The Hunt Ball (15 page)

Betty, on the outside of them, shrewdly put the hounds between her and that damned cow.

Cly tossed her head to and fro and just thought she was the most fearsome beast in the land, a modern Minotaur. She may have been fat and ridiculous but she could hurt you.

Hounds, Outlaw, and Betty slipped by the two Holsteins. This didn't please them, so Cly decided to keep after them. She wasn't fast but she was determined, and she could still run faster than a human.

This became apparent when the company of creatures passed the other side of the stable, where a few humans were still on foot, trying to catch their horses or their breath.

Cly headed straight for them.

“Jesus Christ!” Bill Wheatley shouted as Cly zeroed in on him.

“Jesus can't help you now! Climb, man, climb!” Sam Lorillard shouted, as he'd stayed back to help.

Bill ran for all he was worth and in that instant vowed he would go to the gym and dump the excess weight. The old walnut by the stables had low branches, drooping with advanced age. Bill grabbed one and swung himself forward, trying to get his legs up over the branch. He managed but his lardass hung there, most tempting. Cly hooked his butt, tearing off a wide swatch of expensive corded material, but fortunately she didn't break the skin.

Sam, quick-witted and quick, had taken off his jacket, waving it in front of Cly. She charged; he sidestepped her while barely escaping a bone-crushing butt by Orestes, faster than mom.

By now, everyone on the ground found refuge in a tree or had made it into the barn, slamming a stall gate behind them.

“Let's blow this joint!”
Cly snorted as she headed in the direction of the hounds.

Betty pushed up the hounds to the rest of the pack, and when those hounds passed Shaker he looked straight up to the sky and smiled.

Aunt Netty ran so fast one expected to see white jet trails behind her. Famous for her speed and cunning, she had no time to play with hounds today. She'd eaten too much and they were too close behind despite the efforts of Shaker to hold them.

No huntsman wants to chop a fox. If one is bolted close by, the rule is count to twenty. Well, he didn't get to count to two.

So Netty ran for her life on this Thanksgiving Day. She didn't bother to foil scent, swim small creeks, she ran flat out, belly to the ground.

With the schoolhouse in sight, she put on the afterburners and just made it to the hole in the foundation as Dragon's jaws snapped at her sparse brush. He got a few little hairs in his teeth for a reward.

By the time Sister and the field—what was left of it, given the speed and the jumps along the way—reached the schoolhouse, Shaker was blowing “gone to ground” and Netty, plopped on her side, was sending up a prayer of thanks to the Great Fox in the Sky.

This moment would have lasted longer except for the low tang of a cowbell coming ever closer.

Felicity, who had fallen back and rode at the rear, looked around. “It's a mad cow!”

Cindy Chandler turned. The sight of her pet and Cly's son on the rampage turned her face chalk white. “Oh, dear, she's uncontrollable when she gets like this.”

Sister called to Shaker, “We've got to get out of here. Go over the in and out!”

Shaker did not question his master. He gracefully mounted, saw Sybil already on the other side of the wide dirt road. He squeezed Showboat over the first coop. Showboat knew better but he was still jangled from all the uproar, so he sucked back when his front hooves hit the dirt. Sometimes a horse will get a little tentative if the surface changes.

Shaker squeezed, touched him with the spurs, and whacked him proper on the hindquarters with his crop. If Showboat balked, then Keepsake might, doubtful, but he might. And other horses in the field would, too, so he had to get over.

With a surge, the Thoroughbred left a half stride early. Shaker leaned back a bit in the saddle but he was ready for it.

On the other side, hounds with him, he trotted down to the woods at the edge of the meadow and cast hounds. Soon enough the field got over.

Cly thundered up to the coop. She considered crashing it but she was tired. Her full figure didn't get much exercise and she'd been running and bellowing for half an hour.

“That ought to teach them a lesson!”

“What's the lesson, Mom?”

“That this is my farm and they'd better do as I say.”
She belched, the sickly sweet odor of cud emanating from her mouth and nostrils.

Turning to walk at a leisurely pace back to the stable where she hoped feed lay about, she noticed seven riders coming toward her, including Bill Wheatley, a piece of his britches flapping every time he stood up to post.

“Oh, let's have some fun.”
She lowered her head and rolled right for them.

Scattering them like ninepins, Cly shook her head, reveling in her power.

“You're hamburger, you old monster!” A rider angrily pointed his finger at her.

She turned, pawed the ground, lowered her head as did Orestes, and scared him so bad he burnt the wind getting out of there.

“What's hamburger?”

“Nothing to concern yourself about, son.”
It was occurring to the huge old girl that she may have crossed the line. She decided not to rummage the stable.
“Let's go back to the pasture and have a nap.”

Shaker and the pack, all together, got up another fox, and had a good fifteen-minute burst. But people were ragged out from the adventure. So he swung hounds low and back toward the house. It took forty-five minutes to get there and they did get two more short runs in the bargain.

Sam Lorillard, on hearing the horn, turned back toward the stables. He had a pretty good idea that Shaker was drawing back and he'd just seen the devil cow go back that way.

He walked behind her at a respectful distance. When she walked into the pasture and dropped to her knees, asleep almost instantly, he put his horse in a stall.

Sam kept tools in his truck and trailer, as did most smart foxhunters. He pulled out his toolbox, got a hammer and some nails, and walked around to the side where Cly had smashed up the coop. Unsalvageable.

He walked back to his truck, fired it up, and drove around to the shed where Cindy kept her supplies. He loaded up boards, drove around the outside of the pasture, and nailed them up.

That would at least keep Cly from aimlessly wandering out until the men of the club could get back here and rebuild the jump.

He knew Cly well enough to know she only smashed through fences and jumps when playful or angry. Her usual modus operandi was to eat and sleep and then eat some more.

By the time the field got back, all was secure.

Crawford handsomely tipped him for it and Sam gratefully accepted. Then Crawford, expansive, since he'd managed to ride out this wild hunt, offered a beautiful bronze sculpture for the hunt ball silent auction. Sorrel Buruss, chair of the silent action, waxed ecstatic, rode over to him, and kissed him from horseback.

When Bill dismounted, Charlotte laughed at him. “Well, Bill, I now know you're a boxer man and not a briefs man.”

“I'm just glad to be in one piece.”

“Your pants look like Zorro slashed them into a ‘Z,' ” Valentina giggled, then apologized, “Sorry. I forgot.”

Bill smiled up at her, “It's all right, Val. Life goes on.”

Shaker hopped off Showboat to open the party wagon door. Hounds walked in happy with this exciting day.

Sister, Keepsake at the trailer, walked over, “Never, never in my life have I hunted a day like today. How you and Betty got those hounds all on was a miracle.”

“May the saints preserve us.” He beamed.

Showboat, standing by the party wagon, laughed.
“I preserved you, not the saints.”
All the other horses in earshot laughed.

C H A P T E R   2 0

T
he heavenly aroma of turkey filled the house, along with the sweet scent of sweet potatoes, corn bread, cranberry sauce, special fried grits cakes, all manner of sauces, spices, vegetables, and salads.

Golly stayed at her window post behind the sink. She knew if she behaved many tidbits would be tossed her way as Sister and Lorraine put on the finishing touches to the meal.

Tootie, Valentina, and Felicity set the tables while Gray made everyone drinks. The house overflowed with people. Sam came and of course Sister invited Rory, Crawford's farmhand, as he had no people left who would have him. Shaker, still beaming, regaled the girls with hunt tales as he folded linen napkins. He liked to be useful and never thought of chores as women's work or men's work.

Tedi and Edward came. Sybil, too, and she brought her two sons. Edward III, called Neddie by everyone, even though still in grade school showed every sign of growing to be taller than his grandfather.

Walter came and brought as his date Sorrel Buruss. That would set tongues wagging, mostly because it happened under everyone's nose. Ah, what an offense to those who had to know everything about everybody because their own lives were such a bloody bore.

Mandy, Gray's daughter, drove down from Washington. She looked more like her mother than her father, but she had her father's quiet sense of command as well as his wonderful way with color. Over the last year Sister and Mandy learned to value each other.

Marty and Crawford Howard came, and Sister told Shaker, who strongly disliked them, that he had to abide Crawford. The Howards would always be invited to the big parties or functions where Crawford's checkbook was hotly desired. But no one invited them to the family dinners, the true gatherings of the clan. Once Sister discovered this she thought she'd set it to rights. Crawford wasn't so bad. He needed to stop bragging about himself, a sign of weakness, but Sister wanted to give him a chance.

The dogs barked as another car pulled up.

Betty and her husband, Bobby, came in through the back door.

“Sorry we're late.” Bobby hung up his coat on the peg by the door.

“That Magellan jumped out of the paddock so everyone else had to follow. And of course, we were all dressed up. Don't you think the mud stains on my skirt add to my fashion statement?” Betty, too, was in fine spirits.

Gray, Bobby, and Crawford located extra chairs to accommodate all the guests since the dining room chairs only numbered twelve. They'd set up extra tables in the huge dining room. When the “new” part of Roughneck Farm was built in 1824, this room doubled as a small ballroom, so each end boasted a beautiful fireplace. The small orchestras used back then would play on a raised dais against the outside wall. If the weather was warm all the French doors would be thrown open and dancing would be outside as well as in.

When Big Ray lived he threw fabulous parties, this room overflowing. Once he died, Sister rarely used it. But today it seemed perfect.

Between the food, the stories, having all the young people around, it was one of the best Thanksgivings Sister could remember.

After the last dish was carried out and the table cleared, they all repaired to the living room, where Sorrel opened the grand piano and played song after song. The schoolgirls knew the words to Cole Porter's songs because Custis Hall put on
Anything Goes.
They all got hooked on his witty lyrics and melodies.

By midnight, the last of the guests had left. They'd thrilled to a hard day's riding, the joy of one another's company. Lorraine protested that she should stay to clean up, as did Betty, but Sister pushed them out the door, saying she'd abuse the Custis Hall students.

With Golly, Raleigh, and Rooster cleaning plates the only thing to do was to load the dishwasher. Up to her elbows in soapy water, washing the crystal, Sister handed glasses to the girls, standing in a row. Gray filled up the fireplaces, then returned to the kitchen.

“What can I do?”

“Sit by the fire and look handsome.”

More tired than he cared to admit, he dropped into the old cane rocking chair, propped his feet up by the huge walk-in fireplace.

“What a day.” He smiled.

“Aunt Netty is still sleeping, I'll bet.” Sister pulled the plug in the sink, the water swirling downward. Bubbles floated into the air. She reached up and balanced one on her finger. “Life is a soap opera and we're the bubbles.”

“How'd you know it was Aunt Netty?” Valentina finished wiping out a wineglass.

“First that silly brush. Pathetic. Always has been. Then, no one runs like Aunt Netty, she burns the wind.”

“Did you get a look at the other fox?” Tootie asked.

“No, but Betty said it was Grace, who lives at Foxglove. Cindy spoils her with candies.”

“As I recall, someone in this room occasionally puts out treats.” Gray pushed off with his right foot, the rocker gently rolling.

“Well, it's true. Of course, now that we've got the little gray back in the orchard I'll put out some dog biscuits for her, too.”

Tootie hung the sopping-wet dish towel over the drying rack. “Anything else?”

“We've performed heroic labors. Done.” Sister wiped her hands.

Valentina walked to the mudroom. Her barn coat hung there. She'd put her iPod in the pocket. Returning to the kitchen, everyone sitting by the fireplace, she handed it to Sister. “I keep forgetting to play this for you.”

“Ah, I've wanted to see one of these,” Sister said, admiring the small electronic device.

“I recorded this music, uh, I forget the exact name. Something about Henry IV hunting. Henry of France. Anyway, it was written during the French Revolution.”

“Off with their heads.” Felicity giggled.

“You know, I didn't think anyone wrote music during the Revolution.” Sister placed the tiny earpieces in her ears. She blinked and pulled them off.

“Too loud?” Valentina turned down the volume.

“No. No. That tinty sound.”

Valentina put the earphones in her ears. “Oh, that.” She handed them back to Sister. “Sorry. I didn't erase all of that. The hunting horn will start in a minute.”

“Val, play that again.” Sister listened intently. “What is that sound?”

“Special effects.”

“From what?”

“From the Halloween dance. That's a witch's voice. Well, it's my voice really. I recorded my voice and changed the speed until I got the right sound. We had all these little flying witches and each one had one of our voices. It was so cool.”

Putting her arm around Val's waist, Sister walked her over to the wall phone. She dialed the sheriff.

“Ben, listen to this.”

It was also a perfect night for Target, the big red. He'd feasted on Thanksgiving leftovers from two different farms. There wasn't a garbage can Target couldn't open. Deer hunters would clean carcasses, leaving behind the offal. He didn't like that but other little creatures did so Target could sometimes grab a quick bite there or even better, the rack hunters would saw off antlers, leaving the entire deer. All that deer meat was getting tedious. The turkey and stuffing leftovers tonight were wonderful.

He stopped, crouched. At the edge of the wildflower meadow lay a blackbird from St. Just's flock. He crept toward it, prepared to pounce, then stopped. The bird was dead. He sniffed it. Nothing smelled unusual. No marks on the crow. It could have dropped from a heart attack, a common enough death among birds given their heart rate. He picked up another odor, human. Ten feet from the crow rested a human finger, relatively fresh, torn at the joint. The simple gold ring had an onyx oval stone, a crest carved into it. The ring was half on, half off the finger. Target pulled it off with one extended claw.

Toys delighted him. He'd steal balls that house dogs dropped outside. If it rolled or was shiny, he wanted it. He picked up the ring, taking it home.

He knew humans buried or cremated their dead. Their fastidious ways amused him because the body did the earth not a bit of good then. However, every creature has its habits so if humans wanted to render their dead useless to the soil, so be it.

It occurred to him that finding the finger was not a good sign for the humans. One more reason he was glad he was a fox.