Homeward Hound

by Rita Mae Brown

  “As do you, Darling.” Marty slipped her arm through his.

  Crawford stiffened, having just caught sight of a smartly turned-out Gregory Luckham. “That man is either thickheaded or impossibly arrogant or both. To show up here.”

  “You knew he was riding,” Marty, voice calm, cooed. “Why dignify him with noticing?”

  Crawford grunted.

  Charlotte, taking her cue from Marty, said, “Seeing how incredible this territory is, how much land is out here in the Chapel Crossroads area, he might realize he’s facing an expensive, toxic even, fight.”

  “Toxic. Good word.” Crawford grinned. “Where’s Sam?”

  “Coming up beside Gray. Trocadero looks calm. Sam is good for him.” Marty praised Sam.

  “He does look calm.” Crawford wanted to hunt the flashy youngster next season.

  Gregory Luckham chatted up Kasmir, remarking on how Tattenhall Station looked like something out of a Victorian photograph.

  Kasmir, smiling and subtle, acknowledged the compliment, adding, “My wish is it will remain so, a step back in time.”

  That was much better than growling, “No pipeline.”

  Crawford’s other stableman—not a rider, more of a cleaner, repairman, turning horses in and out—had his hand on Sam’s foot. The two laughed about something. Then Rory moved through the people, walking over to Crawford, Marty, and Charlotte.

  “Storm’s not supposed to hit until later but you can feel the mercury dropping,” the barrel-chested fellow declared. “Glad I put on extra layers.”

  “Glad I’m not riding,” Crawford said. “My feet are cold enough now and these Eddie Bauer boots are supposed to stay warm up to minus twenty degrees Fahrenheit.”

  “My feet are cold, too,” Marty agreed. “Why don’t we get in our cars?”

  “You girls go ahead,” Crawford advised. “Rory and I will take a look at the Carriage House. I want to make sure the delivered lumber is all inside. I didn’t spend all that money to have it ruined by weather.”

  He and Rory headed for his Range Rover while the women eagerly piled into her Range Rover. Marty cut on the motor and the heat. They watched the hunt move off. Then they headed back to the Howards’ big estate.

  The sky, slate gray, seemed to darken a bit.

  As the riders moved south, behind the station, the sound of hoofbeats muffled by the snow still provided that rhythm of horse gaits, a rhythm put to good effect by the Roman poet Horace and many poets later. Poetry and music mimic natural sounds and rhythms.

  Funny what goes through your head, Sister thought to herself as she held the reins lightly in her begloved hands, mustard colored. If the weather turned wet she’d reach under her saddle flap, leg forward, pull out a string glove from under the stirrup leathers, put it on, repeat the procedure for the opposite side. Her hands would get wet but the string gloves would not slide on the leather reins. You could keep your grip. Sister had hunted as a child. It came as easily as breathing, and along with it came a deep appreciation and love of nature, as well as the fact that no human being, hound, or horse was as intelligent as the fox.

  Off they rode. Ronnie Haslip rode alongside Gregory Luckham, his scarlet tails faded to perfection, which meant a long-lived foxhunter. His boots, made by Henry Maxwell, an English company, cost about seven thousand dollars new if bespoke: a subtle reminder of status, but a reminder nonetheless.

  No one said a word about the pipeline uproar even though most of those mounted people felt queasy about it. As hounds were not yet cast, whispered conversation could commence. These little moments usually involved a comment about your neighbor’s horse, hounds, or the weather. You could be next to an Oscar winner and what would you say? “Nice horse. Good mover.”

  If ever there was a sport that practiced equality, it was foxhunting. You could either ride the horse or you couldn’t. There were people out there in the invigorating air—they said invigorating but it was damned cold—who barely had two nickels to rub together. There were people like Kasmir who had billions and many who had a million or two, but most of these riders were middle-class whites and blacks, passionate about the game, adrenaline pumping.

  In the old days, during slavery and after, the African Americans rode as grooms, which meant they had to extricate their white employer or owner from trouble. Times had changed, perhaps not as fast as some would have it, but they had changed for the better.

  Following along in Daniella Laprade’s big-ass Range Rover—it was a vehicle made for country life so many people owned one—was Yvonne Harris. A conservative estimate was that Yvonne was worth double-digit millions having built an entertainment empire with her despised ex-husband in Chicago. Being driven, Aunt Daniella, who was coy about her age, smiled seraphically when people waved at her.

  And you’d better wave at Aunt Dan. A word from this formidable lady could make or break you.

  “Who is that with Ronnie?” Aunt Dan inquired.

  Yvonne replied, “Gregory Luckham, the president of Soliden Company, the big oil company embroiled in the fracking uproar. Had dinner with him and the Van Dorns last night. I’ll tell you about it as we drive along.”

  “Good for Ronnie, having him over land that is endangered.” Aunt Dan, eyesight good, squinted. “Why do people think we can enjoy all our comforts, electricity, cars, you name it, without despoiling the environment? If it isn’t oil it’s coal and if it’s windmills then it kills the birds in flight. People don’t want to face the truth.”

  Dewey Milford waved at Aunt Dan, who waved back. “Sneakiest real estate agent in Virginia, I swear. Just has an instinct for what the new people want.”

  “Oh, Aunt Dan, who is that with Sam?”

  Gray Lorillard, Sister’s partner—her generation would not say lover—and Gray’s brother, Sam, were Daniella’s nephews, her son having died two years ago. She was always close to her nephews but now closer.

  “The slight fellow?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s Raymie Woolfe.”

  “He looks comfortable.”

  “Steeplechase jockey. He and Sam competed against each other when young, then Sam went off to Harvard and”—a long breath—“came home from Harvard.”

  Yvonne had heard all this before for Sam, alcoholic, lost his scholarship at Harvard as well as his discipline. He slunk home in disgrace, found jobs working with horses, but wound up living at the train station with the rest of the drunks. His brother saved him by throwing him into a program in Greenville, North Carolina. Gray paid for it, too. Never threw it up in his brother’s face. Sam had been sober for over a decade and was now Yvonne’s riding instructor, for Crawford built a huge indoor arena big enough for indoor polo. She was determined to ride.

  Aunt Dan, noticing the conspicuous silence, grumbled. “Threw away a brilliant future. Brilliant.”

  “He has restored himself. He’s a good man, Aunt Dan. You can be proud of him. Do we need another asshole lawyer from Harvard?”

  At this the older woman exploded in laughter. “You’re sweet on him.”

  “I am not. I am never having another man in my life again.”

  “Well, baby girl, send them to me. I might be old but I can still wear their ass out. I’ve lost count of my husbands but I could handle another—if the price is right.”

  They both laughed as the field broke into a slow canter; all conversation stopped.

  Shaker Crown, the huntsman in his middle forties, rode ahead of Sister and the field. The hounds, eager, in front of him, picked up scent. As the snow lay on the ground but lightly, the fox would not be hampered. If so, Sister would have canceled the hunt. One must always give the quarry a sporting chance, which is why if a fox is spotted one hollers, “Tallyho” after counting to twenty. Actually only a flight leader or a whipper-in should do that, but in the excitement of seeing an insoucian
t fox, they are all insouciant, the person bellows, hat off pointing in the direction the fox was moving. If they wear a cap with a strap then they stretch out their hand using a handkerchief or their crop.

  The fox probably would have preferred hearing, “Isn’t he handsome?” but “Tallyho” would do.

  Looking down, Shaker noticed fresh tracks. Scent held, not hot but not fading. Promising.

  He didn’t blow his horn. Their noses were down. Why bring them up? He couldn’t stand a noisy huntsman. Shaker, set in his ways, thought only of his hounds. Never bring their noses up. He would call or blow a bit more often in rough territory or heavy woods just to let his whippers-in know where he or Sister was. As the Blue Ridge Mountains loomed to his right, to the west, one could easily ride into a ravine; sound would bounce around. Now with the leaves off the deciduous trees, sound carried much better, but sound and wind by the mountains could play tricks on you. Even the hounds with their fabulous hearing might pause, listen more intently.

  “He turned here.” Dasher leapt, turning himself in midair.

  A trusted hound, the others followed suit and now hounds ran. A lope, not a flat-out gallop, but the field awakened, a stiff coop loomed up ahead. Sister, an Episcopalian, nonetheless carried rosary beads. This jump did not elicit a call to the Blessed Virgin Mother but she needed to take it seriously. Actually, the jumps that often caused the most problems were smaller jumps because the rider didn’t take them seriously and then neither did the horse.

  Up and over she sailed on Aztec, such a handy chestnut Thoroughbred. Handy, sensible, loved leading the field and he loved Sister; the two of them made a wonderful team.

  Sarge, the young fox, heard the hounds, zigzagged, crossed the tertiary road.

  “Tallyho!” Aunt Dan beamed as Yvonne stopped, the fox forty yards ahead.

  “He’s a little fellow. What a gorgeous coat,” Yvonne, learning about foxhunting, exclaimed. “I think he’s the one who visits my doghouse.”

  “Young. He’ll get bigger. Maybe eight or nine pounds when he’s done. And that winter coat is lush. Oh dear.”

  A visitor’s horse refused the jump so the lady, put out, had to ride to the rear of the field and give everyone else the chance to go over. If a horse refuses, it gives the other horses ideas. Best to get someone over right away, which almost always takes care of that.

  “Nice jump. That Luckham fellow can ride,” Yvonne noticed. “Ronnie introduced us when I arrived. Perfectly calm given that this is the eye of the hurricane.”

  “Honey, every man wants to meet you.”

  “I am done with men. You mark my words.”

  “I am. I am.” The older woman, her silver-domed earrings highlighted by her silver hair, grinned. “Stop. Don’t move.”

  “What?” Yvonne, confused, asked.

  “Second Flight is coming up behind you.”

  Checking her rearview mirror, sure enough, the long line of those who did not jump trotted on the road.

  “Toughest job in foxhunting, leading Second Flight. Bobby Franklin has done it for years. He gets the sick, the lame, and the halt.” Aunt Daniella smiled again. “Well, I’m being a tiny bit sarcastic, but it can be difficult. Sister has the best riders in First Flight. But sometimes when one ages or is on a green horse, you go out with Second Flight.”

  “Sam says that’s where I will start.”

  “No one is better than Bobby. He’ll get you as close to the action as possible.”

  The hounds moved closer to the action so Sarge picked up speed. He sailed over the stone fence enclosing Old Paradise pastures, the estate, having endured as much tragedy as joy.

  The white field, open, meant he’d better step on it. No point in being out in the open any longer than possible. The two women in the car could clearly see him hook left heading toward woods’ edge, where boulder outcroppings were glimpsed between trees.

  Flying now, hounds closed with their quarry. Sarge, with a good head start, easily vaulted onto a large rock, then another, finally slipping into a crevice large enough for him but not a hound. His den, a little cave, filled with straw, old towels, old dog toys he stole from the farms around the area, provided cozy quarters from wind, rain, sleet, snow, for the main opening faced east and weather usually came from the west. Another exit, way in the rear, off to the side, also kept out the weather. And just in case, the little fellow had a backup den forty yards away under a huge fallen tree.

  The hounds leapt onto the rocks, only a few at a time, for it wasn’t broad enough for the pack.

  Trident, a young hound, called down. “We know you’re in there.”

  “What are you going to do about it?” Sarge taunted.

  “Well—” The young hound wrinkled his brow.

  “Don’t encourage a smart mouth.” Diana, a lead hound, chastised the youngster. “Come on. Get down. We might get one more cast for the weather is changing.”

  The clouds, stacking up on the west side of the Blue Ridge Mountains, were fifteen minutes away from peeping over the top and then another fifteen before they swept down, the wind moaning before the snow arrived, early.

  Sister rode up as Shaker had dismounted to blow “Gone to Ground.”

  The hounds wiggled in excitement. They had done their job after all.

  “The Weather Channel predicted the snow would arrive early afternoon. I say we hunt back. We’ve got some time.”

  “Yes, madam.” Shaker, who had known Sister for decades, addressed her correctly in the hunt field.

  Wesley Blackford, “Weevil,” held Shaker’s horse. The older man mounted with ease. Weevil then fell back as he rode today as third whipper-in. Tootie Harris, Yvonne’s daughter, rode as second whipper-in on the left while Betty Franklin, first whipper-in, rode on the right. The side they covered had nothing to do with their ranking and both ladies were honorary, which is to say amateurs. They knew their stuff. Weevil was paid, therefore professional. Betty, in her fifties, had the territory memorized plus she remembered the great-great-grandparents of some of the hounds. Family traits passed. And most of all, she knew Sister. Their friendship, deep and loving, carried both through life’s sorrows and joys.

  Sister watched Weevil, thirty, perhaps a year or two over the 0, ride to the rear. He carried himself on the ground or on a horse with a peculiar masculine grace. Every action appeared effortless. He hunted with Toronto–North York where he learned how to do things properly, winding up in Virginia through fate. His grandfather had hunted the Jefferson Hounds back in the early fifties. While one rarely describes a man as beautiful, he was beautiful and quite unaware of it.

  “Come along,” Shaker called to the hounds.

  They moved to the edge of the pasture, jumped a tiger trap that was built like a coop but with logs facing upward, stacked next to one another. Snow rested in the crevices between the logs, which gave a few horses pause. The riders kept their leg on and everyone popped over.

  “Lieu in,” Shaker called out using the ancient Norman term meaning “Go in, get in the covert, and find your fox.”

  If it was good enough for William the Conqueror, it was good enough for modern foxhunters.

  The hounds fanned out, noses down. Nothing doing. Pookah, another younger hound, drifted toward woods’ edge. Another huntsman would have thought the hound was trailing off skirting, but Shaker knew his hounds. Pookah stopped. His stern wagged. He sniffed. More tail work.

  His sister, Pansy, called out. “What do you think?”

  “An old line. But maybe it will heat up.”

  Gregory Luckham, next to Ronnie, as the field had pulled up, said low, “Skirting.”

  Ronnie shook his head. “No. Shaker makes a loose cast. We can in this territory. That’s a blue-chip hound.”

  How wise of Ronnie to call attention to both the hound and the fabulous territory.

 
; A loose cast was a bit like throwing your hounds on the ground like dice. Fixtures crisscrossed with roads, too much traffic, demanded that hounds stay more tightly together. This was hard on hounds, huntsmen, and staff, to say nothing of wildlife pressured by too many humans.

  “Got ’em,” Pookah finally sang out.

  The hounds rushed to him, noses down. Everyone trusted the hound even though young and yes, they had a good line. All sang out at once. A sound that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

  Sister grinned, kicked into a canter, a low dip ahead; she leaned back in the saddle, her legs a bit ahead of the girth.

  Raymie, the steeplechase rider, had his legs even farther ahead. He considered it his insurance policy. The man had cleared so many big fences, one would think he wouldn’t pay attention, but he did pay attention, which was why he was still riding in his eighth decade, riding hard.

  On they thundered, coming within sight of the Corinthian columns of Old Paradise, forlorn standards of a different time. Hounds cut right. The field also cut right and then they heard the wind, which sounded as though someone turned on a radio dial. Silence except for hoofbeats and hound music and all of a sudden, a low, loud moan. Trees began to bend.

  Sister looked up. The clouds, gunmetal gray, skidded down the east side of the Blue Ridge as though on a roller coaster, opened.

  They were a good four miles from Tattenhall Station. The snow started heavy but the wind proved the initial problem. For one thing it blew the scent to bits. Hounds stopped running, searched. What scent there was was already a hundred yards to their east. Not that it would hold.

  To the side of those Corinthian columns stood the rehabilitated stone stable and to the left of that, in a line, Crawford and Rory stood in the Carriage House, which was being rehabilitated.

  The lumber, neatly stacked, would be protected from the elements, but Crawford’s wrath exploded when he heard hounds.

  “Goddammit, I want that fool off my property! I never said Luckham could come onto Old Paradise.” He strode toward the imposing double doors.