Full Cry

by Rita Mae Brown

  A man of many vanities, he endured liposuction, a face-lift, and hair plugs. Yet, Crawford had good qualities. Highly intelligent, he was not bound by the Virginia Code: a complex ritual of behavior rivaling the eighteenth-century courts of Europe. Upon reflection, Virginia was still in the eighteenth century. Of all the southern states, Virginia and South Carolina were the strongest in their labyrinthine codes. Crawford thought outside the code, and sometimes even his good ideas and insights ruffled feathers. Sister Jane, herself a product of the code, squelched her distaste and listened to him. Being a good leader, Sister knew you used the material at hand.

  At first Crawford couldn’t stand Jane Arnold. She could ride like a demon. He hated being physically shown up by a woman, especially one nearly twenty-five years older than himself. She circled around problems and people instead of striking straight to the heart of the issue, which drove him crazy. Unless she was dealing with someone extremely close to her, Sister took her time, stepped lightly, and tried to help antagonists save face. In time, he learned to respect her methods just as she learned to respect his.

  This gave rise to Crawford’s greatest vanity; he desperately wanted to be joint-master. It was apparent to all that Sister must take on a joint-master to train for the day when she would be riding with the Lord. She was dragging her heels.

  Crawford thought Jane Arnold did not wish to share power. Well, yes and no. She needed the right person, one whom the other members—all of them strong people and opinionated—would respect. She also wanted a true hunting master.

  Putting MFH behind a man or woman’s name could turn him or her into an insufferable grandee. Crawford could be plenty insufferable as it was.

  His wealth was a crowbar. Sooner or later he would pry open the old girl. He was counting on it. It fed his drive, shored up his patience, propelled him to build an expensive showgrounds with a grandstand on acres donated by the Bancrofts, who had even more money than Crawford, which irked him. In a flash of brilliance, he named the grandstand in honor of Raymond Sr., and the ring—a beautiful thing with perfect footing—after Ray Jr.

  He didn’t think of this himself. His wife, Marty, helped him. The idle town gossips said she was with him because of his money. Anyone who doesn’t comprehend the importance of money is a born fool, but Marty, during a public affair of Crawford’s and their separation, had acted with dignity. In the end, this meant more to Crawford than anything else. She could have stuck him up, kept them in court for years, and curdled whatever joy might be possible with someone else. She did not upbraid him for his affair. In fact, she never mentioned it. The Virginians, in their overweening pride, felt that Marty Howard acted as “a lady of quality ”—which is to say, as a Virginian. Marty was a lady of quality. Apparently, they breed them in Indiana as well as Virginia.

  Marty actually loved Crawford. She knew underneath his terrible need for show and power, and his fear of losing his sex appeal, beat the heart of a good man. His ways might offend, but he truly was on the side of the angels. She had loved him from the day they met at the University of Indiana in Bloomington.

  Without recognizing it, Crawford gave clues to his inner life. When Sister Jane first beheld the imposing, ferocious boars atop the equally imposing pillars, she said to Crawford, “The Duke of Gloucester, later Richard III, had just such boars as his emblem.”

  Before she could continue, Crawford jumped in, “1483 to 1485. Yes, he’s a bit of a hero of mine because I believe he was faithful to the crown. When his brother, King Edward, died, the Woodvilles tried to take over England. They were commoners—grasping, greedy—but, well, Edward had to have her. And by God, she was queen. Civil war seemed unavoidable, even though Richard was named protector until the eldest son, just a boy, could inherit. He was an able administrator, a good warlord. From his estate at Middleham in Yorkshire, he was forever driving back the Scots. He was a strong king, but so many suspicions were planted against him, many by the Woodvilles and their supporters.”

  Sister, upon hearing this, was not surprised that Crawford knew history. She smiled. “I always thought his biggest mistake was not in killing the princes in the Tower, if indeed he did, but in dispensing with the Earl of Warwick, his cousin. Richard Neville was more than a cousin, he was Richard Ill’s right arm.”

  This discussion and recognition built the first bridge between Sister and Crawford. Impressed that she read history and had a real sense of the swing of power, he wondered whether perhaps there was more to her than a hard-riding, handsome old broad.

  For her part, Sister sensed that Crawford was a kind of Richard III, a man of tremendous ability and loyalty whose ambition was not naturally destructive. Like Richard, Crawford lacked the outward conviviality of Edward IV, whom Richard succeeded and mourned.

  As years rolled by, Sister made a point now and then to invite Crawford for coffee, just the two of them. She would also have Crawford and Marty to small dinners, carefully selecting her guests, never more than eight.

  In time, older hunt club members did their best to get along with Crawford because of Sister’s example. And he did siphon money into the treasury, for which every single member was grateful, even Bobby Franklin, the president, and Bobby couldn’t abide the man.

  Bobby Franklin would say, sotto voce, that one of the happiest days of his life was when Crawford moved up from the Hilltoppers to First Flight. Poor Bobby. As Master of Hilltoppers, he had to handle green horses, green riders, or, the worst of the worst: a green horse dealing with a green rider. Bobby’s sympathies rested with the horse. By the time people made it to First Flight, Bobby, a font of hunting lore, had drummed the basics into their heads.

  Crawford looked out the window from his beautiful living room decorated by Colefax and Fowler. The decorating bill for the living room alone amounted to $275,000. Naturally, his estate had been featured in decorating magazines on both sides of the Atlantic.

  In Virginia, money whispers. For Crawford, it shouted. He couldn’t help it. Marty tempered him a bit, but his need for display usually won out.

  “Well, the goddamned Weather Channel has it wrong yet again.” He tapped his manicured forefinger against the cold windowpane.

  Marty walked over. “Here.”

  He gratefully took the brandy snifter and sipped the warming, delicious cognac. “Rituals of pleasure.”

  She smiled. “Perfect coffee in the morning; a strong cup of tea at four in the afternoon; and brandy at twilight in the winter, a cool Tom Collins in the summer.”

  “Hot kisses at bedtime.” He wrapped one arm around her waist. “Bet Tuesday’s hunt will be canceled. I was sorry that Sorrel Buruss canceled tonight’s cocktail party, but only you and I could have gotten there.”

  He had recently bought a Hummer II and thought he could drive up Everest with it. His daily driver was a metallic red Mercedes S500. Crawford eschewed the other Mercedes: M’s, C’s, and E’s. A real Mercedes was an S or an SL, and that was that. Marty sensibly drove a Subaru Outback and was quite happy with it, even though Crawford wanted to buy her a Toyota Land Cruiser.

  “Hot kisses? I’ll drink to that.” Marty touched her glass to his and took a sip.

  “Hard to believe it’s almost the New Year. Honey, I’ve been thinking. I swore when we moved here I would retire—”

  “Managing your investments is a full-time job.”

  “It’s not enough for me.”

  “Darling, you’re on the Board of Governors of the Jefferson Hunt Club, the board for Mercy Hospital, the national board for Save Our Farmland. You do so much even I lose track, and I’m pretty good with details.” She flattered him. “And let’s not forget that you are treasurer for the Republican Party in this county and, I expect, sweetie, will be tapped for that job for the state.”

  “I don’t think they’ll put a non-Richmonder in that slot,” he replied.

  “Oh, yes, they will. You’re smarter than all of them, and you have great connections out of the state. But,” she sighed a m
ock sigh, “I know you. What are you planning now? What world will you conquer?”

  “First things first: I will be joint-master this year. The hunt selects the master on Valentine’s Day. A funny little tradition. Most hunts do it May first, unless they’re private packs, of course. February’s Board of Governors meeting is February eighteenth, so Sister Jane will have to make her decision by January’s board meeting, the twenty-first.”

  “You’ll be a wonderful master.” Marty kept to herself that she thought immediate chances of this honor were slim.

  He stared out the window. The snow, a white curtain, obscured even the English boxwoods lining the curving front walkway to the columned portico.

  “This has been some kind of winter.” He took another sip. “Let’s sit by the fire. I like to look at you in the firelight.”

  She kissed his cheek. They walked to the overstuffed sofa, squeezing side by side as the flames, orange, red, a hint of blue, cast warmth.

  “Honey, how do you think Sam Lorillard is working out?”

  He put his snifter down, stretched his hands. His joints hurt. “So far, so good. Too early to really tell.”

  “Fairy thinks there will be trouble in the hunt field with Sam.”

  Fairy Partlow kept the Howards’ foxhunters in tune. In her late twenties, she had proven surprisingly capable and reliable.

  He exhaled through his nostrils. “Reminds me. I forgot to give the club money for Sam to ride as a groom. I’ll check with Sister.”

  “Fairy hasn’t been out in two weeks. Hunting, I mean,” she said.

  Fairy rode as a groom, a policy most hunt clubs use to include stable help employed by wealthier members. As a rule, the grooms rode better than their employers and were helpful in the field, as they rode in the rear.

  “Well, now that Sam’s here, and I’ve hired Roger Davis to help out with the horses, maybe she can hunt more. But this damned weather has got us all holed up.” He put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “Hunt field is the best place to bring young ‘chasers. Sam needs to hunt, too.”

  Crawford, having talked to old-timers in the steeplechase world, thought he’d stick to the tried-and-true ways of the past, although many a modern owner and trainer no longer did.

  Eager to make a bigger mark, he was purchasing young steeplechase and hunter prospects, hence his recent hiring of Sam.

  “Fairy says over the years Sam has worked for members of the club and fallen foul of some of them.”

  “Oh, these damned Virginians never forget a thing. That’s ancient history.”

  “If someone sleeps with your wife, I doubt it ever becomes ancient history,” she quietly said.

  His eyebrows rose. “Oh. Who did Sam sleep with?”

  “Henry Xavier’s Dee. Ronnie Haslip told me in confidence. That Ronnie knows everyone and everything.”

  “Really?”

  “And the list goes on, of women I mean.”

  “Hmm.” He dropped his chin for a moment, thought, then raised it. “He’s gone through rehab. He goes to AA meetings at least five nights a week. There has to be some forgiveness in the world.” Crawford did believe in forgive but never forget.

  “Hopefully.”

  “Can’t understand how those women fell for him. He’s a bandy-legged, skinny little thing. Nice color though.”

  Cafe au lait was Sam’s coloring.

  “He was younger then. Alcohol ravages even the most beautiful. Think of Errol Flynn or William Holden.” “Mmm. Too far back for me.” She lightly punched him. “You’ll pay for that.” “How about now?” He pulled her to him, kissing her. “What a good idea.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Are you doing this to irritate me?“ Delia, mother of the D litters, crossly said to Trudy, a racy second-year entry.

  “No,” the young hound replied as they walked through the snow. The humans accompanied them on foot this Tuesday morning.

  Sister, Shaker, Betty, and Sybil Bancroft—she’d taken back her maiden name—each wearing warm boots, marveled at the beauty of this crisp morning.

  The snow did not stop Sunday night as predicted, but floated down throughout Monday, finally ending late Monday night. The road crews in Virginia, more accustomed to dealing with flooding conditions or old macadam roads bubbling up in fierce heat, worked twenty-four hours even in the storm to keep the interstates open. Given that Virginia generally gets far less snow than upstate New York, the state budget allowed for the purchase of only a small number of snowplows. Close to the mountains it snowed more regularly, so the state, and it was a good plan, sold the work out to local people. Anyone with a snowplow attachment to a heavy-duty truck, a bulldozer, or even a big old dump truck could earn some extra money during the storms. The dump trucks followed the plows. As the snow would be scraped up and piled to the side, the dump truck driver would slowly release a load of sand. Sometimes salt would be mixed in with the sand, wreaking havoc on the underbodies of older cars and trucks.

  Unless more snow fell, or, worse, the temperature climbed and it rained, the New Year’s Hunt would go off without a hitch. And it would be beautiful, given the snow.

  All the hounds that were not in season or were puppies came out on hound walk today. Sister and Shaker wanted to see if anyone was footsore or not moving properly. Both master and huntsman bordered on the fanatical concerning hound care. The Jefferson Hunt pack of American foxhounds enjoyed robust health, shining coats, and clean teeth. Their monthly expenses ran at about $1,500, give or take a few hundred, depending on special events such as a whelping difficulty, which would entail a veterinary bill.

  Sister Jane’s kennel standards were so high she was often cited as a model by other hunts. Individuals hoping to start a pack of foxhounds made the journey to see her kennels and hounds. They came from as far as California.

  The pack knew they were splendid. Even on hound walk they moved in long fluid strides, brimming with confidence, bright eyes, and cheerful demeanors. This was a happy pack.

  However, at this exact moment, Delia wasn’t happy. She feared being left in the kennel for New Year’s Hunt due to her age. While indeed the territory was demanding, her conformation was so good, her lung capacity and heart girth perfect, that she showed no signs of breaking down. Still, she had slowed a little, and Dragon, Dasher, and Diana, her third-year litter, pushed up front. Last year’s litter— now in their first year, Darby, Doughboy, Dreamboat, Dana, Delight, and Diddy—also possessed speed, as well as their mother’s power of endurance.

  Trudy, also quite fast, was walking next to Delia. She bumped the older hound by accident, turning around to see what Betty Franklin was laughing about. A young hound didn’t bump into an older hound without repercussion; the older hound took this as a challenge to authority. Kennel fights could be started with less provocation. Fortunately this pack had few of those.

  “You mind your manners,” Delia, growled.

  The other hounds knew not to respond, even Dragon, a real smartass. While Delia was not the head bitch, she was older, and the other hounds knew their place. Cora, the head bitch, lorded it over everyone. She used her power wisely, but no one except for the first-year entry, who weren’t born yet, would forget the hunt when Dragon disobeyed her: she bumped him so hard he fell on his side, and then she sat right on him. When he struggled to get up, she threw him down again, this time with her jaws on his throat. Dragon deserved it, and he might challenge other hounds, but he had yet to challenge Cora again. That reminder of who was boss kept the rest of the season running smoothly.

  Above Cora on the ladder of authority were Shaker and Sister. The hounds respected the two whippers-in, but didn’t necessarily think those two humans were pack leaders. Sometimes it was hard for the pack to remember that Sister and Shaker were humans. To the hounds, they were flawed hounds on two legs, yet possessing special gifts such as better sight during daylight.

  The going would be tough on Thursday, so Sister and Shaker closely watched hounds. No one with eve
n a slight crack in his or her pad could go out since they would be crossing icy creeks. Better not to take a chance of cutting open a crack. Any hound who was a bit weedy wouldn’t be going out. On a day like Thursday might be, some slim hounds ran off every bit of extra fat they had, and Sister didn’t want that. If a hound ran off too much weight during the season, it was hard to put it back on until the off-season. She monitored weight daily. All her hounds enjoyed good lung capacity, but Delia, well built, was older, as was Asa and a few others. Steady and true as they were, and therefore worth their weight in gold, Sister was indeed considering keeping them in the kennel on this particular High Holy Day.