Now she had to get this through the board. She had spoken to the people with an X by their name. Bobby Franklin, stepping down as president, was the first person she talked to after Walter. She’d been politicking. She wondered how elected officials did this morning, noon, and night. Guess they liked it.
She had not spoken to the few people with squares by their name, Crawford being one. She knew she’d face opposition. Why give the two people she knew would oppose this plan time to pressure the question-mark people? Better to lay this out tomorrow night and hope the X’s could help her swing the question-mark people right there at the meeting.
As for Crawford, she had a plan so he would be kissed and socked at the same time.
Not for nothing had Jane Arnold been Master of the Foxhounds for over forty years.
As she scribbled, she stopped and then spoke to the dogs.
“I think this will work. I’m excited about having a joint-master. Oh, I know there will be bumps in the road. I’ve had my own way here, captain of the ship and all that, but Walter and I will be a good team. Oh, la!” She threw up her hands. “I might be seventy-two, but, I’m telling you, I feel thirty-five!”
“Sometimes she gets simple.” Golly yawned.
“Humans worry about their age. The whole cosmetics industry would collapse, plastic surgery would tank if people accepted themselves as they are,” Raleigh shrewdly thought out loud.
“I figure if you can’t bring down a rabbit, it’s time to sit on the porch,” Rooster added his two bits.
Thrilled with her plan, Sister checked the clock on the night-stand, picked up the phone, and called Tedi Bancroft to again discuss bringing in Walter.
The two dear friends laughed and chatted. Tedi and Edward thought electing Walter as joint-master was inspired. Sister told Tedi how young she felt, light, elated.
Just before hanging up, Tedi said, “You know, Janie, I think aging is a return to your true self.”
CHAPTER 20
But look how much money the showgrounds have already generated.“ Clay Berry, first year on the Board of Governors, glanced down at his notes. ”Surely by next year there will be enough to hire a part-time manager, at the least.“
The board meeting was held the third Wednesday of each month except July. Every member took a turn hosting, a practice that drew them together. Although they hunted together, board members didn’t necessarily socialize. This was not because of personality conflicts, but the group’s interests varied widely. There wasn’t as much time to sit around in one another’s homes as there had been for Sister’s parents’ generation. People worked long hours, even those with money. They ferried their children to and fro, their kids as overcommitted with activities as their parents.
The other factor, true of most hunt clubs, was that members involved themselves in community projects: political campaigns, the Heart Fund, Easter Seals, 10K runs to raise funds for breast cancer research. Let there be a fund-raiser, a ball, a horse show, a trunk show to raise money for a worthy cause, and someone from the Jefferson Hunt would be there or in the chair.
Perhaps foxhunters, by their very natures, possess more animal energy. One can’t fly fences in heat, rain, sleet, or snow for two to four hours without brimming with high animal spirits. This spilled over into many activities. Sister was proud of the good work her members had done for the community. She even believed in a few herself, notably the No Kill Animal Shelter, which was her pet project—her pun.
Ronnie, tough about money, punched numbers into his handheld calculator. He looked up at the faces gathered in Sister’s front room. “Now look, Clay, it’s not a half-pay kind of deal. You know that from your business. There’s payroll, taxes, health insurance—”
“If they’re contract labor, there are no payroll, taxes, or health insurance,” Crawford interrupted.
Xavier folded his hands together. “Ronnie’s right. In order to have someone we can trust, someone who isn’t going to wreck the tractor, who will take some pride in the task, you can’t go with contract labor. I mean, we can’t head on down to the Salvation Army and pluck up one of the winos before a horse show. Either we keep going as we are or—”
“It’s the ‘or’ that worries me,” Walter spoke up. “Right now, the showgrounds are under my umbrella since I’m head of the Building and Grounds Committee. This is our first year, and we’ve been keeping everything together. For instance, the Lions Club left the grounds immaculate. The Antique Auto Club left the grounds immaculate, but grease was everywhere. Jimmy Chirios and I had to scrape down the ring, haul off the oil-soaked sand and bring in a thousand dollars’ worth of twice-washed sand. And we told them not to drive cars in the ring. It’s a sharp learning curve. Much as I’d like a full-time person, we can hold off for another year. Let’s see if the rentals hold up. Right now we’re a novelty in the county.”
Betty Franklin, the newsletter editor, spoke up. “I agree. Actually, I think we’re going to have more and more activity there. The grounds are more beautiful than I expected, and the county has nothing like this. We’ve saved the county commissioners a headache. Not having a showgrounds or fairgrounds has been a sore spot since the old fairgrounds burned down twenty years ago. Every year since then the commissioners would say, ”Costs too much to build.“ Every year construction costs went up and up. Nothing got done. That we did it is thanks to the Bancrofts for the land and thanks to Crawford.”
“Hear! Hear!” Everyone sang Crawford’s and the Bancrofts’ praises.
Golly, having disgraced herself during dinner before the meeting, perched behind Sister on the wing chair, and cackled. “There! There!”
“I move we table the employee issue, showgrounds, for a year.” Ron moved.
This was seconded and passed.
“Now let me bring up an idea.” Sister smiled. “Actually, it was Ronnie’s idea. You tell them.”
“Why don’t we ask each member to buy a lottery ticket once a month? One dollar. If the ticket wins, they split with the club.”
“Great idea!” Betty Franklin clapped her hands together.
“Who can argue with a dollar?” Her husband, Bobby, president of the club, smiled.
“How do you know they’ll be honest about the winning ticket?” Crawford tilted his head slightly to one side.
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Sorrel Buruss, social chair, always the diplomat, quietly said, “It is hoped that anyone who is a member of this hunt has integrity, honesty, humor, and courage. Naturally, we also have feet of clay, but let’s hope for the best.”
“Why can’t members buy a ticket, write their names on the back, and turn it in to the treasurer?” Crawford nodded to Ronnie.
“It would remove temptation if someone hit Lotto South’s big jackpot.”
Another silence followed.
“That makes work for Ronnie. It might work, but let’s start with a little trust,” Betty remonstrated.
“Trust is a wonderful thing—” Crawford’s light voice filled the room. “—but removing temptation will yield more results.”
After wasting too much time on this issue, the board voted to trust to luck and the membership.
Bobby Franklin checked off another item on the agenda. Two remained: the election of a president and the election of the master, which was announced on February 14. Whatever board meeting was closest to February 14 before that date was the elective meeting. It usually fell in January. If the membership did not accept the board’s recommendation, people could be proposed from the floor.
The board did not elect new members until the start of cubbing season. Each year three members cycled off the twelve-person board, after having served three years. This provided continuity and also avoided the stress of too much change all at one time. None of the members present, with the exception of Sister and Edward Bancroft, had lived through an upheaval of masterships. The disarray for those two years before Jane Arnold became master left such a bitterness at the time that a huge effort ha
d been made to unite behind Jane. It worked because over time she demonstrated not just knowledge of hounds, game, territory, and wooing landowners, she could get people to work together. She always said she had more patience with animals than people, but being a master forced her to develop patience with people, and to examine other points of view. She felt becoming an MFH was one of the best things that had ever happened to her.
“We are now come to the election of a president and a master.” Bobby’s eyes swept over the gathering. “As you know, I am stepping down as your president after serving seven years—seven years that I wouldn’t change for anything in the world. But it’s time for new blood and time for me to make a big decision in my life about whether to expand my business or sell it. Betty and I really need to think about all that. I am grateful to you for allowing me to serve.”
“You’ll still lead the Hilltoppers, won’t you?” Sorrel asked. “You’re so good at it.”
Bobby smiled. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Sorrel. Yes, I will.” He paused a moment, getting even Golly’s attention. “It is customary for the outgoing president to name his successor after convening with the master and to give the reasons why he thinks this individual will be a good president. Of course, nominations will be entertained from the board, too.” He paused again. The gathering sat still; the only ones in the room who knew what was coming next were his wife and Sister. “I have given the matter of who should follow me a lot of thought. One of the greatest things about Jefferson Hunt is that I think any member of this board would be a good president. That says a lot about the depth of our leadership and commitment. But the more I thought about it, the more I kept coming back to one man: Crawford Howard.”
As he said this, eyes widened. No one expected Bobby Franklin to pass the torch to a man he loathed.
“This is more interesting than I thought it would be” Golly purred.
“Crawford has drive, experience in the world of business. He also has a vision. He’s not afraid to express himself directly and—” Bobby held up his hand and smiled. “—we Virginians can’t always do that. Or at least this Virginian can’t. And I don’t pretend I always like that, but I have learned that when Crawford says something, he believes it. He doesn’t try to ruffle feathers; he tries to get the job done. At this point in our club’s history, I believe that Crawford Howard is the president we need.” He turned to the surprised Crawford. “Do you accept my nomination of you as president?”
Crawford understood that this meant he would not be joint-master, at least not for a while. What a disappointment. On the other hand, this was a chance to prove himself as a leader.
“I accept. And I want to pay tribute to a president with whom I have come to blows, physical blows. Much as we have disagreed, and violently, I have never doubted your commitment to what you believe is best for the Jefferson Hunt. Over time, I have learned to somewhat temper my ways, thanks to your example. Yours are big shoes to fill.”
“Hear, hear!” all spoke.
Bobby patted his ample girth. “Big pants, too.” He laughed at himself. “Do I have a second?”
Edward Bancroft, himself no fan of Crawford’s, who also had learned to work with him and appreciate his acumen, said, “I second the nomination.”
“Are there nominations from the floor?” Bobby waited an appropriate time. “If there are no further nominations, then I move we vote on our candidate for president. Because there is only one, we can do this with a voice vote. All in favor, say ‘Aye.” “
“Aye,” came the unanimous chorus.
“Crawford Howard is our new president, term effective as of the February board meeting. Congratulations, Crawford.”
“Thank you.” Crawford stood up. “Thank you all for your confidence in me.” He sat down.
“One last item: the election of our master.”
Before Bobby could continue, Ronnie called out, “I nominate Jane Arnold.”
“Second,” Clay said.
“Any nominations from the floor?” Bobby waited. “All in favor of Jane Arnold continuing in her duties as master, signify by saying ‘Aye.” “
Everyone said “Aye.”
Sister smiled. “Well, I guess you’re not tired of me yet. Thank you.” She waited a moment. “As you know, I have been your master since 1957. I hope I die in the saddle, literally. I have never done anything I love as much as being master of the Jefferson Hunt Club, proudly wearing our colors of Continental blue piped in buff, what our forefathers wore when they beat back the British in the Revolutionary War.” She took a deep breath. “And I am sure for some of our younger members, they must think I’ve been master since the Revolutionary War. It’s time to bring along a joint-master, dear friends. It’s time for me to ensure when my day has ended that this club will have a master who knows our hounds, cherishes our heritage, and ensures that our grandchildren and great-grandchildren have available to them what we have had available to us: open land, a respect for all living creatures, an understanding of our place in nature, and a love for the fox, our most worthy adversary.” People held their breath as she then said, voice firm, “I would be grateful to this board if you would elect Dr. Walter Lungrun to serve as our joint-master.”
Silence followed. Then Edward, in his patrician accent, said, “Janie, that is an inspired choice. Walter is young, vigorous, dedicated to foxhunting, and eager to learn. I believe you two will make a wonderful team. I wholeheartedly support this idea.”
“Walter?” Bobby realized the handsome man needed to indicate his willingness to serve, even though Bobby knew what was afoot.
“This is an honor I could never have imagined.” Walter meant it, too.
Betty spoke up. “Yes. Yes.”
Her simple affirmation allowed everyone else to speak at once, but the consensus was favorable, despite the twofold shock. The assembled thought Sister would go through one or two more terms alone, and many feared Crawford’s ambition to be master would, in time, split the club.
“Can we have a vote on this?” Bobby asked.
“I second the nomination,” Ronnie said.
“All in favor—”
Everyone said “Aye” before Bobby could finish his Robert’s Rules of Order drill.
“Congratulations.” Bobby got up and shook Walter’s hand, then walked over and shook Crawford’s hand. “Oh, I forgot,” he said as the board members got up, “any unfinished business?”
“Meeting’s adjourned,” Sorrel called out.
Betty hugged Sister. One by one other board members also hugged and thanked her.
Then they all hastened to the bar or the coffeepot in the kitchen, breaking up into small groups. Everyone congratulated the new joint-master and the new president.
Neatly stacked on her desk were the proofs Jim Meads had sent of all the photographs he had taken at Mill Ruins. Sister had put them out for board members to peruse. Order forms were next to the proofs.
She had prudently taken the eight-by-ten glossies of the fight at Chapel Cross up to her bedroom. She’d glanced at them briefly and thought she’d look at them more closely later.
When the gathering finally broke up, Walter, the last to leave, hugged and kissed Sister.
“Any words of advice, Master?”
She kissed him back. “Produce the pumpkins. Pies will follow.”
Later, snuggled in bed, Golly at her elbow, she congratulated herself on how smoothly the meeting had run. She sighed with relief. Walter would make a fine master. She felt as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders; broad though they were, she had felt the weight of ensuring a proper succession.
She opened the nightstand drawer, bringing out the photos.
“Roll over!” Golly yelled as Rooster snored.
“Golly, you’ll split my eardrums.” Sister petted the spoiled cat with her left hand as she flipped over the photographs with her right. “Those boys meant business.” She studied the scenes of Xavier and Sam. “Hmm.” She peered at one phot
ograph in particular. Dalton and Izzy sat side by side, looking at each other. It did not appear to be the social eye contact of acquaintances. There was heat in that gaze. She rushed through the other photos to see if any more contained a clue to Dalton and Izzy. They didn’t.
“Shut up, Rooster;” Golly again complained.
“Maybe I am reading too much into this.” Sister ignored the cat’s yowl. “But, Golly, I’ve been around long enough to know a carnal look when I see one.”
CHAPTER 21
Turning slowly, the water wheel fed a stream of clear water from the upper pond into the lower pond. Buried beneath the frost line, the pipes stayed clear. That portion above the frost line was wrapped in heat tape. Cindy Chandler hated draining pipes in winter. Her expensive solution worked. It worked for the fish, too; as a constant source of oxygen, freshening water poured into the hole in the ice.
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