The Hunt Ball Read online

  “I can’t believe you said that,” Tootie giggled. “F., we’d better remember this day.”

  They would, but for quite different reasons.

  They backtracked fifty yards from the creek crossing.

  “Why?” Felicity asked.

  “Because the other horses will smell ours,” Tootie sensibly replied. “Go on back a little more.”

  “Tootie, we’ll lose them again.” Valentina was more worried about Bunny and Mrs. Norton, the headmistress, than she cared to admit.

  “No, we won’t. Let me be in front this time.”

  Tootie rode tail during the entire hunt, which is one of the reasons they got lost. Felicity, in front, didn’t have the best sense of direction. When the whole field jumped a black coop in the fog, they landed into a woods, ground covered with pine needles. Those needles soaked up the sound of hoofbeats. By the time Tootie got over the fence, Felicity had turned left instead of right with the others. It was too late to catch them. For ten minutes they couldn’t hear a thing, not the horses, not the hounds, not the horn. So Tootie led them south along Broad Creek since she could hear the water.

  Neither Valentina nor Felicity argued, since both knew Tootie was a homing pigeon.

  They quietly waited.

  A splash sent the ears of all three horses forward. The humans heard it, too.

  Comet reached their side of the bank, shook, then sauntered toward them.

  “You three are as useless as tits on a boar hog,” the male gray fox insulted them.

  “Tally ho,” Felicity whispered as though the other two couldn’t see the fox sitting right in front of them.

  Tootie glared at her. One should not speak when the fox was close or when hounds were close. The correct response would be to take off your cap, point in the direction in which the fox would be traveling, and point your horse’s head in that direction also.

  “Tally human.” Comet flicked his tail, tilted his head. He could gauge the sound of the hounds far more accurately than the three girls before him. “Well, chums, think I’ll motor on. You look ridiculous sitting here in the middle of the covert, you know.”

  He vanished.

  “He barked at us!” Valentina was thrilled.

  “I’ve never been that close to a fox.” Felicity was awed and a little scared to look the quarry square in the eye.

  The beautiful music of hounds in full cry came closer. The girls stopped talking, almost holding their breath.

  Moneybags, Valentina’s big boy, started the chortle that leads to a whinny. She leaned over, pressing her fingers along his neck, which he liked.

  “Money, shut up.”

  He did just as the head hound, a large tricolor, Dragon, vaulted off the far bank into the water. Trident, Diana, and Dreamboat followed closely behind the lead hound.

  Within a minute, the girls heard the larger splashing sound of Showboat, the huntsman’s horse, fording the creek, deep, thanks to recent steady, heavy rains.

  Another four minutes elapsed before Keepsake, Sister Jane’s hardy nine-year-old Thoroughbred/quarter horse cross, managed the waters. After that the cacophony of splashing hooves and grunts from riders, faces wet from the horses in front of them, filled the air.

  “Come on,” Tootie said as loudly as she dared.

  The three crept forward just as the noise seemed finished. Crawford Howard suddenly crossed, though. He’d fallen behind. He was startled to see the three young women riding out of the mists, as was his horse, Czpaka, who shied, unseating Crawford right in the middle of Broad Creek.

  “Oh, shit,” Valentina said low.

  “One dollar.” Felicity truly was single-minded.

  “Not now, F. We’ve got to get him up, apologize, and get with the field before we lose them again.” Tootie hopped off Iota, her horse, handing the reins to Valentina.

  “Mr. Howard, this is my fault. I am so sorry.” She waded into the creek, cold water spilling over her boots down into her socks.

  Swiftly, she grabbed Czpaka’s reins, still over his head. Czpaka considered charging out and leaving Crawford. A warm-blood, big-bodied fellow, he wasn’t overfond of his owner.

  “Whoa,” Tootie firmly said.

  “Oh, bother. I hope he freezes his ass.” The horse did stand still, though.

  “Then he’ll kick yours,” called out Parson, Felicity’s horse.

  “I can dump him anytime I want,” Czpaka bragged. “The only reason I let him sit up there like a damned tick is I like following the hounds and being with all you guys.”

  Tootie led Czpaka out. He stepped up on the bank. Crawford sloshed out. While he could be pompous on occasion he did see the humor of his situation. Besides, foxhunters had to expect the occasional opportunity to show off their breaststroke.

  The mist rose slowly, the sun higher in the sky now on this brisk October day. But one could still only see fifty feet. Tootie looked for a place where Crawford could stand to mount his big horse. The huge knees of the gnarly tree wouldn’t do. They’d be slippery, adding insult to injury.

  “Val, you hold Czpaka while I give Mr. Howard a leg up.”

  Valentina, at six feet one inch, one inch taller than Sister Jane, was stronger than Tootie, who stood at five feet four inches. “You hold. I’ll give him the leg up.” She handed Iota to Felicity and Moneybags, too.

  “Girls, I’ll be fine,” he demurred.

  “Well, your boots are wet and the soles will be pretty slippery, sir. It’s only cubbing. No reason to risk an injury before the season really starts.” Tootie’s judgment belied her years. She’d always been that way, even as a little thing.

  “Good thinking.” He reached up to grasp Czpaka’s mane with his left hand, resting his right on the pommel of his Hermès saddle with knee roll. He bent his left leg as Val cupped her hands under it, lifting him as he pushed off with his right leg.

  The tall blonde was grateful he pushed off. Some people, like sacks of potatoes, just stand there and you have to lift all of them up. Hernia time.

  Tootie held the right stirrup iron to steady the saddle, releasing her hand and the reins once Crawford was secure.

  Both young women gracefully mounted up, except that water spilled from Tootie’s right boot when she swung her leg high and over.

  Hounds, screaming, were moving on at speed.

  “Let’s put the pedal to the metal.” He clapped his leg on Czpaka, who shot off like a cannonball.

  Moneybags, Iota, and Parson gleefully followed.

  Within a few minutes they came up behind the field of twenty-five. As it was a Thursday hunt, the number of riders was smaller than on a Saturday. The mists kept lifting like a slippery veil.

  Marty, Crawford’s wife, turned to see her wet husband as they galloped along. She said nothing because hounds were speaking, but then, even if at a check, she would have remained silent.

  In some ways, the checks separated the sheep from the goats for foxhunters. It was a far better test of one’s foxhunting etiquette than taking a whopping big fence in style. Though one had to admit, the latter was far more exciting.

  They thundered on. Water spritzed off Crawford’s coat, his cap, and Czpaka’s sleek coat.

  They checked hard. Hounds bolted up toward a thick overgrown hillock. By now the riders could see, as the mists hung above their heads.

  Sister waited for a moment. She didn’t want to crowd hounds or her huntsman, Shaker Crown. As field master she kept the riders together, tried to keep hounds in sight yet stay out of the way.

  Shaker hopped off Showboat as Dr. Walter Lungrun, the joint master, trotted up to hold the horse’s reins.

  Down low in the hayfield they’d just ridden across stood Betty Franklin, longtime honorary whipper-in. An old apple orchard was on the left by the deeply sunken farm road leading up to Hangman’s Ridge.

  Although she couldn’t be seen, Sybil Bancroft, waiting in there, caught her breath after the hard run.

  She, too, was an honorary whipper-in,
which meant she wasn’t paid for the tremendous time and effort she put into Jefferson Hunt.

  Both paid and unpaid staff routinely perform heroic duties. Even if paid for it, no one enters hunt service without a grand passion for the game. You can’t handle it otherwise. It’s much too tough for modern people accustomed to the cocoon of physical comfort.

  Comet had a den on the other side of Soldier Road, a two-lane paved ribbon, east-west, two and a half miles from this spot as the crow flies. As it was, St. Just, the king of the crows, was circling. He hated foxes and wanted to make sure he knew where Comet was.

  Shaker took a few steps upward but couldn’t get through the pricker bushes and old still-blooming pink tea roses. The remains of a stone foundation could be glimpsed through the overgrowth.

  Comet dashed into an old den there that had been vacant for four years. The original tenant, a large red dog fox, had been shot and killed.

  No foxhunter can abide anyone who kills a fox in such a manner.

  Few American foxhunters want to kill a fox. Even if they were vulpicides, they wouldn’t murder too many. The land, the crops planted, and the ethos of American foxhunting mitigated against the kill.

  Once in the old den, Comet immediately saw room for improvement and decided he’d abandon his den at Foxglove Farm for this one. He’d be hunting in his sister’s territory, but he was sure he and Inky could accommodate each other.

  Like all fox dens, this one was cleverly placed, drainage good, fresh water close by. The original tenants had created many entrances and exits, strategically placed.

  “Dig him out!” Trident’s paws flew in the soft earth.

  Hearing the frenzy, Comet laughed. “You can dig all the way to China, you nitwit. You’ll never get me.”

  “Did you hear that?” Little Diddy couldn’t believe her ears.

  “Blowhard.” Dragon dug harder than Trident.

  “Not as bad as Target. That’s the most conceited fox that’s ever lived.” Diana mentioned a red dog fox who lived over at the Bancrofts.

  “Good hounds, good hounds.” Shaker blew “gone to ground,” praised his hounds a bit more, then took the reins from Walter, lightly lifted himself into the saddle, and blew hounds away from the den. “Boss?” He looked to Sister Jane even though Walter had been joint master for a year now.

  Walter took no offense because Sister was in charge of breeding the hounds, training them with Shaker. His responsibility revolved around taking territory duties off her shoulders. They both handled landowners, usually a pleasure.

  Walter, however, studied bloodlines, preparing for that distant day when the weight of this would fall on him. He prayed the day would be very distant because she knew so much, and also because Jane Arnold was beloved by most, hated by few.

  Walter believed you can judge a person by her enemies as well as her friends.

  “Let’s go in, Shaker. No point in getting the hounds footsore, and we’ve been going hard for most of two hours.”

  “All right, then.” He blew a note evenly, then lifted it with a lilt so his hounds knew they were walking in, as did his two whippers-in, sweating although it was forty-nine degrees out.

  The horses blew out of their large nostrils. Everyone was glad to be turning back toward the trailers and toward an impromptu tailgate.

  Bunny, riding with Mrs. Norton, her boss and dear friend, pulled off to the side, then fell in with Crawford, Marty, and the three girls, whom she called “The Three Amuses.”

  “Where were you?” She stared accusingly at Tootie, wet from the knees down. Her eyes passed to a very silent Valentina and Felicity.

  Crawford quickly answered. “I fell behind and the girls stayed with me and then I had the bad luck to slip in Broad Creek. If it weren’t for Tootie, Czpaka would have run off. You’ve trained your girls well, Bunny. I’m certainly grateful.”

  She beamed at the praise. Bunny’s ego rested close to the surface. “I’m so glad they could be of service to you, Crawford.”

  “Yes, thank you, girls.” Marty smiled broadly at the three kids, each pretty in her own way, although Tootie’s green eyes just jumped out at one.

  As Bunny turned to ride up to Charlotte Norton, Crawford winked.

  “Mr. Howard, she would have torn us a new one,” Valentina sighed. “Thank you.”

  “Yes, I owe you one, sir. It’s our fault Czpaka spooked.” Tootie truly was contrite.

  “This is foxhunting,” he said and winked again. “All for one and one for all.”

  Each Custis Hall student made note that she’d heard that earlier. They would find out soon enough how critical and testing that philosophy was: simple, true, and to the bone.

  C H A P T E R 2

  After the tailgate, the rigs pulled out and Sister returned to the kennels. Her house dogs—Raleigh, a Doberman, and Rooster, a harrier—bounded along as the mercury climbed to the low sixties, the mists dissipated, and the dew sparkled on the still-green grass.

  Golliwog, the calico, long-hair cat, sauntered behind, not wishing to appear to be part of the group.

  Sister opened the kennel door as Shaker was walking toward the office.

  “Good day, really,” he beamed.

  “Indeed. The fog gets disorienting but—” Sister didn’t finish her sentence as Betty, wearing her ancient Wellies, trooped toward her.

  “New den.”

  “Old one, new fox.” Sister smiled.

  “Spooky out there for a little bit, wasn’t it?” Betty, having lost twenty pounds, now back to her schoolgirl weight, burst with energy.

  “Clammy damp.” Shaker heard a yelp. He walked back down the wide aisle. “All right now.”

  “He started it,” Dreamboat, a hound, tattled.

  “I did not. All I did was step on his tail,” Doughboy defended himself.

  Shaker sternly peered into the young boys’ run, as they called it. “You all did very well today. Don’t spoil it.”

  The youngsters wagged their tails, eyes bright. They’d put their fox to ground, working right along with the “big kids.”

  Shaker returned to his master and whipper-in. “Sybil said her ears played tricks on her at the base of Hangman’s Ridge. She thought she heard a truck motor up there.”

  “Sound bounced like a ball.” Sister liked Sybil. Her mother, Tedi, was a friend of fifty years.

  “Where is Sybil?”

  “Had to hurry home. Board meeting in town. Marty Howard convinced her to serve on her literacy campaign group. Say, before I forget, Shaker, Halloween night, the boys from the Miller School will be doing something up on Hangman’s Ridge. I said I didn’t care as long as they cleaned up their mess. They’re going to the big dance at Custis Hall and then Charlotte has allowed the girls to go to the ridge, chaperoned, of course, for an hour of fright after the dance. Guess it will be big beans.”

  Betty grimaced. “Too many hanged ghosts. Aren’t there eighteen or something like that?”

  “Think so.” Shaker rubbed his chin. He’d missed a spot, fingered the stubble.

  Sister thought of the souls wandering on the ridge as well as the souls of all those they harmed in life. “Well, the world’s full of anguish. Let’s keep it at bay.”

  “I’ll go start on the tack.” Betty wiped her hands on the coveralls she’d slipped over her britches. “That’s my contribution to keeping anguish at bay.”

  “The Custis Hall girls already did it.”

  “They did?” Betty smiled.

  “Their own idea. Neither Charlotte nor Bunny pushed them to it.” Sister, a board member of Custis Hall, was pleased at the young women’s thoughtfulness. “Good job, too.”

  “Bunny Taliaferro makes them break down the tack and clean it with toothbrushes,” Betty laughed. “Not every day, of course.”

  “She’s a hard nut, that one.” Among these two friends, Shaker could freely express himself.

  “Yes, she is. A good-looking woman, but stern,” Sister agreed.

  “Sur
e knows how to turn riders into horsemen. Got to give her that.” Betty folded her arms over her chest, then noticed a cobweb up in the corner of the office that she had to attack immediately with the crop Shaker had placed on the desk. “Gotcha.”

  “Spider will haunt you,” Sister laughed.

  “I didn’t kill her. I’ve only invited her to spin her web elsewhere.”

  “I sure miss Jennifer and Sari,” Sister changed the subject. “Not just because they cleaned tack. Those two were a tonic.”

  Jennifer was Betty’s youngest daughter. Her oldest, Cody, languished in jail, having fallen by the wayside thanks to drugs. Sari Rusmussen was Jennifer’s best friend and the daughter of Shaker’s girlfriend of one year.

  “Well, she loves, loves, loves Colby College. I tell her, you keep loving it, honey, wait until that Maine winter settles in for eight months. She and Sari talk to each other every day via e-mail even though they’re roommates.”

  “Why in the world do they do that?” Sister, although a fan of her iMac G5, still considered using it drudgery.

  “They have one other roommate,” Betty said and burst out laughing. “And they can’t stand her, of course.”

  “What do you hear?” Sister asked Shaker.

  “Thriving.” He paused. “Lorraine’s not. In the last month she’s sent four care packages, one a week.” He smiled a warm, engaging smile.

  A knock on the door turned their heads in that direction.

  “Come on in,” Sister called out.

  Marty opened it and stuck her head inside. “You didn’t forget our meeting, did you?”

  Betty and Sister looked at each other, because they had.

  “Oh, Marty, I’m so sorry. I saw Sam drive away with Crawford in the passenger seat and I blanked out. Betty, come on.”

  “Let me get out of my coveralls and Wellies.”

  “You make a fashion statement,” Marty teased her.

  “The aroma of horse manure is a bonus. Be right up.”

  As Sister left with Marty, the two dogs fell in behind and Golly brought up the rear.

  “Black bottom, you got ’em.” Golly sang a few notes from the old 1926 song.