THE MASTERS BALL
by
Anne-Marie Lacy
Published in the United States by
Indigo-Inc. Publishing
2nd Edition
Dust jacket layout/design Wesley Carter
Interior layout/editing Albert L. Menefee IV
Copyright 2011 by Anne-Marie Lacy
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.
PREFACE AND DEDICATION
This book is a work of fiction, and the individuals and events depicted herein are the fruit of the author’s fertile imagination. That said, within these pages I have attempted to accurately depict one of my favorite rare and endangered species, the Fox Hunting Southern Gentleman. My life has been enriched immeasurably by contact with this exotic creature, whose old-world charm and chivalry are unfortunately qualities of a dying breed.
The Fox Hunting Southern Gentleman is a beguiling combination of hero and rogue, part reckless adventurer and part homespun woodsman. He is set apart from the typical modern man by his love and understanding of nature, and his gracious behavior towards animals and humans alike. So if my characters seem familiar to you, perhaps you are lucky enough to have encountered one of these unforgettable individuals yourself. And if you have, you will understand why I am dedicating this book to the foremost example I know of: my husband Allen Lacy.
Table of Contents
A MISSING MASTER
THE END OF AN ERA
IN MEMORIAM
RETURN OF A SCOUNDREL
HUNTERSLEIGH
HUNTERSLEIGH REVISITED
A DARING RESCUE
AN INVITATION
FIRESIDE CHAT
A DAY WITH THE WATERFORD HOUNDS
AN UNFORTUNATE END TO A PERFECT DAY
MOTIVE AND OPPORTUNITY
BLACKWOOD FARM
THE LOCAL CONSTABULARY
SHERIFF NOAH ON THE CASE
DINNER AT FOXFIELD
A RIDING LESSON
ANNABELLE OFFERS TO LEND A HAND
BACHELOR PAD
BUSTED
THE LAND DOWN UNDER
THE SHERIFF COMES THROUGH
CLOSING HUNT
FIRST FLIGHT
THE HUNTER BECOMES THE PREY
MASTERS BALL
CHAPTER I
A MISSING MASTER
Annabelle Farley, resplendent in a black satin gown with a small train, sat on a tiny gilt chair at a table in the Pierre Hotel’s ballroom doing her best to look cool and sophisticated. Like a child at a birthday party, the forty-three year old southerner was thrilled to have been invited, for the first time, to the ninety- seventh annual Hunt Ball of the Masters of Foxhounds Association. She was also looking forward to hearing her friend, Edmund Evans, a Joint Master of Tennessee’s Hill County Hounds, give his annual talk. She surveyed the crowd at the various tables, men looking regal in scarlet tails and women looking chic wearing black and white. Just minutes before, all had been summoned from their cocktails into the ballroom by the clarion call of a hunting horn. Edmund, a past president of the MFHA and that night’s keynote speaker, was Annabelle’s new crush. Handsome and fit at sixty-two, he had finally turned his attentions to her after years of exciting several of her friends into indiscretions. Edmund was well known for his prowess in chasing both foxes and women. Annabelle was totally sure that her husband, Nick, a newly minted Joint Master of the Hunt, had been chosen because of Edmund’s attentions to her.
But where was Edmund? Annabelle scrutinized the room. Even though Hill County Hounds representatives were seated at the very back of the room, a situation Nick appeared to find irritating, she did not find Edmund in his seat of honor at the head table. “He’s probably still in the bar”, she thought, “charming some latecomers with his tall tales of life as a dashing horseman.”
She had missed him at the cocktail hour, too, where she’d wanted to tell him about her recent adventure. New York City’s weather in January was foul. It had snowed two feet the day before and the temperature had fallen to fifteen degrees, but Annabelle and her two best friends, Marguerite Robertson and Shelley Fitzpatrick, were not to be denied their visit and the party. Wasn’t the MFHA Hunt Ball rich in pomp and tradition? Hadn’t they blown their month’s dividends and allowances on evening gowns from Yves Saint Laurent, Vera Wang, and Ralph Lauren? Hadn’t they searched high and low for the perfect black and white gowns that were de rigueur so as not to clash with the scarlet splendor of the gentlemen? Annabelle looked across the table at Marguerite’s generous cleavage above her black velvet—a bit much, she decided, but definitely interesting to the men. She smoothed the strapless top over her own small breasts and comforted herself that her gown was more fabulous than her wedding gown had been. She did notice, though, that Nick, who sat across from her looking as cool and confident in his scarlet as he had at their wedding fifteen years earlier, was nonetheless turning his attention to the area above Marguerite’s waist.
“Has anyone seen Edmund?” she inquired of the table. Harold, Marguerite’s husband, said he had seen Edmund walk off with Hunt member Randall Dodge who, though living in New York, often flew to Tennessee to fox hunt.
“Oh, I’d like to see him, too!” cried Annabelle. Randall’s globetrotting single life never failed to entertain her.
A young Master of the Crimson Valley Hounds in eastern Kentucky interrupted Annabelle’s comment to continue his questions about Hill County’s horsy playground.
“We have some 40,000 acres of contiguous land to hunt over,” said Nick. “Edmund has been extremely successful in wooing our landowners.”
“Are most of them female?” Annabelle looked up. Edmund’s exploits had obviously crossed the state line.
“No,” answered Nick, somewhat sourly. “If they were, we’d probably have 80,000 acres!”
Annabelle resisted saying something controversial, such as objecting to a proposed Walmart for the town of Guilford in Hill County’s fox hunting territory. Instead, she asked for the second time, “Where on earth could Edmund be?” Already the salad course had been served.
“Why don’t you go round him up?” Harold asked her, laughing, as Nick scowled.
“I will,” she replied with the same determination that had earlier gotten her and her two friends to the Pierre from the Plaza after having been deserted by their husbands on the hotel’s red-carpeted steps.
Standing in the Plaza’s warm lobby only moments before, the women had blessed New York for giving them a legitimate reason to be swathed in mink, a rare occurrence in their native Tennessee. Now, as the snow renewed its efforts, they were shivering in their furs and Annabelle secretly wished for the sultry south. The women had watched their husbands slog through the mess the few hundred yards to the Pierre while cheerily calling out to their wives, “The doorman will get ya’ll a taxi!” Unfortunately, Annabelle and her friends were fifteenth in line.
Annabelle had caught a glimpse of a dejected looking man pulling up on a bicycle that towed a sort of lawn chair on wheels, the entire conveyance covered in heavy clear plastic that zipped around its frame. Against the objections of the Plaza’s doorman, and despite the derisive snickers of the other tourists, Annabelle had looped the train of her dress over her arm, pulled back the plastic cover of the tiny rickshaw, and bade Shelley and Marguerite to hop into the contraption with her.
As she now swept from the ballroom in search of Edmund, she smiled as she remembered the three women in their beautiful gowns being jumbled up in the small compartment like clothes in an overstuffed hamper. Annabelle had to la
y prone over the other two in a space that could accommodate a six year old comfortably, the three swaying and lurching as the bicyclist-driver tried to get his legs in gear. She had made a joke of it. “Trip to Masters’ Ball turns tragic when rickshaw driver dies of heart attack—details at eleven.”
But, the valiant charioteer, though panting, red in the face, and puffing loudly, got them to their destination. Even though the trip seemed like ten miles instead of one-quarter, he shook the snow from his cap and ushered them out of their cocoon to the amusement of the doorman, saying, “Here we are, ladies!” Annabelle smiled again, remembering her only thought at the time had been, “What if Edmund saw us?” He would never think her glamorous or sophisticated again if he witnessed her disheveled exit from behind the plastic curtain.
However, they never laid eyes on Edmund during the interval of drinks at the bar, nor when finding their way to the ballroom where they sat down carefully after having spent time rearranging their makeup and attire in the ladies’ room. Now, as Annabelle took stock of her surroundings—all she knew about the hotel was its motto, “From this place hope beams”, a statement devoutly wished—she found herself in a close encounter with the very man whom, apart from Edmund, she most wanted to see—Randall Dodge, the debonair bachelor New Yorker. She greeted him effusively and a little coyly, standing back so he might take in her designer gown and appreciate its effect. To her surprise, instead of the flattering comment she expected, he simply said, “Not now, Annabelle,” and rushed off. Annabelle felt deflated, but comforted herself with the thought that Edmund would certainly react in a more positive manner.
More anxious than ever to locate him, she swallowed her pride, moved on, and finally found herself looking down over a balcony next to the grand marble staircase that led to the hotel’s main lounge. It was deserted, except…Annabelle gasped in horror! Directly below her, alone at the foot of the staircase with his head and right arm at grossly unnatural angles, lay Edmund. The scarlet tails were spread behind him, one showing its paisley silk lining. Annabelle did the natural thing—she screamed bloody murder and rushed down the staircase, almost upending herself and breaking a heel of her beautiful Manolo sandals in her rush.
Within seconds of her scream, the hotel staff, Nick, Harold, and many of the assembled Masters ran like a well trained pack of hounds harkening to the call of a huntsman’s horn. Annabelle was found on her knees with her face close to Edmund’s, crying, “He’s not breathing! Oh, why didn’t I look for him earlier? I knew it wasn’t like him to be late for his speech.”
And so it was that the ninety-seventh Masters of Foxhounds Association Hunt Ball came to an abrupt and tragic end as Edmund Evans’ death was validated by the diagnosis of Dr. Robert Wolfe, Master of New York’s Farmingdale Hounds. “He must have tripped on the stairs,” was his brilliant diagnosis. Annabelle, for once not enjoying the attention she was receiving, thought about how she had imagined Edmund chatting somewhere with members of his unofficial fan club, so involved in tale-telling that he had completely forgotten his official duties. Instead, he had fallen to his death.
Within minutes, representatives of the New York Police Department arrived on the scene, curiosity at its peak. They had never before been called to investigate the death of a man who was dressed in such bright sartorial splendor, seldom seen even in New York City.
Poor Annabelle—her wondrous night at the Masters’ Ball was over before it had begun, along with her hoped-for romance with Edmund Evans. After answering questions by the police that included if she had noticed anyone in the area where Edmund had been found, Annabelle realized she had forgotten to mention her run-in with Randall Dodge. She decided the encounter was not worth mentioning as it had been near the entrance to the ballroom, and he was probably returning from the men’s room. Annabelle sat shivering in her mink coat holding a hot rum toddy, Nick’s arms around her shoulders. Her dark eyes filled with tears as she realized Edmund would never laugh with her over the rickshaw adventure, nor regale her with adventures of his own. With that thought she broke away from Nick and ran to grab her old friend’s hand one last time.
CHAPTER II
THE END OF AN ERA
The picturesque hunt country straddling Hill and Guilford counties that is the domain of the Hill County Hounds is like a snapshot from America’s past. The area is easily reached from Nashville by traveling south on I-65, but the age of the automobile appears to end there. Within a quarter-mile of the interstate lies a horseman’s paradise of unpaved roads that connect vast tracts of the most beautiful hills and dales imaginable. The area is sparsely populated with farmhouses, many owned by those who enjoy fox hunting, and are flanked by horse barns and fenced pastures containing equine occupants.
In addition to Guilford’s aesthetic qualities, the hills teem with southern fox hunters’ twenty-first century quarry of choice, the coyote. When the fox population began to decrease rapidly in the early 1990’s due to the encroachment of coyotes, many southern hunts responded by breeding hounds with increased speed and stamina to pursue the faster animal. In contrast to foxes, coyotes rely on their incredible speed to simply outrun a pack of hounds, quickly leaving a Hunt’s territory if it isn’t large enough.
As a full-time resident of the county, Annabelle Farley could look out upon the Guilford countryside whenever she wanted. Today, from her window seat perch on the second floor of one of the more comfortable old farmhouses, Annabelle stared out at the landscape with an unhappy face. Almost a week had passed since Edmund’s tragic death. In fact, a memorial service would be held that afternoon in his honor at the tiny Presbyterian Church he had occasionally attended.
A light snow was beginning to fall which normally would have delighted Annabelle. She loved few things as she loved the Guilford hunting country—the working farms with their cozy smoking chimneys, the rugged steep terrain. The change in seasons or even the weather brought a new beauty to admire, but this year the sadness and sense of loss she had experienced over the past several days clouded her enjoyment of the first snowfall of winter. She wondered what Hill County Hounds would do without its most dynamic Master.
She gazed across the wide front lawn to where her young horse, Samson, kicked and cavorted in the white flakes. She could not recall another time when his antics had failed to bring a smile to her lips, but today she merely sighed and looked past him toward the road while waiting for her friends to arrive with more condolences.
In addition to missing her friend and mentor, Annabelle could not shake the feeling of dissatisfaction she had each time she recalled the manner of his death. It was generally accepted that he had slipped and fallen while descending the staircase, breaking his neck at some point on the way down and striking his head when he came to rest on the marble floor. According to testimonies of doctors at the inquest in New York, either blow would have been sufficient to have caused his death.
It was not the technical, biological cause of Edmund’s death that kept Annabelle awake at night, however. Even after questioning everyone in attendance at the Ball, the police were still not able to establish conclusively what Edmund’s last movements had been. Where had he been going when he fell? Why had he been heading toward the bar when the crowd already halfway through dinner? Although she realized these were minor events in a life such as Edmund’s, she felt a compelling desire to know more details of how he came to be lying at the foot of the staircase in the Pierre Hotel, even if the police seemed convinced he had simply lost his balance.
She had not seen Shelley and Marguerite since they had returned from New York and parted at the airport. Today, she had called and asked them to come by for coffee and a chat; both to add a little normal activity to the day and to see if they shared her unsatisfied curiosity about Edmund’s last movements.
Marguerite was the first to arrive so pulled her green Range Rover past the walkway to leave room for Shelley. When she saw the vehicle enter the drive, Annabelle jumped up from her seat and was downstairs t
o open the door before Marguerite could ring the bell.
The two friends said nothing for a long moment. Finally Annabelle said, “This is all just too awful. I can’t seem to snap out of it.”
“Well, none of us can,” said Marguerite, closing the heavy old door behind her as they made their way toward the kitchen. “I don’t suppose things will settle down around here for quite some time. Edmund was a huge influence on this Hunt, and this place, even,” she said, meaning Guilford. It was true that Edmund had begun thirty years earlier to fight against the proliferation of strip malls, and worked diligently to secure permission from landowners to hunt across their properties.
“I know,” said Annabelle. “He was a huge influence on me. I just don’t feel there’s any closure by the way things were left.”
Marguerite was pouring herself a cup of coffee. She looked up at Annabelle curiously. “Closure?” she asked quizzically.
“I just want to know what really happened to him—that night at the Ball, I mean. Why was he so late for dinner in the first place?” Annabelle shrugged her shoulders as she spoke, clearly dissatisfied with her own inability to see deeper into that fateful night.
“We’ll never know those things,” said Marguerite, sitting down with her cup. “He was probably just talking to someone, telling tall tales as usual, and forgot the time.”
“But who was he talking to?” asked Annabelle. “That’s what I mean. It makes me crazy that I just found him there and don’t know what really happened.”
“That’s the second time you’ve used the phrase ‘what really happened’,” said Marguerite, now starting to smile at Annabelle in spite of the grimness of their topic.
At that moment, Shelley appeared at the back door. Annabelle rose quickly to let her in, gave her a long, hard hug, and took her Barbour coat and hat while Shelley and Marguerite exchanged greetings.
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