The Hunt Ball (3 page)

Moneybags, Iota, and Parson gleefully followed.

Within a few minutes they came up behind the field of twenty-five. As it was a Thursday hunt, the number of riders was smaller than on a Saturday. The mists kept lifting like a slippery veil.

Marty, Crawford's wife, turned to see her wet husband as they galloped along. She said nothing because hounds were speaking, but then, even if at a check, she would have remained silent.

In some ways, the checks separated the sheep from the goats for foxhunters. It was a far better test of one's foxhunting etiquette than taking a whopping big fence in style. Though one had to admit, the latter was far more exciting.

They thundered on. Water spritzed off Crawford's coat, his cap, and Czpaka's sleek coat.

They checked hard. Hounds bolted up toward a thick overgrown hillock. By now the riders could see, as the mists hung above their heads.

Sister waited for a moment. She didn't want to crowd hounds or her huntsman, Shaker Crown. As field master she kept the riders together, tried to keep hounds in sight yet stay out of the way.

Shaker hopped off Showboat as Dr. Walter Lungrun, the joint master, trotted up to hold the horse's reins.

Down low in the hayfield they'd just ridden across stood Betty Franklin, longtime honorary whipper-in. An old apple orchard was on the left by the deeply sunken farm road leading up to Hangman's Ridge.

Although she couldn't be seen, Sybil Bancroft, waiting in there, caught her breath after the hard run.

She, too, was an honorary whipper-in, which meant she wasn't paid for the tremendous time and effort she put into Jefferson Hunt.

Both paid and unpaid staff routinely perform heroic duties. Even if paid for it, no one enters hunt service without a grand passion for the game. You can't handle it otherwise. It's much too tough for modern people accustomed to the cocoon of physical comfort.

Comet had a den on the other side of Soldier Road, a two-lane paved ribbon, east-west, two and a half miles from this spot as the crow flies. As it was, St. Just, the king of the crows, was circling. He hated foxes and wanted to make sure he knew where Comet was.

Shaker took a few steps upward but couldn't get through the pricker bushes and old still-blooming pink tea roses. The remains of a stone foundation could be glimpsed through the overgrowth.

Comet dashed into an old den there that had been vacant for four years. The original tenant, a large red dog fox, had been shot and killed.

No foxhunter can abide anyone who kills a fox in such a manner.

Few American foxhunters want to kill a fox. Even if they were vulpicides, they wouldn't murder too many. The land, the crops planted, and the ethos of American foxhunting mitigated against the kill.

Once in the old den, Comet immediately saw room for improvement and decided he'd abandon his den at Foxglove Farm for this one. He'd be hunting in his sister's territory, but he was sure he and Inky could accommodate each other.

Like all fox dens, this one was cleverly placed, drainage good, fresh water close by. The original tenants had created many entrances and exits, strategically placed.

“Dig him out!”
Trident's paws flew in the soft earth.

Hearing the frenzy, Comet laughed.
“You can dig all the way to China, you nitwit. You'll never get me.”

“Did you hear that?”
Little Diddy couldn't believe her ears.

“Blowhard.”
Dragon dug harder than Trident.

“Not as bad as Target. That's the most conceited fox that's ever lived.”
Diana mentioned a red dog fox who lived over at the Bancrofts.

“Good hounds, good hounds.” Shaker blew “gone to ground,” praised his hounds a bit more, then took the reins from Walter, lightly lifted himself into the saddle, and blew hounds away from the den. “Boss?” He looked to Sister Jane even though Walter had been joint master for a year now.

Walter took no offense because Sister was in charge of breeding the hounds, training them with Shaker. His responsibility revolved around taking territory duties off her shoulders. They both handled landowners, usually a pleasure.

Walter, however, studied bloodlines, preparing for that distant day when the weight of this would fall on him. He prayed the day would be very distant because she knew so much, and also because Jane Arnold was beloved by most, hated by few.

Walter believed you can judge a person by her enemies as well as her friends.

“Let's go in, Shaker. No point in getting the hounds footsore, and we've been going hard for most of two hours.”

“All right, then.” He blew a note evenly, then lifted it with a lilt so his hounds knew they were walking in, as did his two whippers-in, sweating although it was forty-nine degrees out.

The horses blew out of their large nostrils. Everyone was glad to be turning back toward the trailers and toward an impromptu tailgate.

Bunny, riding with Mrs. Norton, her boss and dear friend, pulled off to the side, then fell in with Crawford, Marty, and the three girls, whom she called “The Three Amuses.”

“Where were you?” She stared accusingly at Tootie, wet from the knees down. Her eyes passed to a very silent Valentina and Felicity.

Crawford quickly answered. “I fell behind and the girls stayed with me and then I had the bad luck to slip in Broad Creek. If it weren't for Tootie, Czpaka would have run off. You've trained your girls well, Bunny. I'm certainly grateful.”

She beamed at the praise. Bunny's ego rested close to the surface. “I'm so glad they could be of service to you, Crawford.”

“Yes, thank you, girls.” Marty smiled broadly at the three kids, each pretty in her own way, although Tootie's green eyes just jumped out at one.

As Bunny turned to ride up to Charlotte Norton, Crawford winked.

“Mr. Howard, she would have torn us a new one,” Valentina sighed. “Thank you.”

“Yes, I owe you one, sir. It's our fault Czpaka spooked.” Tootie truly was contrite.

“This is foxhunting,” he said and winked again. “All for one and one for all.”

Each Custis Hall student made note that she'd heard that earlier. They would find out soon enough how critical and testing that philosophy was: simple, true, and to the bone.

C H A P T E R   2

A
fter the tailgate, the rigs pulled out and Sister returned to the kennels. Her house dogs—Raleigh, a Doberman, and Rooster, a harrier—bounded along as the mercury climbed to the low sixties, the mists dissipated, and the dew sparkled on the still-green grass.

Golliwog, the calico, long-hair cat, sauntered behind, not wishing to appear to be part of the group.

Sister opened the kennel door as Shaker was walking toward the office.

“Good day, really,” he beamed.

“Indeed. The fog gets disorienting but—” Sister didn't finish her sentence as Betty, wearing her ancient Wellies, trooped toward her.

“New den.”

“Old one, new fox.” Sister smiled.

“Spooky out there for a little bit, wasn't it?” Betty, having lost twenty pounds, now back to her schoolgirl weight, burst with energy.

“Clammy damp.” Shaker heard a yelp. He walked back down the wide aisle. “All right now.”

“He started it,”
Dreamboat, a hound, tattled.

“I did not. All I did was step on his tail
,
”
Doughboy defended himself.

Shaker sternly peered into the young boys' run, as they called it. “You all did very well today. Don't spoil it.”

The youngsters wagged their tails, eyes bright. They'd put their fox to ground, working right along with the “big kids.”

Shaker returned to his master and whipper-in. “Sybil said her ears played tricks on her at the base of Hangman's Ridge. She thought she heard a truck motor up there.”

“Sound bounced like a ball.” Sister liked Sybil. Her mother, Tedi, was a friend of fifty years.

“Where is Sybil?”

“Had to hurry home. Board meeting in town. Marty Howard convinced her to serve on her literacy campaign group. Say, before I forget, Shaker, Halloween night, the boys from the Miller School will be doing something up on Hangman's Ridge. I said I didn't care as long as they cleaned up their mess. They're going to the big dance at Custis Hall and then Charlotte has allowed the girls to go to the ridge, chaperoned, of course, for an hour of fright after the dance. Guess it will be big beans.”

Betty grimaced. “Too many hanged ghosts. Aren't there eighteen or something like that?”

“Think so.” Shaker rubbed his chin. He'd missed a spot, fingered the stubble.

Sister thought of the souls wandering on the ridge as well as the souls of all those they harmed in life. “Well, the world's full of anguish. Let's keep it at bay.”

“I'll go start on the tack.” Betty wiped her hands on the coveralls she'd slipped over her britches. “That's my contribution to keeping anguish at bay.”

“The Custis Hall girls already did it.”

“They did?” Betty smiled.

“Their own idea. Neither Charlotte nor Bunny pushed them to it.” Sister, a board member of Custis Hall, was pleased at the young women's thoughtfulness. “Good job, too.”

“Bunny Taliaferro makes them break down the tack and clean it with toothbrushes,” Betty laughed. “Not every day, of course.”

“She's a hard nut, that one.” Among these two friends, Shaker could freely express himself.

“Yes, she is. A good-looking woman, but stern,” Sister agreed.

“Sure knows how to turn riders into horsemen. Got to give her that.” Betty folded her arms over her chest, then noticed a cobweb up in the corner of the office that she had to attack immediately with the crop Shaker had placed on the desk. “Gotcha.”

“Spider will haunt you,” Sister laughed.

“I didn't kill her. I've only invited her to spin her web elsewhere.”

“I sure miss Jennifer and Sari,” Sister changed the subject. “Not just because they cleaned tack. Those two were a tonic.”

Jennifer was Betty's youngest daughter. Her oldest, Cody, languished in jail, having fallen by the wayside thanks to drugs. Sari Rusmussen was Jennifer's best friend and the daughter of Shaker's girlfriend of one year.

“Well, she loves, loves, loves Colby College. I tell her, you keep loving it, honey, wait until that Maine winter settles in for eight months. She and Sari talk to each other every day via e-mail even though they're roommates.”

“Why in the world do they do that?” Sister, although a fan of her iMac G5, still considered using it drudgery.

“They have one other roommate,” Betty said and burst out laughing. “And they can't stand her, of course.”

“What do you hear?” Sister asked Shaker.

“Thriving.” He paused. “Lorraine's not. In the last month she's sent four care packages, one a week.” He smiled a warm, engaging smile.

A knock on the door turned their heads in that direction.

“Come on in,” Sister called out.

Marty opened it and stuck her head inside. “You didn't forget our meeting, did you?”

Betty and Sister looked at each other, because they had.

“Oh, Marty, I'm so sorry. I saw Sam drive away with Crawford in the passenger seat and I blanked out. Betty, come on.”

“Let me get out of my coveralls and Wellies.”

“You make a fashion statement,” Marty teased her.

“The aroma of horse manure is a bonus. Be right up.”

As Sister left with Marty, the two dogs fell in behind and Golly brought up the rear.

“Black bottom, you got 'em.”
Golly sang a few notes from the old 1926 song.

“She's referring to you.”
Rooster's pink tongue stuck out between his teeth.

“I'm not paying any attention to her.”
Raleigh lifted his noble head higher.

“How much is that doggy in the window?”
Golly moved forward in time to Patti Page's 1953 hit song.

“Golly, what's the matter with you, going mental on us again?”
Rooster loved to torment the cat. It was mutual.

“Death to all dogs!”
she screamed, shot forward, jumped off the ground, and hit Rooster on the side with all four paws. She bounded off like a swimmer making a turn in a pool, then she scorched ahead of the dogs, blasted past the humans, and climbed up the old pawpaw tree, where she immediately struck a pose on a large branch.

“You're very impressive,” Sister drily commented as she and Marty passed under the pawpaw tree.

“I am who I am! I am the mightiest cat in all Christendom. Dogs shudder at the mention of my name, Killer Kitty!”

“I'm going to throw up,”
Rooster coughed.

“Roundworms,”
Golly taunted.

Raleigh, on his hind legs, tried to reach the branch.

Betty, hurrying to catch up, called out to the sleek animal. “Your mother will give you such a smack.”

Sister turned and beheld Raleigh, Rooster waiting at the bottom of the tree. “Boys, leave her alone.”

“You're lucky she protects you or I'd be throwing up a big hairball: you,”
Rooster barked with mock menace.

Sister called over her shoulder, “Boys, she's not worth it.”

“Ha!”
Raleigh dropped to all fours and pranced toward the three women as Betty caught up.

Rooster followed.

“She doesn't protect me. I can blind you with a single blow. I can tear out your whiskers one by one. I can bite your tail in two.”

“Ignore her,” Sister said in a singsong voice.

“You're afraid of me. Admit it!”
Golly ratcheted up the volume. She huffed, she thrashed her tail. No response. The two dogs didn't even turn to watch her. Disgruntled, she backed down the tree, grumbling loudly, so loudly that Cora, the head bitch, could hear it in the big girls' run.

“Golly, pipe down, I need my beauty rest,”
Cora said as she stretched out.

“Face it, girl, you need plastic surgery,”
Golly fired back again at high volume. She then dug her claws in the grass, wiggled her behind, and tore off, flying past the dogs and humans. She soared over the chrysanthemums filling richly glazed pots by the mudroom door. She then sat down to lick her front paws as the people approached.

“Golly certainly has a high opinion of herself,” Betty laughed.

“Don't they all?” Sister laughed in turn.