The Masters Ball

by Anne-Marie Lacy

  “Well done, Kiddo!” Edmund exclaimed, and Annabelle, herself, was surprised and pleased she had managed so well. “Well done!” he said again. “I didn’t catch your sleight-of-hand. Amazing!” He smiled proudly at his friend, and then faded away slowly, leaving his smile to linger.

  It was again cold and silent a few nights later when two more visitors came to Huntersleigh, but they had their own key and knew the correct alarm code. They were quite a bit more calm and purposeful than Annabelle had been, because they knew exactly what they were looking for and where it ought to be.

  The younger, smaller individual waited impatiently while the other one painstakingly entered the alarm code. Although inferior in age and size to his companion, he was clearly the leader of the two.

  No alarm sounded this time. They quietly made their way through the library into Edmund’s office where they turned on the small desk lamp.

  The leader took one look at the pile of papers and the upturned waste can on Edmund’s desk, then turned to his companion, “What the hell is this?” he asked in the unpleasant tone of one who doesn’t like surprises.

  “I don’t know, boss. I ain’t been here ‘til now.”

  “I don’t know who else has a key”, said the other one, cowering humbly, despite his considerable advantage in both height and weight.

  “Damn it to hell!” said the leader as he looked quickly through the pile of papers. Not finding what he sought, he turned to the fax machine. Unlike Edmund, he was well acquainted with the various features it boasted, including its electronic memory.

  To his surprise and dismay, an error light was flashing on the display function. “Some idiot has screwed this up!” he said furiously. He pushed several buttons on the machine, and when there was no response, he cursed again. With a swipe of his arm he knocked the machine off of the desk and onto the tile floor.

  “Son of a bitch!” he now addressed his companion. “If you weren’t so stupid, I could have sent you after the damn thing and not had to wait and do it myself. I ought to…”

  The minion backed quickly away to avoid a fate similar to that of the fax machine. “Oh, boss, don’t worry. Maybe he threw it away as soon as he got it,” he said with the air of one used to being blamed for anything that went wrong.

  The two intruders left Huntersleigh without what they had sought and locked the door behind them. Soon the house was quiet and still again, just as if they had never been there.

  CHAPTER VII

  A DARING RESCUE

  The next Saturday morning dawned cold, gray, and wet, typical of mid February in Tennessee. As miserable as those conditions were for the rest of humanity, Annabelle and the other fox hunters knew it was perfect weather to run a coyote. The heavy humidity would keep the scent close to the ground and the noses of the foxhounds.

  This was the first time Hill County Hounds had hunted since Edmund’s death. As Annabelle donned her silk long- johns for protection from the chill, she thought about how differently she would have felt on this day if Edmund had not remained in contact with her—for this was how she thought of his ghostly visitations. Used to them now, she felt that having Edmund all to herself dead was better than sharing him alive, even if he occasionally got on her nerves.

  She tied her crisp white stock tie and put on her canary- colored wool vest, then temporarily covered herself with a rough brown coverall. The stock tie was a silk four-fold from Annabelle’s favorite clothing store, Horse Country, located in the tiny town of Warrenton, Virginia. Horse Country is to well-dressed fox hunters as Neiman Marcus is to their other clothing needs. At today’s Meet, the coverall would keep her clean while she saddled and bridled Samson, then she’d replace it with a black wool frock coat with the red and blue colors of the Hill County Hounds on the collar.

  Annabelle and Nick walked together to the barn. Samson and King both nickered softly in greeting, and King paced anxiously in his stall. He knew it was a hunting day and was eager to carry Nick in swift pursuit of the hounds. Samson stood calmly munching his hay. Though he was happy to see Annabelle, he was more interested in fortifying himself for the day’s exertions.

  The Farleys lived in Guilford on a fulltime basis. Nick, an attorney in Nashville, had obligingly agreed to commute after he had been made a Senior Partner in the firm. He had to travel around the country quite a bit, but was otherwise able to set his own schedule and could usually be in Guilford on hunting days. Now, to Annabelle’s delight, their home was only a short haul by horse trailer to any of the Hunt’s “fixtures”, or locations, where the group would gather to begin a particular hunt. Sometimes, the Farleys were close enough to ride their horses to a Meet. Today, however, they would haul their horses by trailer as would the majority of the fox hunters.

  The terrain they would ride would be very rugged and steep, exciting and challenging at a slow pace and thrilling at fox hunting speed. The First Flight would jump coops that are angled wooden panels resembling chicken coops measuring three to three and one-half feet high. Coops are built into wire fences to make a solid obstacle for horses to jump and are common in most fox hunting territories, but in Hill County there were often sharp, rocky descents for horses to negotiate with only a few strides for take off over a jump, as well as upon landing. It was not an activity for the faint-of-heart.

  The rewards were there for Second Flight, too. Annabelle looked forward to the beauty of the countryside as well as its challenges. She knew that anyone skillful and hardy enough would not only get a ‘buzz’ from the ride, but would be rewarded by magnificent scenery. The working farms—some imposing, some tiny—resembled a scene from a nineteenth century Christmas card.

  Upon arriving, the Farleys fell in behind other vans and horse trailers that were lined up to enter the Robertson’s 160 acre farm, Gone Away. Everyone would mount up and gather on its gorgeous front lawn and, upon their return, Marguerite and Harold would host one of their famous hunt teas—a euphemism for a lavish dinner with an open bar.

  Annabelle loved the hour or so before the start of the Meet when arriving horse trailers with their equine passengers parked alongside each other, riders hurrying hither-and-yon preparing themselves and their mounts for the hunt. In traditional theory, riders and horses are supposed to begin the hunt perfectly turned out with gleaming black riding boots, shiny manes and tails, and spotless tack. In reality, many hunters give their tack a last minute wipe-down just before saddling up. The same eleventh-hour grooming standard is sometimes applied to one’s own attire, and today Harold Robertson came walking swiftly up to Annabelle with his white stock tie draped around his neck, stock pin in hand. He had a distinctly sheepish expression on his ruddy face.

  “Can you help me?” he asked apologetically. Marguerite is busy getting ready for the party.”

  “Of course”, said Annabelle, and began to expertly fold the starched cotton cloth into a perfect square knot while Harold obediently stood before her.

  “The man has been hunting for fifteen years and still can’t dress himself properly?” Edmund said in an amazed sounding voice. Annabelle was startled as he had been quiet all morning, but this time she controlled her verbal reaction.

  “You know, Harold, you probably ought to learn to do this yourself, but it’s really no big deal. I once had a friend who couldn’t even change a light bulb,” she said, while carefully inserting the little gold pin into the knot.

  To her amusement she heard Edmund blow a raspberry in her left ear.

  “Thanks so much, Annabelle,” said Harold. “I promise I’ll learn someday. By the way, do you know if they’ve selected a Committee Chairman for this year’s Hunt Ball?”

  The Hill County Hounds Hunt Ball, held at the end of each hunting season, was a fabulous catered affair that required a committee to put on and, of course, every committee needed a chairman. The position was always held by a female, frequently one of the Masters’ wives. It was a highly coveted and sought after honor for many reasons, not the least of which bec
ause the chairman decided seating arrangements. The Masters themselves made the selection of a chairman, and Annabelle assumed Harold wanted her to put in a good word for Marguerite with Nick.

  “I don’t think they’ve chosen yet, Harold, so I’m really not sure. Do you think Marguerite would be interested? I know she’d do a great job.”

  “That would be great, Annabelle…” Harold continued to talk but Annabelle couldn’t understand him due to the loud invectives that were being shouted at her from the spirit realm.

  “I really can’t believe these people! I’m not even cold in my grave and here they are, jockeying for social positions and asking for favors as though I was never even here!” Annabelle could tell Edmund was not only angry, but also his feelings were genuinely hurt. At first, she couldn’t think of a way to be much comfort under the circumstances without sounding ridiculous in front of yet another friend, but then recalled a conversation she’d had with Marguerite the day before.

  “Well, we’d better mount up. Aren’t you and Marguerite having a Stirrup Cup in Edmund’s honor before the hunt?”

  “That’s a little more like it,” Edmund said, sounding somewhat mollified.

  A Stirrup Cup was one of Annabelle’s favorite hunting traditions. Small glasses of port are presented on a tray to the mounted hunters who drink them down and hand them back, empty. A toast usually accompanied the tradition, but this time there was a moment of silence for Edmund, instead. Annabelle looked slyly around, knowing he must still be close by and hoping he was pleased by the tribute.

  The mounted riders gathered around the Huntsman and hounds where each Master made a brief announcement and wished all a day of good sport. The Huntsman then blew a short note on his horn and moved off with his hounds, encouraging them with his voice and horn to seek a coyote.

  Annabelle proudly waved goodbye to Nick and he tipped his black velvet hunt cap in response, looking like a handsome country squire portrayed by Ralph Fiennes in his scarlet coat and white breeches, mounted on his prancing thoroughbred.

  Annabelle rode over to the Second Flight group to ride with them. Riders in the hunt field are divided into groups based essentially on whether or not they wished to jump over fences or preferred to go through gates. Each Flight is led by a Field Master who controls the direction and speed, his responsibility being to place them where they are most likely to hear and see hounds working. Typically, the First Flight follows directly behind the Huntsman and hounds at whatever pace is set by the pack, and jumps coops rather than slowing to go through gates. The Second Flight makes use of gates and may travel more carefully.

  As she patted Samson’s silky neck, Annabelle wondered which Flight Edmund would be with that day. She remembered he had typically ‘taken his own line’ behind the hounds, but supposed he might decide to stay with her. She smiled at remembering, for once, not to ask him out loud.

  Annabelle loved riding in Second Flight chiefly because its Field Master, her friend Shelley’s husband Warren Fitzpatrick, was adept at keeping everyone within earshot and view of the hounds even though they chose not to jump. He was a veteran fox hunter who knew every inch of the country and was gifted with the rare talent of predicting how the game would likely run, so he was able to position his flight in a perfect spot to see the chase. Annabelle had had many a good day’s sport following him.

  This Saturday, in addition to the usual excitement of the hunt, Charles Collins had Richter Davenport as his houseguest. Richter was the Master and Huntsman of the Waterford Hounds, Hill County’s closest neighboring Hunt. Like Charles, he was an aggressive rider. Annabelle realized he must have been the guest Charles was preparing for when he’d heard Edmund’s house alarm and had come charging over with a shotgun. When the riders assembled, Charles announced that Richter had brought some of his best hounds to hunt with them. Her heart beat so loudly she could hear it. It promised to be an exciting day.

  Annabelle watched closely as Richter and Charles galloped off behind the hounds. She trotted along behind Warren, happy to be out hunting and wondered if Edmund would materialize at any point during the hunt. As was customary, the Second Flight waited for the First Flight to go ahead of them before taking a different route Warren felt would allow the best sport.

  His group moved at a walk or a trot up and down the Guilford hills for the first fifteen minutes, staying close behind the hounds as they ran this way and that, eagerly sniffing for a coyote. Suddenly, they heard the cry of a Hill County hound, followed quickly by the unfamiliar voice of one from the visiting pack. Then they all chimed in, loud and joyous, indicating they’d picked up the true scent of a coyote. Hill County’s Huntsman, Billy Cox, blew two short notes and one long, a signal called “Gone Away”, on his hunting horn, both to encourage his hounds and to alert the Field that the coyote had left the covert. The notes were high, clear, and true, and

  Annabelle wondered, as always, how Billy had enough breath to blow so well while riding at a full gallop.

  The First Flight took off directly behind the hounds. Annabelle watched the determined faces of the riders as they sat deeper in their saddles, preparing for a long hard run. Annabelle looked to Warren, waiting for him to lead them in the direction he thought best. After a moment’s consideration, he took off at a gallop down a trail to the east of where the hounds were running. The path led to a steep hill, some three hundred yards long.

  Edmund warned, “Here comes a ‘slider’, Kiddo!”, and Annabelle knew that he had decided to stay with her, at least for the moment. She had been intimidated by the steepest slopes Edmund had teasingly called ‘sliders’ when she began hunting. Today, Annabelle sat back in the saddle, put her feet forward in the stirrups, and gave Samson a loose rein. He was as ‘careful as a cat’ in the hills, and she knew she could trust him to carry her safely to the bottom.

  As much as Annabelle enjoyed riding with Warren’s group which she firmly believed saw more actual hound work than anyone else, she often wished she could jump her horse over the wooden coops at a dead run. Annabelle had purchased Samson as a yearling and was now five years old and balanced enough to learn to jump. She had begun the fundamentals of teaching him to jump small obstacles in her riding ring, but she was a long way from having the confidence to jump him at a full gallop when hunting.

  She gave the issue little thought, today. She was happy riding with Warren who kept her entertained and safe at the same time, but was distracted in trying to catch a glimpse of the visiting Master, Richter Davenport, who was famous for his haughty demeanor as well as a reckless riding style.

  The hounds were running fast, their eager voices echoing off of the hills, clearly close on the heels of a coyote and never losing the scent or ‘checking’ for even an instant. Annabelle and the others rode hard to keep up with Warren, for today there were no shortcuts he could use to put them closer. The pack was running too fast.

  After almost an hour with only the briefest of checks, many riders had pulled out as they or their horses were exhausted from running over the rough terrain. Then, very gradually, the voices of the hounds faded until they could be heard no more. Annabelle asked Warren what was happening as he carried a hand-held radio to keep in touch with the Huntsman and other Masters.

  “Hounds have run out of the county,” he said worriedly. “Those of us who still have enough horse left need to try and help gather them up.”

  Lost hounds were a serious problem. A good foxhound is the result of careful breeding and years of conscientious training, making it a very valuable animal. In addition, each hound is loved like family by the Huntsman and his Staff, and frequently by members of the Hunt, as well. Their safety is always the paramount concern. Annabelle kept expecting a comment from Edmund, but for once, none was forthcoming.

  It was at that point Nick rode up, his horse in a sweaty lather and pulling eagerly at the bit. Nick tried to keep him still long enough to talk to Annabelle. Samson, glad for the respite, moved calmly to the side to allow Annabelle hand
Nick her flask. He swallowed the port gratefully and said in a low voice, “I’m really worried about the hounds. That coyote has taken them clear out of Guilford County. I just wanted to let you know I’m going to take King back to the trailer and go look for them in the truck.”

  Annabelle nodded and was about to offer to go back with him when a familiar voice said into her ear, “Tell them there’s not time for that, Kiddo! The coyote has led the hounds all the way to the interstate, and four of them are about to try to cross. He’s got to ride hard right now through the old Post Office trail and stop them!”

  Annabelle had no chance to explain to Nick how she came by that information, but in a breathless voice she told him what Edmund had said.

  “Why do you think they’re at the interstate, Annabelle?” Nick asked, his face expressing fear and dismay as she was describing a dangerous situation, both for the hounds and anyone who tried to rescue them.

  “I just know, Nick!” she said, and abruptly whirled a startled Samson toward the trail Edmund had indicated. “I feel it in my bones!” she said, hoping that would be a sufficient explanation and that he would follow her without more questions if she turned and galloped away.

  Her surprise tactic worked. Nick followed, more to protect her, she thought, than because he acknowledged she had correctly divined the location of the hounds. Samson moved so fast that Nick was surprised.

  The couple tore down the mountain, going as fast as their horses could safely carry them on the slick, rocky path. In a moment they heard the constant hum of automobile traffic, and Annabelle knew they were close to the interstate.

  “Oh, damn!” said Nick, hardly hesitating a second before kicking King forward down the bluff. Annabelle looked down at the frightening spectacle. Four hounds were in various locations on the busy interstate. One had made it safely to the median, but was unsure on its own in such unfamiliar surroundings so was scampering back and forth in wanting to rejoin the three remaining on the shoulder. As