The Hounds and the Fury (6 page)

CHAPTER 7

D
ecember 31 is St. Sylvester’s Day, commemorating a pope who died in 335
AD
. He tolerated all religions and is credited with building many churches, including the first St. Peter’s in Rome.

St. Sylvester probably would have stayed inside this Saturday, for the snow lay deep on top of the foot-deep base. Occasional squalls still cast down flurries. Snow plows worked through the night, so the roads were reasonably decent if one drove prudently.

As it was the New Year’s Hunt, the last of the four foxhunting High Holy Days, forty-two people braved the weather to gather at Beveridge Hundred, a Jefferson Hunt fixture since 1887, the founding year of the club. Beveridge Hundred remained in the Cullhain family. The current crop of Cullhains struggled on. Their money had disappeared in 1865 along with some of their men, dying agonizing deaths in America’s worst war. The survivors had pulled themselves back up, only to fall destitute again during the Great Depression. In deference to their pinched financial position, club members brought dishes for the traditional hunt breakfast. Walter supplied the drinks, which eased the burden on this most genial collection of relatives.

Hounds got up one fox for a short burst and then another, but the deep snows kept foxes close to their dens. By noon, everyone had filled the old mansion, whose outside and inside were badly in need of paint. A few spots, plaster off, revealed laths stuffed with horsehair. The piano in the parlor was put to good use. Jason Woods, a clear tenor, paired with Walter’s baritone. Soon everyone sang with them.

Hounds were already back in the kennels by the time the humans reached the desserts.

Hunt staff’s first responsibility was the hounds or staff horses, depending on their position. Rarely did Shaker attend a breakfast, although he might be able to get to a tailgate once the hounds were in the party wagon, the small horse trailer outfitted to carry them. A quick sandwich or muffin before he pulled out, accompanied by hot coffee, kept him going until he could really replenish his body. Huntsmen burn calories the way prairie fire burns grass.

Betty Franklin and Sybil Bancroft Fawkes, although honorary whippers-in, not paid staff, still performed all staff functions. They too didn’t attend the breakfasts until hounds were in the party wagon or in the kennel, horses cooled out, blankets thrown over them.

Later, back in the barn, Betty Franklin and Sister cleaned tack in the heated tackroom. Shaker, with Sybil’s help and that of her two sons of grade-school age, had fed all the hounds and even rubbed soothing bag balm on their pads. No one’s pads had been cut up, as there wasn’t much ice, but Shaker figured an ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure. The two boys felt important to help with a big job. Sybil appreciated Shaker’s thoughtfulness. Her marriage, a disaster, had left her a single mother. She liked her sons to be around real men, and Shaker was about as real as it got.

Sari, Lorraine Rasmussen’s daughter, and Jennifer, Betty’s daughter, were home from Colby College on Christmas vacation. They washed down the staff horses and asked to clean tack, but Sister sent them on their way. She knew both girls wanted to primp for a big New Year’s Eve party, although first they had to attend Betty’s party.

As Betty finished washing the bits, hanging Shaker’s bridle on a tack hook high over a bucket, she asked, “When does Gray start at Aluminum Manufacturers?”

“Tuesday. Thought Garvey might be with us today, but maybe the roads aren’t as good out his way.” Sister paused. “Iffy won’t take kindly to what she considers a footprint in her garden.”

“Iffy’s been a pill since birth.”

Sister laughed so hard she startled Raleigh and Rooster, who barked. “Oh, shut up. It’s just me. Go back to sleep. Betty, savage but true.”

“She isn’t that bad looking. A bit of a dumpling, but pretty enough. She’s so sour no man would have her.”

“No woman either.” Sister laughed.

“Who do you think is pickier? Men or women?”

“Men.”

“See, I think it’s women.” Betty answered her own question.

“Maybe men and women are picky about different things. Men get very distracted by looks. Women get distracted by promises. And both get what they deserve.”

“Ain’t that the truth. You’d better go into marriage with your eyes wide open.”

“Betty, you no more did that than I did. When you’re young you can’t possibly know the changes the years bring. Love is blind, for which I suppose we should give some thanks, or there’d be no next generation.”

“Ha!” Betty wrung out a soft rag before rubbing it on saddle soap, her first step in cleaning the leather.

“Ha, what? I know that tone of voice.”

“Sex. Nothing can keep the human animal from sex. No laws, no religion, not even the threat of death. In the old days it was syphilis. Now it’s AIDS. We’re fools breeding fools, and we always were.”

“I did my share,” grinned Sister, alluding to her very rich past. “You did all right.” Betty wiped down the leather after the saddle soap. “Back to Iffy. I heard she was seeing a lot of Alfred DuCharme. Hard to believe.”

“Lord.” Sister raised her eyebrows. “Hadn’t heard that. Let’s keep on the good side of Alfred. He allows us to hunt Paradise. Took awhile to bring Binky around to it, so we need Alfred to be especially happy with us. Iffy, on a whim, could toss a monkey wrench into the works. Especially if she gets mad at Gray. She’ll take it out on the club.”

Binky, Alfred’s older brother, had stolen Alfred’s girlfriend, Milly Archer, a west end Richmond girl, back in 1975. Alfred had never forgiven Binky.

Regardless of Binky’s entreaties, Alfred refused to attend the marriage. He wouldn’t even wave to his brother or his sister-in-law if he passed them on the road.

When their father, Brenden, had died he’d kept the land intact. He thought this would force them to cooperate, and thus reconcile, without him alive to be a go-between. He figured wrong.

Instead, Binky and Milly’s daughter, the bright and spunky Margaret, soon found herself filling in for her departed grandfather and mediating between her father and her uncle.

Embittered though he remained toward Binky and Milly, Alfred worshipped his niece, a sports physician at Jefferson Regional Hospital.

The brothers lived in separate dependencies, small houses, near the ruins of the main house. The one time they had been seen together willingly was at Margaret’s graduation.

“Yep. Funny how people shoot themselves in the foot. Think of the happiness Alfred has missed. He doesn’t stick with a woman long. Maybe that’s why he’s going out with Iffy. He thinks she’ll be dead soon, so he won’t have to dump her. Or vice versa.” Betty giggled, finished cleaning Shaker’s bridle. “You stripped your bridle. I didn’t strip Shaker’s. I washed it, then used saddle soap.”

Stripping took more time as one used something like castile soap to wash it, then rub it even cleaner. After this, one hangs it up and reapplies a light leather oil with a clean cloth. Then one uses the heat of one’s fingers to rub it again, lastly wiping all down once more with a clean dry cloth.

“I know. I’m being superstitious, so I went the whole nine yards.”

“Any other superstitions besides cleaning way too thoroughly?”

“I count the spoons in the house.”

“What?”

“I count the spoons in the house.”

“Why?” Betty looked at her.

“I don’t know. My mother did it and her mother did it every New Year’s Eve. I know it’s stupid—but hey, you asked me and I told you. What do you do?”

“Make resolutions. The usual. I will lose weight.”

“You don’t need to lose any more weight, Betty.”

“I’m so used to making that as a New Year’s resolution, I can’t stop.”

“See, that’s why I have to count the spoons. I’ve always done it.”

Another forty-five minutes passed between the two close friends, who could open their hearts to each other as well as talk about substantive issues sprinkled with the paprika of gossip.

The phone rang in the tack room.

“Hello. Hi, Walter.”

“Jason Woods cornered me at breakfast after you left. He said you didn’t think he knew how to whip-in.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“I know. You’d be more diplomatic. He’s taking this as”—a note of humor filled Walter Lungrun’s voice—“a slur on his manliness.”

“Jesus Christ, spare me a man who isn’t one.”

“He’s okay, Sister. He’s just one of those people who needs attention, adoration. He’s very good at what he does.”

“So are a lot of other people. If you aren’t at the top 20 percent, you slide into mediocrity, I reckon. But that’s not the point. The point is, what do we do with this twit?” She went on to explain her entire conversation with Jason concerning how Jefferson Hunt develops whippers-in. “And I apologize. I should have told you, but I thought he’d be smart enough to let it go. Or if not, then show up this summer to start walking puppies.”

Betty listened, attention rapt.

“If he would do that, would you and Shaker work with him?”

“Of course, if he has aptitude. Look, I know he can ride. He has that beautiful chestnut gelding, Kilowatt. That’s not the issue. It’s the rest of it. I have yet to see him evidence any interest in even one hound, much less the pack, and he wants to whip-in?”

Walter, putting his feet on the hassock in his den, replied in a relaxed voice. “But if he does the real work, the hard work in the off-season, will you and Shaker work with him?”

“Yes.”

“Do you mind if I call him and discuss this? I’ll relay our conversation.”

“No. I’m grateful. Gets me off the hook.”

“Not if he shows up in April.” Walter grunted when his Welsh terrier launched into his lap.

“Means early morning four-thirty or five o’clock wake-ups. We try to knock out the walks, the individual puppy walk, too, before ten in the morning. Once we cruise out of spring into summer, you know how fast that heat comes up. Stifling.”

“Sticky hot.” He thought for a moment. “The bait Jason dangled in front of me, so you know, is he will contribute ten thousand dollars annually to the Club.”

She interrupted, something she rarely did. “Oh, if that’s not a bribe!”

“Sister, with all due respect, Jason possesses considerable resources.”

“Okay, Walter, you’re managing me, but I get it.”

He laughed. “I am. Bluntly put: Better to have Jason in the tent pissing out than outside the tent pissing in.”

She exhaled through her nostrils. “You’re right, but I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to start creating whippers-in of people who write big checks. I just won’t.”

“Well, let’s see how it plays.”

After hanging up, Sister relayed Walter’s half of the conversation to her curious friend.

“Who knows? He might turn out all right.” Betty clearly supported Walter in this. “Since you, Shaker, Sybil, and myself might be working with Dr. Woods, let’s list his good qualities.”

A brief silence was followed by Sister saying, “Brilliant intellectually. Driven. Rich, although some of that wealth has to be inherited. We’ve never met his people, you know. He rarely mentions them except that they live in Newport Beach, California. Let’s see. Well, he’s handsome.”

“Succumbs to flattery, especially from women,” Betty added.

The two women looked at each other and laughed. “What man doesn’t?”

“I’m on empty.”

“By the time you know whether he really can make a whipper-in, you’ll have figured out how to handle him,” Betty said.

“Or he’ll have figured out how to handle me.”

“That’s easy.” Betty tossed her sponge in the bucket. “Do what you say.”

CHAPTER 8

T
he glow of candlelight and the free flow of champagne improved everyone’s complexions.

Betty and Bobby Franklin’s modest, pretty clapboard house sat on forty acres. Bobby had wanted to name this patch of land Mortgage Manor, but Betty prevailed, and the name remained Tricorn Farm, for once a hatter had lived here who made tricorns in the eighteenth century.

The hunt membership plus flotsam and jetsam from town and country jammed into the traditionally decorated house. A time traveler from colonial Williamsburg would have felt at home. Jennifer and Sari, after dutifully greeting guests, sped away to a party where the median age was twenty. At the Franklins’ the median age had to be forty, which for two girls in their freshman year at Colby College might as well have been one hundred and ten.

While the Franklins’ daughter and Sari might have had no need of candlelight’s soft glow, it added to Sister Jane’s natural radiance. The soft glow didn’t hurt Tedi and Edward Bancroft, either.

It most certainly didn’t hurt Frederika Thomas, whose creamy cleavage pulsated in the light from the fireplaces, the candles flickering in the two-hundred-fifty-year-old chandeliers. Freddie’s bosom, much admired, rose and fell at a pace she controlled. The more they heaved, the more she sought to impress upon the gentleman (it was usually a gentleman) with whom she spoke that she was deeply impressed with his conversation. Perhaps, given the height of the heave, she might even be sexually interested. When Freddie discovered the power of her mammary glands, she made certain to wear low-cut dresses or blouses. A snug cashmere turtleneck could be worn to good effect as well. Freddie had mastered this technique by eighteen. At thirty-four she had perfected it.

Speaking with Sister, a respectable 38C, which suited her six-foot frame, Freddie kept her glories at a moderate pace with the chat. Freddie admired Sister but had never thought of seducing her. Good thing, because Sister would have laughed herself silly.

“Poor Marty.” Freddie’s doe eyes widened further. “You just know she’s dying to come. This is
the party.
Anyone not invited to the Franklins’ winds up at the country club, I suppose. Well, at least Marty will be able to wear her major jewels. Crawford’s no cheapskate.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Sister saw Iffy in her motorized metal wheelchair festooned with party lights and sparklers, which Iffy intended to set off at midnight. “Marty needs a scooter like Iffy’s. I’m surprised those rubies and diamonds don’t bend her double.”

“I’d kill for those rubies and diamonds.”

“You’d have to.”

Freddie, possessed of a good sense of humor, laughed at Sister’s good-natured jibe. “Good as he is that way, Crawford’s a brute to keep her from her friends.”

“Once a man takes a position publicly, he rarely backs down or seeks a compromise. It’s a particular failing of the gender, I’m afraid, and Crawford is more pigheaded than most.”

“You don’t think women can be stubborn?”

“I do.” Sister’s silver hair gleamed in the light. “But with great effort, especially from friends, most women can be brought around to seek a compromise. Maybe I’m making too much of it. I’m upset with Crawford, obviously, and I adore Marty. I miss her already. She was the most P.C. person in the hunt, and even though I often thought she was to the left of Pluto she made me think.”

Jason Woods, intent in conversation with Walter, turned his head. Both Freddie and Sister noticed his classic profile simultaneously.

“Divine.”

“I’d have to agree.” Sister smiled. “But surely you’ve met him.”

“In passing. There’s never been enough time to talk, and I was usually stuck with my tick of an ex-boyfriend.”

“Jason seems to have a refreshingly low opinion of monogamy,” Sister remarked.

“These days so do I.” Freddie laughed.

If a male stranger had beheld these two women together, he would have first fixed his gaze on Freddie. At thirty-four, lithe and voluptuous, she’d send the blood south. Eventually his eyes would shift to Sister. Standing there, completely unself-conscious, the older woman burst with raw animal energy. Maybe his blood wouldn’t head south, although it would have when she was younger, but even a man half her age would be drawn to her. The energy would pull him—and it pulled women, too, in a different manner.

Some creatures possess this magnetism. Secretariat had it. Archie, Sister’s late anchor hound, had it. You just
had
to look at him, the way you had to look at Sister.

Freddie wanted to be like Sister, but she was too concerned with her effect on others. Beautiful as she was, this made her vulnerable. She needed praise to feel feminine, to feel good. Sister woke up in the morning feeling good. If people liked her, fine. If they didn’t, well, there were six billion people on earth. There ought to be someone out there they liked.

“I heard your parting with Mick was stormy.”

Freddie pursed her lips. “I vented to all my girlfriends, and now I’m ashamed of myself. I should have kept my mouth shut.”

The wind rattled the windowpanes. A downdraft sent spark showers flying up in the fireplace and glowing on the firescreens.

Jason made his way to the two women.

“Ladies.”

“Jason, you’ve met Freddie Thomas before, I believe.”

“That has been my pleasure, but”—he inclined his head toward the lovely woman—“she was always guarded by a two-toed sloth.”

Freddie and Sister burst out laughing.

“You haven’t been out hunting,” Jason remarked.

“I’ve been so busy this season, I haven’t been out once.”

“Freddie has reached that critical juncture in her practice where she needs to either take a partner or partners or cut back on work so she can enjoy life—which of course means foxhunting.” Sister leaned toward Freddie. “I mean it.”

Freddie was a certified public accountant. Gray thought highly of her.

“I’m sitting at the crossroads being a big chicken.” She sighed in agreement.

“If you don’t get off the crossroads you’ll be squashed. Listen to the sage of Roughneck Farm,” Sister teased.

“Funny, my image of accountants is of someone dull. I was wrong.” Jason assiduously avoided staring at her cleavage.

“I love accounting. I get to study businesses from the inside. I guess I’m a little like Sonny Shaeffer.” She nodded toward the florid-faced banker. “I know a little bit about every business, but perhaps not enough to run one.”

“Freddie, you could do anything you set your mind to because you’re so intelligent.” Sister meant that. She turned to make her exit so these two could discover one another but was nearly run over by Iffy, who hit her brakes.

Sister was pinned between Iffy on one side, Jason and Freddie on the other.

“Happy New Year.” Iffy appeared festive, although resentment bubbled beneath the surface.

“Happy New Year,” the others replied.

“Freddie, did you know that Jason is my doctor?”

“I did.”

“He saved my life. If you ever feel a lump anywhere, go to him.” She stared at Freddie’s bosom.

“I’ll bear your advice in mind, although I hope I never need it.”

Jason put his hand on Iffy’s shoulder. “I’ve never seen you so lit up.”

“How do you mean that?” Iffy sounded a little testy.

“The lights.” He pointed to her wheelchair. “If you all will excuse me, I’m going to find Gray.”

“He’s with Garvey.” Iffy’s lower lip jutted out. “And I’m mad at both of them.”

“Don’t stay mad long, Iffy; it’s New Year’s Eve. And I need you to back up.”

“Oh.” Iffy turned her head, beeped her horn, and backed up a tad as Binky and Milly DuCharme moved out of the way.

“Happy New Year,” Sister greeted husband and wife.

Binky, golden hair laced with gray, wrapped his arm around her waist. “Here’s to the two-faced god, Janus. He looks to the past; he looks to the future.” With that he gulped his champagne.

Milly, a less enthusiastic drinker, clicked glasses with her husband and Sister. “You look divine in that color.”

Sister, in royal blue, laughed. “Thank you, but I’m not divine, or I guess I’d be like Janus.”

Leaning very close, Milly whispered, “I don’t want to see the future.”

“Me neither,” Sister agreed.

“What’d you say, Honeybun?” Binky hadn’t caught the whispered conversation amidst all the noise.

“That it’s best for us not to know what tomorrow brings,” Milly chirped.

“We know to not count our chickens before they’ve hatched.” He laughed, then stopped. “One thing is consistent: Alfred.”

“Sometimes old wounds are lovingly tended.” Milly had lived with the situation since the middle seventies and felt justified in speaking her mind.

Sister, not wishing to criticize either brother, kissed both Binky and Milly on the cheek. “Whatever the year brings, I hope we stay healthy and thankful for our friends.” As she sidled through the crowd she thought to herself that the statute of limitations on youthful traumas had run out.

When she reached Gray and Garvey she noticed Iffy doing her best to butt into everything Jason and Freddie had to say to one another.

Garvey noticed, too. “I think she’s like a lot of women. She fell in love with her doctor.”

“Perhaps,” said Sister. Then she added, “Iffy’s motto is, ‘If I have made just one life miserable, I have not lived in vain.’”

Gray and Garvey laughed, for the sting of truth was in it.

“I’ll get my share.” Gray smiled.

“Hey, take mine, too. I’ve been on the short end of her stick for the last week.”

“Hopefully Iffy will bow to the inevitable. She’ll have her nose out of joint for a while about the audit, but it takes too much energy to stay angry,” Sister sighed. “She needs a positive outlet.”

“I thought Alfred was an outlet. Course he’s not here tonight, since Binky is.” Garvey looked over the room. Gray succinctly summed it up. “Iffy and Alfred are so used to being unhappy they don’t want to upset the status quo. They’re perfect for each other.”

Sister held up her champagne flute. The men touched theirs to hers, and the crystal chimed, a high, clear note. “Here’s to a New Year filled with new ways and old ways. Over solid bedrock the earth keeps shifting.” She knew the Blue Ridge bedrock was granite more than one billion years old. However, no need for her to be pedantic.

“Hear, hear,” the men toasted.

Then Garvey laughed. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard a geological toast. Makes me wish I’d been in your geology class at Mary Baldwin.”

“How about a toast from your profession?” Gray teased him.

“Put the pedal to the metal.” Garvey raised his glass.

“That was too easy!” Sister laughed at him.

“You didn’t say it had to be hard.” Garvey then looked to Gray. “Your turn.”

“Put your money in your head; no one can steal it from you there.”

Sister and Garvey clicked their glasses once more.

Meanwhile, Iffy drove right under Freddie’s bosom as if to find shade. It’s doubtful Iffy could have found a toast for the occasion, but she could have wedged her champagne flute in Freddie’s cleavage. Of course, Freddie could have used Iffy as an end table.

Ben Sidell, sheriff of the county, his back to Freddie, half turned and caught Jason’s eye. “Dr. Woods, Happy New Year. Iffy”—and he included Freddie when she turned round—“Happy New Year.”

“Why aren’t you in uniform?” Iffy blurted out, oblivious to the fact that the sheriff was entitled to a private life.

“I worked Christmas Eve and Christmas.” He smiled broadly. “Interesting hunt this morning.”

“Interesting hunt tonight.” The corner of Jason’s mouth turned upward.

Ben looked at Jason, then Freddie, then Iffy, and thought this a strange triangle. “I was wondering if any of you could introduce me to the lady standing by the fireplace.”

Champagne flute in hand, Dr. Margaret DuCharme leaned against the end of the fireplace.

Jason, unwilling to surrender his spot with Freddie, didn’t move.

Nor would Iffy.

Freddie, happy to ditch both of them, took Ben’s hand for an instant. “I’d be happy to.”

Iffy and Jason were abandoned to one another.

Iffy smiled. Jason’s eyes followed Freddie.

Meanwhile, Freddie, voice low, said, “She’s a sports medicine doctor. I’m not exactly sure what that means, but she must be very good because the Washington Redskins send her their wounded. Professional golfers fly in to see her, too.”

“Married?”

“To her work.”

As they drew closer Freddie stepped forward.

Margaret, diminutive and attractive, extended her hand to Ben. “I didn’t recognize you out of uniform.”

The touch of her hand befuddled him. He stood there speechless.

Freddie, wise in such matters, chatted for a moment. “Everyone knows our sheriff.”

Ben recovered, dropping Margaret’s hand. She smiled. “If you two will excuse me.” Freddie skillfully slipped away.

Jason watched her every move from behind Iffy’s wheelchair.

People are like colors: they complement each other or they clash. Ben and Margaret complemented each other. Once Ben had regained his composure they talked easily, lighting up like the sparks flying in the fireplace. And the conversation veered from the superficial immediately. Their physical attraction was obvious. What a partygoer observing them couldn’t have known was that their minds were on fire.

Driving home from the party, Sister and Gray noticed Donny Sweigart’s truck by the side of the road a quarter of a mile from Crawford’s entrance.

The headlights revealed blood on his camouflage fatigues as Donny walked to his truck.

Gray pulled over. Sister opened the window. “Donny, are you all right?”

“Yeah. Deer blood.”

“If Crawford catches you here, he’ll put the law on you.”

Donny smiled slyly. “He’s celebrating. Anyway, I’m out of here.”

As they drove home, Gray, who planned to spend the night with Sister, said, “He pushes it.”

“What I want to know is, where’s the deer?”

“Could be down in the meadow.”

“He can’t drag it out by himself unless he dresses it in the field, and then he runs the risk of Crawford catching him. No deer in the truck bed.”