“My master used to say, ‘Give Janie enough time and she’ll come round. Push her and you lose her, maybe forever. She doesn’t cotton to force.’ ” Rooster quoted his deceased master, Peter Wheeler, a former lover of Sister’s whom she still loved, really.
“Force? I’d like to see someone push her around. She might be old, but she’s quick as a cat. Well, almost.” Golly, in a revealing moment, praised Sister. It wouldn’t do for a cat to admit too much love for a human.
“I think Peter meant pressure more than physical force,” Raleigh commented soberly.
“You should be a lawyer.” With that Golly flopped on her side, closed her eyes, and pretended not to care a fig for the continuing conversation.
The three people had gone over Hope’s labels yet again—which Sister saw in the print shop—as well as the fact that Mo Schneider’s killer and Grant Fuller’s killer had never been found. They had moved on to the decayed foot that young Twist had retrieved.
“There are a lot of people up there”—Gray held his glass toward the Blue Ridge Mountains, color deepening to flaming scarlet in the clouds as the ridgeline itself turned cobalt blue—“who don’t come down. They live apart from what we euphemistically call civilization. They die in their cabins or out walking. They aren’t found except by vultures, feral dogs, and the like. I expect the foot comes from such a source.”
“I thought the people who lived up there had been run off.” Tootie couldn’t believe how vivid the sunset was, the colors changing every minute.
“You mean during the Depression when the federal government bought up land and built the Skyline Drive?” The stirring of twilight breezes started up, and the first bat darted overhead as Sister spoke.
“Right. Wasn’t it a terrible thing? Whole families torn off the land?” The beautiful girl liked reading history.
“Was.” Gray had heard about it from his parents, aunts and uncles who thankfully lived at the old Lorillard home place and suffered no ill effects from the upheaval. “And some folks died shooting, too. Not all the stories made the history books. In fact, most of them didn’t. We digest a pabulum version of our history. By design, of course.”
“Cynical but true.” Sister nodded.
“However, some people who were forced off their land crept to some other place below the federal lands and made do. In the sixties, people came from other parts and vanished into the ravines and hollows. It’s one of the odd things about our country: We don’t study the thousands—maybe millions—of people who choose not to participate in the Great American Way.” Gray heard a high-pitched bat squeak.
“Which is?” Sister squeezed his hand again, then let go to pet Golly, still pretending to be asleep.
“Grabbing and getting. Been that way since 1607. You think those folks from England sailed over here to be poor?” Gray laughed genially.
“Some came to escape persecution,” Tootie answered.
“Not in 1607. But you’re right, many did who came later. ’Course some of them, once established, relished the joys of persecuting others.” He leaned over to look directly at Tootie. “If I can teach you anything, Tootie, allow me to teach you this: The human animal stays the same. All systems of government and religion try to effect change, and all fail. The best you can do is manage the animal.”
“And some manage better than others,” Sister pointed out. “I think we’ve done pretty well, even with our outstanding flaws.”
“Slavery.” Tootie named what she perceived as some flaws. “Killing off the Indians.”
“Are we back to calling them Indians now?” Sister meant this with genuine curiosity. “It became Native Americans, then it was First Americans. I hope we’re back to Indians, because the word conjures up pictures of bravery, glamour even. First American sounds like an insurance company.”
“You’re not PC.” Gray laughed at her.
“No. And while I’m on this tear, what is that drivel about someone being hearing impaired ? If you can’t hear, you’re deaf. If you can’t see, you’re blind. Use the true word, the word that has power, not some watered-down treacle. I hate euphemisms. Those words are for people who can’t face life.”
“Maybe.” Gray liked engaging in ideas, observations. “Most people don’t live authentic lives, honey. There are so many layers between them and the truth, whether it’s the truth of nature or the truth of power, that even their language is anemic. They aren’t temporizing. At least, I don’t think they are.”
“My dad’s like that.” Tootie loved her father but didn’t always like him.
“Your father?” Sister was surprised.
“What Dad knows is banking. He’s incredible. He’s always getting put in charge of things like the Heart Fund. But he thinks that’s the world. I mean he thinks everything will conform to what he knows. That’s why I disappoint him.”
“Honey.” A rush of emotion flushed Sister’s face. “Your father loves you. He’s not disappointed. Granted, he doesn’t understand your love of hunting and the outdoors; he sees it as a pastime. But he’s proud of you.”
“Then why does he want me to be like him?”
Gray knocked back the rest of his drink. “Because he loves you. That sounds like a contradiction, but he’s happy in his world and wants you to be happy, hence the desire to see you doing what he has done. It will be difficult for him to accept another path for you, should you take it. But he will. Sister is right; your father loves you. He hasn’t abandoned you like Felicity’s parents have done. I don’t think he would, even if you take a different path from what he thinks is best. I know he’s hard on you. I was hard on my kids, especially my son. When he wanted to be a veterinarian specializing in cattle, I didn’t get it. I thought, Here goes my son, every damned advantage I could give him and he wants to spend his life in blood and manure. Actually, I thought of a different word than manure.”
“Then over time you saw he had to be his own man,” Sister added.
“I did, and I’m glad he held out for what he wanted. I have a real man for a son, not a pale imitation of me.”
“You really think in time my father will be glad I became my own woman?” Tootie had assumed she’d spend the rest of her life either avoiding discussions with her father or endlessly explaining herself.
“He will, but don’t expect an overnight conversion.” Gray chuckled. “Men can be hardheaded.”
“God, I think I need a drink!” Sister exclaimed in false shock. “Write the date down: August twenty-second: Gray Lorillard admits men can be hardheaded.”
“Oh, come on, I’m not that bad.” Gray stood up. “I’m going to refresh my drink. What would you like?”
“How about another tonic water with a splash of that gin in the blue bottle?”
He took her upheld glass.
“Isn’t anyone going to eat the vegetables?” Rooster thought food on a plate should be consumed.
“I’m not eating tiny cauliflowers.” Raleigh watched the sunset, too.
Golly opened one eye. “Good. They make you fart.”
“I do not!” Raleigh loathed her sometimes.
“Oh, la!” Golly sassed, rolling on her back so Sister could rub her tummy.
Gray returned. “Have you ever seen anything like that sky? Scarlet, flamingo pink, lavender, purple, and the mountains cobalt blue all the way to the bottom. Look over there, a streak of pure gold. Paradise.”
“Which reminds me.” Sister took a taste: quite nice. “Didn’t see one boar track when Ben and I were out there two weeks ago. Plenty of otters, deer, everything else. Well, it was a long shot going over there to see if the boar were around, but they hunt a huge territory and they like carrion. And I killed two birds with one stone.”
“Which is?” Gray sat down and plucked a tiny sweet carrot off the tray while Rooster watched.
“Checked how much work we need to do in the fixtures.”
“You never stop,” he said, with admiration.
“No master doe
s.” Sister noted Tootie’s empty glass. “Another Coke?”
“No, ma’am. Keeps me awake if I drink too much.”
“Promise me you will learn everything you can at Princeton. Soak it up. Then come back to me and I’ll teach you how to be a master.”
“Promise.” Tootie reached out her hand and Sister took it, a left hand shaking a right.
“You’d better teach her how to make some money,” Gray added dryly.
“Spoken like my dad.” Tootie laughed at him and he laughed at himself.
“How do you like your drink?” Gray asked Sister.
“Very very nice. The hint of gin on the tongue on a languid summer’s night feels lavish.”
“Seize every pleasure.” Gray smiled.
Sister wanted to say she had but didn’t.
“I haven’t harped too much on Hope, the foot, and the rest of it.” She looked up as a giant blue heron flew home for the night. “But I’m not giving up.”
“When you find the body, there won’t be anything left,” Gray joked.
“I’m more concerned with finding the murderer than finding the body.” She paused to listen to the heron’s croak, for high as he was she could hear that distinctive sound. “Tootie, I am going to miss you so much, but in a way I’m glad you’ll be safe at Princeton because who knows what all this is about. You’ll be out of harm’s way.”
“You won’t—” Tootie started to say more, already sorry she’d said that.
“Maybe. But I’m old. If I go, it’s no great loss. If you do, it is.”
“If you go, darling, we’re all lost,” Gray said softly.
CHAPTER 21
On September 6, the first Saturday after Labor Day, hounds bounded out of the kennels. Traditionally, Jefferson Hunt began cubbing from home. The draw-pen door opened and out dashed fifteen couple of hounds, including two couple of young entry. Two of Mo Schneider’s hounds packed in, too.
“Whoopee!” shouted Giorgio.
“Shut up, young fool,” Asa grumbled, a touch of melancholy in his voice. He knew he was slowing down, which would be obvious to staff.
“Aren’t you excited?” Tinsel, wide-eyed, danced around the older tricolor.
“Yes, but no one likes a babbler. Respect tradition.” Asa liked Tinsel, whereas he wasn’t so sure about the gorgeous Giorgio.
“Hear, hear.” Cora seconded the stalwart Asa.
Staff surrounded the pack, no thongs down, just quietly waiting.
By seven-thirty in the morning, forty riders had turned out, seemingly as excited as the hounds. Given September’s heat—and often it was a dry month, too—it was best to start early: dew still on the meadows, temperature in the high fifties to low sixties. Hounds might pick up a fox but the run wouldn’t last long, for as the sun rose higher, the mercury rose with it and scent vanished.
Sister, knowing the riders to be the hard core of the hunt, simply said, “Good morning. Let’s go.”
Tootie and Val, down from Princeton even though it was a big football weekend, grinned. Judge Baker rode next to Daphne Wigg of Deep Run. Daphne, a strikingly good-looking woman, especially on a horse, kept him smiling; they were old friends. Everyone was smiling, especially Gray.
Much as Gray enjoyed hunting, it wasn’t the center of his life. Knowing it was life itself to Sister, and knowing how hard she and Shaker worked during the grueling summer days, he loved seeing her in her glory.
“Hounds, please.” Sister nodded to Shaker, who headed down the farm lane toward the old apple orchard, moving past the deep ruts in the track.
“Did you notice how the hounds waited?” Tootie whispered to Val.
“They always wait.” Val hunted to ride whereas Tootie rode to hunt.
“It’s a big step for young entry.” Tootie was so glad to be back on the farm she was verging on tears.
Georgia lounged outside her den after a night of gorging on the sweet feed the horses had dropped from the buckets hanging on the fence. The black fox had also consumed far too many sour balls that Sister left in the barn by mistake, package open.
“Bother.” She sighed, making no effort to pop back into her den.
Shaker couldn’t see Georgia. Leaves still festooned the trees, and her den sat smack in the middle of the orchard.
“Lieu in, there,” Shaker commanded, sending hounds into the orchard.
Sister waited on the road as Betty rode at ten o’clock and Sybil at two; their salt-colored sack coats, light linen, made them easy to see against the deep green.
“Here.” Tinsel found the line, and Cora checked it.
Within seconds, the entire pack roared and it was only seconds, too, before Georgia slipped into her den.
Hounds milled around the tidy opening.
Twist stuck her head into the den. “I know you; you visit the kennels at night.”
“Of course you know me, you twit. I come with my mother, Inky.”
“Come out and play.” Twist, first year, lacked a concept of a true hunt; she’d only worked at fox pen, where young hounds can be trained on fox scent.
“You must be joking, Twist. Will you kindly remove your face from my foyer?”
Before the confused but happy hound could reply, she felt a strong hand on her stern.
“Come on, young’un.” Shaker pulled her out. “Good work.”
Although the run only lasted seconds, Shaker blew Gone to Ground, for they did den their fox. Laughing, he could barely get the notes out.
After the garbled sounds, he patted the glossy heads, put his foot in the left stirrup iron, and swung up on Showboat, the horse chuckling, too.
Sister turned to the field. “World’s shortest run. Someone be sure to notify Guinness Book of World Records.”
Ben Sidell, in first flight for the first time, stuck close to Kasmir Barbhaiya, who promised to look out for him. Kasmir, generous in heart and pocketbook, was fast becoming a much-loved member. The Vajays, his friends from India originally, also rode first flight on lovely Thoroughbreds.
Riding behind Ben, Mitch Fisher wished he’d not worn his tattersall vest under his coat.
“Where to?” Diana looked up at Shaker.
Shaker stared down at his anchor hound and then looked up. No wind. Calm, mercury rising, not a cloud in the sky. These are not ideal hunting conditions. However, dew lay thick on the grass. If he punched down into the cool air currents that often follow creek beds, the pack would have a shot at another run and that would probably be it.
He jumped over the new coop in the fence line at the wildflower field. It was well sited, offering easy takeoff and landing. Some jumps can only be placed in difficult spots. A foxhunter must be able to ride off, his or her eye even turning sharply after a landing. Count strides and you’re dead.
The new coop, freshly painted black, put off some horses. Horses grow accustomed to seeing the same things, just like a person driving to work. They do it by rote. Introduce a new element and a horse will usually look. Is this a strange-appearing predator? Many creatures like horse meat, the French being among them. In these circumstances, a rider has to boot over the horse. Many a grunt and groan filled the air, with the humans grunting and not the horses. Ahead of the field, Sister occasionally heard a hard rap on the coop’s edge. Across the wildflower field they cantered, Shaker trying to get to the next cast before it was too hot. He soared over the hog’s-back jump that divided Sister’s land from the Bancrofts. Within a minute, Sister and Keepsake popped over.
The hounds reached Broad Creek shortly thereafter, the temperature already cooler from the heavy woods. At this location, two miles from the main house, Shaker most often cast west toward the mountains. Since wind usually came from the west this made good sense. However, this day was still as a tomb so he cast down the creek, southeast. The distinctive odor of water filled his nostrils. If Shaker could smell the water, he hoped hounds could smell whatever scent might be tagging a ride on the cool current.
Deer crashed out of the
woods.
“Big!” Tattoo let out a yelp.
“Don’t even think about it,” Peanut warned, feeling herself a veteran now.
If Shaker had possessed a better nose, he would have picked up a scent smelling like old wet wood as they traveled downstream.
Dasher noticed it first. “What do I do?”
“Legitimate game,” Diana replied. She opened on the line and off they went.
Sister knew the hounds weren’t on deer, but they didn’t sound quite right, even factoring in the higher squeals of the young entry. Still, Shaker was blowing them on, so she squeezed her legs on Keepsake.
The path by the creek, wide and well worn, made for easy going. That, too, surprised her. A fox would have used the creek, picking those spots where the bed was deep and sharply cut, leaping off to swim to the other side, sometimes crisscrossing to foul scent before veering off into heavy covert, if it was available, or using the woods to slow pursuers.
None of this happened. Hounds roared down the creek path, noses down, intent. Betty, on the northeastern side of the water, for the creek bent sharply at that point, looked ahead and spurred Outlaw on.
Sybil, to the right, rode off the creek path in the thick woods, where she couldn’t see much. When Shaker got round the sharp turn, he put his horn to his lips, blowing three sharp blasts, then calling, “Hold up!”
Ahead of him, moving quickly for such a bulky animal, a black bear hurried along.
Sybil, hearing the three notes, moved toward the creek from the woods. Unfortunately, she came out in front of the bear, perhaps fifty yards away. Bombardier, a sensible Thoroughbred, nostrils wide open, caught one whiff of the big boy and started shaking all over.
“All right. All right.” Sybil patted him, but she had to stay where she was in case some hounds flew past the bear.
Fortunately, all returned to the huntsman, even the young entry, who had never seen such game.
Without missing a beat, Sister appraised the situation and called out “Tally Yogi” and then “Reverse.”
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