The Mister

She grins.

What does he have planned?

* * *

“Where are we going?” Alessia asks. She’s wearing her green hat, her new coat, and I know she’s wearing layers beneath. I think she’ll be warm enough.

“It’s a surprise.” I give her a sideways look, then ease the car into gear.

Before she woke this morning, I called the Hall and spoke to Michael, the estate manager. It’s a crisp, bright day, perfect for what I’ve arranged. After all our rigorous activity yesterday, we need a break and some fresh air.

Rosperran Farm has been part of the Trevethick estate since Georgian times. The Chenoweth family has been tenant farmers there for more than a hundred years. The present incumbent, Abigail Chenoweth, has given us permission to set up in one of the fallow southerly fields. As we get nearer, I wish I were in the Discovery. My Jag isn’t good with fields, but we can park on the road. When we pull up, the gate is already open, and inside I spy Jenkins and his Land Rover Defender. He gives me a cheery wave.

I flash an enthusiastic grin at Alessia. “We’re going to shoot clays.”

Alessia looks bemused. “Clays?”

“Clay pigeons?”

She appears to be none the wiser.

I’m now less certain that this is a good idea. “It’ll be fun.”

She gives me a worried smile, and I get out of the car. It’s a cold day, but not so cold that I can see the condensation of my breath. Hopefully we’ll be warm enough.

“Good morning, my lord,” Jenkins says.

“Hi.” I check to see if Alessia has overheard, but she’s climbing out on her side of the car. “ ‘Sir’ will do, Jenkins,” I mutter as she approaches us. “This is Alessia Demachi.” She takes his outstretched hand.

“Good morning, miss.”

“Good morning.” She gives him a charming smile, and Jenkins flushes. His family has served the Trevelyans for three generations, though mainly at Angwin, our Oxfordshire estate. Jenkins flew the family coop four years ago and has been working at Tresyllian Hall as an assistant gamekeeper. He’s a little younger than me and a keen surfer. I’ve seen him on a board—he put Kit and me to shame. He’s also an excellent shot and an expert gamekeeper. He runs many of the shoots on the estate. Beneath his flat cap and shock of sun-bleached hair, he has a good brain and a cheerful, easy smile.

Alessia looks up at me with a puzzled expression. “We are hunting birds?”

“No. We’re shooting clays.”

She looks nonplussed.

“They’re discs made of clay.”

“Oh.”

“I’ve brought a couple of shotgun choices for the lady. I have your Purdeys, and Ms. Campbell insisted I bring your shooting jacket, sir.”

“Great.”

“And coffee. And sausage rolls. And hand warmers.” Jenkins smiles.

Trust Danny.

“The traps are set. Teals,” he says.

“Excellent.” I turn to Alessia. “Good surprise?” I ask her, feeling doubtful.

“Yes,” she says, but she doesn’t sound certain.

“Have you shot a gun before?”

She shakes her head. “My father has guns.”

“He does?”

“He hunts.”

“Hunts?”

She shrugs. “Well, he will go out with his gun. He will go out overnight. To shoot wolves.”

“Wolves!”

She laughs at my expression. “Yes. We have wolves in Albania. But I have never seen one. I’m not sure my father has either.” She smiles at me. “I would like to shoot.”

Jenkins gives her a warm smile and directs her to the back of the Defender, where he has our guns and all the necessary equipment.

She listens intently to what he has to say. He takes her through a safety briefing and shows her how the gun works and what she needs to do. While he does, I change quickly into my waistcoat and jacket. It’s chilly, but I’m warm enough in these old clothes. I open my gun case and remove one of the Purdey twelve-bore shotguns. It’s a rare vintage piece that belonged to my grandfather. He commissioned a matching pair of Purdey Over-and-Under shotguns in 1948. The silver engravings are exquisite and bear the charges from the Trevethick coat of arms intricately interwoven, with Tresyllian Hall in the background; the stock is a rich, gleaming walnut. The pair of guns were handed down to my father on my grandfather’s death, and when Kit turned eighteen, my father gave him one of the guns as a birthday gift. When my father died, Kit gave me this one—the one that belonged to my dad.

And now, with Kit gone, I own both of them.

I’m hit by a sudden wave of sadness. A vision of the three of us in the gun room, my father cleaning this gun, my brother cleaning his then twenty-bore, and me looking on, as an excited eight-year-old finally allowed in the gun room. My father calmly explained how to dismantle the gun, how to oil the stock, grease the steels, clean the barrel and the action. He was meticulous. And so was Kit. I remember watching them with wide-eyed fascination.

“All set, sir?” Jenkins pulls me out of my reverie.

“Yes. Great.”

Alessia is wearing protective eyeglasses and ear defenders. She still manages to look lovely. She cocks her head to one side.

“What?” I ask.

“I like this jacket.”

I laugh. “This old thing? It’s just Harris tweed.” I grab some cartridges, protective glasses, and some ear defenders and break open the barrel of my gun.

“Ready?” I ask Alessia.

She nods, and with her Browning shotgun open, we all walk over to the makeshift shooting area that Jenkins has set up with some hay bales.

“I have the traps set just beyond that ridge for a low driven target,” Jenkins says.

“Can I see a bird?”

“Sure.” Jenkins presses his remote, and a clay flies into the air about one hundred meters in front of us.

Alessia gasps. “I will never hit that!”

“Yes you will. Watch. Stand back.”

And I feel like showing off. She’s a better pianist than me, she can cook better than me, and she beat me at chess….

“Give me two birds, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir.”

I put on my glasses and ear protection. Then open and load the barrel with two cartridges and mount my gun. Ready. “Pull!”

Jenkins releases two clays that soar up in front of us. I squeeze the trigger and pop off the top barrel, then the second, hitting both clays so that they shatter, the shards falling to the ground like hail.

“Shot, sir,” Jenkins says.

“You hit them!” Alessia exclaims.

“I did!” I can’t help my smug grin. “Okay, your turn.” I open the barrel and stand aside for her.

“Feet apart. Your weight on your back foot. Good. Look at the trap. You’ve seen the trajectory of the clay, you’ll want to follow it up in a smooth movement.” She nods vigorously. “Mount the stock as hard against your shoulder as you can. You don’t want any recoil.”

“Okay.”

I’m amazed that she’s following what I’m saying.

“Right foot back a bit, miss,” Jenkins adds.

“Okay.”

“Here are your cartridges.” I hand her two, and she loads them into the chamber and charges the gun. I stand back.

“When you’re ready, shout ‘Pull.’ Jenkins will send up one clay, and you have two chances to hit it.”

She gives me an anxious glance and mounts her gun. She looks every bit the country woman, even in her woolly hat, her cheeks rosy and her plait hanging down her back.

“Pull!” she shouts, and Jenkins releases a bird.

It sails up before us, and she fires first one, then the second shot.

And misse

s.

Both times.

She pouts as the clay smashes on the ground several feet away from us.

“You’ll get the hang of it. Have another go.”

A steely glint appears in her eye, and Jenkins steps forward to give her some pointers.

On the fourth clay, she hits it.