groomed, fed, and saddled again. Not after a night of riding.
He snorted his disapproval but Bran climbed into the saddle anyway. “You’ll rest in a minute,” he told the disgruntled animal. The answer was a shake of the head as if to deny the bit that was already there.
The friends rode at a walk to The Garland. The anger that had driven Bran was giving way to a cooler head. He’d needed to be out of the city and in country air.
“What are you going to do with all those birds?” he asked Mars.
“Andy will bake several huge pies,” Ned answered. “You know the Cotillion Dance is tonight?”
Bran inwardly groaned. “I’d forgotten.” The Cotillion Dance was the biggest event in Maidenshop’s active social season. The patroness of the acclaimed Almack’s could not rival how the Matrons of Maidenshop organized this dance. Because of the village’s close proximity to Cambridge, London, and New Market Road, the countryside was a favorite of the titled, upper gentry and even the rising middle class. Everyone attended the dance.
“Ned worries that the membership to the Logical Men’s Society is not what it should be,” Mars explained.
“It isn’t,” Ned groused. “It is truly just the three of us and those blighters.” He nodded to where Fullerton and Sir Lionel had disappeared up the road. “The young ones like Winderton are not interested. We need to recruit more gentlemen into the Society or we will disappear completely.”
“Especially since you will soon marry,” Mars reminded Thurlowe.
The physician looked at him with a blank stare and then said, “Yes, to Miss Taylor.” He frowned as if annoyed with himself for forgetting he was promised. Bran didn’t blame him. Ned’s offer for Miss Clarissa Taylor was not a conventional one.
As a baby, she had been abandoned on the late Reverend Taylor’s doorstep. The reverend and his wife had raised her as their own, although the whole village had been caught up in the mystery of the child. They all acted as if she was a part of them.
The Taylors died when Miss Taylor was two and twenty. Squire Nelson and his family took her in, but the Matrons of Maidenshop had decided that was not enough. She needed to be married, and one of the Three Bucks should be the groom. They’d stormed into The Garland, interrupting a night of merriment with their demands.
Mars had refused. He and Miss Taylor could not abide each other.
Bran was not about to marry anyone. At six and thirty, he’d been a bachelor too long to succumb to the parson’s noose, especially out of pity. Over the years, Bran had formed quiet, unfettered liaisons with the occasional widow—although for the past year he’d done nothing but focus on that damned bridge commission.
In the end, it was Thurlowe who had broken down and sacrificed himself. He’d claimed to feel sorry for Miss Taylor since she had no family and few prospects. That was two years ago. Ned called on her every Saturday for fifteen minutes and made no move toward marriage.
Anyone who thought the good doctor was ready for marriage, or enthusiastic for it, was a fool. However, the matrons seemed mollified and Miss Taylor appeared at peace with the current situation.
Bran did not understand why the matrons didn’t push for an actual wedding, but it wasn’t his worry.
