Twenty-five minutes later Sister reached the hill behind Tattenhall Station, which could be viewed in the distance, as welcome a sight as it once was for much of the county, being the old train station for the Norfolk Southern Railway, the line running east and west. Falling into disuse as passenger lines vanished, cars taking over, the Victorian structure held many memories. Norfolk Southern finally sold it to an Indian gentleman, Kasmir Barbhaiya, who restored it to its bric-a-brac glory, as well as the over one thousand acres he purchased around it. Educated at private, called public, school in England, thence on to Oxford, he had a brilliance that resulted in an enormous fortune made in the pharmacy industry in India. Once free of running the business he repaired to central Virginia, for he had fallen in love with the place.
Not only did Sister daily give thanks for this warm, loving man, she especially gave thanks as she looked at the train station, now perhaps seven minutes away. Anything to feel warmth.
Weevil, Betty, and Tootie reached the parking lot before the others, already dismounted, and were loading hounds into their trailer, filled with fresh straw so hounds could bed down. Once hounds were up, the three did not untack their horses except to take off the bridles. Each threw a heavy blanket over their mount, keeping the saddle on to keep the animal’s back warm. Most people removed the saddle but Sister believed the saddle and the pad kept the horse warm until you reached home. No point having a cold-backed horse. Also loaded onto the trailer, feed bags hanging inside, they were happy. Good hay can make most any horse happy.
Reaching her trailer, Betty and Tootie’s horses already inside, Sister steeled herself. Once her feet hit the ground they would sting like the devil. Swinging her right leg over, she slowly slid down Keepsake’s left side. Good boy that he was he didn’t mind this slow dismount. Accustomed to Sister’s ways he knew he’d soon be toasty in his heavy blanket, eating hay with his buddies.
“Dammit to hell,” Sister cursed under her breath.
Father Mancusco, at the next trailer, remarked, “I heard that.”
“Father, I apologize. But I will not do the stations of the cross.”
“Of course you won’t. You’re an Episcopalian. These things happen.” He teased her good-naturedly. “By the way, I do hope you realize that we were running Catholic fox. Popped right in at Bishop’s Court.”
“I did.” She adored the middle-aged priest, glad he was a hunting man, for he had been transferred to the area within the last six months.
Fewer and fewer men dedicated themselves to the priesthood, so Father Mancusco’s taking over of the church in Charlottesville was good for all. Sally Taliaferro, also a new member, had been assigned as the priest at St. Emmanuel’s Episcopal church in Greenwood, and the two hunting divines, which was how Sister thought of them, struck up a friendship. Both faced many of the same problems.
“Need a hand?” Weevil offered, his lips about blue.
“Almost done. Honey, go inside and warm up.”
“Forget her, Weevil. She’s a tough old bird,” Betty called as she opened the trailer door.
“Watch your mouth.” Sister led Keepsake into the trailer while Betty held the door.
“Hell of a run.” The mid-fiftyish Betty beamed.
“Was. It’s been an on-again, off-again season for everyone but those hunting coyote.”
“Right.” Betty closed the door as Sister emerged. “Come on, I can’t feel my feet.”
“I can’t either.”
The two hurried into the Tattenhall Station, each step a little stab of pain. Once inside it felt like heaven. Two fireplaces, the original heating system, blazed at either end of the large room, the original waiting room, while an enormous wood-burning stove commanded the center of the room. A fence had been placed around it, as sometimes hunters imbibed too much and might lurch into it. No danger of that with the cavernous fireplaces, simple brick with deep white mantles.
Kasmir and his lady friend, Alida Dalzell, had staff to prepare hot food, hot drinks, put out a full bar. He happily shared his wealth. Kasmir and Alida chattered with animation, as did everyone, concerning the hunt.
Carter Nicewonder, a private jeweler, a Jefferson Hunt member for a year, visited everyone, eagerly describing the estate “new” jewelry he purchased recently. He pulled out of his pocket an antique pin, Artemis’s visage thereon. Freddie Thomas, an accountant who often worked with Ronnie Haslip, club treasurer, passed on it but she would think about it.
Kasmir walked over to Carter. “How was your trip?”
“Cold, rainy, wonderful. England will always be England.”
“That it will. Any luck?”
“Yes. I bought a few good things. I always enjoy finding old jewelry wherever I go, but as England and America are so close in taste, or once we were, the pieces are lovely. The Saudis buy quite a bit, as many have been educated in England. I don’t have as many contacts there but yes, it was good.”
“Glad to hear it.” Kasmir clapped him on the back. Then he left to circulate.
“Notice how cold it was, piercing cold, by that huge rock outcropping?” Alida mentioned to Margaret DuCharme, M.D., who had hunted today.
“Cut you to the bone but wasn’t the blue ice gorgeous? Like Ginger Rogers’s dress in ‘Cheek to Cheek.’ ”
“Margaret, that movie was in black and white.” Alida, another movie buff, laughed.
“The pictures were of an ice blue dress. What an athlete she was, and she loved horses.”
As they chattered on, warming up with hot toddies, Aunt Daniella, ninety-four, although that was fudging, sat in the large wing chair in front of the eastern fireplace. “I was in the car and I got tired. You all must be exhausted and famished.”
“Yes, but I am happy to bring you a drink.” Weevil doted on the elderly lady, one of the great beauties of her day.
“A double bourbon would be most restorative.” She beamed at him and off he went to fetch her the drink.
Kathleen Sixt Dunbar sat next to Aunt Daniella, as the irrepressible African American lady, who could pass for white if she wanted to and she did not, knew everyone and would introduce her to people.
A clap of thunder cut the talk.
Sister walked with Weevil to Aunt Daniella. “It’s been years since we had a thundersnow but that sounds ominous. Better get hounds home.”
“Yes, Master.” He handed Aunt Daniella her drink.
Aunt Dan, in a deep purple cashmere turtleneck, thanked him then said to Sister, “What next?”
“Aunt Dan,” Sister said with a smile, “never say that.”
CHAPTER 2
February 6, 2020 Thursday 7:00 pm
February is rarely anyone’s favorite month. Social events, special fundraisers, are not scheduled, as they are starting in April. The variability of the weather, cold adding to that discomfort, discouraged people from leaving home.
They were bored. If the weather wasn’t horrid many would throw on winter clothes to get out.
Kathleen Sixt Dunbar, factoring in the February doldrums, thought a grand reopening for the 1780 might prove successful. Her husband’s death meant she inherited the store built in 1780, hence the name.
He had lived in Charlottesville, she had lived in Oklahoma City. They never divorced, remaining friends. His untimely passing brought her to Virginia.
Enough time had passed that she felt she could have a gala opening. One needed to respect manners in these things.
Wisely paying professionals to improve the lighting, to keep an open bar, and to have hors d’oeuvres served, she could follow the hunt without fretting.
Kathleen was determined to enjoy her own party. Another wise decision.
Manfredo Sabatini, his wife at his elbow, stared at a Lionel Edwards on the wall. Edwards worked in the early twentieth century, having been born November 9, 1878, in B
ristol, England. Kathleen knew when it came to any equine art, the purchase was usually emotional.
Carter Nicewonder, smartly turned out in a tweed light brown jacket with a light lavender windowpane overlay also admired the painting. His lavender tie completed the outfit; he had an eye for color.
Speaking to the Sabatinis, whom he knew from various fundraisers, Carter remarked, “He was very good. Lived to be eighty-seven. And, as you may know, he remains affordable.”
“I know so little about art.” Elise Sabatini smiled. “Fortunes today are made with paintings that look like someone did it with their feet.”
Carter smiled. “Give it time. Someone will do so and the art dealers, hoping to clean up, will declare this a comment on a peripatetic, rootless society.”
“At least I can see the workmanship in Lyne’s work.” Elise nodded at his comments. “I have a lot to learn.”
“You are too modest. Any woman who selects understated, stunning ruby and diamond earrings has a sense of proportion and color. I always think of color as paprika thrown on the roast.”
She laughed. “What an interesting description. Actually the compliment goes to my husband. He selected the earrings.”
Carter nodded to Manfredo. “Beautiful jewelry for a beautiful woman.”
Winding through the crowd, Kathleen introduced herself, as she had missed these two when they had walked in. Given that Elise Sabatini wore a man’s thin gold Patek Philippe watch, her husband had funds, the type of watch an indication of some originality. Women usually don’t buy their own watches if married. As for her husband, his jewelry consisted of a complementary thin Patek Philippe watch, a signet ring on his little finger, and a suit obviously bespoke. Kathleen had to size up a customer quickly and nothing announced money for a man faster than a bespoke suit and a thin watch as opposed to a sport watch. But it announced it quietly unless the materials were flashy. Carter was working the room. Kathleen found him amusingly single-minded. She returned her attention to the Sabatinis.
For a Virginian to judge someone with an Italian name was unfortunate, but the old ones often did or asked, quietly to others, “Who are their people?” Times had changed and the idea that someone with an Italian surname would wear a shiny suit, a gold chain around his neck, were gone except for those who studied you head to toe when you weren’t looking. Kathleen did so but not in an obvious fashion nor did she believe in stereotypes, but again could someone afford a true Hepplewhite sideboard? The newly rich in sweatpants could but had no idea of the aesthetic value. At least they bought Maseratis and Lamborghinis, which kept the great Italian car makers rolling. Actually Kathleen wouldn’t mind a Ferrari herself.
Extending her hand, she said, “Thank you for coming tonight, I’m Kathleen Sixt Dunbar. If you have any questions, I am happy to try to answer. If you have any questions regarding genealogy, do ask Aunt Daniella, the lady in the aqua dress holding court by the fireplace.”
Elise smiled, extending her hand. “Elise Sabatini.”
“I’m with her. Please call me Gigi, an old nickname.” He, too, held out his hand. “We’re new to the area, just now getting out, as our construction is almost complete.”
“Welcome. Having driven by Showoff Stables…a delightful play on showjumping, by the way…the show ring, I should say. I can see how much you’ve accomplished. When I saw your sign I burst out laughing and thought, ‘I must meet them.’ Beautiful proportions, beautiful colors. Everything laid out for the benefit of the horses.”
Elise glowed. “Thank you. Gigi and I tormented ourselves over every detail. Well, I tormented him.”
She was quite a bit younger than Gigi. He grinned. “She’s the rider. I resisted some things but when I saw how practical her ideas would be, I stopped complaining. Always marry a woman smarter than yourself.”
Kathleen laughed. “Well said. Come along. Allow me to introduce you to Daniella Laprade. She admits to being ninety-four. I don’t know, but Aunt Dan looks maybe seventy, if that.”
As the couple approached, Aunt Daniella looked from wife to husband and back again. Yes, she had the picture, then she beheld the smile on Kathleen’s face, which brightened her own.
After the introductions, Kathleen inclined her head. “Aunt Dan, I leave the Sabatinis in your capable hands. Who better to make them feel at home but you? They have built a gorgeous, gorgeous stable.”
As Kathleen walked away she already heard Elise’s laughter. God Bless Aunt Dan.
Sister came over. “You’ve outdone yourself. I thought the store lovely but this makes it almost exotic, warmer, really, and the furniture bathed in soft light, fabulous gilded mirrors, make me want to buy every one.”
“Please do.” Kathleen laughed at her.
Gray walked up. “Honey, did you see the old weather vane?”
“Yes.” Sister nodded, focusing on Kathleen. “Wherever did you find that?”
“I called all of Harry’s older clients and as luck would have it, one of them was…the word now is downsizing…and she wanted to sell things from the barn, the weather vane, mmm, late 1700s, up to maybe 1820. The simplicity of it makes me lean toward the first part of the nineteenth century, that breakover from Georgian to Federal. Well, we had Federal in the eighteenth but it was very simple, became what we now know, still simple yet with artful touches later. Oh, forgive me, Crawford and Marty just walked in and with Skiff. Amazing how she has lasted as his huntsman.”
As she walked away, Gray, usually prudent with money, took Sister by the arm, walking her to the large weather vane, golden, smack in the middle of a large, tremendously expensive Sheraton dining table, the real deal not a knockoff, which while not the real deal is still impressive.
“Beautiful.” Sister then added, “What has provoked you to be drawn to a large rooster weather vane?”
“Mother kept chickens. She had a big Plymouth Barred rooster, St. Paul, who followed her everywhere. If she were alive I would buy it for her.”
“Let’s buy it together. We can move the horse weather vane somewhere else. There are times, Gray, when one should give in to nostalgia, memory, love. We will of course call him St. Paul.” She kissed him on the cheek, which she could do without standing on her tiptoes. She was originally six-one but had shrunk to six foot. Gray stood at six-two. They were hard to miss.
Kathleen moved from group to group, chatting, pointing out what may be of interest to them, but all was low-key. Kathleen believed a good piece of furniture or art sold itself.
Crawford studied a painting by Ben Marshall, circa 1897. Like Stubbs, he received commissions to paint successful racehorses, a practice carried down to the modern day by twentieth-century artists like Richard Stone Reeves.
Gigi joined him. Crawford turned to the new fellow. “What do you think?”
“For an antiques shop she has incredible things. When I received the invitation I didn’t expect art or those studies for painting by Michael Lyne.” He held out his hand. “Gigi Sabatini. Showoff Stables.”
“Crawford Howard. Old Paradise, which I’m restoring, and Beasley Hall, which I built. I take it we’re both not native Virginians.”
“Medford, Massachusetts.”
“Jasper, Indiana.” Crawford shrugged. “It was a start.”
“I’ve only ever been to French Lick, Indiana. Good golf course.”
“Not my game. Haven’t the patience. If you’re ever interested, I’m happy to show you and your wife Old Paradise. It has quite a history.”
“I’ve just met Aunt Daniella, speaking of quite a history.”
Sister joined them. “Sister, this is Gigi Sabatini,” Crawford introduced them.
“Pleased to meet you. Your place sits between two of our fixtures. Forgive me, I should explain, I’m the master of Jefferson Hunt and Crawford has a private pack that I call the Kingmaker’s Hunt since his hero is Warwick
the Kingmaker, the man who helped put Edward IV on the throne during the War of the Roses.”
“Ah,” replied Gigi, clearly not someone who cared much about anyone’s history, much less England’s.
“There you are.” Elise joined them and introductions were made.
“If you are interested in foxhunting, either of us can help you,” Sister offered.
“Thank you. I’m not sure I could do that. I’m a show-ring girl.” Elise smiled. “I’m sure it’s exciting.”
“It can be.” Sister smiled. “Your estate rests between two of our fixtures. I’m not asking to hunt it, especially since you all are new to the area. It is our state sport, for what that’s worth. I have no control where the fox runs and Welsh Harp and Wolverton, the two fixtures you sit between, are good fixtures. We rarely run your way but should that happen, do I have permission or could I ride on your outskirts to stay with hounds?”
Elise answered for both of them. “We have very expensive show horses boarded there. Is there a way you can go around us that doesn’t disturb the horses?”
“Yes, the riders can, but the hounds will follow the fox and the huntsman will follow the hounds. What I can do is tell my huntsman to do his best to turn hounds away. As it happens, we have never run a fox in your direction from Welsh Harp, which is east. But you never know. Perhaps you would like to see a hunt. We can take you in an SUV or truck.”
“I would like that. We’re pressed for time now, as we are finishing up the indoor arena, finally putting in the dehumidifier. I’ll spare you the details.” Elise smiled. “When that’s finished I will take you up on your offer.”
“Sister,” Walter called.
Out of Hounds Page 3