This morning, all silent except for her breathing and the ice crackling, her eyes lifted to the east. A thin light-gray line gave hope the sun would rise eventually, and perhaps the cloud cover would disperse too.
The lights were on in the kennels. Shaker, like Sister, kept to his routine. He loved his work.
“How’s Delia today?” she asked, as she walked into the large feeding room, nodding at the boys with their noses in the trough.
“She’s gaining weight, but her hunting days are over, boss. She’s slowed down, and it’s hard to keep weight on her. I can see it melting off during a hard run.”
“You’re right. She can stay in the Big Girls pen until the day comes when they start to roll her. Won’t be for a year or two. I’ll take her up to the house then.”
A master from Maryland had once upbraided Sister with the taunt, “You don’t live in the real world,” because Sister refused to put an old hound down as long as it was healthy. The other master was right in that this kept expenses higher. But damned if Sister would put down a hound who had served her well. She was the same about horses. Okay, it did run up the bill, but let them live out their final days in peace, comfort, and love. It was the least she could do for the devotion they accorded her.
Once a hound was rolled in the kennel by the younger ones, she’d see if a member would have it for a house pet or she’d move it up to her own house. It pained her that people didn’t understand what good pets foxhounds make. The longest it ever took her to potty train an older hound was two weeks. Most get it before then. Whip-smart, those hounds are fanatically clean. Perhaps it was vanity, for they knew how majestic they were.
She left Shaker and walked to the special run for hounds who needed extra attention or who had been injured during hunting. Now it was just sweet Delia, eating a warmed mash of kibble and canned food.
“Aren’t you the lucky girl?”
“I am,” Delia replied, and stuck her nose back in the aluminum bowl.
“Love you, baby girl.” Sister smiled at her old friend and returned to the feeding room.
“Boss, what saint’s day is it?”
“Wulfric and Eustochium Calafato.”
He laughed. “Those teachers at your Episcopal girls school certainly drilled information into your head.”
“Latin too.” She grinned.
“Okay, what did Wulfric and Eusto—you know—what did they do?”
“Wulfric was from Somerset, a contemporary of Lady Godiva, actually.” They’d both done their Godiva research. “He hunted with hounds and hawks, so he should be dear to us. Maybe not as dear as St. Hubert, the patron saint of hunters, but important nonetheless. We can use all the celestial help there is. He lived as an anchorite and supposedly possessed second sight. He healed a knight with paralysis. Mmm, bound books. Visited by Henry I and then his son, Stephen, when king. That’s about all I know.”
“I’ll read up on him. What about the other guy?”
“Girl. Abbess of Messina, Franciscan order. She seems to have been strict and devout and died at thirty-five. Her body did not decay. She died in 1468, and when she was dug up from her grave in Montevergine in 1690 she was fresh as a daisy.” Sister shrugged. “Nonetheless, dead as a doornail.”
Shaker laughed. “Do you believe this stuff?”
“I take it with a grain of salt. Do I believe these people were extraordinary? Sure. A lot of saints behaved miserably before seeing the light. Just the fact that they redeemed themselves is worth emulating.”
“So there’s hope for me?”
“Hope for both of us.”
“Must I vow poverty and chastity? I’m not good at either.” His lopsided grin was infectious.
“Me neither. Both are overrated; I doubt they’re really virtues. Getting someone to give up their worldly goods was an early form of income redistribution. Of course, the communists raised it to new heights.”
“Another kind of religion gone bust.”
“I’ll say, and think of the millions that died because of it on both sides of the fence. Don’t you think it odd that human beings will die for ideas? I’d die for a living creature but not for an idea. Too cold for me.”
“Yep. Come on, boys. Look at how those coats gleam. That corn oil in the winter just works a treat.”
“It does, and I don’t care what the analysis is on the back of those big feed bags, nothing puts a shine on their coats like corn oil.”
Shaker, wellies squishing on the concrete floor, which he washed obsessively, opened the door to the Big Boys’ run, a quarter of an acre.
All the hounds enjoyed huge runs with grass, trees, and boulders as well as condos to supplement the beds inside the kennels. They liked being out and about. It certainly cut down on bad behavior, since everyone had plenty of room.
Once the boys trotted out, door closing behind them, Shaker refilled the troughs, poured corn oil over the high-protein kibble, and set the gallon jug high up on a shelf, along with the twenty-four others stored there. They bought in big lots to save money. Sister might carry hounds longer than another master, but with her practical mind she saved in all other areas.
“All right, my fast ladies,” Shaker called, and the bitches shot into the feed room, tails high.
“We’re excited this morning.” Sister smiled at the hounds. “Shaker, I’ve been thinking about Dragon. When he was in sick bay after being torn up by that coyote early in the season, the pack was more cohesive.”
“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that too. He’s only been back in for the last three hunts, and I can feel the difference. For one thing, he distracts Cora.”
“He challenges her. We can’t have two strike hounds, and Diddy might develop into a good one when we most need her, when Cora retires. But Dragon is ready now.”
“Draft him?”
“No. Not yet. What if we use Dragon on Tuesdays, Cora on Thursdays, and toss a coin for Saturdays? We’ll see how the pack performs. If they go equally well, no need to change anything or draft him out. If not, then we should draft him to a hunt needing a good fast strike hound.”
“We’ve got plenty of the blood,” Shaker replied.
“Yes, but you know how that goes.”
He did. A hunt might have a litter of six really good hounds. One would get stolen, another lost in some fashion. One might develop an unexpected illness. Before you knew it, not much of that blood was left. “It’s a strong line, that D line. Delia put some wonderful puppies on the ground over the years. Cross with Asa was the best, I think.”
“Archie.” She named a hound killed by a bear, a hound dipped in gold, he was so superb.
“Right. Tell you what, we’d better never lose that Archie blood.”
“You know it goes all the way back to Piedmont blood through old Middleburg. Quite a journey through time, those bloodlines.” She cited two great northern Virginia hunts, each having made contributions to the upgrading of hounds and each still hunting outstanding packs of hounds to this day over some of the most beautiful country in the world.
One of the great things about Virginia was the depth of the hunting bench. Old Dominion, Fairfax, Loudoun, Warrenton, Casanova, Orange with their ring necks of Talbot tan, Deep Run, Farmington, Keswick, Rockbridge, Bull Run, to name a few ripping good hunts. A person could fall out of bed and land near a thunderous hunt.
“Plan’s a good one. Try tomorrow.”
“You bet.” She left the kennels and looked in at the stables where Tootie, Val, and Felicity worked.
“Good morning, Master,” all three sang out.
“Good morning, ladies.” She closed the barn doors behind her. “Aren’t you glad your father bought you that Jeep?” She addressed this to Valentina.
“Yes, ma’am. Otherwise we’d have to walk and it’s a hike.”
“We could hitch rides.” Tootie winked.
“Sure.” Felicity was filling the water buckets.
After a brief chat there, Sister walked back to
the house. She invited the girls up for breakfast each day specifically, because they would not come on their own. Charlotte Norton drilled manners into her students. And many of them had endured the drill at home too. It would be presumptuous simply to arrive in Sister’s kitchen—although their presence was a daily delight to her.
“Good morning, darling.” Gray beamed at her.
“Back at you. A fresh pot.”
She poured her second cup. “The girls will be up in about forty minutes. I’ll start on cream of wheat now. I’m assuming you’ll want some.”
“Yes, ma’am. With orange-blossom honey.”
He continued to read the paper. No need to pull out honey and jams just yet. He’d set the table too. Gray liked small chores as well as big ones, and he wasn’t fussy about what was supposed to be women’s work or men’s. Work was work.
“I’ve been thinking.”
“Oh?” She ran water in a large saucepan.
“I’m not cut out for retirement.”
“You’re hardly retired, honey. You ran a special audit at Aluminum Manufacturing last month, and you just had a meeting with the Number Two guy at the IRS, most hated government agency in America.”
“For a while the Defense Department was running neck and neck,” he remarked. “I’ll always do consulting. But you know, accounting is what I’ve done all my life.”
“You’re the best. Why else would you receive the calls you do?”
He shrugged. “Thanks.” He paused. “I thought I’d start a small restoration business. Since Sam and I have been working on the old home place, I’m reminded of how much I love construction, especially historical places. Even one as simple as ours. The work is outstanding. Those heavy hand-hewn beams, does anyone do that anymore?”
“Well.” She considered this as she set the flame underneath the cream of wheat. “You have an eye. I guess finding a crew of artisans—I mean, they’d have to be more than construction workers—will be critical.”
“Will.”
“What about Sam?”
“What do you mean?”
“Would you go into business with him?”
“No.” The reply was swift but not loud.
“Oh.”
He folded the paper in quarters, longways. “He’s a horseman. He should stick to horses.” He picked up his coffee cup, then put it back down. “He’s been really good at the house. We’re doing okay but, but Janie, I don’t know as I will ever trust my brother one hundred percent.”
“He’s been sober a year and a half—”
“I know.” Gray ran his forefinger over his salt-and-pepper military mustache. “He’s my brother. I love him but he’s an alcoholic. They slip back.”
“Gray, he drank Sterno down at the railroad station when he couldn’t get Thunderbird. He hit bottom. Showing him the way to Fellowship Hall was a great kindness on your part. He came through. Like many in recovery, he’ll probably never touch another drop.”
“I know.”
“Why am I standing up for him?” Sister pulled homemade bread from the breadbox. “He might not want to run a business.”
“That’s the other thing. I don’t know how much stress Sam can handle. Trying to make payroll during a lean month or two makes you sweat. I wouldn’t want to put him in a position where he might weaken.”
“Makes sense. So you’d do this by yourself?”
“Right now that’s my plan, but I’m still thinking it through. Tell you one thing. I’ve been researching software, cell phone contracts, and the like; my God, how does anyone cut through the bullshit?”
“I stick to my iMac and Alltel, which works except for some pockets and some days.”
“That works for you, but for a business I need something more sophisticated. Something different from what I use for accounting jobs. For reconstruction I need to see things in three dimensions; I need graphic capabilities as well as engineering.”
“Don’t look at me.” She laughed, then stopped herself. “You know who might know? Marion. She has a store computer system, but she bought a different one at home. She’s arty, you know, so I bet she can draw and do everything on her home system. Just an idea.”
“Good one.” He plucked out the news section. He’d been reading the sports page. “Look at this.”
A photo of our beautiful Lady Godiva was in the middle column. “My God, she was stunning.” Gray whistled. “She worked for Craig and Abrams, Washington office.”
Sister put her hand on his shoulder. “Craig and Abrams. That’s High Vajay’s old firm.”
“Wonder if he knew her. He’d be upset.” Gray continued to read the column.
“Does the paper say what her job was?”
“Research.”
“That covers a multitude of sins.”
“That’s just it, isn’t it?”
CHAPTER 7
No.” Felicity clamped her lips tight.
Val, irritated, scrubbed harder at the bit, fine English steel, with a toothbrush. “You think they won’t find out.”
Tootie, weary of Val’s badgering, answered for Felicity. “She won’t see them until spring break. By then she’ll have it figured out.”
“By then she’ll look like she swallowed a pumpkin,” Val shot back.
“Shows what you know.” Felicity smiled slightly. “I’ll have a little bulge, but it won’t be bad. I need time to think.”
“You need to get to the doctor in the first trimester, I know that.” Val thought having a baby at seventeen was the most ridiculous, stupid, backward act in the world.
Tootie thought otherwise, although what mattered was what Felicity thought. “She’d need parental consent for an abortion.”
“We can forge their names. Show me a letter from your mother and father and I’ll start practicing. I’m good at art; this can’t be so different.”
“Val, you can’t mean that.” Felicity was scandalized.
“Of course I mean it. We’re all three going to Princeton together, and that’s that.”
“We have to get in first,” Tootie replied dryly.
“We will. With our grade point averages, athletic points, and extracurricular stuff? Zip.” She swooped her hand flat and away like something flying.
“Who knows?” Felicity shrugged. “Pamela is going to Ol’ Miss. Speaking of parents, bet she hasn’t told hers yet.”
“Her mother will go mental.” Tootie giggled.
Pamela’s mother harbored exalted dreams for her daughter even while she upbraided her for not being as beautiful as she herself was and thought she had remained. This lethal combination made Pamela wary, sullen, and even overweight in defiance of her mother’s constant harping on looks, looks, looks.
“Early admission cuts the anxiety.” Felicity sidestepped the abortion discussion. “Maybe we should have asked for it with Princeton.”
“Some colleges are ending early admissions after this year.” Tootie refilled a small water bucket to continue cleaning tack, her fingers aching a bit when the warm water hit them, for the barn was cold. “They’re making a mistake.”
“Look.” Val rounded on Felicity again. “Talk to your parents. They’ll agree to an abortion. Don’t tell Howie.” This was Felicity’s boyfriend, star quarterback at the Miller School. “Just get it over with. Go to Princeton. Graduate. Do what comes next, probably graduate school, then marry well. Get it? The children follow.”
“That’s your path, not mine.” Felicity, though mild-mannered, was proving stronger than Val had anticipated.
“Felicity, be reasonable. Your mind is so good. I mean, you have such a business brain. You’re the only one in our class who ever makes money when we have projects, plus you come up with the ideas in the first place. Who would have thought to sell bandannas in school colors?”
“Or Mardi Gras beads in school colors before the big day, Fat Tuesday. Don’t you love that name? It’s like Boca Raton. Sounds good until you remember it’s mouth of the rat.” Tootie
complimented Felicity but wisely did not tell her what to do. After all, it wasn’t her body. “We’re finished. Let’s go to breakfast.” Tootie hung up the bridle, neatly making a figure eight around the headband, noseband, and cheek pieces with the throat latch. “We’ll turn out horses after breakfast.”
“Gives everyone time to eat and relax. I’ve learned more about horses from Sister than from Bunny,” Val said.
“Different things to learn. Bunny’s good about basics—barn management stuff—but as a riding coach her main job is to win at horse shows. Alums like ribbons and trophies. The more silver the team brings home the more checks the alumnae write.”
“True,” Val agreed. “Our soccer team helps too.”
“Some of our alumnae foxhunt. Hey, why don’t we ask Sister about that?” Felicity brightened.
Sister had been keeping an eye on the stable, every now and then stepping into the cold mudroom to glance out the backdoor window. When she saw them close the big double doors behind them, she poured the coffee.
“Felicity has this great idea!” Val, first through the door, walked to the pantry without being told, returning with four bowls.
Tootie followed, bringing jams and honey. Felicity brought the daily silverware.
“I’m all ears.”
“Let’s have a Custis Hall alumnae-and-student foxhunt.” Felicity smiled.
“That’s the best idea I’ve heard all year.”
“It’s only February twenty-first, there’s time for more ideas.” Val sat down at the sturdy farmer’s table.
Sister ladled the cream of wheat into five bowls. Felicity and Tootie carried four to the table. Tootie placed Gray’s in front of him, then put down Sister’s. Before sitting down, Tootie scooted back for the fifth bowl, hers.
The brass teapot whistled. Sister poured herself hot water, flipped in a plain old Lipton’s teabag, and joined the girls. If she drank one more cup of coffee she’d levitate.
The Tell-tale Horse Page 7