The Hounds and the Fury Read online

  The Hounds and the Fury

  Rita Mae Brown

  CHAPTER 1

  Silvered with frost, the geometric patterns on the kennel windowpane displayed Nature's gift for design. Sister Jane Arnold stared at the tiny, perfect crystals, then turned back to the large old oak desk in the middle of the office. In warmer weather the back door of the office would be open to the center aisle in this, the main kennel. She found it comforting to inhale the odor of her hounds, to hear them breathing as they slept on their raised beds. Today, Boxing Day, December 26, Monday, the mercury clung to twenty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. The office felt warm at sixty-eight degrees, and she gave a small prayer of thanks that she'd found the money to put in a new heat pump and venting for the main building. The hounds, nestled in their straw-filled beds, threw off body heat, so the thermostat in their portion of the building was kept at forty-two degrees. The actual temperature hovered near fifty. The two medical rooms were warmer. Fortunately, no one was in sick bay.

  Christmas culminated in such frenzy that Sister wished Joseph and Mary had been sterile. Sister found Boxing Day one of the happiest days of the year. In England, thousands would turn out in the villages and along country roads to witness hundreds of vigorous folk riding to hounds. The ban on foxhunting, voted by Parliament in 2004 and coming into force February 2005, was a sorry work of class hatred. The first Boxing Day after the ban was 2005, and British foxhunters rode out to a man. Local authorities declined to arrest these men and women. Constables knew that foxhunting benefited the livelihoods of their communities. The bizarre aspect of the foxhunting ban was that not even the most fervid Labor Party members pretended they wished to save foxes. It was perfectly fine with them if the farmers shot the beautiful creatures. The whole point of the ban was to punish those suspected of wealth or title from enjoying themselves. The fact that most English foxhunters were middle-class people was lost in this revenge on the wealthy few. As the Labor Party had created seven hundred new criminal offenses under Tony Blair's leadership, the fact that noncountry people tolerated these infringements on their rights shocked Sister.

  She wondered whether Americans, no longer conversant with country life—and worse, feeling superior to it—could become as illiberal as the Laborites. The political push to ban foxhunting in America would start on one of the coasts, but Sister believed it wouldn't succeed. Americans still retained vestiges of common sense. Better yet, Americans did not hunt to kill the fox. They were content to chase the highly intelligent creature until he finally eluded them—easy enough for the fox.

  Sister's study chair had rollers on it, and in a burst of enthusiasm she propelled herself around the room and spun backwards.

  Shaker Crown, the huntsman, opened the front door at this moment. "Someone's happy."

  "Three hundred and sixty-four days until next Christmas. Thank you, Jesus." She braked, putting both feet on the ground.

  "Amen, Sister."

  They burst out laughing.

  "Hounds had a wonderful Christmas. Nothing like warm stew. I remember watching my father cook it up outside. The pot was large enough to hold three missionaries."

  He smiled. "Horses liked their treats, too, as did I. Thank you for my Dehner boots and my bug guard."

  "Do you think they really work?"

  "Bug guards?" He paused. "Not now."

  "I deserved that." She rolled her eyes at his droll remark. They wouldn't work now because it was winter, hence no insects were flying around outside.

  "Sure they work. That curve at the top sends the bugs away from the windshield."

  "Maybe I should get one for my GMC. You know, I'm still getting used to it. Drove the other one 287,000 miles and buried it with honors." She smiled at him. "I actually considered parking it in front of the kennel and making a huge planter out of it."

  'You cut the bed off the truck and use it for a wagon." He pretended to think hard. "Could still fill with dirt and spring bulbs."

  "No point wasting something that can be useful. All I had to do was sand the edges so we wouldn't cut ourselves, put a Reese hitch on it. If nothing else, we can put a big old water tank up there, and I can water my trees on the drive if another drought comes." She crossed herself as if warding off the evil eye, for droughts caused terrible damage.

  "Heard anything?" After crossing himself, Shaker changed the subject.

  "Not a peep."

  He sat on the edge of the desk as she rolled back to it, replying, "He'll be vicious."

  "Marty can't calm him down?" Shaker named Crawford Howard's wife.

  "Crawford was publicly humiliated. Even the ministrations of his good wife won't help. His ego is in a gaseous state, ever expanding." Sister threw up her hands, exasperated.

  "He deserved it, loading hounds up like that, then setting them loose during the hunt ball."

  "Of course he did! After you belted him, he knew he couldn't stand up to you, so unleashing hounds was his revenge. And a damned sorry one. He wasn't entirely sober, which only made matters worse. He's lucky I only slapped him."

  "Hard. Everyone in the room heard that crack." Shaker relished the recollection.

  "Too bad I didn't have a roll of nickels in my palm. Then I'd have broken his jaw. Now, that's a happy thought, Crawford Howard with his jaw wired shut."

  "Strange we haven't heard anything. Betty hasn't, either. I called her."

  'You surprise me." Sister didn't expect him to call Betty Franklin, one of her best friends, an honorary whipper-in.

  He folded his arms across his chest. "I didn't get us in this mess, but I made it worse."

  "When a man pulls down your fiancee's evening gown, even if he was pushed and tripped, most of us can understand the response."

  "Poor Lorraine. She's still embarrassed."

  "Honey, any woman with that rack should never be embarrassed. Entire careers have been built on less."

  He smiled. "She's a beautiful woman."

  "She is. You two are a good pair and a good-looking pair to boot."

  He walked over to the kennel-side door. "Sound asleep."

  "I often envy them. They are loved, have the best of care, and do what they were born to do. Think of the millions of people in this world struggling at jobs that aren't right for them. They might be flourishing financially, but deep in their hearts, they know this isn't what they should be doing with their lives— and, oh, Shaker, how fast the time slips away."

  "Got that right." He returned to the desk. "Hope we can hunt tomorrow."

  "Me, too, but feel the storm coming? Truth is in the bones."

  "Seen the sky in the last hour?"

  "No, I've been in here rooting through the old stud books."

  "Look." He opened the front door, and they both stepped out into the biting air.

  Gunmetal-gray clouds stacked up behind the Blue Ridge Mountains.

  "Moving faster than the Weather Channel predicted." She noticed the tops of trees swaying slightly. "Going to be a big one. We'd better get all the generators in place, just in case."

  "Already did. Up at your house, too."

  Relief filled her voice. "Thank you."

  "Rather deal with snow than ice."

  "Me, too."

  "Boss, you think Crawford will sue?"

  "He doesn't have much of a case. It would be a hardship on us, of course, but ultimately it would be worse for him. My hunch is he'll forego that and do something where he can use his wealth as leverage."

  "Like withdraw his support to the club?"

  "That's a given." She rubbed her shoulders. "It will hurt, too. His largesse covered about 25 percent of our annual bud-get."

  "He'll go to Farmington Hunt or Keswick, maybe even Deep Run, and throw mo
ney at them. If he can keep his ego in check, he might even get along with most of them. What master doesn't need money for the club?" Shaker put his arm through hers, and they stepped back into the office. Sister settled back into the warmth of the office, glad the door was closed. "Ego is the key word."

  "Hard on Sam."

  Sam Lorillard of the Lorillards, an African-American family that had been in the country since before the Revolutionary War, possessed both intellectual and athletic brilliance. Unfortunately, a tendency toward alcoholism had also passed from generation to generation among both the white and black Lorillards. Gray, Sam's older brother and Sister's boyfriend, had escaped it. Sam had not. He was currendy sober after much suffering. Attending Alcoholics Anonymous Meetings helped.

  The black Lorillards had taken the name of their owners, common enough in the Old South. Not even the pull of convention or ideology could keep the two sides of this vast family apart. A Lorillard stayed a Lorillard.

  Before sobriety, Sam had wreaked so much damage throughout the Virginia horse world that he'd descended to living at the train station downtown. He and the other drunks sucked up Thunderbird, panhandled, took odd dayjobs. Eventually, he got clean and, with Gray's financial help, back on his feet. But no one would hire him. Crawford Howard, however, who was relatively new to the town and the club, did. He had no preconceived notions. Sam was loyal, drunk or sober. Sister knew he'd stick with Crawford even if he cringed at Crawford's revenge. Shaker knew it, too.

  Shaker glanced out the window again. "We're in for it."

  "In more ways than one." She pulled on her fleece-lined old bomber jacket and wrapped her red scarf around her neck. "Bring it on. If nothing else, we'll find out who is the stronger."

  "My money is on you."

  "Funny, I was going to say the same thing about you. We're in this together."

  "Hey, if there's a fight, you're the one I want at my back." He threw his arm around her shoulders.

  Since Sister was six feet tall and Shaker five ten, he reached up slightly. She was strong in her early seventies, smart as the foxes they hunted. He was thirty years younger, quick and muscular. They made a sensational team as master and huntsman, each intuitive concerning the other.

  Outside the wind was rising.

  “You know, we might get a foot out of this.”

  “Plow’s on the old 454.” Shaker mentioned the old Chevy with the mighty engine.

  “Sometimes I welcome a storm.”

  "Nature's pruning."

  "Clears the air. Trouble's easier to deal with if you see it coming. We see this coming."

  Sister was right in that. Trouble that creeps up on little feet is far worse. That was coming, too.

  CHAPTER 2

  Like white molasses the winter storm moved so slowly that by the afternoon of Wednesday, December 28, the last bands still spit snow over the mountains and valleys of central Virginia. The power stayed flowing, a miracle under these conditions. If the storm didn't knock down lines, some fool going sixty miles an hour in an SUV usually skidded off the road, taking out a utility pole. The snow, heavy and steady, kept even the owners of sixty-thousand-dollar SUVs at home.

  Until midnight, every couple of hours, for two days, Shaker fired up the Chevy 454 to plow the farm roads and the paths to kennels and stables. By morning's light he was back at it again while Sister fed and checked the hounds and horses. The horses when turned out played in the snow. The hounds in the big kennel yards frolicked as well until worn out, when they snuggled down into their condominiums raised off the ground. The wrap-around porches on these eight-foot-square, four-feet-high buildings glistened with snow. Before winter's onset, Sister and Shaker had bolted on an addition to the large openings, blocking most of the frigid air. The opening, facing away from the northwest, could accommodate two hounds passing through. Sometimes in early morning Sister would walk out into the quarter-acre yards to see the steam floating out of the condos from the hounds' body heat.

  She'd started at five-thirty this morning, accompanied by Raleigh, her Doberman, and Rooster, the harrier. Golliwog, the long-haired calico, felt that the deep snow would clump on her luxurious, much-groomed coat. She elected to lounge on the leather sofa in the den as the fire crackled in the simple, beautifully proportioned fireplace.

  Sister returned every three hours to toss hardwood logs on that fire, put logs in the kitchen walk-in fireplace, and cram full the wood-burning stove in the cellar. The heating bills stayed down, thanks to the stove and fireplaces. The split hardwood logs came from dead trees on her property or the property of friends. Country neighbors helped one another in this fashion. Someone usually had an excess of fallen timber somewhere.

  Sister told Shaker to keep plowing. She'd do the chores. Trudging through deep snow wearied her legs. Even with the paths cleared, in no time there'd be a bit more snow. Double-checking the condos was what told on Sister's legs, even though hers were strong. At least her feet stayed warm in her Thinsulate-lined high work boots.

  Another squall sent tiny flakes down. The big flakes looked pretty, but the tiny ones stuck. Little bits stung her cheeks, touched her eyelashes.

  She'd put out kibble for the foxes on the farm in three locations. She figured Inky and Comet, gray foxes, brother and sister, and Georgia, Inky's grown daughter, were toasty in their straw-lined dens. Each fox had only to go a few yards to the five-gallon bucket with the hole drilled in so they could pull out food. The small hole kept larger marauders from raiding the buckets, although raccoons and possums could fish out the small kernels of food. Once the snows subsided, walking would be easier. She'd move the feed buckets farther from the dens.

  Shaker chugged along. He stopped outside the stable as she came out.

  "How's it going?"

  "Pretty good. Did you check the Weather Channel lately?"

  "Two hours ago when I filled up the fireplaces. Should end about five."

  "Jeez," he whistled.

  'You've got your girlfriend in the cottage." Sister nodded at the smoke barely rising from the chimney before flattening out. "Bet she's making barley soup."

  He smiled underneath the lumberjack cap pulled low over his auburn curls. "Want some?"

  "I'll be by later. Who could pass up Lorraine's soup?" She rubbed her hands together. "While I remember, Delia's looking a little ribby. I fed her separately and threw in some extra vits. Let's not hunt her until she puts the weight back on." She paused. "Starting to show her age a little." Then she sighed. "She's a good solid hound."

  "Old Piedmont blood."

  'Yep," she agreed. Delia's blood went back to a hunt established in 1840 that had used hounds bred for Virginia conditions by the Bywaters family, one of the great names in American foxhunting.

  As he rolled up the window, slowly pushing snow again, she whistled for the house dogs, busy trying to catch a mouse in the feed room. The mouse would have none of it.

  "Come on, boys. Come on, let's have a cup of hot tea, and then we'll come back and bring in the horses. Sun will set around quarter to five. Going to be a bitter night."

  No sooner had she stepped into the kitchen, the oldest part of the house, than the phone rang.

  "Sam." She recognized Sam Lorillard's voice. "How are you doing over there?"

  "Okay."

  "What can I do for you, Sam?"

  "Crawford's still in a rage."

  "Crawford's not taking this out on you, is he?"

  "No, no"—his voice lowered—"he's really good to me. Marty, too. Politics," he said, assuming she'd understand he needed to stay out of it, which she did. "The reason I called is before the storm hit, early Monday morning, I drove up to Green Spring Valley Hunt in Maryland to look at a timber horse, a balanced, sixteen-hand, flea-bitten gray. Good mind. Smooth, bold over fences. Crawford was interested, but the horse is too small for him. Crawford's packing on weight again. This is your kind of horse: bold, kind, beautiful."

  "How much?"

  "Twenty thousand." />
  "That's a lot of money."

  "It's a lot of horse and only six years old. Duck Martin knows the horse. Sheila Brown, too, and I think Ned Halle is friends with the owner." He named the three masters of Green Spring Valley Hounds, all tremendous riders. Green Spring Valley was one of the great hunts in this or any country.

  "Why doesn't one of them buy it?"

  "Full up. You've got good horses, too, but you could use another made horse. You could throw a leg over him right now and go. He's that good."

  "Why is the owner selling?"

  "Getting out of the 'chasing game.' "

  "All right, give me the number and I'll see what's what. I sure thank you for thinking of me."