The Hunt Ball Page 8

  “I bet if we opened up dens we’d find missing watches and old love letters.” He laughed along with her.

  “None of mine, I hope,” Sister giggled. “I can’t write a line.”

  “Ha.” Betty rolled her eyes heavenward as Magellan, her second horse and a Thoroughbred, drank. “You probably have a stack of envelopes tied up with powder blue ribbons.”

  “Sure.” Sister wiped her brow with the embroidered handkerchief she’d stuck in her pocket. “You know, we’re so close to the farm, let’s hack over. I’ll see if someone can go back to Mud Fence and bring the rig and my truck. I need two warm bodies.”

  “Only two?” Shaker finally remounted.

  “What did you have in mind?” she asked.

  “Actually, after this run, a long drink of anything cold.”

  “Oh, I wish you hadn’t said that.” Betty was parched and she didn’t want to drink from anyone’s flask as it would only make her thirstier.

  Sister turned Rickyroo toward the field, sweat running down their faces and in some cases mascara as well. “Folks, let’s hack back to Roughneck Farm. It doesn’t make any sense to ride all the way back to Mud Fence. Some of your horses are spent.” She noticed that Sam Lorillard’s horse was in splendid condition. The man could train and ride. “If anyone wants to let their horse drink in the creek, go ahead. Use your judgment. Back at the farm you can untack them, we’ll put them on a tie line if they can get along, you can wash them down or whatever, and then we’ll figure out a way to get everyone back to their trailers.”

  This process took two hours but it went off without a hitch. Sister brought down drinks for everyone as they washed their horses. Tootie took care of Rickyroo while Valentina washed HoJo. Then the two girls washed their own horses.

  Using the old farm truck as well as Sister’s new truck, they piled everyone in the beds. This took three trips, but all went well.

  Tootie and Valentina squeezed into the cab with Sister on the last run out since she invited them, too.

  “Well, ladies, what’d you think?”

  “I’ve never had so much fun in my life,” Valentina effused.

  “Me, too,” Tootie concurred.

  “For the record, if you need someone to talk to, I can listen. I know things are crazy right now. And if your parents will allow it and Mrs. Norton, if you want to stay here some night before hunting, I’d love to have you. Now, I can’t take everyone in the riding program so we’ll have to discuss numbers.”

  “I’m not telling. I don’t want to share,” Valentina honestly blurted out.

  “Sister, we don’t all get along. I mean, we can’t stand Pamela Rene.”

  “Ah.”

  “She’s a good rider and all, but she’s, uh—” Valentina paused.

  “Off the chain,” Tootie said.

  “I see. Well, let’s just keep it between us, and when you’re ready, let me know. I’ll talk to Mrs. Norton. It’s a nice way to know the hounds better.”

  “It’s a nice way to know you better,” Tootie said and meant it, and it pleased Sister.

  “We don’t want to sound negative, I mean, about Pamela. She’s real competitive and she’s always trying to buck us off, you know,” Valentina whispered. “She said to Tootie that Tootie thinks she’s better than her, Pamela, I mean. She said Tootie thinks she’s part of the Niggerati.”

  “She didn’t say that!” Sister was surprised.

  “When I called her on it she told me to shut up because I’m white.” Valentina’s voice returned to normal.

  “Well, Tootie, what do you think?” Sister wisely asked the beautiful young woman.

  “I think that word in any form ought to be banished from the English language,” Tootie replied without rancor. “She’s mad at me because I wouldn’t be part of the protest. You know, Sister, I do think Custis Hall ought to pay more attention to its history. Those buildings were built, the early ones, by slaves. But I don’t think confrontation is the way to do it. I mean, that is so sixties.”

  As they neared the entrance to Mud Fence, Sister slowed even more since the bed was jammed with people. “Anything weird at school? Anything that makes you kind of take notice, apart from what just happened?”

  “Like sex perverts?” Valentina put her arm around Tootie’s shoulder.

  “Val.”

  “I’m not the pervert. I’m in the middle, Tootie, and I’m squishing up next to you on the turn.”

  “Oh, sure, Val, I bet you say that to all the girls.”

  They made Sister laugh. She felt like a schoolgirl in their presence. She couldn’t say they made her feel young again because she didn’t feel old despite what the calendar said. She had no idea where those seventy-odd years went and she had to remind herself that she had had a birthday in August. Seventy-two! She kept thinking she was seventy-one, as if it much mattered.

  “Well, you know,” Tootie said as the remaining trailers came into view, “Mr. Wheatley always finds an excuse when we’re trying on costumes.”

  “The old devil!” Sister blurted that out.

  “He likes big boobs.” Valentina added that juicy tidbit. “That’s why he likes all those plays from the eighteenth century. He can put everyone in low-cut dresses. I swear it’s the truth.”

  “Do you think he touches anyone?” Sister was more than curious, she was slightly worried.

  “If he did, we’d know. Really. I mean, we know who’s sleeping with whom,” Valentina bragged.

  “I can hardly wait for our slumber party.” Sister laughed but she was beginning to feel that Custis Hall sheltered many secrets. Why had she not thought of it before?

  C H A P T E R 1 1

  Had circumstances been otherwise, Sister would not have contacted Charlotte Norton. She met her at seven that evening, the campus paths illuminated by the ornate, graceful cast-iron lights installed in 1877.

  Teresa had gone home. They sat in Charlotte’s office eating a shepherd’s pie that Sister had made, knowing Charlotte probably hadn’t eaten much that day.

  “—three.”

  “Well, if that’s all, you’ll weather this storm.” Sister reassured her as three students had immediately been withdrawn from Custis Hall.

  “Then Knute came in wringing his hands about the potential for lost alumnae funds and what were we going to do about the position of director of alumnae affairs? I told him we could at least wait a few weeks, then appoint a temporary person. This is no time for a search committee.”

  “Wise choice. I’m surprised Knute would be insensitive.”

  “Doesn’t mean to be. He’s worried because hiring a security firm put a big dent in his carefully wrought budget and we need so many things above and beyond simple maintenance. Well, I don’t have to tell you. Think of all that goes into running the Jefferson Hunt. It’s the same meat,” she smiled, dark circles under her eyes from exhaustion, “different gravy.”

  “I like the decisions. I like the problems even. Not sure I’d like your current problem, but anything, even something as bizarre as Al’s death, does give one a chance to ferret out weakness in the organization.”

  “That’s one way to look at it. How we will replace him I don’t know. He had the right personality for the job. And he was so much fun to be around. I miss him more each day as it sinks in that he’s really gone.” Charlotte poured Sister another cup of steaming Constant Comment tea, then one for herself. “Did you want something stronger? Forgive me for not asking sooner.”

  “No, thank you. Charlotte, you have so much on you. If there’s anything I can do to help, call me.”

  “Well, what I heard today was a barn burner. If I’d been out, that would have restored my spirits.” Charlotte placed the silver teapot on the intricate brass Custis Hall cypher.

  The cyphers, placed beneath hot pots, were made at Virginia Metalcrafters in Waynesboro. Beautiful cyphers for William and Mary, or Washington’s initials, or Jefferson’s made one realize how aesthetically advanced that superb
generation was, far more advanced than current generations.

  “Try to make Opening Hunt this Saturday even though it’s usually a big parade.”

  “I’ll try. We’ve organized a special parents’ meeting beginning Saturday afternoon. There’s no point in ignoring this. We’ve got to take the bull by the horns. Knute opposed. So did Amy. They think it keeps the problem in front of everyone. Alpha’s for it. The other board members are for it and I hope you are, too.”

  “You have to meet the issue head on. What people need more than anything is contact with you, the administration, and faculty. They need to be heard and of course they need reassurance. You’ll be exhausted. Can Carter help, at all?”

  “He’s canceled his appointments, even his beloved Sunday golf game. Bless him.”

  “Good for you, good for the parents. Carter has that wonderful bedside manner. How are the girls taking it?”

  “The assembly helped. The students have all met with their faculty advisers. They can come see me, too.”

  “Anyone taken you up on it?”

  “Pamela Rene.”

  “Of course.” Sister smiled. “She’s an angry child.”

  “I suppose if I had a mother who told me how to walk, talk, dress, and that I’d never be the woman she was, it would wear me down, but,” she paused, “her situation isn’t unique. So many children of wealth are psychologically abused. Let me amend that, many children are abused, period. The odd thing about Americans is that we seem to think that money cures all things. There’s sympathy for the middle-class child, outpouring of concern for the poor one, but for the rich, well, people have little. You know, Sister, I don’t care how much money a person inherits, you can’t buy yourself a loving mother or a loving father.”

  “No, you can’t. That’s one reason why I try to include the girls who can ride into hunting. We can’t make up for what is lacking at home, if it is—obviously not all rich kids are ignored or bedeviled—but we can make them feel valued. Many a young person has flirted with trouble, and thanks to hunting, pulled themselves out of it.”

  “Horses help. I truly believe horses are healers.” She smiled a true smile. “And the club members are very warm.” Charlotte continued on a sterner note. “It’s horses or drugs. Whenever I hear a parent complain about the cost of buying and keeping horses I say to myself, ‘You’ll pay it in wrecked cars, plunging grades, and drug rehabilitation.’ I’ve seen too much of it.”

  “In a way, that brings me to why I came in tonight. After today’s hunt we had to shuttle people back to Mud Fence.”

  “I heard. The girls loved it! Another adventure.”

  “On the last trip I had Tootie and Valentina in the cab of the truck with me. They told me that Bill Wheatley comes in during custom fittings and he, well, I don’t know how to put this. He’s not grabbing them, but according to the girls, he likes to catch them in states of undress and he is particularly fond of girls with big racks.” Sister leaned toward Charlotte and touched her hand. “I hope I haven’t added to your troubles, and this is hearsay. Given what has happened, anything and everything may be important.”

  Charlotte’s face registered the news. “Damn. Damn him if it’s true, the old fool.”

  “Both girls said he never touched them and they’ve never heard of him touching anyone else.”

  “That’s cold comfort.”

  “I know,” Sister sighed. “Charlotte, what was Al’s relationship with Bill?”

  Charlotte blinked. “They weren’t close. Al showed off the theater department to alumnae, but who wouldn’t? Our theater department and our riding program are sensational. The theater is easy to show. It’s much more difficult to highlight your English department unless an alumna or a parent will sit through one of Alpha’s remarkable lectures.”

  “She is remarkable.” Sister admired Alpha for her knowledge and for her demeanor. “It’s just the two of us—the walls don’t have ears—what about Amy? Was it over?”

  “For him, not for her. When Al married Rachel, Amy broke bad. Soured. She never bounced back. Of course, they kept their affair quiet while it was going on. And I don’t know how you feel about this, but I don’t disapprove of relationships between staff or administration. Neither was married. And as I said, they kept it off campus. I don’t know why it ended, only that she was heartbroken and then angry.”

  “Angry enough to kill?”

  “No. She might have wished him dead, but no.”

  “Dead end?”

  “So far.” Charlotte passed a tray of lemon curd tarts. “Doesn’t quite go with shepherd’s pie, but it’s all I could scare up from the dining room.”

  “I like lemon curd tarts,” Sister said, picking one off the plate. “Are there other affairs of which you know?”

  “No,” Charlotte wavered. “Well, none that I’m certain about.”

  “Such as.”

  “Knute. I think Knute may be sleeping with Bunny. I asked her. We’re friends. She denied it, but she also knows the consequences. He’s married. Something like that could cause harm to the school if it came out.”

  “Speaking of coming out—the girls. I assume some of them are sleeping with one another.”

  “They are.”

  “In the old days they’d have been expelled.”

  “Their faculty advisers talk to them. On the one hand, we don’t berate them, on the other hand, we don’t encourage them. But you know, that’s been going on at same-sex schools since the earth was cooling. I pride myself that we’re honest about it. We offer counseling if they ask for it. It’s an age of experimentation. I think, not that I’d say it publicly, that if they don’t at least get crushes on one another, they aren’t developing. It’s part of growing up.”

  “Yes, it is. Do you think that might have something to do with Pamela’s behavior?”

  “I’ve thought about it. She doesn’t seem to feel affection for anybody.”

  “A bad sign.”

  “I know.”

  “Is it possible Al Perez could have crossed the line with any student?”

  “No,” Charlotte forcibly replied. “No. Why he was killed, I don’t know. I can’t come up with a thing. But he didn’t sleep with students. If he had, he’d have been out of here so fast, no one would have seen his dust.”

  “I am sorry to come with troublesome news. You’re going through a terrible time. I wish I could do something for you.”

  “Being here helps. Knowing I can tell you anything.”

  “Tootie did mention something else of interest. She said Pamela was mad at her because she wouldn’t take part in the protest, but she thought Custis Hall should do more, should look into its history. She’s levelheaded, that Tootie.”

  “I love that kid. She’s one of those special ones. Valentina is, too, in a completely different way. One is thoughtful, highly intelligent, and reserved. The other one is charismatic, bright, and high-spirited.”

  “They are beguiling, as is Felicity, quiet and steady.”

  “So you know, I appointed Tootie and Pamela as well as Valentina to search for a person who can evaluate the artifacts. They also have to find someone who can counsel us on the period in which Custis Hall was built, and lastly, they need to come up with research and writing projects for students. I’ve put them to work and I’m hoping by making them work together some of their hostilities will abate. Each of them is capable, it’s the emotional component, but then it always is, isn’t it, regardless of age?”

  “In theory we get better at working with people who go about a task differently than we do.”

  “In theory.”

  “Still, it’s hard to work with people we plain don’t like.”

  C H A P T E R 1 2

  Tradition binds us to the dead for good or for ill. Hunting defines human cooperation. It was probably the first large-scale enterprise we undertook as a species. Language and technology started with the chase. Architecture developed later, agriculture is even more recent
in the lurching progress of Homo sapiens, agriculture being perhaps fourteen thousand years old.

  Drawings on Egyptian tombs show hounds walking out on long couple straps prior to being released to chase, by sight, their quarry. Homer mentions hunting with hounds in The Odyssey. Asian and European civilizations hunted, but it took the English to raise hunting to an art.

  Then as now, the money flowed to those who could handle hounds, horses. Blacksmiths, saddlers, bootmakers, tailors, purveyors of foodstuffs for humans, horses, hounds, real estate agents all benefited from hunting. Herdsmen did, too, as hunts removed their fallen stock, saving the farmer or shepherd a great deal of effort.

  Originally hunting foxes fell into the lower class of venery. Stag hunting, boar hunting had pride of place. By the end of the seventeenth century, at the dawn of the great eighteenth century, foxhunting took over. The venue for those seeking to make a place for themselves in politics, in society, now rested with a cunning foe, the fox.

  The Enclosure Laws ensured that the fields of England, for the most part, were divided into lovely squares bound by hedges, fences, or double ditches. The rest of Europe kept to the old village-and-commons system, which is apparent if one flies low over France. But England went her separate way just as she went her separate way over religion during the reign of Henry VIII. Both divergences ensured a nation of freethinkers or, as a foxhunter would say, people who take their own line.

  Chasing that red devil meant one would soar over wooden fences, oxers—a type of double jump—bullfinch (nasty) hedges, the odd gate, stone walls, deep ditches, and whatever else the farmer had constructed to keep his stock where it belonged.

  The English also believed in giving the quarry a sporting chance. Americans refined this even further, in part because their lands were and remain much wilder. Also, cattle not sheep are the dominant animal in American pastures. The fox isn’t a pest in America unless you keep poultry. There is no need to kill foxes. The English farmer is within his rights to kill them as they destroy his newborn lambs just as a Wyoming sheep farmer is within his rights to shoot a coyote.