March 24th, 1934
After securing a week's stay at a London hotel with the modest funds he had set aside, Thomas transformed his appearance. With careful consideration, he invested in new attire suitable for the social interactions and engagements ahead. His wardrobe now boasted a collection of refined suits, waistcoats, and, crucially, attire fit for hunting expeditions.
Emerging from his hotel, Thomas cut a striking figure, no longer resembling the weary, downtrodden man of before. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the challenges. Despite the sun shining, birds chirping, and the air carrying a sense of renewal, it felt more like stepping into a fresh circle of hell to him.
He is mindful not to exhaust his mare on the ride to Dichley Park, reserving her strength for the anticipated hunts Churchill had briefed him on. As he arrives, the sight before him is nothing short of breathtaking. A sprawling, meticulously kept estate framed by lush gardens and woodland. It's a stark contrast to the urban grit of Birmingham or even his own Arrow House. Taking a moment to absorb the splendor, Thomas guides his horse into the central courtyard.
Yet, despite the picturesque surroundings, an undercurrent of unease tugs at him. The beauty of Ditchley Park feels like a veneer, masking the harsh realities of the world he knows too well—the struggles of the working class and the violence lurking beneath polished surfaces. Adjusting his jacket and ensuring his gun is secure, Thomas grounds himself for the task ahead. It's time to set aside distractions and focus on the mission.
The main doors swing open, and a maid guides Thomas through the foyer and down to a lavish sitting room at the far end of the house. Upon entry, Thomas is already on edge. He suspects it's due to the luxury, the grand fireplace, the intricate chandelier, the elegant furnishings, all testaments to the wealth and status of the household. The conversation halts abruptly at his entry, and every eye in the room turns toward him, a mixture of curiosity and surprise hanging in the air. Churchill rises from his chair in the corner, striding purposefully across the room to greet him.
"Mr. Shelby, good of you to join us," Churchill says, extending his hand in a welcoming gesture to diffuse the tension. Thomas nods in acknowledgment, his gaze sweeping over the assembled guests, sensing their scrutiny.
"It's a pleasure to be here," he responds, his voice steady and composed.
Another man approaches, positioning himself beside Churchill near the parlor's door. He extends his hand toward Thomas.
"Ronald Tree. I don't believe we've met before." Thomas observes him as a well-groomed man in his late thirties, exuding an aura of refinement. Dressed impeccably, with a touch of eccentricity in his tailored attire, Ronald Tree carries himself with the confidence of one comfortable in his social standing. He grasps Mr. Tree's hand firmly, mustering a polite smile.
"Thomas Shelby. Pleased to meet you," he replies with feigned amiability. He knows he needs to maintain a polite demeanor if he wants this plan to succeed.
"Two elections with the Labour Party, South Birmingham. Impressive," Tree remarks with a smile, his eyes crinkling. "I'm only five months in and already swamped. How do you manage it all?"
Thomas lets out a dry chuckle, uncertain how to respond truthfully without revealing his negligence. He knows all too well he's spent most of his time drowning in alcohol since winning the seat. "You get used to it eventually," he says, his tone diplomatic. "Recognizing what's important and knowing when to delegate helps. It's all about time management," he reassures him cautiously. "Though I'll admit, I often find myself overwhelmed as well. The responsibilities and late nights at Westminster can be quite draining." He treads carefully, wanting to appear approachable but guarding against revealing too much.
A young man, previously sulking in the corner, approaches with a glint of mischief in his eyes. "I doubt your time management skills are what's winning you elections," he challenges, a smirk curling on his lips.
Churchill sighs, then formally introduces him, "Mr. Shelby, my son, Randolph."
Thomas meets Randolph's smirk with a relaxed look, his eyes sharpening. He's never been one for banter, and he senses Randolph's attempt to get under his skin, which puts him on edge.
"Perhaps not," he replies, his tone laced with mild irritation. "But hard work and dedication to my constituency certainly do." He keeps his gaze fixed on Randolph, a hint of warning in his eyes. His nerves are already frayed from the unwanted social interactions. He wasn't in his top form after spending a month in isolation, waiting for death to creep up and claim him.
"Ah, dedication, the backbone of our democracy," Ronald chimes in with a diplomatic smile, seemingly oblivious to the undercurrent of tension in the room.
Thomas knows that anything he says could be misinterpreted or twisted against him. He's walking a tightrope and needs to play this game carefully.
"Speaking of dedication," Churchill announces, smoothly diverting the conversation. "I hope everyone is eager to hit the field for some foxhunting. The fresh air and exercise will do us all good." Thomas exhales softly, relieved that the focus shifts towards the upcoming hunt.
Tree nods in agreement, "Let's save the politics for later, shall we? There'll be plenty of time for that over dinner." He motions towards a small group of people gathered around the room. "Right now, I'm eager to introduce you to the rest of our group."
Thomas nods in acknowledgment, his gaze moving over the gathered guests. He takes a momentary breath to recompose himself, mentally preparing for the next round of introductions and small talk. He glances around the room, taking in the various faces. Among them, he spots a woman seated on a nearby armchair, engrossed in conversation with two young men whom he suspects to be the Beatty brothers. However, a subtle intuition tells him she isn't the woman he needs to win over.
He glances at Churchill, who shakes his head subtly, indicating that the woman present is not Margaret. Thomas registers Churchill's signal and releases a quiet, almost invisible sigh. His mind wanders, wondering where Margaret could be. Despite his efforts to remain focused on Tree, he finds himself distracted, scanning the room in search of the absent socialite.
"Mr. Shelby, my wife, Nancy," Tree introduces, prompting the slight woman on the chair to offer a small wave in acknowledgment.
Thomas nods politely at Nancy, offering a small smile despite his inner turmoil. "It's a Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Tree," he says quietly. He can't quite place why Margaret's absence bothers him so much, but it only adds to the weight of the social performance.
David Beatty rises from where he'd been sitting, "Mr. Shelby, Churchill told us you'd be joining. Are you ready for the hunt?"
Thomas smiles politely, his thoughts still partially preoccupied by the elusive Margaret. He turns to Beatty and adjusts his jacket, readying himself for the hunt. "As ready as I'll ever be, I suppose. It's been a while since my last foxhunt."
David laughs heartily, slapping him on the back. "Don't worry. Once you hear those hounds cry, you'll remember just how it's done." He exchanges a knowing glance with his younger brother, Peter Beatty, who also offers a welcoming smile and chimes in teasingly,
"Right. Well, here's to hoping you aim for the fox and not your foot this time, brother." Peter has handsomely dark eyes, and Thomas wonders if they're the same as his half-sister, whom he has yet to see.
David playfully retorts, "Shut it, Lucky." Their camaraderie warms the space, and Thomas is glad the focus is off him, at least for now.
As the group heads towards the stables, Thomas steps beside Churchill. He lowers his voice, barely above a whisper, "Where is she?"
"Margaret? I'm not entirely sure. She's likely off to change into something more suitable. She's never been one to miss a foxhunt," Churchill explains, a slight smile tugging at his lips. She'll show up eventually." Thomas can see that Churchill is enjoying watching him squirm, finding this situation amusing somehow. He wonders if Churchill is purposefully keeping him on edge, but he can't quite tell.
As the group makes its way towards the stables, Thomas can't help but feel anticipation and unease. The hunt is just a short while away from starting, and Thomas can't help but find Churchill's lack of concern slightly disconcerting. He glances around the expansive grounds, searching for any glimpse of her. "Doesn't it strike you as odd that she isn't here?" he inquires quietly. "If she is so fond of hunting, shouldn't she be here, getting ready with the rest of us?" He mentally shakes himself, reminding himself that the objective is to win over her trust, not let her absence disrupt his focus.
Churchill chuckles softly, his eyes betraying a hint of understanding. "Margaret always operates on her timetable; that's the challenge. It's impossible to plan around her," he remarks, his tone a mix of exasperation and fondness. "But don't fret. She'll be here soon."
As if summoned by Churchill's words, a woman emerges from the house, catching up to the group. Thomas feels a ripple of anticipation coursing through him as he studies her. Confident and unapologetic, she falls into step beside David and Peter Beatty. Her riding attire is both stylish and practical. A tailored burgundy tweed jacket with tan jodhpurs and knee-high leather riding boots to complete the ensemble. Margaret's confidence exudes from her every stride. Despite her attire, she appears effortlessly elegant. Thomas can only imagine her in an evening gown. He can't help but fixate his gaze on her. Discomfort pricks his spine at the realization that she faintly resembles May. He hopes it's just the riding gear. He knows Churchill is watching him, silently taking in his every reaction. He tries to maintain a neutral expression, but his eyes betray his interest.
She calls ahead to her brother. "Ronnie! Your kids are running that poor nanny in circles upstairs."
Ronald looks back at her and rolls his eyes, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Damn kids, I swear they're going to give the poor woman a heart attack." His expression turned playful as he lowered his voice, stepping nearer to her as everyone approached the doors to the stables. "I knew we should have left them in America."
His wife, Nancy, gasps and swats at his arm, being just close enough to catch his words, "Ronald!"
Beside Thomas, Churchill chuckles at the siblings' banter, "Ah, the joy of children. You should consider settling down yourself, Margie."
She looks to Churchill then, her smile thinning for just a moment. It'd be impossible to miss the stranger beside him, and her eyes stray to Thomas briefly before responding to Churchill. "Your Mary is a sweetheart. I fear she's up there bored out of her mind while the boys torment the staff."
Churchill lets out a hearty laugh, his eyes twinkling with affection. "Oh, darling, Mary would hardly find peace even without children running about. Her mind is always engaged in some new idea or another." He turns to Thomas, "Margaret, allow me to introduce Thomas Shelby, MP for the Birmingham South constituency. Thomas, this is Miss Margaret Hartley-Tree."
"Just Tree," She insisted with a gentle smile. She extends a hand clad in riding gloves to shake with Thomas. "Pleasure."
Thomas lingers on her, taking in her confident yet poised nature. Her manner is captivating and intimidating. He reciprocates the handshake, offering a firm grip and a small nod. "Likewise, Miss Tree," he responds with a controlled politeness.
Margaret lets her hand drop, taking a step into the stables. During this brief exchange of pleasantries, her brothers had disappeared inside. As they enter, the smell of leather and hay washes over them. The stables are grand and impeccably maintained. Horses of various breeds stand in immaculate stalls, whinnying softly as the group files in. A stable hand leads a stunning black mare towards them, her coat gleaming in the dimly lit stables.
"Here we are," Ronald says proudly, gently stroking the horse's muzzle. "Your horse for the hunt, Margie."
Margaret frowns, "So my Kelly is still sore-footed?"
"Afraid so." Ronald sighs. "Don't worry, she's a fast one."
She still seems displeased, "She won't spook?"
Ronald runs his hand down the beast's neck, a reassuring gesture. "She's as steady as they come, I promise. She's been through hunts before," he reassures her.
Margaret only scoffs, "Yeah, right, who told you that, the dealer?"
"Hey, lighten up, Margie," Peter says, already mounted upon his horse. "We're already running late."
Ronald gives her a playful nudge as he passes the reins and mounts his horse. "If anything, it'll be a good excuse for me to outpace you."
As the men mount their steeds, Thomas watches Margaret, noticing her unease. He can sense her reluctance in the chosen horse. Taking the opportunity, he approaches her, his voice laced with a hint of concern. "Everything alright, Miss Tree?"
She pets the horse's face. "Just fine, Mr. Shelby. Only wish my horse was well enough for the hunt." She meets his eyes briefly,
"Ah, that's unfortunate," Thomas replies sympathetically. He can see the fondness in her gaze. "Horses are loyal companions. It's hard to part ways, even temporarily."
"Indeed." She mounts up without another word, clicking her tongue until her horse lines up with everyone else near the exit. As the group emerges from the stables, the sun is near its pinnacle in the sky, casting a warm glow over the land. The riders' chatter intertwines with nature's sounds, creating a unique harmony. Thomas finds himself in a position next to Margaret. He steals a glance and notices she's staring ahead. It's a moment where her guard appears to be down, and she seems lost in thought.
"Alright!" David calls out from a few meters ahead. "Casting the hounds!" He shouts, and as soon as he gives a sharp order, the dogs break away, their barks and howls echoing through the forest as they begin their quest to find a fox. The riders follow close behind, the horses' hooves pounding against the earth in rhythmic unison—a symphony in pursuit of the fox. Branches whip past their faces, and the path narrows as the hunting party follows the hounds into the trees.
Margaret's temporary horse proves more challenging to handle than the others. It struggles to navigate the uneven terrain and occasionally stumbles. Looking over his shoulder, Thomas notices a subtle crease forming on her forehead, betraying her displeasure. Leaning low on the horse's neck, Margaret murmurs reassurances, attempting to calm the skittish animal. The horse's lack of experience in hunting becomes increasingly evident, causing her to lag behind the rest of the party.
The clearing north of the grand house comes alive with the clamor of hooves and hounds as the party emerges onto the expanse. The dogs dart about, noses to the ground in pursuit of the scent, while Margaret's horse falters, struggling to maintain its footing on the grass. She tightens her grip on the reins, urging the horse onward amidst its struggles.
As the hunting party closes on the fox, the hounds' yelps grow wilder. Leading the charge, David urges his horse forward, the pounding of its hooves echoing in a thunderous gallop. A seam passes through the earth ahead, perhaps once a brook, forming a narrow channel that any experienced rider could clear with one good jump. While the front runners effortlessly clear the expanse, the dark mare hesitates. Its uneven stride indicates reluctance as it approaches the challenge. Margaret tries to coax it forward, but the horse's leap falls short.
With a jolt, the mare stumbles upon landing, crashing to the ground and sending Margaret flying over its head. The horse lets out a loud neigh, prompting concerned voices to call out as the party turns to witness the commotion at the rear. "Oh god—" Margaret pushes herself to sit up, nausea written across her expression at the sight of the horse's broken leg, snapped at the knee. The dark mare, in frantic confusion, makes futile attempts to stand. The group pulls back around and dismounts. David and Peter rush over to the injured horse, followed closely by the others. Peter places a consoling hand on the horse's neck to soothe the panicking creature. The horse whines and struggles, its pain palpable in every strained movement as it struggles to reach its feet.
Thomas's heart pounded as he dismounted his horse and rushed toward Margaret. He knelt beside her, his movements swift yet careful, eyes scanning her for any signs of injury. "Miss Tree, stay still," he commanded, his voice firm but laced with a gentle urgency. He couldn't risk her exacerbating any hidden wounds by moving.
Pale but unharmed, Margaret whispered a prayer under her breath. "Oh God." Her gaze remained fixed on the injured animal.
David fumbled hastily with his shotgun, his hands trembling as he prepared to alleviate the horse's suffering. Meanwhile, Peter worked diligently to keep the mare steady and calm. Every word he muttered appeared laced with genuine concern, a testament to his desire to offer solace to the animal in its time of anguish. The air hangs heavy with the knowledge that the horse's plight is irreversible. Thomas keenly senses Margaret's sorrow and frustration as she struggles to mask her distress.
Ronald, dismounting beside him, joins the group. Thomas could feel his eyes upon him and his sister. "Are you alright?" he asks, stepping closer to Margaret. She reaches out blindly for support, her gaze fixated on the struggling mare. Ronald swiftly moved to her side. In that moment, Thomas catches his steely gaze, his eyes hard and protective. "Perhaps you could help with the horse," Ronald suggests, his tone firm and direct.
Thomas nods in assent, acknowledging the request and stepping away. He takes a moment to assess the situation before him. The horse seems to be calming down, but its injury remains. In the brief pause of the mare's struggle, David raises his rifle, aiming it at the horse's head. His face is taut with tension, his eyes filled with a grim resignation. He hesitates as the animal lets out a pitiful whinny. The moment stretches on, painfully drawn out as the horse writhes in pain, struggling against the inevitable. Within a single shot, the poor animal is put to rest. The echo of the gunshot reverberates through the stillness, casting a solemn hush over the surroundings, and the forest seems to shrink in as if it is holding its breath. Yet Margaret's eyes are fixed firmly on the unmoving mare, refusing to falter. Thomas observes her closely, noting the subtle tremor in her frame as she struggles to contain her emotions. Despite her efforts, a small whimper of anguish escapes her lips.
Ronald tightened his grip on his sister, and his arm looped around her shoulders almost possessively. Peter stands nearby, his expression mirroring the silent grief etched on the faces of those around him. Even Churchill, typically stoic in the face of adversity, appears visibly moved by the tragic turn of events, his features softened by the weight of sorrow. As the group stands in the quiet aftermath, the solemnity is shattered by the approaching sound of hooves. Randolph rides back into the clearing, his face flushed with the thrill of the hunt, oblivious to the tragedy that has unfolded in his absence.
"The fox's gone to ground," he reports breathlessly, his excitement evident as he dismounts. But his enthusiasm quickly fades as he takes in the somber atmosphere. "What happened?"
Peter steps forward, his voice carrying the weight of sorrow as he delivers the grim news. "Her leg broke. There was no saving her."
"Where the hell were you?" Ronald questions sharply, causing Margaret to flinch beside him. Randolph's expression crumples at Ronald's tone.
"I was chasing the bloody fox... I didn't know,".
Ronald scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief.
"You were too busy chasing your sport to notice?"
Before Randolph can respond, Churchill interjects with authority. "Randolph, go gather some of the other men and have them attend to the horse," he commands, his tone firm and unwavering. Sending his son away is a preemptive measure to prevent further escalation. Randolph nods silently, his face flushed with embarrassment as he hurries to fulfill his father's orders.
As the group begins the journey back, a grim silence settles over them. Even the usual sounds of the woods are muted, as if in mourning for the horse's loss and the interrupted hunt. The riders' faces reflect the gravity of the situation. Amid collective grief, they ride on in silence, each lost in their thoughts. Margaret sits behind her brother on his horse, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist. Ronald's pace is slow and deliberate as they ride.
Thomas, nearby on his horse, catches fragments of their conversation. Margaret's voice is barely audible, yet the weight of her emotions resonates in the tremor of her words. "I can't help but feel responsible," she murmurs, her voice heavy with guilt. "If I hadn't pushed her to go on—"
"You couldn't have known, Margie." The nickname rolls off Ronald's tongue with familiarity and affection, his voice steady as he attempts to comfort his younger sister. Thomas observes their bond with admiration and longing, his thoughts drifting to his relationship with his own sister. A pang of nostalgia washes over him, a silent yearning for the closeness they once shared.
Margaret's voice trembles as she continues. "I should have realized something wasn't right with her."
Ronald's response comes after a brief pause, "You were doing your best with what you had. She wasn't fit for the hunt." Thomas knows Ronald is responsible for the accident by selecting a horse that wasn't up for it. The fact that he hasn't taken the blame yet bothers him, and he tightens his grip on his reins.
"I should have noticed," Margaret insists.
Ronald's steady voice tries to soothe her once more. "Anyone would have kept riding. It's not your fault." Margaret's eyes linger with guilt, but Ronald's words seem to have had their effect. She leans into his back as if drawing strength from his presence.