Hotspur (19 page)

CHAPTER 26

Each board meeting rotated to a different board member's home. Ralph and Frances Assumptio hosted this one. Frances spent her time and energy cleaning and decorating. The place, farther west from Sister's down Soldier Road, had a warm feel to it full of handsomely worn oriental rugs, old silver, and overstuffed club chairs.

One of the rules of the Jefferson Hunt was that no food or liquor could be served until after the board meeting. Past experience proved the necessity of this rule.

As usual, the entire board showed up. Shaker's raise passed unanimously. When Ralph wasn't looking, Ken winked at Sister, who winked back.

They had checked off everything on the agenda when Bobby Franklin, as president, asked pro forma, “Are there any new items not on the agenda?”

Crawford, wearing a flattering turquoise shirt, spoke. “I'd like us to consider building a clubhouse and showgrounds. We lack a central meeting place—neutral territory, if you will—and showgrounds would help our horse show committee immeasurably. We'd have a permanent home for our activities.”

“Wait a minute. This club has no debt. You're talking about running up mountains of debt,” Ralph piped up, his eyebrows knit together in concern.

“One of the reasons we have no debt is because Raymond and Sister built the ‘new' kennels on their farm at their own expense,” Bobby said, quickly giving credit where credit was due. He knew perfectly well what Crawford was up to.

“What happens when Sister leaves us?” Crawford blurted out.

“I'm not leaving,” Sister said, enjoying watching him squirm. “I would never willingly leave the Jefferson Hunt. You might vote me out, but I won't leave on my own.”

“Never!” Betty vehemently spoke.

The rest rumbled their agreement.

“Well, what I meant to say is, what if you have to leave us, what if it's not your idea?” Crawford recognized his blunder and wished these damned Virginians weren't so subtle. And how they prized it, too. Made him sick. Everything took twice as long because of their damned subtlety.

“You mean if I died?” Her gray eyebrows raised quizzically.

“Well—yes,” Crawford sheepishly replied.

“The kennels will still belong to the Jefferson Hunt Club, as will the rest of Roughneck Farm.” She had dropped a bombshell.

No one knew what to say.

Betty started to cry.

Bobby also wiped away tears. “Now, we don't have to go into this. It's not our business.”

“You know, I wasn't withholding it to be obstructionist.” Sister folded her hands on the table. “It's just no one likes to think of their own demise. When Peter died, it shook me.” Murmurs echoed this sentence, as it had upset all of them. “He'd had good, long innings. I never thought Peter would die. He was made of iron, but the last year when he didn't ride anymore, I guess deep down, I knew. When a foxhunter stops riding, well?” She shrugged, and the others knew what she meant.

“You aren't going anytime soon. Only the good die young.” Bobby recovered himself.

Everyone laughed.

“I should live forever, in that case. But I had to think about how I had arranged my effects. And I'd pretty much left everything as Raymond and I had once decided. But that time is past. I have no true physical heirs, but I have plenty of hound children and horse children— and your children.” She smiled warmly. “The Jefferson Hunt will always have a home. I wish I could leave you more money. Who knows what the future will bring. But you have the physical plant.”

“Hear! Hear!” Ken applauded.

The others followed his lead.

“So we don't need to go into debt.” Ralph Assumptio's long face lit up.

“I rather wanted this to be a surprise, but Crawford, your concern, which is quite legitimate, forced my hand.”

“I certainly had no idea. I didn't mean to.” He truly meant it.

“And I agree with you, Crawford, that a showgrounds would help us,” Sister said. “We might even be able to rent it out to other groups and make a bit of money. Imagine that, a hunt club more in the black than in the red.”

Everyone laughed again.

“You have an idea about the showgrounds?” Crawford ran his forefinger and middle finger over his lips, an unconscious gesture of thoughtfulness.

“I think it's a good idea, but I really don't want it at Roughneck Farm while I'm alive. I couldn't stand the commotion.”

“What if I bought a piece of property near your place?” Crawford suggested.

“I don't think that will be necessary,” Ken said. His voice carried authority, an authority he didn't have in his youth. “Naturally, I'll need to discuss this with Tedi, Edward, and Sybil, but there is a triangle of land, those acres on our western border. The old logging road goes into it. Perhaps we could donate that to the club and start on the showgrounds next spring, if all goes well.”

“Still taking on debt,” Ralph grumbled, lowering his head like a bull. He'd been sullen lately. “Bulldozers, grading—why, just the preparation for a ring can easily cost thirty thousand dollars. It's the drainage that gets you. Now, I don't want to discourage your gift, Ken, assuming your wife, mother-in-law, and father-in-law agree, but a building program would still mean debt—a grandstand, fencing, fencing around the show ring, that cash register starts ringing up. And you need a sprinkler system, otherwise you've got a dust bowl in the summer. You need a tractor and harrow to drag the ring. You need night lights. You need P.A. equipment, otherwise no one will know what's going on, and I can tell you right now a bullhorn isn't going to cut it. That's for starters, folks. And how big do you want the ring? Big. Doesn't do you a bit of good to build a small one.”

“Now, Ralph, we can figure these things out.” At that moment Crawford wanted more than anything to strangle Ralph.

“He's right, though,” Betty chimed in. “It's a long-term project, but if the land is donated, with effort and a lot of bake sales, hunter trials, and hunter paces, we could raise the money over the years and then build it.” Betty feared debt, too. She and Bobby struggled to pay their mortgage sometimes.

The last thing Betty, Bobby, or Sister wanted to do was wear out the members by always trying to squeeze money or work out of them.

Ronnie Haslip, uncharacteristically silent for most of the meeting, said, “If you build a ring, you should build it three hundred feet by one hundred and fifty feet and board it solid so you can also play arena polo there. Could bring in a little more revenue. And you might want to think about stables, the kind that used to be at the Warrenton Fairgrounds. Then you've expanded your versatility.” He held up his hand as Ralph opened his mouth. “And your budget, I know.”

Bobby twiddled with his pencil, then spoke, a rather high voice from such a large body. “How can we do this without exhausting our members? This is a huge project. If we add more obligations like more shows, hunter trials, bake sales, you name it, we are going to plain wear out our people. Today, just about everybody works a real job and they don't have time.”

“Well, what if I headed up an exploratory committee?” Crawford suggested. “Maybe we could float a bond so people aren't going crazy with these nickel-and-dime projects.”

“My nickel-and-dime project brought in fourteen thousand dollars last year,” Ralph reminded them. He was justifiably proud of his horse shows, one of which was A rated.

“No disrespect, Ralph, but those shows are a lot of work,” Ronnie said. “If Claiborne and Tom Bishop didn't give us the use of the Barracks,” Ronnie named their large indoor arena, “gratis, we'd be lucky to make a thousand dollars. And it takes just about everyone in the club to work that big show you do, the A one.”

Shows were rated by the American Horse Shows Association. Tempting though it was to think of it as a report card, it usually reflected the level of competition, the courses, etc. A show rated B wasn't necessarily a bad show, it was just somewhat simpler and didn't attract many professional riders who wanted to gain points, rather like professional tennis players trying to keep their rankings on the computer.

Sister kept out of most board discussions unless they related to hounds, hunt staff, hunt territory. She kept out of this one but was listening intently.

“Crawford, do you have dollar figures in mind?” Ken short-circuited Ralph's indignation. “These horse shows are a godsend to us even if they are a lot of work. How much more could we bring in if we had this facility?”

“You could charge the polo club, homeless since the old fairgrounds were torn down, at least five thousand a summer. Other groups would be charged on a day rate. I can get figures from Expoland, Commonwealth Park, and the Virginia Horse Center.”

“Those are big operations.” Bobby tried not to let his personal animosity for Crawford cloud his judgment.

Crawford was struggling with the same problem in reverse. “I also thought I could see what the Albemarle County Fair brings in. And I will get a variety of construction figures based on different types of footing, ring sizes, stuff like that. I expect the exploratory process will take four to five months.”

“The fair suffered the last two years, rained out,” Betty flatly stated. “It's a huge problem.”

“Which is why we also need an indoor arena if we're going to do this right,” Ronnie said, gathering steam. “And I don't want to do this if we aren't going to do it right. Have any of you ever seen the Mercer County Fairgrounds in Kentucky or the Shelbyville Fairgrounds? They're beautiful. Right out of the 1890s. If we're going to do this, then we must do it properly and it should be a thing of beauty.”

“And a joy forever.” Ken laughed partly because Ronnie had turned so serious.

“He's right, though,” Bobby said. “And I don't want to go into debt. Crawford, I am underlining that thought three times. But I agree with Ron. If we do it, we do it right.”

“Well, would any of you care to serve on my exploratory committee?” Crawford threw down the gauntlet.

“I will,” Ralph said. “To keep an eye on you!”

Everyone laughed.

“Me too,” Ken agreed.

Betty nudged Bobby. He ignored her as she spoke up herself. “I'd be happy to do some research on this. It's exciting.”

Sister said, “Might I suggest you ask Walter. He'd be invaluable in dealing with details like handicap access, sanitary facilities. And he's got a wealth of common sense, too.”

“Good idea,” Betty said. She liked Walter.

“All right, if there's no further discussion, will someone make a motion that we adjourn?”

“Wait. One more piece of hunting news,” Sister said, and rolled her eyes heavenward as if announcing a miracle from Heaven. “Alice Ramy will let us hunt through her land.” Just then an enormous thunderclap startled all of them. “Perfect timing.” Sister laughed. The power wavered, then went out.

“I've got candles. Don't worry.” Frances bustled in from the kitchen as Ralph lit the graceful hurricane lamps on the mantelpiece.

“How did you do it?” Betty was agape.

“You know, I didn't do a thing. If we give credit to anyone, let's give it to our former member, Guy Ramy. His memory changed his mother's mind.”

A silence followed this.

Ken finally said, “Well, that's wonderful. I think each of us board members should make the effort to call on Alice and personally thank her.”

“Hear. Hear!” Bobby lightly rapped the table with his gavel. “Excellent development. Excellent idea.”

A flash of lightning, another thunderclap, and a torrent of rain dropped out of the sky.

“I don't ever remember this many thunderstorms. This year's been peculiar,” Ralph said. He struck a safety match, lighting more candles.

Everyone talked about the weather, Alice, and local events while Betty and Sister helped Frances bring out the food. Ralph opened the bar.

After everyone had a drink in hand, Ralph pulled out a flask holder from behind the bar. “Would you look at what my lovely wife bought me?”

Bobby Franklin reached for it; the British tan leather was cool to his touch. He put his thumb under the small metal button knob, popping up the leather flap that secured the top. Carefully he lifted out the silver-topped flask. Holding the glass to the candlelight, he whistled and said, “Handblown.”

“Let me see that.” Ken took the flask. “Even got your initial on it.”

“Frances thinks of everything,” Ralph boasted.

“Wonderful woman,” Ronnie agreed. “Only ever made one mistake.”

“What's that?” Ralph's eyebrows knitted together.

“Married you,” Ronnie said, and laughed.

As they ate, talked, joked with one another, Betty said to Sister, “Bet we don't hunt tomorrow.”

“It will clear up.”

“You always say that.” Betty dabbed her mouth with a linen napkin. “That Frances makes the best deviled eggs. Guards the recipe with her life.”

“Hounds are going out unless it's a monsoon.”

And that's what it was. So hounds stayed in the kennels and Sister finally knocked off her overdue grocery shopping. She knew, given the moisture, that Saturday's hunt would be slick but that scent ought to hold. She couldn't wait.

CHAPTER 27

Aztec's ears swept forward and back. Although possessed of 360-degree vision, give or take a degree, Aztec couldn't see more than three feet in front of his well-shaped nostrils thanks to persistent fog. Relying on his hearing, he could tell hounds, on a light line in front of him, were working hard to stay with scent. He knew scent should have been glorious, but it wasn't. Foxhunting is a humbling sport, and Nature makes a volatile partner.

Sister listened for hounds, Shaker's voice, the horn, and for the horses behind her. She couldn't move out too quickly because the field, twenty-four strong this early morning, would be scattered like ninepins in the blanket of fog. Mostly they walked and trotted. If hounds hit a hot line, she'd need to use her knowledge of the territory to try to keep up without losing people or running into a barn.

The fog hung over them, refusing to lift. Foxes, knowing the night would bring a full moon, stayed in their dens resting up for what they hoped would be a party night. Lunacy didn't just apply to people.

Fortunately for the hunters, the trails of scent from the night before still lingered. Those late coming home, around sunup, left even fresher scent, but as yet the pack hadn't hit it.

Betty Franklin, on the left side, crept along Snake Creek's bank. The ground was soggy, but she knew where she was. If hounds really moved off she thought she could stay with them until they entered either the hayfield about four hundred yards to her right, or ran straight through the woods and came out into the cornfield bottom. Once in an open field, Betty knew she'd become disoriented. All she could do was ride to cry, but ultimately that's all any whipper-in can do under harsh conditions.

Sybil, feeling jittery, hoped she wouldn't get in the hounds' way. Hounds met at her parents' big house at After All. Under normal circumstances, Shaker and Sister together with Betty and Sybil would have met at the kennels and roaded them over. This would give hounds time to settle, horses and humans time to limber up, but the fog prevented that. Instead, they loaded everyone on the hound trailer and drove to After All, parking down at the barns.

Even though Sybil was born and raised on this land, the fog transformed the most ordinary things into the extraordinary.

She jumped, startled, as the covered bridge appeared before her like the gaping mouth of the mask of tragedy. Her fear made Marquise, her horse, leap sideways.

“Sorry, Sweetie.”

They clip-clopped over the bridge. She thought Betty was up ahead. In a situation like this, Betty would go forward on the left side and Sybil would come behind on the right side. Sybil could hear hounds ahead of her moving along the creek bed. She had no idea where the field was but reminded herself that Sister knew the land even better than she did. Sister had had twenty-five more years to study it.

She climbed the low ridge, sending small stones rolling down the slick mud behind her. She pulled up by her sister's and Peppermint's graves.

“Nola, you'd enjoy today.”

Never having spoken to a grave or a dead person before, she felt slightly foolish, but there persisted deep within her the idea that Nola was near. Not just her remains, but her spirit. And that spirit loved her. Yes, when small they fought like banty roosters. As they became teenagers, Sybil swallowed her resentment of her sister's beauty, her extroverted personality. Alone upstairs at night, one or the other would slide down the polished hall floor, socks barely making a squeak. Then they'd sit together on the bed, compare their days, make fun of everyone else, study the models in
Seventeen
or
Vogue
magazine, and talk endlessly about horses.

When Ken Fawkes courted Sybil, Nola fought with Tedi and Edward right alongside her. She even told her father he was a snob. Ken might be poor, but he wasn't stupid and he made Sybil happy. She loved Nola for that. Somehow she hadn't even minded that at her wedding the maid of honor unintentionally outshone the bride.

A ripple of anguish washed over her as she wondered, yet again, what Nola's last moments were like. Was she terrified? Perhaps. Defiant? Most likely. Did she know she was about to die? Sybil prayed that she did not. Perhaps her murderer was merciful in that he didn't torture her. Maybe he killed swiftly and Nola never knew what was happening.

Ken told her not to dwell on it. They couldn't change the past. Focus on the present, on their life together and their sons.

He was right, but she couldn't keep her mind from playing Nola's last day over and over again. Nothing unusual ever stuck out like a red flag. The day's cubbing had put everyone in high spirits. The party that evening at the Burusses' filled them up with food and spirits of a different, more liquid sort. Nola didn't lean over and confess any “sins” to her. Actually, Nola confided in Sybil less once Sybil was married. She'd tease her by saying she didn't want to upset a proper matron.

She shook herself. Concentrate on today. Listen for the hounds.

She wondered where the field was. Ken was with them.

At that moment they were moving, creeping, really, up the right side of the creek, heading upstream. Even Athena and Bitsy, who often enjoyed shadowing them, stayed in the rafters of the stable. Why fly around in the fog when mice scampered right under your talons?

Ralph Assumptio and Ronnie Haslip rode side by side. Everyone out that day wanted to ride next to a buddy and in view of the riders in front, if possible. No one spoke.

Sari and Jennifer rode together; Walter and Ken, Crawford and Marty hung right behind Sister, which irritated Ken, who thought Crawford had no business being up front. Bobby and Xavier brought up the rear, doing their best to keep the twenty-four riders from fading into the fog. That's all they'd need today, someone out there riding around, turning foxes, getting in the way of hounds and finally hollering their damned head off because they were lost and scared.

Tedi and Edward, also furious at Crawford for his pushiness, stuck with Ken and Walter until the path narrowed as the creek forked sharply left, northwest. They scooted in front of the two men, who graciously nodded, “Go ahead.”

“Whoop. Whoop.” Shaker's cry faded away up front.

Sister knew they'd be in the cornfield soon enough. The corn was planted north to south because of the lay of the land. If she hugged the end row, which she'd have done even if she could see, she'd come out on the farm road leading up to Hangman's Ridge.

Cora and Dragon, brimming with drive, wanted to find a better line than the tattered trail they currently followed.

“If we could bolt Charlie, we'd have a run,”
Dragon said. Charlie was Target's son from last year's litter who had a den close by.

“You might be able to bait him,”
Cora said. She was glad that Asa, Diana, Dasher, and the others were close behind. The fog didn't bother her as much as the humans and the horses, because she relied on her nose even in the brightest of weather. Still, it's always reassuring to see one's surroundings.

Charlie's den had fresh earth scattered outside as he'd been housecleaning. It emitted the sweetish, skunky odor of fox. Charlie, an ego as big as his luxurious brush, wanted every male animal in the universe to respect his territory. He even intruded on Uncle Yancy's territory and marked that. A loud lecture followed this insult.

Not only did he hear Dragon coming, he smelled the sleek hound.

Dragon crawled halfway into the entranceway before his shoulders proved too broad for further movement.
“I
know you're in there.”

“So does everyone else in this kingdom.”
Charlie thought of his territory as a kingdom. His mentality was truly feudal.

“Give us a run. I'll give you a head start. How about if
I let you get to the other side of the cornfield?”

“I wouldn't trust you any farther than I could throw a
dead mouse.”

Charlie, who was full of himself and eager to make Dragon eat his words, slipped out his back exit. Dragon, butt still in the air, continued hollering down the front entrance. It took Dragon about five minutes before he realized he'd been had. Then he put his nose to the ground.
“Hot! Hot! I'm right.”
His rich baritone reverberated throughout the woods, echoing deeper as the hound was engulfed in the thickening fog.

The rest of the hounds sped over to Charlie's den. Dasher could see Dragon's pawprints. He followed the prints as well as his nose to the exit hole.

His sister was right behind him. He spoke low, then she spoke louder.
“It's good!”

Cora called to the others moving through the fog.
“Burning scent! Burning scent!”

“Hurry hounds, hurry,”
Asa encouraged them.
“All
on. We want to be all on.”
Then under his breath he whispered to Diana,
“Especially in this pea soup.”

Within seconds the hounds converged on Charlie's den, picked up the escape route line, and flew on it. All could hear Dragon up ahead by perhaps a quarter of a mile, too far ahead.

Charlie, flying fast and low, wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and Dragon.

Shaker couldn't see anything, but he blew “Gone Away” as he recognized Dragon's voice, then Cora's, Diana's, Asa's, and the young entry who yelped as much as sang. Sounded like the whole pack, to him. He heard no stragglers.

The first problem was to get through the woods, over the coop in the fence line, through the corn to get up with his hounds. Like most huntsmen, bravery came naturally to him, but he was old enough not to be stupid. This was a day to let Gunpowder pick his way. He trusted his horse more than he trusted himself.

Betty, already in the cornfield, as she'd had the presence of mind to move forward while hounds were picking at the old line, cantered through a line of corn, the long green leaves swishing. She knew she couldn't get into too much trouble if she stayed in a row. Once out of the field, the old zigzag fence between the corn and the farm road was easy enough to jump even in the fog.

That couldn't be said of the coop between the woods and the cornfield. Shaker and Gunpowder found it and got over because Gunpowder, long-strided and with the élan of a thoroughbred, trotted two steps and arched over effortlessly.

Sister heard her hounds, then the horn. She'd fallen farther behind than she realized.

Sybil, too, was jolted out of her reverie. She pushed along the low ridge, leaving Nola's grave behind her, but she knew she'd gotten thrown out. Right now she was utterly useless to the huntsman. She cursed herself, then the fog as she tried to make up the ground without breaking her neck.

Sister hugged the creek bed and crossed where the smooth rocks led down into the creek and where Snake Creek fed into Broad Creek. The footing, still slick and deep, was better here. Aztec, his light bay coat oddly translucent in the strange muted light, reached the other side of this part of Broad Creek with no problem. When Sister looked back to see if the person behind her, now Tedi Bancroft, had made it across, she couldn't see anyone. And she could only hear her when Tedi appeared by her side.

“We've got to kick on, Tedi.”

Edward charged out of the fog, then held hard, pulling sharply back on the reins. “Sorry, Master.”

“Can't see the hand in front of your face. I was telling Tedi, we've got to kick on and hope for the best.” She cupped her hands. Normally she wouldn't speak much during a run, but the hounds were well ahead. She wasn't going to cause any hound heads to come up and she wasn't going to turn a fox, either. “If you can hear me, listen for hoofbeats. We've got to move out. If you can't hear the hoofbeats, ride to cry.”

“All right,” Walter called back.

Bobby, bringing up the rear, had visions of picking up people like scattered croquet balls. But he was a foxhunter, and foxhunters stay with hounds.

Sister trotted along, spied a rock outcropping, its red streak glistening like blood in the moisture-laden air. Curious. A narrow path forked off from the left of this rock, which would bring her near the coop much more quickly than if she stayed on the wider path. She decided to chance it.

She squeezed her legs, Aztec extending his trot; he had a lovely floating trot, easy on an old back. The club hadn't brushed back this trail, one of those jobs waiting to be knocked out before Opening Hunt. She crouched low, her face alongside Aztec's muscled neck.

“Take care of me, honey.”

“Piece of cake,”
he snorted.

Ralph, Xavier, Walter, and Ronnie cut left by the rock, hoofbeats fading away in front of them. Wordlessly they moved out. Behind them came Ken, Jennifer, and Sari, excited at hounds in full cry and the wildness of the morning.

Bobby kept pushing up stragglers.

Enough people had slid by Crawford when they had the chance that he and Marty rode in the middle of the group, which he didn't like. He so wanted to be in the master's pocket on this day, but he couldn't hang in there. He wasn't quite enough of a rider. Czapaka, a big warmblood and not as nimble as some of the other smaller horses, bulled through the narrow path; a low-hanging pine bough smacked Crawford in the face, disturbing a squirrel up above.

“Watch it,”
the squirrel chattered.

“You're nothing but a rat with more fur,”
Czapaka called over his shoulder, which caused the squirrel to throw pinecones on following riders and scream at the top of his lungs. Squirrels aren't known for their emotional self-control.

Sister emerged from the overgrown path knowing the three-board fence should be twenty yards in front of her; Jimmy kept all the fence lines clear. This fence line was the dividing line between After All Farm and Roughneck Farm, with Broad Creek cutting through both properties as it flowed in a southerly direction. The old boundary had been set with squared-off stones back in 1791, when the original land grant was subdivided. The stones stood to this day.