Chapter 24
IT WAS A given that the proper public send off for Fergus had to be tied to a hunt. Everyone involved in planning the event agreed that, despite the warmth of early September, formal kit must be required—scarlet coats for those so entitled, black for all others. There would be some sweaty hunters attending the memorial service and participating in the hunt to follow. But anything more casual would not convey the pageantry the event demanded.
It was impossible for Thumper Billington to put a firm figure on the number of hunts he’d seen move off from the Montfair estate house over his lifetime. Several hundred at least. He could not, though, recall ever seeing as big a crowd on his front lawn as there was the morning of Fergus McKendrick’s memorial service. Pillars of the foxhun
