The Hunt Ball (21 page)

They laughed, then Betty returned to the murder. “I'm glad Christmas vacation is coming. I'm glad those girls will be out of here.”

“Me, too. This thing isn't finished.”

C H A P T E R   2 9

H
er heels clicking on the highly polished floor, Charlotte walked through the Main Hall on her way to her office.

Bill Wheatley and Knute Nilsson stood in front of the case containing Washington's epaulettes.

“Knute, you look mournful,” Charlotte said.

“I was thinking about the lemonade stand I had when I was six. I made two dollars and I thought I was rich. Well, I was. I went home and that night I bragged to my father how much lemonade I sold. He seemed proud of me, but he warned me, ‘Now that you have assets, you have to protect them.' I look at all this stuff and I see assets.” He waved his hand as if this was boring. “You've heard it all before. I don't know what we're going to do.”

Bill, his usual ebullient self, put his arm around Knute's shoulder. “You don't have to figure it out before Christmas vacation. You don't even have to figure it out when Professor Kennedy's report comes in. You are perfectly within your rights to ask the board of directors for suggestions and help. Doesn't do you any good to carry the weight of the world, or at least Custis Hall, on your shoulders. Besides, Knute, there's Christmas to celebrate.”

“An excuse to waste money.”

“Knute, stuff cloves in oranges and give them as gifts. Won't cost more than twenty dollars and they smell wonderful,” Charlotte suggested with a hint of merriment.

“I know, I know, you two think I'm Scrooge.”

“We think no such thing.” Bill let his arm slide off Knute's back. “We know! Except for your sailing hobby you are tighter than the bark on a tree.”

“All right. I'm leaving.” Knute half-smiled and headed toward the hall containing the offices.

Bill turned to Charlotte. “He'll worry himself into a heart attack. There is such a thing as being too conscientious.”

“Perhaps, but that's why we depend on you, Bill, to lighten the mood.”

“I'll take that as a compliment.”

“Do. I hear that you and some of the students in your department have come up with a fantastic theme for the hunt ball. Marty Howard told me the best thing she ever did was get you all involved.”

“You just wait and see.” He winked. “Silver and white. Crawford and Marty appear to have a limitless budget. Even Knute and Yvonne are going to come, and you know how hard it is to get him in a tuxedo.”

“That puzzles me. If a gentleman wears scarlet, that's tails. So why aren't hunt balls white tie?”

“Technically, they should be, but I guess allowing men to wear tuxedos is a nod to the wallet. More men own a tuxedo than black tails. Of course, if they would wear white tie the effect would be smashing.” He glowed; he loved costumes and staging. “You'll be in white or black?”

“I surprised myself and my husband. I bought a white gown from Nordstrom. I am sick of wearing black.”

“You'll look beautiful no matter what.”

“Bill, you flatter me and I am grateful. Okay, I have one more question since you study these things. Since Jane Arnold is master, why can't she wear scarlet?”

“Well, that's a good one. If she wanted to upset the applecart, she could. She's the master, right? Who could stop her? But convention and unwritten laws are stronger than the written ones. A hunt ball decrees that women wear white or black. That's it and you know as well as I do that Sister is a slave to tradition. She doesn't wear scarlet in the hunt field, and many American lady masters do.”

“Actually, Bill, given our recent uproar here, I'd not use the word ‘slave.' ” The corners of her mouth turned upward. She knew how much Bill devoured a tête-à-tête and this little comment would delight him.

He lowered his head, whispering in her ear, “A servant to fashion.”

She whispered back, “I look forward to all of us being servants to fashion.” She gazed into the display case. “Those epaulettes look brighter than I remember.”

“When Professor Kennedy took everything out to examine and photocopy, she had the girls clean them. Pamela, wearing surgical gloves, began to repent of her protest when all that dust and mold shot up her nose.” He laughed.

“Well, maybe we won't have to clean for another few decades.” She paused. “Guess not, huh?”

“Hey, for all I know, Knute will install a system where the air circulates and the objets d'art or d'histoire clean themselves. Actually, I shouldn't poke fun at him; it really has become one hell of a burden.”

“I guess it's like his father said, protect your assets. Bill, back to my desk, though I'd much rather talk to you. I really do look forward to seeing what you all do for the ball.”

“You'll never forget it.”

C H A P T E R   3 0

“
N
ine more days,” Marty fretted as she twirled her pencil around in her fingers.

Sorrel, sitting across from her at the table in Marty's opulent kitchen, checked her yellow notepad. “We're sold out. At least we don't have to get on the horn and push for RSVPs. People don't RSVP like they used to do. I can't decide if it's because they don't know any better or everyone's on overload.”

“A little of both, maybe.” Marty peered down at her own notebook, a lavender-paged stenographer's notebook, pages covered with names, numbers, arrows pointing up, down, right, and left and some squiggling along the margins.

“Bill says he and the girls will be at the Great Hall at seven
A
.
M
. I'll be there, too.”

“That's a good idea. It's probably also a good idea to just let him run the show. If he needs more bodies, we can supply them, but Bill can do this in his sleep.” Marty thought snagging Bill Wheatley was one of her biggest coups.

“You've checked the silent auction list?”

“Yes. We still need more high-ticket items. We've got caps from other hunts, always a nice idea. We've got framed prints, a weekend at Grand Cayman Island, another weekend with theater tickets in New York. Patricia Kluge and Bill Moses have donated a case of their wine. Jay Tomlinson donated one free shoeing. Nothing like a good blacksmith to keep your horse right.” Marty tapped the pencil on her frosted lipstick. “I know we need things that are affordable for most people but we need one or two very spectacular items like the weekend in New York.”

“I've racked my brain.” Sorrel leaned back in the ladderback chair—not an easy thing to do, so she tipped on the back legs.

“What about jewelry? A gorgeous antique pair of studs, you know, gold foxhead studs with ruby eyes for a gentleman and maybe a brooch with a foxhunting theme. What about those painted crystals from England? You know, the round things, oh, they can be earrings or pins or even cuff links.”

“Marty, you can't find antique ones. No one gives them up until death, and a new pair of cuff links might cost $2,500. We can't even buy them wholesale to put them in the auction.” She read down the list again. “The Lionel Edwards prints ought to fetch at least $2,500, don't you think?”

“I hope so. Those,” she read her own notes, “were donated by Henry Xavier, God bless him.”

“Riding lessons from Sam Lorillard.” Marty smiled. “I didn't have to lean on him. He wanted to do it.”

“What about a tax review by Gray?” Sorrel wondered.

“Well, he'd do it, but that's not exactly a festive item. He's already donated a white vest; how many of those do you see?” Marty thought she might bid on it for her husband, then realized that Gray was more fit and slender than Crawford, who was fighting the battle of the bulge.

“I guess we can't ask Bill to take on a decorating job, you know, someone's den?” Sorrel didn't want to go to the well too often.

“No, maybe Dolly Buswell would give a consultation. Now, that's pretty appealing.” Marty cited a local interior decorator.

“I'll call her.”

They sat there, then Marty said, “It's a good list. You've done a great job.” Then she paused. “It's that one spectacular item that eludes us.”

“Free breeding to Salem Drive and Tom Newton also donated a breeding to Harbor Man.” Sorrel thought that was pretty good as both Thoroughbreds had useful bloodlines for foxhunters.

“Sure, that appeals to horsepeople, but I'm thinking of a spectacular piece of jewelry, an antique car, or a carriage or buggy. Now, the sculpture Crawford donated is good. I'm thinking along those lines. Big-ticket items.”

“Do we have any pals at Tiffany's?” Sorrel lusted after a pair of pearl-and-diamond earrings priced at $16,500. Not that she could afford them.

“Not good enough to donate the earrings,” Marty said with a sigh.

Sorrel sighed, too. “We have nine days. Maybe I can find a pal at Tiffany's. Well, we've got to keep pushing.”

They double-checked the menu; the open bar would last for an hour, then switch to a paying bar. Finally they settled into an exchange of news and views over hot chocolate.

“She's so drawn. I hope she's not sick.” Marty was referring to Charlotte Norton.

“I expect she's worried half to death. Until Ben Sidel nails Al's murderer, she has to feel vulnerable. You know parents will have long talks with their kids over Christmas vacation, and I'm sure some won't return to Custis Hall. I'm surprised more weren't yanked out of here.”

“Charlotte's a brilliant headmaster. She's contained the damage as much as she can, reassured students and parents as much as she can.”

“Sorrel, isn't it funny how people respond to things? Sister says little, keeps going, but since she saw that hanging and it was on Hangman's Ridge, you know that brain is whirring at high speed. And she won't rest until the killer is found either. Then there's Bill Wheatley. Cried about Al's death, then bounced right back, his old jolly self. As for Ben, it's his business. Can't expect him to be emotionally involved. Crawford says the board meetings are strained, everyone is worried, but at least no one is blaming anyone else or fighting out of frustration. But he said they are all affected by this.”

“Someone stands to gain something. Hard to imagine, though.” Sorrel reflected on her own experiences. “I still wonder if this doesn't lead to sex. You just never know.”

“No, you don't.”

The back door opened. Crawford stepped into the kitchen—all marble tops, recessed lighting, a Sub-Zero refrigerator, and an Aga stove. The cost of the kitchen exceeded the cost of most homes. The heart pine flooring provided what visual warmth there was, that and the huge step-down fireplace, a nod to Sister's fireplace, except this one was all gorgeous veined white marble that echoed the marble on the counters.

“Hello, Sorrel, how are you?”

“Fine, and yourself?”

“Cold.”

“Sit down, honey, I'll make you a hot chocolate.” Marty rose as Crawford removed his coat.

“Oh, hey.” He reached into the pocket as he hung it up. “Here. Put that in the auction since I see you've got out your lists.” He dropped a ring into Sorrel's hands.

“That's pretty.”

“Might get a hundred dollars.”

Marty walked over to inspect it. “Good gold. The onyx is lovely. Where'd you buy that? I thought you were out with Sister today fixing jumps. X crashed into that timber jump,” she hastened to add. “Wasn't his fault. By the time he reached it the footing was horrendous.”

“We fixed that first and then you know Sister. She always kills two birds with one stone. She had buckets of feed on the back of the pickup. I mean she had the entire bed filled with fifty-pound bags. We used them. Anyway, this was outside a den at Tedi and Edward's. Sister said it was Target's den. She remembers every fox. Don't know how she does it. They look red or gray to me.” He was in a good mood.

“Isn't that odd?” Marty poured the milk onto the cocoa.

“She said some foxes are pack rats. They can't resist shiny things, toys. I peeked into his den and there was a baseball in there. She said he'll take any toy the dogs leave out and so will Uncle Yancy, another of her foxes. But she said Uncle Yancy prefers clothing more than toys. He'll steal hats, T-shirts, barn rags.” He shook his head. “She loves these animals. I think she loves them almost as much as her hounds.”

“Hey, why don't we put, ‘donated by Target, red fox living at After All.' ” Sorrel sat up straight, eyes bright.

Crawford shrugged. “Might bring another hundred dollars.”

C H A P T E R   3 1

M
ill Ruins, so named because of the massive stone gristmill, and the huge waterwheel still turning the gears inside, had been the estate of Peter Wheeler. Given Peter's penchant for losing money, the word “estate” was used loosely. To the now-deceased Peter's credit, he hung on, never selling one acre of land. He thought the mill would be a tourist attraction and he ground grain there. This provided enough cash to feed his horses, though not himself. Peter finally hired himself out as a lawyer, a profession he hated despite his training at the University of Virginia.

Christmas Hunt had been held at the Wheeler place—Peter was the seventh-generation Wheeler to live at the mill—since 1887. The hunt was usually held on the Saturday before Christmas unless that Saturday happened to be Christmas Eve. This year Saturday was December 24, so Christmas Hunt was December 17. Many clubs did go out on Christmas Eve, but long ago prior masters at the Jefferson Hunt determined it was too busy a day for most people to braid horses and spend four hours, more or less, in the saddle.

The “ruins” referred to the rest of the place as it began to fall into rack and ruin. Although he made a decent living at the prestigious law firm eager to have the Wheeler name attached to it, he spent only on his mill, his horses, his fencing, and his feed. At the end of his life, he lived mostly in the kitchen, with its fierce wood-burning stove, and a bed he put in the large pantry off the kitchen. He drove his 454 Chevy pickup proudly down to the office. His turnout, at work and in the hunt field, was always correct—he just didn't care about the rest of it.

He fought daily with his neighbor, Alice Ramy. He knew foxhunting and he loved true foxhunters, which meant he loved Jane Arnold best of all. Their affair lasted for close to twenty-five years. A big, booming, rugged man with refined manners, Peter kept his looks way into his seventies. He loved Sister because she was strong, smart, and thought like a fox. Each was the other's grand passion as far as people were concerned. Their true grand passion was foxhunting.

When Peter died peacefully sitting in his kitchen chair, he had willed Mill Ruins to Jefferson Hunt as well as the Chevy 454. Rooster, his young harrier, he personally willed to Sister.

As she sat atop Aztec gazing over the large field on this nippy Saturday morning, she thought of how fortunate she'd been with the men in her life. They were real men, accustomed to physical exertion; no task was too dirty or too difficult. Sister never could warm to soft men. Then again, she scared the bejesus out of them, so it worked out just fine.

The last Christmas of Peter's life, he drove his truck—he could no longer ride as his hips had been shattered once too often—in full regalia: black weazlebelly, top hat, the works. She fought back the tears then and she fought back the tears now.

Walter lived at Mill Ruins, renting it from the hunt club. He had a long-term lease, which helped the coffers grow. He poured money into the place. Slowly, Mill Ruins returned to its former glory. It needed a wife, children, chickens, dogs, and cats running about to be absolutely perfect. Walter, however, did have a pet fox with one paw that had been amputated and a sweet little Welsh terrier.

Sister thought of Peter as Walter welcomed the crowd to his place on this, the third of the High Holy Days. She refocused on the present. Ninety-eight people sat on braided horses, puffs of condensed air escaping from their nostrils.

The Custis Hall girls with the exception of Tootie and Valentina, not big into the theater program, were decorating the Great Hall under Bill Wheatley's direction. Apart from their absence most of the riding membership was present.

Aztec fidgeted. This was his first High Holy Day. He could feel the excitement from humans and horses.

Finally the formalities were over, Sister called “Hounds, please,” and off they walked down toward the great three-story mill, the millrace running hard and fast to the wheel. An arched stone bridge carried them over the millrace. As the wheel turned, flumes of water slid off the paddles, spraying thousands of rainbows into the air. The smell of water, of grain, of the damp stone foundation filled everyone's nostrils. As they passed the mill, they came onto a wide farm road that ran through a small pasture and then into a heavy woods.

It wasn't until he reached the woods that Shaker realized Lorraine was on a horse. He was so intense when hunting, in this case when he was holding the hounds, that he barely noticed the people. He glanced up once or twice but it only now registered. A grin crossed his face and he regretted that he couldn't ride back to the Hilltoppers and give her the biggest kiss.

Heavy frost silvered the pastures, the low shrubs in the woods, some with bright red berries, a contrast to the world of silver, gray, brown, and black.

Delight whispered to Diddy,
“What do you think?”

“Need the temperature to come up five degrees. Then even a human could put his nose to the ground and get it.”

“We can get something off the frost.”
Trident also whispered because talking on the way to a cast is considered babbling.

None of the hounds wanted to be censured.

“Have to hit it right and be careful not to overrun. It's not as hard as people make it out to be.”
Ardent, older and wiser, quietly encouraged the younger hounds.
“Go a little slower until you're sure. You have a long nose to warm the air you inhale, so you'll pick it up. Just be more deliberate.”

“Why didn't Shaker cast us at the mill? All the foxes go there.”
Diddy liked learning.

“Not sure.”
Dreamboat wondered why, as well.

“Better to pick up a fox on the way to the mill than one on the way out. If he's eaten any grain he'll just turn around and go into the mill. This way we might get a longer run,”
Ardent again explained.
“There's an art to it, kids. Shaker's got it. Trust your huntsman.”

“What happens if you get a stupid huntsman?”
Diddy wondered.

“Hounds ignore him and do what they want.”
Ardent laughed.
“Never been one at Jefferson Hunt. Never will be, not as long as Sister's the human anchor hound.”

“Getting a little loose, kids,” Shaker quietly reprimanded them.

They continued walking, as he didn't cast until they reached the edge of the woods and jumped over the lovely stone fencing into the pasture. He swung the hounds crosswind, then turned Gunpowder's nose toward the woods. The hounds fanned out over the middle of the pasture but kept in mind the direction of Gunpowder. They'd work a big half circle before moving into the woods, where they would be directly into the light wind.

Dasher found a stale line. He kept with it, hoping it would freshen. It didn't. So Cora, after checking that line, moved twenty yards away. Although mid-December, sometimes the grays will begin courting. Courting time varies greatly with how the foxes interpret the coming spring's food supply. Somehow, they know. If it's going to be an early, fecund spring, the grays will start in December in Virginia. The reds usually follow suit two to three weeks later.

Cora wanted to hit early. On a day like today, the fox had most of the advantages, but the sun washing over the pasture would warm the scent if a fox had crossed over.

Old lines continued to tantalize them but not enough to open. No point boohooing on a stale line. It might sound great to the humans but mostly you'd walk your fox to death if hounds even got close to him. If a Jefferson hound was going to open, it would open on a strong, fresh line. Therefore, they had to work together very well and possess great drive. Colder-nosed hounds don't need all that much drive because they'll always find something to talk about. The Jefferson hounds had good noses but they weren't what's called cold-nosed, as some other types of foxhounds are. Each type of foxhound has its devotee, and always for good reasons.

“Let's go into the woods,”
Cora commanded.

“Be colder in there.”
Trinity questioned Cora's judgment, not a good idea.

“Yes, it will, you impertinent pup! And the fox knows that, too. He'll be a little more lax traveling through the underbrush. Don't you ever question me again or I'll roll you in front of everyone, humans included.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Cora trotted ahead, leapt over the stone wall, landing on soft, moist earth. These woods, mostly hardwoods, carried a different scent than evergreen woods. The scent of pine could be overwhelming in those woods, beautiful though they were.

She put her nose down. The rest of the pack crawled or leapt over. On landing they moved forward like the front line of a football team. To anyone loving hound work, this was an impressive sight. Not one hound lagged behind or skirted off.

For twenty minutes they worked in silence, total dedication.

“I got it!”
Trudy, thrilled to be the first, shouted.

Cora noted the direction of Trudy's travel, ran ahead of her by ten yards, put her nose down, and honored the third-year bitch's finding. The rest of the pack fell on the line so quickly that Shaker didn't have to blow the tripled notes in succession. He went right to one long note, tripled notes, repeating this three times. Betty and Sybil, on either side of the pack but about a quarter mile out, heard and knew it was time to press on.

Sister patted Aztec's neck, held him a moment so Shaker could get far enough ahead of her that she wouldn't crowd him, then she squeezed the six-year-old Thoroughbred and he answered with a smooth surge of power like the acceleration of a Mercedes 500S.

Sister reached the farm road in the woods. When the hounds turned hard left, she picked up the deer trail that Shaker, too, had picked up.

She emerged on the other side of the woods, where a twenty-acre field of Alamo switchgrass waved in the wind. This was one of Walter's forage experiments. Turned out to be useful for cattle but not much good for horses. The mice, ground nesters, and foxes sure liked it, though.

The hounds were in the switchgrass. Sister could see the long slender grasses bending as the hounds moved through. She usually rode around the outside of any planted field, but Walter yelled up, “Go on. I don't care.”

Heeding her joint master's advice, she plunged into the tall grasses, some swishing up over her feet, tickling Aztec's belly.

The music filled the air, a crescendo as sweet as Bach to a musician. Deep voices, middle voices, and the odd high notes of younger hounds blended into a chorus that had thrilled mankind since before the pyramids were built.

Artemis smiled on the hounds today. The mercury crept up to forty-two degrees, the air moist, low, the sky various shades of gray. Scenting was perfect.

Sister and Aztec blew through the twenty acres in a few heartbeats to soar over a tiger trap jump in the new fence line Walter built himself. They galloped down into a crevice in the next meadow, a tiny rivulet feeding a larger creek some half mile off, bisecting this whole meadow, which was in redbud clover. Aztec, beautifully balanced, powered over the frosty pasture. Then over an imposing hog's back jump, two strides, and a drop jump from the bank onto another low farm road heading at a ninety-degree right angle straight west.

The fox followed the shady part of the road, tiny ice crystals jutting out of the earth. This slowed the hounds down slightly, but the minute he crossed over another frosty redbud clover meadow, they picked up speed.

They flew through Mill Ruins in half an hour, soon finding themselves on a pre–Revolutionary War farm called Cocked Hat. Fortunately, the owners allowed the hunt to pass through. After being slowed by some old barbed-wire fences, Sister and the field were soon on their way but had to press to catch up with the hounds.

The fox turned back east. They had to stop again, throw coats over the old barbed-wire fences, jump over, and go. Whoever left their coat on the wire could either stop to pick it up or leave it, returning for it later. The pace was so good that Walter, who had dismounted to put his coat on the wire, thought “the hell with it,” and chose to ride in his vest and shirt. He was sweating. He also made note to finally panel Cocked Hat. It was last on everyone's list because the foxes rarely came this way.

If the fox was tiring he gave no evidence, for Betty, keen-eyed, caught sight of him vaulting over a fallen tree, serenely running on toward the hundred-acre enclosure called Shootrough, the very back of Mill Ruins. Peter had set up his clay pigeons here and Walter, sensibly, worked from close to the house out. It would be another three years before he cleaned up this field and fixed the fences; although the old snake fencing held, a few places sagged.

The fox leapt onto the top of the snake fencing and nimbly loped along, jumping over the places where the split rails crossed. He then jumped off, ran straight and true down to the strong creek that fed, finally, the millrace. He didn't use the creek at that point but ran alongside it, neatly stepping on stones or anything to foil his scent.

Betty, keeping him in sight and riding hard on Magellan, marveled at this big red's sangfroid.

Finally, he launched into the creek, swimming downstream, letting the current do most of the work. He clambered out two hundred yards later, shook himself, then trotted to his den, the main entrance being under the exposed roots of an enormous willow twenty yards from the stream but high up, for the ground rose up. Betty could see other holes in the ground from where she stopped, some cleverly concealed and others out in the open.

She breathed deeply, as did Magellan. They waited. The hounds sounded fabulous as they drew closer. She saw Cora and Dragon running neck and neck, the rest of the pack behind them by a few paces. Dragon flung himself into the main entrance. Cora followed.

As Shaker galloped up, Betty moved to him, wordlessly taking his reins as he dismounted.