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Page 16 · column 3 of 5 · from the scan, no model involved
COUNTY CORK, IRELAND, circa 1752 — My feet are a few stages past cold. My nose, I think, is numb, if it is still attached to my face. The only thing warming me is the steam rising from my tired horse’s body.
The huntsman’s horn pierces the clammy Irish mist, “Gone Away.”
Our sport is done for the day.
It’s been a fine day, really. I’ve ridden alongside my dear friend Eddie ... ahem ... Sir Edmund Blake, for the better part of four hours and witnessed the Emerald Isle in all her glory on the chase — green velvet underfoot, a low soft ceiling and pink coats for decoration.
Yes, it has been a fine day. Eddie pulls his flask from this coat pocket, flips the muted silver lid, pours the warmth down his throat and gestures for me to do the same. My fingers are too cold to hold the reins, much less an heirloom flask belonging to Sir Edmund himself.
I decline, but tip my hat to the gesture.
Contentedly, we ride back towards our farms, just o’er the way from the church at St. Buttevant. It’s getting dark and we’re both thinking about roast lamb and potatoes.
Eddie pierces the silence. “Mr. O’Callaghan, my dear old friend, would you like to wager?”
I don’t like to wager, not with confession coming on the ‘morrow, but in the name of sport, I nod acceptance.
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