Yvonne’s eyebrows lifted, the corners of her mouth turned upward. “Really?”
“He’s eighty-six, handsome as the devil, and just sweeps women off their feet. He’s also the kindest man I’ve ever met and a marine. My hunt is filled with military people, but we do seem to be heavy on marines.”
A pause followed this. “How do you know I won’t fall in love with Sam?” Then she quickly added, “I am through with men. I’m not falling in love with anyone.”
“We all say that.” Sister let it lie. “More tea?”
“Yes, please. Thank you, too, for putting me in touch with Betty Franklin. We spent most of the day looking at rentals. As many times as I have visited Tootie when she was at Custis Hall, I never appreciated how extraordinary this part of the world is. I do begin to understand why she came back to Virginia.”
“Any ideas?”
“I love Chapel Cross. All those wonderful places and the names, Old Paradise, Tattenhall Station, Mud Fence, Orchard Hill, Tollgate, and then if we turn left at Chapel Cross, Beveridge Hundred, Little Dalby. Betty mentioned other fixtures in other parts of the country, also charmingly named, all historic. Let’s see, Mill Ruins, she showed me that. Impressive, that old huge mill with the wheel turning just spraying water everywhere. Close Shave. Loved that name. Litany Brook. Prior’s Woods.”
“Our ancestors pretty much named things as they were. Mud Fence really started with mud fences back in the mid-eighteenth century. Couldn’t afford anything else.”
“Yes, Betty told me all that. I’ve rented a what-do-you-call-it, a dependency at Beveridge Hundred. I’ll be smack in the Chapel Cross area.”
“Good. That was fast.”
“I’m not wasting any time.”
“You are in the perfect position to see the resurrection of Old Paradise, finally bought by Crawford Howard. Sam will either give you lessons there—the stable is spectacular—or at Crawford’s Farm just down the road from mine. Or both. If you like Sam, that is.”
“I hope I do. I’m eager to ride.”
“Do you need help moving in? Furniture, towels, all that stuff.”
“It’s fully furnished. I’m close to Tattenhall Station, so I assume if I need a cup of sugar I can borrow it from Kasmir. I do remember him.”
“Such a sweetheart. He’s given Jefferson Hunt so much. He says we brought him back to life. He visited here shortly after his wife, much beloved, died. One of our family members came from India, and Kasmir and Vijay met at public school in England, thence on to Oxford.”
Yvonne breathed deeply. “I think I have a lot to learn.”
“Well, riding and hunting takes some time.”
“No, about people. I assumed everyone here was a redneck. Not you and Gray, that was obvious, but I really did think this was the sticks.”
“It is.” Sister smiled.
“Some sticks.”
CHAPTER 9
Roughneck Farm, a sizeable holding although not nearly the two thousand acres of Tattenhall Station nor the vast five thousand acres of Old Paradise, offered beautiful views of the Blue Ridge Mountains, with one northern interruption. The lands included Hangman’s Ridge, a nine-hundred-foot ridge, flat on the top. The north side dipped down to wild meadows lapping Soldier Road. On the other side of this road reposed Cindy Chandler’s Foxglove Farm. Had it not been for the ridge the two neighbors and dear friends could have observed the lights at night in each other’s homes, although those homes were actually miles apart. Light travels as does sound, especially the sound of wind.
The hounds, walking briskly at seven-thirty on Wednesday morning, September 20, heard the trees groaning as they bent on the ridge. Depending on the ferocity of the wind, you could tell how long before the wind, the rain, or the snow would hammer down the south side of the former execution spot. The enormous hanging tree, a trunk so thick now it would take four men to reach around it, stood where it always had, close to the middle of the flat top.
“Five minutes,” Dasher predicted.
“Never good for scent, wind,” Asa grumbled.
The long slanting rays of the just risen sun cast a reddish gold glow on everything. You might think that sunrise is the opposite of sunset but no, the quality of light is different. Hounds, foxes, horses were sensitive to light. Some people were, too.
Shaker walked in front of the pack, Sister on the left, Tootie on the right, with Betty and Yvonne about fifteen yards in the rear. Betty chatted with Yvonne from time to time, explaining why they walked hounds, the different hound personalities, and how gifted her daughter was. Betty never mentioned the divorce or the subsequent publicity.
Yvonne, coached by Tootie, wore sturdy walking shoes. Mother and daughter had the same size foot, 7½. Her designer jeans, too expensive for this activity, nonetheless were jeans. A thin cashmere sweater was pulled over a crisp white blouse. Yvonne was walking hounds, but she still looked like a model.
Sister made a mental note to tell Marion. If Yvonne truly stuck it out in Virginia, how perfect the former star would be for Marion’s annual brochure, always printed on expensive paper, designed as a magazine with vivid color production. Yvonne in a shadbelly, a top hat, perhaps even a veil rolled up on the hat crown, would have ladies flying to the store or buying on the Internet. The woman could make a burlap sack appear chic.
Tootie, although a heavenly beauty, lacked her mother’s incredible sense of fashion. Tootie was truly happiest in her Timberland boots, Wrangler jeans with holes in them, heavy socks rolled over the top of the work boots, a T-shirt tucked into her jeans, with an old Shaker-stitched sweater pulled over that.
The morning, coolish, proved invigorating. The wind made it down to the bottom of the ridge; fallen leaves swirled about, limbs bent over.
Fortunately the hounds were returning to the kennels.
Betty remarked, “Twenty miles per hour, I’d guess.”
Sister called over to her, “Enough to knock you sideways.”
“You. You’re lean.” Betty laughed. “You, too, Yvonne.”
“Zumba.” She smiled, naming the musical workout.
“Zumba! Rumba.” Twist, a second-year youngster, with no idea of what either word meant, wiggled his butt.
“Boom Ba Ba Boom!” Giorgio, the handsomest boy in the kennel, giggled.
The rest of the pack babbled in happiness, winds at their tails as they passed the apple orchard, small trees heavy with red apples.
“You are all mental.” Inky, head popping out from her den in the apple orchard, taunted them.
“And you don’t provide good sport,” Dasher chided her.
“Why should I give you a good run? I’m happy with my housework.” A black fox, a variant of the grays, Inky was a born organizer, unlike Comet, the male gray who lived under Tootie’s cabin.
“Did you take Raleigh’s green-and-orange canvas duck?” Pansy innocently asked.
“He shouldn’t leave toys lying around the yard. He’s a spoiled brat,” came her answer, which meant she took it.
Yvonne stopped, speechless. She pointed to the fox. “Tally—what do you say, Tootie? I can’t believe I’m seeing a fox.”
“Tallyho. You have to count to twenty, Mom. Supposed to give the fox a sporting chance, but that’s Inky. She visits the kennels at night.”
“She’s not afraid?” Yvonne, astonished, stood in one spot until Betty waved her on.
“No. I think she can read the fixture card. She doesn’t come out when we hunt here or at After All. She’s a funny girl.”
“Black. There are black foxes?” Yvonne, still astonished, asked, as Shaker opened the draw-run door to the kennels.
“Black, white, silver. Arctic foxes are white. Go on in there, Zandy.” Betty gave a young hound the evil eye so she scooted right in.
“And silver must be commercially raised. I mean for silver fox coats, not that anyone buys furs anymore,” Yvonne added quickly.
“I have always assumed that blacks or even silver foxes
are a variant of the gray fox, or one whose breeding from the original stock has been tampered with by humans,” Sister chimed in.
“You don’t see silver foxes out hunting, do you?”
“No.” Betty smiled. “Reds, grays, the occasional black—as well as the occasional black bear.”
Yvonne’s hand came to her breast. “I sincerely hope not.”
Sister and Tootie walked back out of the kennel’s main door having walked in through the draw-pen door.
“Your first hound walk, Mom.” The leaves swirled.
“Good exercise, and Betty informed me a little bit about the hounds. Asa is the oldest and wisest and”—she thought for a moment—“Diana figures things out. I can see there is a lot to remember. Betty said if a hound needs correcting, you”—she looked at her daughter—“should say the name. So you have to know all the hounds. How do you know who they are from up high? I mean, darling, you’re on a horse. You’re looking at their backs, or they’re far away.”
“You learn over time. I watch the way a hound moves. Most of The Jefferson Hunt Hounds are tricolors, so I can’t always identify them by coat. If I get close I can. And then, yes, Betty’s right. First say the name. If they don’t listen, warn them, and if they still don’t listen, crack the whip. Scares them.”
“Do you have to crack the whip often?”
“No, thank heavens.” Tootie handed her mother her whip with the long kangaroo thong, kangaroo being the best leather, costing about $350 for a staff thong, four feet longer than a field thong. Pricey, but it lasted for years. The other leather thongs wore out in two seasons if one was staff.
“I think I’ll have to work up to this. You do it.” Yvonne handed it back.
Tootie hopped on a mounting block, placed at the kennels in case anyone had to dismount there, then hop back up. She easily swung the thong in front of her, flicked her wrist and a rifle shot went off.
“What a sound.” Yvonne stepped back a bit.
Sister smiled. “Generally does the trick.”
“Can you do it?” Yvonne artlessly asked, then remembered she was speaking to the Master. “I’m sure you can.”
Sister took Tootie’s whip, stepped up onto the mounting block. She swung the whip in front of her. Crack! She swung the whip behind her. Crack! Then she shot the thong straight up, a twist of the wrist. Crack! Didn’t say a word.
Tootie received her whip, laughed, then said to her mother, “Only Sister can do that.”
“Show-off.” Betty then took the whip.
She could crack it in front and in back but not overhead. “Just kills me that I can’t do that and I’ve been trying for, oh, thirty-some years.”
“Forty,” Sister teased her.
“Don’t tempt me,” Betty teased right back.
“Yvonne, my beloved best friend wants to tell you I’m older than dirt, which I am—but I can still ride her into the ground.”
“Oh, you cannot. You’re a better rider than I am, but I can keep up.” Betty imploringly looked at Yvonne. “Honey, you have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”
“I’m beginning to understand that.”
“Sister, I told Mom I’d look at the cottage she’s rented. Okay?”
“Of course. Yvonne, let Betty or me know if you need anything.”
“Yes. I can finally get rid of that lampshade with the fringe on it.” Betty giggled.
As mother and daughter walked back to the cabin, Betty noticed the new Continental but said nothing.
Turning to her Master and friend, she did ask, “What do you think?”
“I think she’s game. I actually do.” Sister smiled.
“I hope so.” Betty inhaled. “For Tootie’s sake. This wind isn’t going to stop and I need a restorative cup of tea. Ask me to the house and let’s gossip.”
—
That afternoon, Gray returned from a meeting in Charlottesville with Derwood Chase, a high-end investor. The two had struck up a friendship decades ago on the tennis courts where Derwood was a power. Gray worked hard to improve his game. Neither man was cut out for golf. Both realized it helped business; they just couldn’t do it.
“Hey. How was Derwood?”
“Just like always.” Gray smiled.
“Johanna?” She mentioned his glamorous wife, an opera singer as well as a consummate hostess.
“Good. Ready?”
“Honey, you’re monosyllabic but, yes, I am ready.”
“Prepared?”
She closed the door behind her. “Is anyone ever prepared for your aunt Daniella?”
Well, Aunt Daniella, having recently turned ninety-four, was ready for them. No sooner had Gray and Sister entered her charming if overstuffed house than she gave orders. She wanted her pillow fluffed behind her. She wanted her drink. Of course, Gray and Sister were welcome to libations, too. She wanted her ebony cane laid across the small table by her comfortable chair. She wanted to know exactly what he thought of the economy. Were her funds safe with Derwood?
Gray patiently did as bid. Told her he’d just seen Derwood, who would never divulge anything about a client, but told her he knew Derwood paid special attention to her portfolio, which he did, by Chase Investment standards. They dealt in millions. Daniella’s finances proved slim but Derwood nurtured her account. It grew. The old lady would never have a worry in the world. Her son Mercer had died within the last two years and she had inherited his funds and his house. He was a bloodstock agent and he’d done quite well for himself.
Gray sat in a wing chair by his aunt. “You look wonderful.”
“Liar. I look like Hecate, an old crone.”
“Never.”
“He’s right, Aunt Daniella. You look like a woman perhaps in her late sixties, if that.”
Daniella eyed Sister, shifted in her seat. “You flatter me, but I still walk a mile in the morning, one in the evening. The secret is to keep moving.”
“Thank you for allowing us to call on you.” Sister reached into her bag, retrieving a cellphone.
Daniella’s eyes widened. “You aren’t going to use that device, are you?” Then just as quickly she changed the subject, held up her glass. “Bourbon. A double.”
“Of course.” Gray took the glass, hurried to the bar, poured out the bourbon, then handed it to Daniella, who did look good for her years, her fortification, quite a fortification.
“I am going to use my device. I want you to see something.”
“Porn?” The white eyebrows twitched, a little grin appeared.
“Later.” Sister gave it right back. “When it’s just us girls.”
“Quite right.”
Gray took a deep breath; the old dragon was in a good mood. Better remember to bring her a full bottle of special cask bourbon tomorrow.
Sister rose, then knelt by Daniella. “Please look at this and tell me who it is.”
Daniella reached for her reading glasses on the table by her chair. Sister hit the button and boom, Weevil appeared.
Daniella sharply breathed in, her eyes huge now. Then he blew “Gone to Ground.”
“Good God, Weevil! Weevil Carruthers. Whoever took a film of him?”
“Look again, Aunt Daniella.” Sister replayed the video that Marion had sent to her phone.
“It’s Weevil Carruthers. I’d know him anywhere.” She stopped, looked at the video for the third time. “Morven. Morven.” Then she looked at Sister in confusion, a flash of fear in her eyes. “It’s impossible!”
“Yes. It should be.” Sister told Daniella what had happened. “We can’t believe it, but how can we not believe our eyes?”
“He’s been dead since I was thirty-three!”
“Was he dead?” Gray quietly asked as he sipped his own drink.
“Granted no one ever found the body. Oh, there were rumors that he ran off to Paris, or London or even Istanbul. Some perfect ass said he became a Muslim. The rumors died down. Sooner or later we all believed he was dead.”
“
He had many enemies?” Sister stood up, a knee creaking.
“Irritating, isn’t it?” Daniella smirked.
“ ’Tis.”
“The man exuded charm and sex. Perfectly heterosexual men felt the pull. I have never ever met anyone like him. Given that he slept with other men’s wives, yes, he had enemies. But this?”
“It’s dumbfounding. And then blowing ‘Gone to Ground.’ A thumb to the nose, you know.”
Daniella, knowing the horn calls, nodded in agreement as Sister returned to her seat.
“I was hoping you might remember some of his affairs.” Sister took out her Moleskine notebook, the grid pages before her.
Knocking back all of her drink, glaring at Gray, who quickly refilled the glass, this time putting in two ice cubes, Daniella sighed. “How do I know what was true and what was not? So much loose talk.”
“Well—” Sister boldly pressed but with a compliment. “Did he approach you? You and your sister were famed for your beauty, your sparkling ways.”
Daniella pushed back into the pillow, a sly smile on her lips. “Oh, everyone wanted us.”
“So he did?”
“He did. I was married at the time. Husband Number Two. Was it Two? Well, no matter and Graziella”—she named her sister, Gray and Sam’s mother—“she was always with Number One. How she loved that man. We politely spurned Weevil, of course. But, oh, my God, was he divine to look at, to hear his voice, a deep baritone rumble. Even the hair on his arms was golden. Everything about him was golden.”
Sister wondered if she did spurn him. However, she was a woman of color, light as a white person but still. Neither one could have been open and Daniella, nobody’s fool, would never have risked publicity. In fact, every man she married was richer than the last one, after she disposed of the first one, which had been pure physical attraction according to her.
Gray leaned forward. “You have always had sex radar, Aunt Dan. Admit it.”
“Well—”
“You must have an idea of any affairs he had that were serious.”
Crazy Like a Fox Page 8