“Stick like glue.” Tedi and Ed were perfectly turned out, as usual. Sister scanned the horses. None looked blown. While it is the riders’ responsibility to see to their mounts, an awful lot of riders were not horsemen. They really didn’t know when a horse had had enough and should be taken in. Sister would politely tell such persons that their horses were tucked up and they should return to the trailers. While she never rejoiced in a human being hurt, the mistreatment, even through ignorance, of a horse upset her more.
A trickle of sweat rolled down her backbone. She’d half turned from the wind. Her undershirt now felt like a cold compress against her skin.
The layers of clothing a foxhunter wears, tested by centuries of use, protects the rider, but sooner or later, a wet cold will creep in. The mercury, hanging at 40 degrees Fahrenheit, intensified the dampness. A snow, even though the temperature would be 32 degrees or colder, often felt warmer than these conditions.
Thick pewter clouds hung low. It surely was a good scenting day.
Flanking Shaker on the left was Betty Franklin on Magellan, tested and tried as a whipper-in; Sybil Bancroft Fawkes was on the right, riding Postman, still as a statue. Sybil, owner of two Thoroughbreds, loved the breed for their heart and stamina.
Horses adore this kind of weather. Since they originated in cool savannahs, forty to the low fifties feels like heaven to them. Humans prefer the low seventies, which feels too warm to horses, but they manage it.
Shaker, Betty, and Sybil counted heads.
“All on,” Shaker said, which meant all the hounds were together. “Let’s walk down toward Chapel Cross. We might pick up something along the way, and we’ll be heading cross wind.”
Both whippers-in nodded and moved a bit farther away from the pack. There was no need to speak, since a whipper-in does not question the judgment of the huntsman or the master. Oh, they may do so in private, but when hunting the protocol is much like that in battle: You obey your superior officer and get the job done.
Sister smiled when she observed Shaker turning the beautiful pack, a balanced and level pack, north toward Chapel Cross. It had taken her decades to create a level pack. Whatever some blowhard may say to the contrary, there is no shortcut to a great pack of hounds. A master breeds for nose, cry, biddability, good conformation, and, of course, drive. What’s the point of having a fabulous-looking pack of hounds, with voices like the bells of Moscow, if they don’t want to hunt?
Dragon was a smart-ass but his drive was exhilarating. He shot ahead of the pack.
“Back to ’em.” Betty spoke sharply to him, her crop held on the pack side of Magellan so hounds could see it.
“He’s a lot of work, that twit.” Magellan snorted, two streams of air shooting out from his flared nostrils.
Betty, somewhat understanding her fellow, patted him on the neck. After two years, they’d finally become a team, trusting each other.
The board-and-batten of the railroad buildings, white with Charleston-green trim, stood out from the muddy background, streaks of snow gleaming in crevices and the north sides of hills. Norfolk and Southern, the railroad company, had provided the point as a courtesy to local residents. Although Tattenhall Station had been abandoned in the 1960s, the locals maintained it and even decorated it for the holidays.
The pack had reached the railroad track and crossed it, with the small station, a little gingerbread on the eaves, now behind them, when Cora opened, “Here!”
The other hounds, noses down, honored her, and the whole pack, in full cry, flew over the lower meadow on the eastern side of the station and turned northward, again cross wind.
Sister, on Aztec, a young horse but quick to learn, kept at an easy gallop, behind the pack but not close enough to crowd them. They crossed the tertiary two-lane road and vaulted over a row of trimmed hedges, which made for a lovely jump, slippery on the other side.
The pace quickened. Aztec lengthened his stride and took a long three-foot-six-inch coop, which sagged a bit in the middle; perhaps it was only three-two there. His hind end skidded on the other side, but he quickly got his hooves under him and pushed off. Behind her, Sister could hear the splat of hooves as they sank into the mud and then gathered steam to surge forward.
The fox, whom no one could see, since he had a considerable head start, ran a huge serpentine S. Hounds had to work very hard to stick to his line, thanks to the wind changes, and in one low swale the wind swirled. Sister could see the little wind devil, small snow sparkles in the air, which then disappeared as she rode straight through it.
The fox headed toward Chapel Cross, no evasions now. A neck-or-nothing run saw hounds stretched flat out, sterns behind them, long sloping powerful shoulders illustrating the wisdom of good conformation, as the animals could reach far out with their front legs. Deep chests allowed plenty of heart girth and, behind, powerful loins and quarters, like a big engine in a Porsche, pushed them seemingly effortlessly forward.
The music filled the countryside. In the far distance, Sister saw Faye Spencer hurry out onto her front porch, pulling on a parka. Faye, widowed young when her husband was killed in the second Iraq War, waved. Sister took off her cap, two short ribbons streaming, and waved back. She made a mental note to stop by Faye’s for a visit; she hadn’t seen her since the hunt Christmas party. Where did the time go?
Faye, quite good-looking, hadn’t lacked for suitors once a year passed after Gregory’s death. She appeared in no hurry to favor anyone.
Valentina “Val” Smith, one of the students from Custis Hall, caught Cabel Harper shooting Faye the bird and raised her eyebrows.
A double fence line between two pastures loomed ahead, a coop in each fence and a bounce in between which meant no stride; the horse must clear one coop and then immediately launch to clear the second. Sister liked bounce jumps so long as she remembered to keep her leg on her horse. Sometimes she would become so enthralled with the hound work that she took a jump without realizing it. Thank God, her horses were fabulous and loved to hunt. They could think for her.
Aztec, a bit younger than her other hunters, did need more attention, so as he launched smoothly over the first coop she clucked when he landed, giving him a hard squeeze, hands forward, and if he thought to hesitate he gave no sign of it. He took the second coop a little big; she lost her right stirrup iron on the muddy landing. No matter. Foxhunters learn to pick up stirrup irons on the run, and it’s a poor trainer who doesn’t teach his or her charges such valuable lessons. This isn’t dressage at Devon. This is survival. Ride without if you must.
Fishing for the stirrup iron longer than she would have wished, Sister finally slipped her boot into it—couldn’t feel her toes anyway—and turned her head for a moment to see how her field was negotiating the bounce jump.
Ilona Merriman, riding a half-Thoroughbred half-warmblood mix, hit it perfectly. Behind her, Cabel Harper bobbled on the second jump but hung on, laughing when she righted herself. Saturdays their husbands hunted too. Good thing this was a Tuesday, because neither Ramsey nor Clayton were good riders. Chances are the bounce jump would have unhorsed them.
Interesting as the sight was, Sister turned away from the spectacle as hounds now roared like an organ, full throttle.
The pack ran close together, Cora and Dragon fighting for the lead, Diana, anchor hound, steady in the middle front. If hounds overran the line, Diana usually brought them back. If she failed, the tail hounds, older, a touch slower but very wise, called the pack back to rights. All young entry—Peanut and Parson of the P litter, Ammo and Allie of the A litter—acquitted themselves with honor.
No overrunning today for this young red. Tricks exhausted, or too young to know more, he now flew for all he was worth. Well, he sure was worth a great run. Fifteen minutes later, the pack dug into his den behind the tidy Episcopal Church at Chapel Cross. Shaker dismounted, blew “Gone to Ground,” and got back up. He couldn’t feel his feet either. It was a happy huntsman that turned for home. Sister, too, felt exhilarat
ed at how beautifully her hounds had worked.
Wind at their backs made the twenty-minute ride a trifle more pleasant. Close to Tattenhall Station, the tertiary state road, stone and crushed stone now mud, made the going slower.
A field master can ride in front alone when the hunt is done or allow people to come up and chat. Three years ago, an old lover of Sister’s, who had long become a precious friend, passed away. She and Peter Wheeler had so often ridden back together that she’d spent the first half of the season after his death holding back her tears and riding alone. She’d gotten herself together a bit by the second half and begun chatting with folks again on the ride home. She could now remember Peter with warmth and gratitude for his gifts to her.
Today Tedi, Edward, and Gray all came alongside.
Bunny Taliaferro, riding coach at Custis Hall, rode right behind. Anne “Tootie” Harris, Val Smith, Felicity Porter, and Pamela Rene, all students, had earned the privilege to go out with Jefferson Hunt. After each ride they were required to write about their experiences, bringing in geography, topography, plants, animals, weather conditions, and history. They’d be able to fill pages today, since Tattenhall Station mirrored the history of America’s railroads, particularly the spur lines.
Back at the trailers, most people checked their horses, removed bridles and martingales, took off saddles, and threw rugs in their stable colors over their horses’ backs. Sister loosened the girth of her saddle but didn’t take it off. She worried about the cold on that big sweaty spot even with a nice heavy blanket on the horse.
Tootie came up. “Master, Val’s taking care of Iota”—she named her horse—“so I can take care of Aztec.”
Sister handed her Aztec’s bridle, squeezing Tootie’s shoulder. She just loved this kid. “Thanks, honey.”
Jennifer Schneider, a new member, already had the table set up, and people brought their dishes to it. Jefferson Hunt tailgates flourished in sleet, snow, or rain. Occasionally they had the use of a building, but no matter what this group could eat.
High Vajay, talking to Garvey Stokes, owner of Aluminum Manufacturing, nodded when Sister approached them.
“Master, what a wonderful hunt. Thank you.” High’s manners added to his considerable appeal. “I want you to have a chance to talk to my college friend. Once Garvey and I resolve the economy, I’ll bring Kasmir to you.”
Sister didn’t even try to untangle the caste system of India, but she knew whatever High was it was at the top. He’d started out in the diplomatic service but quickly realized he’d be at the whim of changing administrations, so he took a job at Craig and Abrams, a large multilayered electronics corporation. Intelligent and driven, he had steered his division toward wireless phones twenty years ago and retired at forty-five. He’d learned to love Virginia when working in Washington, D.C., for half a year for the company. He’d vowed to return, and two years ago, a free man, he did. Once nestled in the Blue Ridge foothills, none of the Vajays ever looked back.
“How are you doing?” Garvey took Sister’s gloved hand in his.
She’d been his master when he was a child, and earlier this year she had helped him through a dreadful time. He thought of her as a second mother but wisely did not say so. Most women in the company of handsome younger men do not wish to be considered motherly.
“I’m all right, but what a jolt.”
“How’s Marion?” High inquired.
“Watchful but okay. Obviously, we’re all worried for her. The sheriff still doesn’t know who the woman is—I mean, was.”
“He’s thorough. He called my wife and then me. I guess he figured anyone from India would know someone else from India.”
“Doesn’t India have over a billion people?” Garvey asked, his thick eyebrows rising upward. “And six million of them have AIDS?”
“True.” High couldn’t resist reaching for a tiny cinnamon bun, although he resisted commenting on the AIDS explosion, which could undermine, in time, much of India’s recent gains. “But that wasn’t as naïve as it might seem, because expatriates in any country often find one another. He e-mailed me photos. I didn’t recognize her.”
“It’s possible she’s an American citizen of Indian descent,” Sister opined.
Garvey smiled. “We have everything here.”
“You have us.” High slapped him on the back.
Valentina and Felicity waited for Sister to leave the men.
“Girls.”
“No one fell off. With this footing. A miracle.” Val got to the point, part of her direct character. “No bottles.”
If someone came off, a bottle was owed to the club.
As senior class president, the tall lovely blonde exuded a natural air of authority. She was one inch taller than Sister, which made Sister smile, since rarely was she topped by another woman.
“You didn’t get one bottle.” Felicity smiled shyly, a young lady of unforced reserve yet warm.
“I know, and the bar is getting low.”
“If we come off you only get a six-pack of soda.” Val turned. “Here comes the African queen.”
She teased Tootie, diminutive at five foot four and lavishly gorgeous. Tootie was African-American, hence “African queen.” Tootie was high yellow, a term only old folks, black and white, would have used. Tootie’s skin, creamy, shimmering like light café au lait, signified someone of high blood from way back. Tootie didn’t give a damn about any of that in any case; her generation hadn’t suffered from racism to the degree that their parents had. Good as this was, it didn’t mean there wasn’t a reservoir of stupidity out there for which these youngsters were often unprepared.
“If I were Tootie, I’d hit you in the mouth,” Felicity said quietly.
“Ef you.”
“Val, one dollar. Actually two. That was ugly.”
The three girls had made a pact at the beginning of their senior year that when any one of them swore they had to give Felicity, the banker, one dollar. At the end of their senior year, this ever-growing sum would go to a party.
Pamela Rene, also African-American, walked with Tootie. The two didn’t much like each other, but most times they managed a truce.
Pamela smiled at Sister. “Thank you, Master.”
“You’re most welcome.” Sister was pleased that Pamela’s hunting manners were up to form, for one should thank the master.
“The pack”—Tootie paused, eyes shining—“you could have thrown a blanket over them.”
One of the many reasons Sister so loved this seventeen-year-old was the girl loved hounds. She rode to hunt as opposed to hunting to ride.
“I was proud of them. The four young ones in there ran like old pros,” Sister agreed.
She’d seen these girls grow up in their years at Custis Hall as she’d seen so many juniors in her over thirty years as master. All people under twenty-one were usually styled juniors for foxhunting clubs and the dues were much lower than for those of voting age. When a young person came back after college, more likely returning to hunting in their early thirties, she was wildly happy. She hoped these girls would find their way back to her or, if not to her, then to another master at another hunt.
“Sister, I’ve gotten an early acceptance at Ol’ Miss.” Pamela beamed.
“You didn’t tell me.” Val shot her mouth off before Sister could reply. “Oops, sorry.”
“Congratulations, Pamela. I know you Custis Hall ladies will receive other acceptances. Any college would be fortunate to have you.”
“I really want to go to Ol’ Miss.” Pamela truly was excited.
Anything to put distance between her super-rich magnate father and her critical former-model mother. Oxford, Mississippi, was a long whistle from Chicago, where the Renes lived.
“Her mother will kill her,” Val said offhandedly.
“Well, Pamela, you’ll make the right decision.” Sister considered her words carefully. “No one wants to disappoint her parents, but you have to follow your heart, you know.” She
winked. “Takes a Yankee girl with guts to go down into the Delta.”
Pamela’s face registered the compliment. “Thank you, Master.”
Val giggled and said to Sister in a low voice. “Mrs. Harper shot the bird at Mrs. Spencer.”
Sister’s eyebrows raised. “Whatever for?”
Val shrugged, and Sister shook her head at this odd deed.
Ronnie Haslip, club treasurer, a boyhood friend of Sister’s deceased son, called out, “Master, we need you.”
She turned to see Ronnie, her joint master Walter Lungrun, Betty, Bobby, and Sybil and wondered what it could be. Well, they were smiling so it couldn’t be too bad.
“Excuse me, girls.” As she walked toward the adults she wondered what she could do to help Felicity, two months pregnant. Her parents didn’t know; Charlotte Norton, headmistress at Custis Hall, didn’t know. The hunt season would be over in less than a month. Sister had the feeling that a lot was going to happen between now and then, and not just to Felicity.
“Are you all ganging up on me?” Sister put one hand on Ronnie’s shoulder, another on Walter’s, drawing the two men near her.
They slipped their arms around her small waist.
Betty, hand on hip, shook her head. “You are shameless with men.”
Ronnie, who adored Betty as most members did, said, “She’s tall, gorgeous, and rides us all into the ground. You’re shorter, pretty as a peach, but so-o-o married. All that virtue”—he clucked—“so dull, darling.”
Betty laughed. “It’s true. Should I have an affair just to prove I can do it?” She paused, glancing at her husband, overweight and suffering on another diet. “Can’t do it. I’m still crazy about the guy.”
Walter, still on an adrenaline high from the chase, squeezed Sister closer to him. “Ronnie, let her go. She’s mine.”
“Never,” Ronnie replied. “Let me cut to the chase, Master. As you know, Kilowatt is available.”
Kilowatt, a fantastic Thoroughbred, was formerly owned by a physician now deceased. His estate evidenced little desire to pay board bills. The executor, Cookie Finn, a lawyer of unimpeachable reputation, had approached Walter.
The Tell-tale Horse Page 4