The Hounds and the Fury (4 page)

Bitsy, not as fast as the crows, kept her head down, which was pretty easy for her, and she flew to the edge of the slate roof closest to Shaker and the den entrance.

Target, inside, heard the commotion. If the pack hadn’t been out there he would have helped his friend. Under the circumstance, his emergence meant instant death.

The crows, wild with rage, ignored the human underneath them. They continued to attack Bitsy.

A huge pair of balled-up talons knocked one crow out of the throng. Then another. The people below, the horses and the hounds, looked up to behold Athena, her huge wingspread out to the full, her talons balled up like baseballs, wreacking havoc among the crows.

St. Just cawed loudly, then sped off, his squadrons with him. Two dazed crows lay in the snow.

Tinsel, a second-year hound, started for one.

“Leave it,” Shaker said quietly.

Tinsel quickly rejoined the pack.

“Never saw anything like that in my life.” Walter was gape-jawed.

“Me neither, but I know enough not to mess with a great horned.” Sister, too, was dazzled at the winged drama. She spoke to Shaker next. “Pick them up. It was a very good day for the young entry.” She smiled down at the pack. “Very good day for the Jefferson hounds.”

As they walked back, Sister motioned for Charlotte Norton to ride up to her.

The attractive young headmistress of Custis Hall, an elite preparatory school for girls, came alongside Aztec, Sister’s sleek young hunter.

“What a beautiful sight, the pack running together over the field.” Charlotte was radiant.

“Do you ever think of what we see? Things most folks never see. They see the tailpipe of the car in front of them.” Sister marveled at the patience of people for sitting in traffic as they shuttled to and from their jobs.

“We are very, very lucky. One of the things I try to impress upon the girls is how we have to work together to preserve farmland and wildlife. They’re receptive, for which I’m grateful.”

“You’re a good example,” Sister complimented her. “Do you ever regret being an administrator instead of faculty?”

“No. I really love being at the helm of our small ship.” Charlotte felt passionate about education, particularly at the secondary level.

Although many of her peers were climbing the ranks at major universities and some had already been named as presidents of smaller colleges, Charlotte felt fulfilled.

“Have you been having a good Christmas vacation?”

“I have. Carter had a few days off from the hospital. We drove up to D.C. to the National Gallery, to the Kennedy Center. I like being reminded of why I married him in the first place. He’s such fun, and I’m always intrigued by his observations. It’s that scientific mind of his.”

“I miss the girls.” Sister mentioned the Custis Hall girls who had earned the privilege of hunting with the Jefferson Hunt. “Tootie and Felicity e-mail me. Val has once.”

Bunny Taliaferro, riding instructor at Custis Hall, rigorously selected the toughest riders for foxhunting. The prettiest on horseback competed in the show ring, since there was high competition among the private academies. But the toughest, some of whom were on the show jumping team, foxhunted.

“They’re so buoyant, so full of life and dreams. They make me feel young again,” Charlotte beamed.

“Me, too, and I have more years on me than you,” Sister laughed. “Funny though, Charlotte, I feel younger than when I was young. I love life and I love my life. Sometimes, I feel light as a feather.”

“You look light as a feather. And you fool people. They think you’re in your fifties.”

“Now, Charlotte, that’s a fib, but I thank you. You never met my mother, but she grew younger as she grew older. Energy and happiness just radiated from her. Dad, too, but he died before Mother. She made it to eighty-six, and if she were alive today, the technology is such that she’d still be here. But I think of her every day, and I’m so glad I had that model. It must be difficult for people who grow up with depressed parents, or drunks or angry people. Makes it harder to find happiness because you haven’t lived with it.”

Walter Lungrun, riding behind them and a colleague of Charlotte’s husband, Carter, was head of Neurosurgery at Jefferson Regional Hospital. Riding with him was Jason Woods, a doctor in the oncology department; both men could hear them because the snow muffled the hoofbeats. “If you can’t be happy foxhunting, you can’t be happy, period.” Walter smiled.

“Hear, hear,” the riders agreed, toes and fingers throbbing with cold.

“Because of us.”
Aztec believed riding cured most ills for people.

“Hound work, that thrills ’em,”
Asa, the oldest dog hound in the pack, said with conviction.

As they neared the kennels Athena and Bitsy flew toward the barn.

“Mutt and Jeff,” Sister remarked.

Tedi Bancroft, her oldest friend, also in her seventies, laughed. “You know, there are generations that never heard of Mutt and Jeff.”

“Never thought of that—the things we know, silly things I guess, that younger people don’t know. Well, they have their own references.”

“References are one thing; manners are another. The boys still haven’t written their Christmas thank-you notes.” Tedi thought her grandsons lax in this department.

They really weren’t. She had forgotten how long it takes to become “civilized.”

“Tedi, they’re good boys.” Sister believed in the young. Her eyes followed the two owls. “I’ll tell you, girls, let’s stick together like Bitsy and Athena. A friend in need is a friend in deed.”

Up in the cupola, Bitsy, thrilled at her near miss and by what she’d heard inside pattypan forge, breathlessly relayed all to Athena.

“H-m-m,”
was all Athena said.

“Let’s go back and see for ourselves.”

“No.”

“Why not?”
Bitsy, disappointed that her big friend showed so little interest, chirped.
“If someone hurt themselves, a deer hunter, say, it’s over and done with. But what if someone is”
—Bitsy relished this—“
dead.”

“When the snows melt we’ll know.”
Athena found hunting small game or raiding the barns more fascinating, most times, than human encounters.

“Maybe.”
Bitsy blinked.
“Sometimes they never find them, you know.”

“Bitsy, did it ever occur to you that that might be a good thing?”

“Well, no,”
the little owl honestly replied.

“Think about it.”
Athena’s gold eyes surveyed all below. Then voice low, she sang,
“Hoo, Hoo,”
and paused.
“Hoo, Hoo, Hoo.”

The small brown screech owl knew her large friend would not appreciate more questions, so she decided she would think about it. In time Bitsy would come to understand Athena’s idea that it might be better, sometimes, if humans didn’t know where the dead slept.

Before Sister could dismount, Dr. Jason Woods rode up to her. “Might I have a word?”

“Of course.”

Handsome, reed-thin, he spoke low. “You know, when I was a resident I whipped-in at Belle Meade.”

Belle Meade, located in Georgia, drew members from as far away as Atlanta as well as country folks closer to Thomson, Georgia.

Sister knew Epp Wilson, the senior master, so she knew Jason told the truth but not all of it, or he hadn’t figured out his real position vis-à-vis Mr. Wilson. Given his ego, the latter was quite possible.

Before Jason had joined Jefferson Hunt two years earlier, she’d done what any master would do. She called the master of his former hunt. Epp gave a forthright assessment, no beating around the bush.

The young doctor rode tolerably well. To his credit, he was fearless and generous to the club with his time and money. To his discredit, he was arrogant and thought he knew more than he really did about foxhunting.

Jason was an outstanding doctor. He went to war daily against cancer, his particular specialty within oncology being lung cancer. He never gave up and encouraged his patients to keep a positive attitude. He had a special talent for tailoring treatments to the individual. He didn’t practice cookie-cutter medicine. He also displayed an additional talent for self-aggrandizement, emboldened by the worship of many of his patients.

At Belle Meade Jason had whipped-in on those occasions when one of the regular whippers-in was indisposed. He confused riding ability with hunting ability. A whipper-in needs both.

“Yes.” Sister had a sinking feeling about where this discussion was heading.

“I’d like to whip-in for you. You could use a man out there.”

She bit her tongue. “I appreciate your enthusiasm. If you’re willing to walk out hounds in the off season, to learn each one, then we can go from there to next season’s cubbing.”

This was not the answer he’d anticipated. “I could learn their names as I go.”

“No. You need to know each single hound. You need to know their personalities, their way of going. How else can you identify them from afar on horseback?”

“Epp didn’t ask me to do that.” His face reddened.

She wanted to reply, “Epp didn’t ask you to do that because you were a last-minute fill-in. He’s a true hound man, and he’d not pick a whipper-in just because he could ride.” Instead, she demurred, “He would have gotten around to it.”

“Am I refused?”

“Delayed,” she smiled.

He had the sense not to lose his temper. He was a highly intelligent man and he recognized that Sister was like the great horned owl: silent and powerful. Don’t openly provoke her.

He rode back to his impressive three-horse slant-load trailer with its small, well-appointed living quarters, something rarely seen in foxhunters’ trailers. This was pulled by a spanking new Chevy Dually, a mighty Duramax 6600 turbo-diesel V-8 under the polished hood. Coupled with an all-new Allison six-speed transmission, the 6.6 liter Duramax put out 360 horsepower and 650 pound-feet of raw torque.

Sister admired the brute of a truck. She gave Jason credit for buying a truck that could do the job. She also gave him credit for managing to buy this model months before it would be on Chevy lots. She hoped when it was made available it wouldn’t be tarred and feathered with the Chevy ads that completely insulted women. They had to be seen to be believed.

Jason had money. He’d no doubt give more to the club if he could claim to be a whipper-in, a coveted position.

Many a master, strapped for cash, gratefully accepted a large contribution, then put the soul out where he or she could do the least harm. The other alternative was to couple the neophyte with the battle-hardened whipper-in for a half season or entire season and pray some of the knowledge would rub off.

Her method was to watch a candidate in the stifling hot days of summer. Were they quiet with hounds? Did they impart confidence with firmness? Were they helpful in the kennels if asked?

It was one thing to be on the edge of the pack, possibly attracting the admiring gaze of the ladies and the envious stare of the gentlemen. It was quite another to clean the kennels in ninety-degree heat with corresponding humidity.

Yes, many wanted to be whippers-in, to swarm about the tailgates once hounds were in the kennels or loaded on the party wagon. That, too, wasn’t entirely proper. Staff shouldn’t mingle until hounds were properly bedded down. If a hound happened to be out, the whipper-in should find him or her. This divided the professional whipper-in from the honorary. The honorary would leave the hunt to go to their jobs whether or not a hound was out.

Jason might actually make an honorary whipper-in. She needed to see if he had hound sense and the even more elusive fox sense or game sense.

Her instincts told her he didn’t have the patience. Nor would he shovel shit.

She thought she had time to work this out, to provide him with something for his ego but steer him away from thinking he could handle her sensitive American foxhounds. Deep down, she also knew that he’d not be able to handle Shaker.

What an interesting dilemma.

CHAPTER 4

T
he winter solstice on December 21 was the sun’s fulcrum. The seesaw of light slowly moved upward from that date in the northern hemisphere. Sister watched light as she watched flora and fauna. Country people read nature the way city people read books.

The sun dipped behind the Blue Ridge Mountains before five o’clock Thursday evening, but with the cloud cover, the underside of the gray fleece darkened to charcoal. Hounds curled up in the kennels, and foxes wrapped their brushes around their noses down in their burrows.

Target, finally back in his den, pushed around a Day-Glo Frisbee he’d carried home at summer’s end. A baseball cap, an undershirt, and two nice ballpoint pens bore testimony to his desire for material goods. Once he’d taken a class ring, but he later put it outside his den where Sister and Crawford Howard, then on excellent terms, found it.

Before turning in for the night, Sister drove over to Tedi’s, parked her truck, and walked through the snow to Target’s den. She inhaled deeply, smelling the big red secure within. Given his run for the day, she refilled a five-gallon plastic can of kibble, coating it with corn oil. This rested not far from his main entrance.

She knelt down, snow reflecting the fading lavender light. “Target, pay more attention. You’re getting sloppy.”

He barked back at the human he had known all his life,
“I know.”

She smiled when she heard his bark, took off her glove, reached into her pocket, and dropped a large milkbone into his den. As she walked back by the covered bridge she passed the grave of Tedi and Edward Bancroft’s eldest daughter, Nola, buried next to Peppermint, Nola’s favorite hunter, a big gray. Snow covered the lovely stone-walled enclosure. The marble grave markers were flat on the land and covered with snow.

Sister paused for a moment. One of the deep bonds she shared with the Bancrofts was that both had lost a child. Unfortunately, Sister had had but one son, whereas the Bancrofts still had Sybil. Sister envied people little in life, but she did envy those with healthy children. Her son, Raymond Jr., had died at fourteen in a tractor accident. He’d be forty-six now.

“You missed a good one today, Nola,” Sister said to the grave marker. “Pepper, you would have loved it, too. We nearly chopped Target, God forbid, and the crows mobbed him across the wildflower meadow. There’s a foot of snow on the ground. Feels like more coming.” She lingered for a moment. A rustle in the bridge told her someone was returning to his winter nest, a brave little wren who had stayed out late. He was scolded by his mate, wrens possessing an infinite variety of scold notes. The spat soon dissipated. She smiled, then added, from Psalm 118:24: “This is the day that the Lord hath made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.”

As she started the truck Sister hoped that Nola’s soul, for all her wild ways when she was alive, had found peace and joy in whatever lay beyond.

The formidable and incredibly snotty Mrs. Amos Arnold, Sister’s mother-in-law, F.F.V. (First Families of Virginia), had insisted that Raymond Jr., who’d died in 1974, and then Sister’s husband, Raymond, who’d died in 1991, be buried at Hollywood Cemetery in Richmond, a place where a president rested as well as numerous generals, admirals, senators, and other worthies. Sister, although she preferred having her loved ones near, had not protested. It wasn’t that she feared Lucinda Arnold as much as she pitied her. All the old woman had was her bloodlines and her pilgrimages to her own husband’s grave, then that of her son and grandson. In her mid-nineties, she had let these visitations become an obsession, although she seemed in no hurry to join her three beloved men.

Sister turned east after passing through the simple gates to After All Farm. The roads, even the back roads, were clear. Within seven minutes she had turned down the winding dirt road, snow packed, to the old Lorillard place.

She parked the truck and knocked on the faded red door. She laughed to herself that the color could be named “Tired Blood” in honor of the old vitamin ads promising to pep up your tired blood.

“Come on in,” Sam Lorillard’s voice called out.

She opened the door, welcomed by the fragrance of wood burning in the fireplace.

Sam, emerging from the kitchen, brushed off his hands. “Let me take your coat.”

“You’ve accomplished a lot since my last visit.”

“Thanks. Next task, rewire the whole joint. Then replumb. Little by little, Gray and I are getting it done. I’m glad he gave up his rental and moved in with me. We get along most times.”

“Good,” she remarked. During Sam’s long tenure with alcohol the brothers had barely spoken.

“Coffee?” he asked.

“Tea. If you have any. Something hot would be good. Where is Gray, by the way? He left after hunting this morning with Garvey Stokes. I barely had time to speak to either of them.”

“Running late.”

“Ah.” She sat down, her hand gliding over the porcelain-topped kitchen table like the one from her childhood. She traced the red pinstripe along the edge. “Don’t see these anymore.”

“Too practical.” Sam smiled. “Everything today is made to self-destruct in seven years. Our whole economy runs on obsolescence.”

“Is that what you learned at Harvard?”

“Actually, what I learned was to drink with style and abandon.”

She noted all the cookbooks on top of the shelves. “Sam, if you remove those cookbooks I reckon your roof will cave in.”

“That’s our spring project. Rebuild the whole kitchen. No choice but to rewire, then.” He placed a large, dark green ceramic pot of tea before her, along with a bowl of small brown sugar cubes. Then he sat down and poured her tea into a delicate china cup at least one hundred fifty years old. The pale bone china had pink tea roses adorning its surface. “Greatgrandmother’s.”

“M-m-m, the Lorillards knew good things. White Lorillards, too.”

“They knew enough to buy us,” Sam joked. “And we knew enough to buy ourselves free, too.”

“Ghosts. So many ghosts.” She sipped the bracing tea. “Sam, what is this? It’s remarkable.”

“Yorkshire. A tearoom called Betty’s, which has the best teas I’ve ever tasted—and the cakes aren’t bad either. I love the north of England.”

“I do, too. And Scotland.”

A silence followed, which Sam broke. “Funny, isn’t it? The chickens come home to roost. I’m lucky to have a roost.” He stared into his teacup, then met Sister’s eyes. “You know, you were one of the few people who would talk to me down at the train station. You spoke to me like I was still a human being.”

“Sam, no one asks to be born afflicted, and I consider alcoholism an affliction even if there is an element of choice to it. You threw away your education, your friends, but you’ve come around.”

“Rory, too.” Sam mentioned his friend from his train station days who had cleaned up his act, thanks to Sam, and now worked at Crawford’s alongside Sam. “We finished up early today, which is why I called. Thanks for coming over.”

“Visited Target, so it wasn’t far to visit you.” She smiled.

He brightened. “Heard you had a good one.”

“Did. Target damn near got himself killed. So what’s the buzz, Sam?” She got to the point.

“Let me preface this by saying that Crawford can be a peculiar man. He’s egotistical and vain, and it’s difficult for him to realize other people know more than he does in specific areas. On the plus side he’s generous, actually does learn from his mistakes eventually, and he treats me better than most other people would. He’s a good boss. He comes down to the stable, bursting with ideas from whatever he’s just read, but if I take the time to point out what’s commercially driven in those articles along with what has always worked for me with horses, he listens. He’s like most people who didn’t grow up with horses; he thinks he can read about them and become a rider.”

“Woods are full of those.” Sister shook her head. She, like other masters, had seen it all and heard it all.

The hunt field usually sorted people out in a hurry. No matter how bright they were, no matter how much they could talk about staying over the horse’s center of gravity, either they could stick on the horse or they couldn’t. And sometimes even a fine rider couldn’t stick. Sooner or later even the best would eat a dirt sandwich.

“He’s going to start his own pack. He’s found a pack in the Midwest that’s disbanding, and he’s buying the whole works: the hounds, the hound trailer, even the collars. He’s also called Morton Structures to put up a kennel.”

“In winter?”

“He’s clearing out the old hay shed for temporary kennels.”

“Jesus Christ!” She whistled.

“He’ll hunt his own land, obviously, but he’ll poach your fixtures.” Sam was referring to land hunted by Jefferson Hunt; Sister, as master, lovingly nurtured the relationships with the landowners, people she quite liked. “You know, Sister, most landowners don’t understand the rules of the MFHA. They figure if it’s their land they can have anyone hunt it.” He named the Master of Foxhounds Association of America.

“Well, they can. It is their land. What they really don’t understand is what an outlaw pack can do to the community: tear it up.”

“Overhunts the foxes. Creates accountability problems. If a fence is knocked apart or cattle get out, who did it? And it sure puts hunt clubs at one another’s throats.” Sam felt terrible about this.

“I know,” Sister grimly replied. “But I will bet you dollars to doughnuts, Jefferson Hunt will acquire the lion’s share of the blame precisely because we are accountable. Let a hound pass over someone’s land, especially someone new to the area, and they assume it’s one of ours. You wouldn’t believe the calls I receive, not all of them friendly. Shaker or I dutifully go out, we catch the hound, often a Coonhound or a Walker hound, we explain to the caller that it isn’t our hound but we will try to find the owner. And then we spend hours on the phone doing just that. If we don’t find the owner, we find a home for it because people have strange ideas about hounds. They don’t adopt them from the shelters. It’s sad because hounds are such wonderful animals and so easy to train.”

“Can you imagine what this pack will be like?” Sam raised an eyebrow.

“No. Do you know what kind of foxhounds they are?”

“No.”

“M-m-m, puts you in a bad spot.”

“He asked me to hunt the hounds, and I told him I can’t. I don’t know anything about hunting hounds, and that’s the truth. He’s going to hunt them himself.”

“Sweet Jesus.”

“He’ll need Jesus,” Sam laughed.

“So will I, Sam, so will I. No Jefferson Hunt master since 1887 has had to deal with an outlaw pack.” She paused, then changed the subject, since it made her feel dreadful. “Getting Matador vetted. I’ll let you know.”

They heard the rumble of Gray’s Land Cruiser. Then the door opened. “Hello.”

“Hi back at you,” Sister called out.

Gray walked in. He removed his lad’s cap and hung it on the peg by the back door along with his worn but warm old red plaid Woolrich coat. He kissed Sister on the cheek, his military moustache tickling slightly. “Tea still hot?”

“Yep.”

Gray grabbed a mug from the cabinet and sat down. “Sam, didn’t you offer Sister anything to eat?”

“Uh, no.”

“Worthless.”

“Honey, would you like a tuna fish sandwich, a fried egg sandwich, or a variety of cookies which Sam had stashed in all those tins on the counter unless you ate them all?” He directed his gaze at his younger brother.

“The double chocolate Milanos.”

“Sam,” Gray grumbled. “My favorite.”

“Well, they’re mine, too, and I didn’t have time to stop by Roger’s Corner on the way home. I’ll buy some tomorrow.”

“I can’t tempt you?” Gray asked Sister.

“Not with cookies.” She smiled.

Gray poured honey in his tea and smiled sexily back at her. “Sam tell you the latest?”

“There will be hell to pay before it’s all over,” she responded.

“I expect.” He nodded.

“How’d your day go?”

“After a glorious start hunting, then going to Garvey’s plant, I met with an architect.” He looked at his brother. “I finally broke down and hired one. We can’t do this ourselves, Sam. It’s just too big a job. I spent three hours there. We both need to go back.” He sipped his tea. “Garvey Stokes wants an independent audit of his books. Meant to tell you that straight up. The architect is on my mind. Anyway, I told Garvey I’d be happy to perform the audit. So now I’m semi-retired instead of retired,” he joked. Gray had been a partner in one of the most prestigious accounting firms in Washington, D.C. Two former directors of the IRS graced the firm’s roster.

“Garvey should change the name of his company from Aluminum Manufacturers to Metalworks. He can work with anything: copper, iron, steel, titanium. Can you imagine working with titanium?” Gray added to Sam’s information.

Sister laughed. “I wish he would make a titanium stock pin.”

“Now there’s a thought. Even the steel-tipped ones eventually bend,” Gray agreed.

Sam turned on the stove to heat more water. “Why does Garvey want an independent audit?”

“The usual in these situations; he’s not a detail guy. And he feels something isn’t right. Also, just in case, he wants to be prepared for an IRS audit. We’ll see.” Gray truly liked accounting, but he realized most people found it boring.

“Iffy’s Garvey Stokes’ treasurer. How’s she going to take this?” Sister wondered.

“She’s a glorified bookkeeper, and she wasn’t happy to see me,” Gray said good-naturedly. “I assured her the audit was not a reflection on her skills but good business practices. I didn’t feel right pulling rank on a woman in a wheelchair.” He paused. “But I will if she forces me.”

“Wheelchair?” Sister exclaimed. “I saw her last month and she was walking with a cane.”

“She can get around just fine.” Sam endured Iffy. “She glories in the sympathy.”

“The good Lord didn’t grant Iffy the best personality in the world. It, too, has deteriorated. But hey, we don’t suffer from lung cancer. She’s battling it. Let’s give her a little room to be testy.”

Sam countered his brother’s comment. “Gray, Iphigenia Demetrios was born a bitch. She’ll always be a bitch, lung cancer or not.”