The club cleaned up the trails just before cubbing. In the nineteenth century the road to the forge, wide enough for horse-drawn carts, had closed in after World War I, when the forge closed. But half a road remained open, thanks to the hard work of the club members and Walter Lungrun’s small Caterpillar bulldozer.
“Hotter,” Dragon, out front, called.
They opened, running hard on the solid dirt road. Goldfinches in bushes complained and flew up, which meant Aunt Netty had not passed by in the last fifteen minutes. On they ran, the footing good, the grade slightly downhill.
The forge appeared, wrapped in vines. Hounds sailed through the long windows, glass long gone on most of them.
They gathered around one of Aunt Netty’s entrances and exits. She prudently had a few. In the rafters, Athena observed the commotion below, blinking from time to time.
“Aunt Netty,” Giorgio called her.
Nothing.
“We know you’re in there.” Pickens stuck his nose in the den.
Not a peep.
Asa, deep voice, said, “Oh, come on out and show us your bottle-brush tail.”
A hiss floated up from the depths of the den. “You’ll pay for that, Asa. I used to have a full tail until I got that skin problem.”
“Why didn’t your fur grow back?” Zandy, in all innocence asked.
“How the hell should I know?” the red fox growled.
Asa, older, replied, “Netty, Sister put out sardines in an open can with medicine. You ate everything. She did this once a week. So you were cured. I think you shave your tail.” He baited her.
Shaker, off Gunpowder, walked into the forge. “Well done.”
“What’s so well done about it? They have noses, don’t they?” Aunt Netty bitched from her den.
Shaker, hearing the barking, couldn’t help but laugh. He blew “Gone to Ground,” then praised everyone as he led them out of the forge.
Athena laughed, too. “Hoo. Hoo. Hoo.”
As the hounds moved off—people, too—Aunt Netty emerged, looking up at the huge owl. “How can you laugh? They were so rude.”
Athena spread her tail feathers. “Tails are important.”
“Feathers don’t count. Whose side are you on, anyway?”
“Yours, of course, darling, but the young hound didn’t mean any harm.”
“He needs to learn his manners. This younger generation.” Aunt Netty turned up her nose and repaired to her den, where she had leftover pie crusts, such a delicacy.
Shaker headed toward the Lorillard place. Usually a bit of scent was there. His hope was he’d pick up scent, run for a good ten or fifteen minutes, then retrace his steps to see if Aunt Netty had gotten sloppy. He doubted she would, for he knew her, too. Everyone knew Aunt Netty, but hounds might pick up visiting fox, since the food supply drew them in. After All enticed foxes, bobcats, even bears, as there was a lot to eat. The berries ripened. Many were already stripped off the bushes and vines, but enough remained to bring in anyone who liked fruit. Foxes love grapes, berries, sweet treats. Bears do, too. The harvested cornfields delighted all but the obligate carnivores.
On the left side, Tootie faced fallen trees, thick woods. She picked her way through, as she had only a deer path for guidance. Sooner or later she’d come out near the old toolshed at the Lorillard place.
Betty, on the cleared roadside, had a much easier time. But if hounds turned west, Tootie had to be there.
All she heard was the crack of twigs, an occasional boo-hoo, but hounds didn’t open. If they did, she’d need to wiggle her way through all this.
She heard more twigs crack behind her, then slow hoofbeats.
Turning around she saw Weevil on Clipper, one of the Bancroft Thoroughbreds.
He squeezed alongside of her, tipped his hat. “Miss Harris.”
“How do you know my name?”
He pulled a fixture card from his tweed pocket.
“Do the Bancrofts know you’re on Clipper?”
“No. No one in the stables. I can tack up a horse in two minutes. I’ll take him back shortly. He’s a splendid fellow but then, they can afford the best.” He paused. “Still have to ride them, though—which they do.”
“Thank you for what you did for me. I’ve been trying to find out who you are and—” Now it was her turn to pause. “Sister showed me a video of you at the Museum of Hounds and Hunting. That was you, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.” He trained his deep brown eyes on her.
Brown eyes and blond hair, a warm combination, which was not lost on Tootie, who found herself simply staring at him. Then she managed to say, “People say you disappeared in 1954. You’re a ghost.”
He heard the horn. “Follow me. I can show you a better way through this and you’ll wind up behind the house instead of the old shed.”
“You know this country.”
“I do, but anyone with good topographical maps can figure it out.”
“You’re not a ghost, are you?” Tootie smiled.
Weevil smiled back, clearly taken with her. “Give me a little time. I will tell you everything once I have matters settled.”
“Revenge?”
“Justice.” His voice was even. “Simple justice and honor. Come along. If they hit, we’ll be thrown out.”
He picked up a trot, ahead of her now, and she followed. They reached some large rotting fallen tree trunks, and jumped them, then Weevil stopped. He pointed to the earth off the path.
“See the old stone pile? It was once a marker, fallen down. In colonial times, here and in Canada, people piled stones at crossroads, or put up numbered squares. So go left—which seems wrong, as you are going away from the shed. Pick up a stronger trot. We have more ground to cover.”
She followed his lead and within seven minutes, at the edge of the woods she saw the back of the Lorillard house. She also saw Uncle Yancy sitting on the back porch. As hounds sounded louder, he circled the house, laying down fresh scent. Then he walked to the family graveyard, jumped on the stone wall, left more scent. Ran across the graveyard, jumped back up, retraced his steps exactly, and ducked under the large front porch, to one of his outside dens.
“Tallyho,” Tootie whispered, and laughed.
“Miss Harris, I need to get back, untack, and turn out. But I wanted to see you and I hope I haven’t frightened you. I can’t very well call upon you until I get this thing settled.”
“Well, you can call me Tootie.”
“Weevil.” He grilled a rakish grin. “But I promise you will know everything.”
“You aren’t going to kill anyone, are you? This is so peculiar, unnerving.”
“Well, that’s the point—and I will draw out the game. Not much longer. You have no reason to do so, but trust me.”
She looked into his eyes. “I do trust you. I owe you, and if I can help you, I will.”
“You don’t owe me anything and I truly pray you don’t have to help me. You said you trust me and that lifts my heart.” He grinned again. “Good hunting.”
He melted back into the path, asking for a trot. He was the most relaxed, fluid man on a horse she had ever seen.
Then hounds rushed up the road, now out of the woods, right on Uncle Yancy’s line. Tootie drew near the graveyard; she stayed well away from it, but where she was pleased Shaker. Sure enough, hounds ran the circle around the house, ran to the graveyard, leapt up the wall, leapt down, moved through the graveyard and back out again, and then were stymied.
She smiled. How smart of the fox to draw them out, then retrace his steps. She heard Weevil’s voice in her head: I will draw out the game.
When? Where? How? And what was the game?
CHAPTER 29
Crawling along in the Continental, Yvonne driving, the two women listened intently.
“Heading toward the old home place.”
“Yours?” Yvonne inquired.
“Um-hum. The Lorillards were free blacks, and way back in 1790, the men all became blacksmi
ths, much in demand. After All wasn’t much at the time. We worked in Pattypan Forge as well as traveled to stables. A skilled metalworker commanded good money and respect.”
“Can you imagine life without cars, airplanes, trains? Not much noise. Well, birds and stuff.”
Aunt Daniella smiled. “And a blacksmith’s hammer. Things were different down here from Chicago. We—the Lorillards, the Laprades, the Davises whom you haven’t met—descend from families older than most of the white people’s. They might have seen us as beneath the salt but we certainly didn’t feel that way.”
“Do you think we will ever know our history? The true history of our country?”
Aunt Daniella, ear tuned to the outside, murmured, “No. History is twisted by whoever is in power or wants power. That’s why it’s important to know your family, your people, your neighbors.”
Yvonne considered this. “Yes. Even in a huge city like Chicago, once the second largest city in America, you have your family.” She sat up straighter. “Who is that? Someone leaving early?”
Aunt Daniella recognized Weevil, although she didn’t recognize Clipper. “Heading back to the stables. Maybe the horse threw a shoe. Happens. He’s an old friend.”
Yvonne smiled. “He looks like a young friend.”
Aunt Daniella folded her hands in her lap. “Honey, it’s a long story for a snowy night. Move on a bit, they’re going to swing out from Pattypan Forge, and you’ll see my childhood home. Has a charm to it.”
Yvonne rolled along in second gear as Aunt Daniella turned and watched Weevil stop at the stables, dismount, and whip the tack off Clipper in the blink of an eye.
What’s he up to? she wondered, then spoke: “Stop. They’ll pop out in front of you. There’s a little trail.”
Yvonne stopped. Sure enough out came hounds, moving briskly. She saw Betty out of the corner of her eye, moving on a trail to the right in the woods. Then those woods ended, and Betty took a coop into a well-kept pasture, a few big hay rolls dotting the green.
“How old is she?”
“Betty? Fifties. Early fifties. A low-key rider. Draws no attention to herself, but she gets the job done.” Aunt Daniella said this with praise. “Here comes Shaker.”
All business, Shaker reached the road and turned left, moving at a collected canter. Hounds were speaking but not screaming. The line, good, wasn’t red hot.
“Where’s Tootie?”
“She should be on our left. She might have moved on, since it’s best to clear the woods on the left. Someday, get your daughter to take you back to Pattypan Forge. Quite interesting, and the heavy enormous furnace from 1792 is still there, along with some old tools hung on the walls.”
“I’d like to see it. I must say being here I’m not always sure what century I’m in.”
Aunt Daniella laughed, then ordered, “Okay, last of the field has passed us. You can creep forward.”
The blue car inched forward, the Lorillard house came into view, and the hounds circled the house, hopped on the graveyard wall—did exactly what Uncle Yancy planned for them to do. Tootie sat quietly on the other side of the graveyard.
“What a lovely house.” Yvonne admired the white clapboard home, old slate roof intact, front door painted marine blue, as were the shutters.
“Memories.” Aunt Daniella smiled. “All of us rest in that graveyard. Mother. Father. My sister Graziella and my son Mercer. I expect soon it will be my turn.”
“I hope not” came the swift reply.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” Aunt Daniella asked as hounds leapt back out of the graveyard.
“People have spoken of them for thousands of years in every culture. There must be something to it. I’ve never seen one.”
Having just seen Weevil ride out of the woods, Aunt Daniella smiled. “Not that you know. Here’s what I think—oh, look at young Pickens. Head under the front porch, butt in the air.”
“You know the hounds? How can you remember them?”
“I know some of them, thanks to Gray or Sam occasionally driving me along a hunt. Where was I? Ghosts. Yvonne, there is so much we don’t know, but we’re a nervous lot. We want answers. We want things tied in a bow, so whoever comes up with a convincing answer pacifies the rest, even if it’s false.”
“God help anyone who disturbs the status quo.” Yvonne enjoyed watching Shaker dismount, speak to his hounds, and convince Pickens to leave the front porch. “Think of Galileo.”
“Well, here’s the thing. Galileo. Copernicus. Men who shook up the status quo. Yes, the earth moves around the sun. Big deal. We can plant, plan, live just as well thinking the sun revolves around the earth.”
“Can’t do space travel that way,” Yvonne answered.
“Honey, firing men up in rockets seems an expensive way to get rid of them.” Aunt Daniella’s eyes twinkled.
Yvonne laughed, happy to be in irreverent company.
Then the old lady remarked, “Gray and Sam have repainted the house, done quite a lot of work inside. Speaking of men, they are good men, but I’m prejudiced.”
“Good men and good-looking.” Yvonne smiled.
“Never hurts, does it?”
“That fellow riding back to the barn. Good-looking.”
“Oh, Yvonne, that he is.” She took a deep breath. “Now Shaker has to figure out what to do next. Temperature is rising. The fox is in his den. What next?”
Shaker drew back along the road but scent proved spotty. Really the day was done, but he stayed out another hour, hunting and pecking, then finally rode back to the trailers.
Clipper, in his pasture, wished he could have finished the hunt. His coat, a rich dark bay, shone in the sunlight. Weevil had wiped him down, picked out his hooves, and turned him out.
And, as usual, Weevil vanished, but not before blowing “Going Home.”
Tootie and Betty loaded hounds on the party wagon with Shaker. Sister, being Master, fielded chat, inquiries from members, as did Walter.
Rickyroo, happy to be free of the tack, was wiped down as he munched on hay in a string bag. Most of the horses stood, tied to the sides of the trailer, happy to eat. They were always happy to eat. And most had a light cotton sweat sheet over them.
Sister adjusted his sheet, patted the wonderful fellow, fished a baked cookie with apple bits in it out of a bucket in the tack room, and fed it to him.
Alida, trailer next to Sister’s, called out, “You spoil that horse.”
“And you don’t spoil Mumtaz?” She named one of Kasmir’s Thoroughbreds, which Alida often rode, and rode well.
Kasmir sounded off from the other side of his horse, Nighthawk. “She spoils me.”
They all laughed, then Sister asked, “How’s Lucille Ball coming along?”
“Wonderfully well.” Kasmir filled her in. “Sam tunes her up once a week.” He paused a moment. “That was a good idea to have a joint meet with Crawford.”
“Thank you. Well, are you ready for that famous Bancroft hospitality?”
—
Given the loveliness of the day, the Bancrofts hosted the breakfast outside. Fall color, nearing its peak, added to the beauty of the day.
Long tables in a row held the food, and smaller round tables, complete with table settings, covered the immaculate formal backyard, the gardens just beyond.
Aunt Daniella, given a good seat so she could see everyone, had her bourbon in hand, thanks to Gray. Yvonne sat with her, a good idea since everyone knew Aunt Daniella. Anyone she hadn’t met, Yvonne did today.
Betty plopped down at a table, her husband with her. “Can you believe we are about three weeks from Opening Hunt?”
“Three weeks to the day,” he replied.
Alfred DuCharme joined them. “Good day?”
“Given conditions, pretty good.” Betty leaned forward. “Drove by Old Paradise yesterday. Crawford is starting to frame it up. It’s coming back to life.”
“I’m as curious to see it as you-all. The house was burned down by the
time I was born.”
Binky, on the other side of the gathering, chatted with Edward. The two brothers did not acknowledge each other. Given that The Jefferson Hunt was one of the hubs of the county, people came to watch the hounds, to partake of the breakfast. Technically, the DuCharmes were no longer landowners. Didn’t matter. Anyone was welcome, and over the years they had been a big part of the hunt.
Edward, standing, glass in hand, waved to people, turned to Binky. “Glad you could make it.”
“You know, I haven’t been on After All for most of a year. I don’t know where the time goes.”
“Who does?” He nodded as Tedi came up by his elbow, kissed Binky on the cheek.
“Where’s Milly?” she asked.
“Hanging curtains.” Binky grimaced, then changed the subject. “Why anyone ever wants to move is beyond me. But I picked up a pile of books last night and noticed a family scrapbook. Sat down and studied every picture. There was one in there of you and Evangelista. Thanksgiving Hunt. You looked like you were still in college, or just graduated. Hard to believe we were that young.”
“I feel young. Look old.” Ed knocked back his drink, rattled the cubes in his glass.
“I thought your sister was a knockout. She was my idea of a movie star.” He grinned. “But I was just busting twenty. Way beneath her.”
“Funny, how we remember our early crushes. For me it was the actress Irene Dunne.” He smiled. “Then I met a real star.” He squeezed his wife.
“Edward, you are so sweet.” She glowed.
“My sister could have run the business. She was whip smart, but women didn’t do that then. I did okay. But I really think Evie would have done better.”
“She took over the Warrenton Horse Show. Did a splendid job for decades.” Tedi mentioned one of Virginia’s premier outdoor horse shows, held over Labor Day.
The Warrenton Horse Show signals the end of the show season—outdoor, anyway—and the beginning of cubbing.
“Loved it. She just loved it.” Edward chewed an ice cube. “Now we have women CEOs of major corporations. It’s good, I think. Opens us up. New ideas.”
Crazy Like a Fox Page 23