Homeward Hound Page 3

  Naturally, many were shocked—a commercial venture, how crude. Those many, however, didn’t really have two nickels to rub together, much less what it would take to preserve this elegant place. And so Farmington Country Club inched Albemarle County a bit further toward the New South, which, of course, remained the Old South in ways both laudable and detestable.

  The club flourished thanks in no small part to a fabulous golf course, expanded over the decades. The old course, built before land became outrageously expensive, could boast par fives, par fours, and this course did that. The shrubs, old trees, exquisite plantings made golfing as much a joy as possible, although clubs still landed in the ponds.

  The formal dining room, painted in eighteenth-century subdued colors, remained a steadfast glory, and it was in this glory that a few Jefferson Hunt members gathered before tomorrow’s Christmas Hunt.

  Ronnie had called together people to meet Gregory Luckham. Dewey Milford, ever at nonprofit fundraisers, was acquainted with Luckham. Ronnie believed more was accomplished socially than was ever accomplished at corporate meetings or on the floor of Congress. So he had invited people who could make a difference.

  Gregory, a full head of ginger hair, sat next to Marty Howard, middle-aged, attractive. Marty knew how to get things done. Next to Marty sat Cecil Van Dorn, in his middle eighties, next to him was his wife, Violet Van Dorn. Sometimes they needed to help each other. Crawford was next to Charlotte Abruza, a historian he had hired to firmly place Old Paradise on the historic register as well as fight the pipeline. Old Paradise, founded in 1812 by a beautiful woman raiding the British supply trade, had a great history of feminist values. Sitting next to Charlotte was Dewey Milford, forties, perhaps the county’s most successful real estate developer, and then next to Ronnie glowed Yvonne Harris, the former runway model, one of the first African American models to make the cover of Vogue, who could destroy a man with one smoldering look.

  One tried to seat girl-boy-girl-boy and Ronnie did his best. Given that he was gay, he thought he provided ballast. He wasn’t aggressive about being gay; he just was who he was, which was delightful.

  “Crawford, I do wish you would hunt tomorrow. For all we know the fox will flee over to Old Paradise. You’ll be right at home.” Ronnie encouraged him.

  Marty smiled. “We’ll be there to see you off. Neither Crawford nor I like the cold weather and it’s going to be frigid tomorrow, plus the threat of a storm. I just feel that moisture in my bones.”

  Cecil laughed. “Funny how that happens.”

  The first round of drinks raised spirits. Everyone reordered, returning to chat.

  Crawford, restoring Old Paradise, lived with Marty in a home they had built not far from Sister’s place. No one knew if they would move from Beasley Hall to Old Paradise when it was brought back to life. They kept their cards close to their chest but were against the pipeline for obvious reasons. Crawford reluctantly agreed to attend the dinner prodded by Marty. Her lure was that they should meet the enemy face-to-face. Also Charlotte might get a feel for him, as well.

  Dewey, single malt scotch in hand, returned to the weather. “You know, Cecil, I think you’re right. My broken bones are more accurate than the radar. I’m riding though. Wouldn’t miss Christmas Hunt.”

  Yvonne smiled at Dewey. “My daughter told me you broke your leg last season protecting Freddie Thomas.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t go that far.” He demurred.

  “Tootie said Freddie, who is a good rider, skidded into a big jump, her horse lost his footing, and she sailed over the jump as everyone was galloping to it. She said you hauled in your horse, leapt off to turn people away and to see if Freddie was okay when another rider’s horse skidded and you were pinned to the jump. The horse kicked your leg. She said it was awful.”

  “Ah well, that’s hunting. We were all lucky it wasn’t worse. Freddie was on her feet. I was not.” He joked.

  Gregory Luckham joined in. “Hunting is not for the fainthearted. My wife worries about me but I tell her golfing can be dangerous, too. A mis-hit ball or a tossed club can do damage.”

  They all laughed politely.

  Charlotte, in her late twenties, leaned toward Gregory. “Ronnie may have told you, but I am researching the history of Old Paradise. It’s fascinating, encompasses so much of not just Virginia’s history but our nation’s. We will be using ground-penetrating radar once the ground thaws a little. There must be many bodies buried out there, unmarked.”

  “Some might be Monacans. They lived there before we moved this far west. Dolley Madison mentioned the Monacans.” Violet, who was an avid reader and a member of The Colonial Dames, evidenced an interest in tribal Virginians.

  Gregory, knowing what such a finding could do to the projected pipeline route, replied noncommittally, “I’ll eagerly await your findings.”

  “I often wonder what’s under the ground at our place?” Cecil spoke for Beveridge Hundred, his estate, which had started as a log cabin after the Revolutionary War.

  Crawford looked at Gregory. “If we find bodies, you’ll wind up with miles of rerouting. Isn’t the pipeline now six hundred miles?”

  “It is. You know the Army Corps of Engineers, the Virginia State Water Control Board, other agencies will review every inch.”

  “Doesn’t that depend on how much Soliden pays them under the table?” Crawford threw down the gauntlet.

  Gregory reddened. “Soliden would never do that.”

  “At five million eight hundred thirty-three dollars a mile, the hell you wouldn’t.”

  “Crawford.” Marty placed her hand on his forearm.

  “Marty, we’ve poured seven million dollars to date on Old Paradise’s restoration. I’ll be damned if I’m going to see it torn up. Plus that doesn’t consider what I paid for it initially.”

  “I heard you stole it.” Gregory was now angry.

  “Let me tell you something, asshole. If you try to put that pipeline through Old Paradise, I won’t shoot your surveyors or workmen. I’ll shoot you and that’s a promise. Come on, Honey.” He grabbed her hand, lifting her out of the chair.

  As Crawford and Marty charged out, Charlotte excused herself to follow. The other diners, breathless with suppressed excitement, were already texting their friends.

  Gregory, motionless for a moment, then knocked back his drink. “I apologize. I should never have let him get to me. I don’t need to tell you how volatile a subject the pipeline is. That man may be rich and smart, wanted me to know he’s spoiling for a fight. He’s a bully, which means maybe he isn’t all that smart.”

  “He reminds me of my ex-husband, a driven man with no sense about other people. People like that only see their goal.” Yvonne paused. “Mind you, Mr. Luckham, although I am a newcomer, the pipeline does seem extreme. Surely there has to be a way to accomplish what you need to do without so much, well, drama.”

  Dazzled, Gregory took a deep breath. “I hope so. I don’t get up in the morning and say, ‘How can I upset people today? How can I ruin Virginia’s environment or heritage?’ But we need to cut our dependency on foreign oil. The pipeline is a way to do that, I truly believe this or I wouldn’t push for it. As president of Soliden I may be able to sway the board regarding routes, but one way or another the pipeline will be built, all six hundred or more miles of it. One of the reasons I came here apart from wanting to hunt behind Sister Jane was I wanted to see this territory with my own eyes. I’ve pored over U.S. Geological Survey maps, Googled everything including Old Paradise. It’s not the same as hunting where you truly see the spine of the land, so to speak.” He kept his left hand under the table as he had cut his palm yesterday, so he wore a thin cotton glove over the bandage. No one asked about it, although they noticed. The outline of a pinky ring could be seen.

  “You will see it indeed,” Ronnie promised.

  “I am so glad
to hear you say that,” Violet quietly said. “You see a bit of your pipeline, the northernmost route, would traverse our land.”

  “You have been kind not to be angry with me.” He smiled at the lovely older woman.

  Dewey spoke. “The Van Dorns own Beveridge Hundred, which is seven hundred acres. It’s impeccably preserved. I call upon Cecil and Violet for their excellent company but also to hear the stories of the place. And, I believe, Yvonne, you rent the dependency?” He knew she did, of course.

  “I do,” she affirmed.

  “Seven hundred acres is quite a lot to manage.” Gregory nodded to the Van Dorns. “More power to you.”

  “Truthfully, it’s getting to be a bit much,” Cecil confessed. “Crawford has five thousand acres across the road plus the land he owns east of here, another five or six hundred acres. And as you also probably know, Kasmir Barbhaiya owns two thousand acres, which abuts Beveridge Hundred. Chapel Crossroads is one of the last places in this country where large estates remain intact.”

  Dewey, second drink in hand, then added, “You can understand why the Chapel Crossroads area is of such importance.”

  “Yes, I can.” Gregory reached for his second drink being handed to him from the tray. “Ronnie, you’ve put me in the lion’s den.”

  “No,” Ronnie quickly rejoined. “I work for you. We will defend you in court and you know there will be lawsuits, although I hope no need for any here. I wanted you to sit with my neighbors. Of course, you can understand there is emotion, but then again, the final route is not yet agreed upon. As for Crawford, I actually thought he would behave. He’s not going to have another opportunity like this.”

  “Well, perhaps neither am I,” Gregory ruefully said.

  “Surely, you’ll return. For one thing, you haven’t met Aunt Daniella.” Yvonne smiled at him.

  “Aunt Daniella?”

  “A great beauty in her day,” Ronnie told him.

  “And still not bad to look at. She admits to being ninety-four.” Yvonne threw that in. “But she knows so much of the real history of these places. The stuff that doesn’t make it into the history books. The stuff that young research lady will never uncover.”

  “Ronnie, every old place has a story about treasure or murder or both.” Violet looked up as her first course was delivered. “Beveridge Hundred is supposed to contain a fortune in silver stolen from Mexicans during the Mexican-American War. I suppose even then Mexico was famous for its silver and silversmiths. Mind you, Cecil and I have never found so much as a fork.”

  They all laughed. Conversation, more relaxed now, included the latest on the news, what films they had seen, books read, as well as hunting in central Virginia.

  After dessert, as they walked through the anteroom, Gregory promised them. “Please call upon me anytime. Don’t think of me as a bad guy or your enemy. I will listen to everything you say and we are not committed to this being the final route. I will do my best to help you preserve your estates, to keep the beauty of this place.”

  Yvonne, walking close to him, remarked, “Does this make it more difficult for you? Yes, we want to keep things as they are, but you can also call upon us.”

  “Thank you.” Gregory looked to Ronnie. “This is where you are invaluable. It isn’t just dollars and cents. It’s public relations. Soliden has been a leader in the state in contributing to the arts, to education. I think we can find a way to protect your environment and history. We need to work together.”

  “Well said.” Dewey’s deep voice carried throughout the room.

  “You know, we’re always the bad guys—our entire industry. But this nation runs on oil and gas. For all the talk about alternative energy, and we are making some progress, we are utterly dependent on gas and oil.” Gregory pulled a beautiful ribbed gold cigarette case from his inside pocket, offering anyone a cigarette as they would soon be outside. They refused. He slipped the case back into the inside pocket of his coat.

  “Yes, we are.” Ronnie flatly agreed, as did Dewey.

  Gregory walked with them, although he was staying at the country club. At the front door he mentioned to the Van Dorns and Yvonne, “Perhaps I will see Beveridge Hundred tomorrow.”

  “Up to the fox.” Ronnie laughed.

  “Doesn’t mean we can’t all have a drink at the house after the hunt. Our little two-stall barn is empty. You can put your horses in there and then drive home.” Cecil smiled.

  “Perfect.” Gregory smiled.

  CHAPTER 3

  Rainbow splinters, brilliant shards of purple, blue, green, yellow, orange, and red dazzled the eye as they flew off horses’ hooves, rose up behind hound paws. Christmas Hunt, Saturday, December 23, got off to a perfect start from Tattenhall Station, the revitalized formerly abandoned train station in the westernmost part of the county. Snow clung to the Victorian bric-a-brac, horse trailers filled the old parking lot, a few old hitching posts still intact. Kasmir Barbhaiya, a fabulously wealthy middle-aged man from India, educated in England, bought all the land from the railroad, restoring the station as a clubhouse for The Jefferson Hunt. He built a true Virginia clapboard farmhouse for himself, elegant, modest, historically correct at the highest point of the land, some two thousand acres.

  Christmas Hunt is the third of the High Holy Days in foxhunting. Opening Hunt is the first, then Thanksgiving, also often the children’s hunt, and lastly New Year’s Hunt. A High Holy Day involved wearing one’s most formal attire, a shadbelly or weazlebelly, a tailcoat for women and men respectively, a glossy top hat, boots polished to such a shine a man could shave using them. The tack on the horses evidenced not so much as a smudge. Bits gleamed, as did spurs, and every single horse was braided, eight braids for a gelding, nine braids for a mare, and the Master counted. If something was amiss, Sister proved gentle about it. Sister would never criticize someone in front of others. Actually, she didn’t have to do so. Every hunt field in every foxhunting club in North America contains fashionistas, usually a woman of middle years or beyond who recalled the glories of Mainbocher or Balenciaga. Somewhat younger women might know Saint Laurent, Halston, or de Givenchy and those even younger focused on Jil Sander. A whisper from one of “the dragons,” as they were referred to behind their backs, usually had the corrective effect.

  A gentleman noticing a misplaced stock tie pin, or gloves the wrong color, usually tried to buttonhole the offender at the trailer for a confidential word and often a loan of proper gear. Experienced foxhunters carried all manner of goods in their trailers and trucks: extra gloves (never black), most especially string gloves for under one’s stirrup leathers placed with the rear of the glove facing the front. Almost everyone stashed extra stock ties because was there ever a hunt when someone didn’t stab themselves, blood spurting over the shockingly white tie? Many a rider rode out with thumbs like a pincushion, for those damned pins were lethal. However, properly placed, the pins looked divine and held down one’s tie, a four in hand no less.

  A High Holy Day created stress. People expanded their vocabulary of abuse while their horses simply turned their heads in amusement. Humans were a volatile lot.

  But it mattered. Why? Because those people in the hunt field measured up to sartorial tradition close to four hundred years in practice. Before that, there was hunting on horseback for stag, boar. Fox was considered inferior game to the first two creatures but one just doesn’t blow off four hundred years, and the fox moved up in status by the early eighteenth century. At least one didn’t blow off tradition when riding with The Jefferson Hunt.

  As the ninety-some people trotted out behind Tattenhall Station, with three inches of powdery snow on the ground that only enhanced their turnout, an observer could easily think this was the eighteenth century. Some people from “other parts,” as was said in central Virginia, felt they were still living in the same. No one argued the point. Why lower yourself?

  Th
e dots of scarlet weazlebellys, scarlet frock coats for the men who had earned their colors, caused Charlotte to exclaim, “How beautiful.”

  “Never fails to impress.” Marty Howard thought the black shadbellys on the ladies quite slimming.

  Hands in pockets, the cold seeped into one’s bones. Crawford nodded to people once mounted. Over the last year he, thanks to Marty, Sam, and Skiff, his huntswoman, reached a workable accord with Jefferson Hunt.

  Sister, happy to have Sam in her hunt field, settling a youngster for Crawford, kept the relationship friendly. She invited Skiff to bring Crawford’s outlaw pack to her farm in the summers once a week so they could walk out with her hounds. She planned a joint meet with his hounds in her territory and vice versa. This last consideration violated Master of Foxhound of America rules about outlaw packs.

  The MFHA forbade recognized packs and their members from congress with outlaw packs. Well and good, but Crawford lay smack in her best territory, and his portfolio burst as did his bank account. Best you reach a working accord with such a person.

  Crawford, too, began to see the wisdom of assistance from someone who knew as much as Sister. Also, some of these people were his neighbors.

  “Perhaps I should add foxhunting to my research,” Charlotte said. “I bet Sophie Marquet hunted.”

  “She had her own pack.” Crawford knew a bit about the fabled founder of Old Paradise, her fortune made from her beauty and raiding British supply and payroll wagons during the War of 1812.