Crazy Like A Fox

CHAPTER 10

“Lieu in,” Shaker called in his singsong voice.

Cora, head female, standing by the huge waterwheel at Mill Ruins, took the lead, trotting down the farm road winding behind the mill. This road had no ruts because Walter Lungrun, M.D., scraped it; it divided two huge pastures. A half mile down the road, forests rich in hardwoods awaited them.

The water sprayed off the turning wheel, tiny rainbows spraying color at seven forty-five A.M. The meet started at seven-thirty but there was always someone rushing to put on their tack, or Sister’s announcements took time. As there were no fixture cards during cubbing, information was transmitted before each meet or later by email. Even though it was September 21, Thursday, twenty-five people moved off behind the hounds. This goodly number in the middle of the week pleased Sister as well as her younger Joint Master, Walter Lungrun, sitting in his Tahoe converted to pick up hounds if need be. Next to him sat Yvonne Harris, looking as though she’d stepped out of a page of England’s Country Life magazine.

Walter informed her, “That little toodle you heard on the horn is really for the people. It’s to alert them to shut up, to keep them behind the hounds. ‘Lieu in’ is Norman French. Came into our language after 1066. He called that to the hounds telling them to search for the fox, to go into the covert.”

“Norman French?” she inquired in her modulated voice, a voice cultivated to suggest just that, cultivation.

He grinned. “When William the Conqueror defeated King Harold in 1066, everything changed. We’re still living out those changes. Latin, as in Norman French, intertwined with Anglo-Saxon. The French brought their ways with them and suddenly sauces appeared on long, well-appointed tables. Expensive, different furniture, really expensive architecture. Well, they brought their form of hunting as well. And we continue to use their terms.”

“Was Harold that rough? I mean, was England before the conquest that primitive? I’m not much of a historian until you get to the Paris of the Belle Époque—the beginning of mass fashion, in a way.”

“You’ll have to teach me. About all I know is your coat sleeve should show just a bit of shirtsleeve unless you’re hunting. Then the sleeves are longer. Oh, I know the best coats have buttons that really work so you can roll up your coat sleeves.”

“Very good.” Yvonne laughed. “My husband, my soon-to-be ex-husband, had all his clothing tailored in Jermyn Street. He swore we still can’t tailor men’s furnishings.”

“I’ve got a lot to learn.”

“So do I. Norman French. So the hounds are bilingual.”

Walter grinned again, a wide one. “Yvonne, you’ll make a houndswoman yet. And so to answer your earlier question, Harold and his people weren’t that rough, but Italy and France were more refined. They never let us forget it back then.”

Driving the Tahoe, which Walter referred to as “The Beast” since it would go through anything, he followed the last of the field, Second Flight staying behind so as not to press horses or make riders nervous. Enough of them in Second Flight were nervous anyway.

Noticing this, Yvonne asked, “These people go slow?”

“No. They don’t jump. They might jump a log, but they go to the gates. Often they run harder and faster than First Flight because they have to catch up. Second Flight is for green riders, green horses, to train them both. Sometimes a person just doesn’t want to launch over jumps anymore.”

“I see. So that’s where one would start or finish.”

“Yes. On big hunt days, days when we have over fifty people, sometimes Sister will allow a Third Flight, people who go much slower and often stand on hills to watch the hunt unfold. Hilltoppers.”

“I thought that’s what Second Flight was called. I’m trying to learn and I’ve worn out my daughter with questions. I’ll try not to prevail too much on you.” She smiled, teeth gleaming.

“Don’t mind a bit.”

“Thank you for escorting me. I know you hunt up front.”

“Sister may not have told you, but I just returned from a conference in Phoenix, plus I’ve pulled my back out. A little physical therapy will take care of that. I’ll be out in two weeks tops.”

“It’s a passion.” Yvonne smiled.

“A passion. An education, a chance to be with other people not riven with all manner of fears, and really, a way to imbibe beauty.” Walter heard a deep voice, then another. “We’ve got a line.”

He moved up, although still giving Second Flight plenty of room. Tootie, on the left, soared over a stout coop in the fence line on the left. Yvonne had never seen her daughter at work, so to speak. Her jaw dropped. Then Betty Franklin took the coop on the right, both women intently watching hounds as Tootie flanked them on the left.

“Why isn’t Betty over there with Tootie?”

“If the fox turns right, hounds will follow. No one will be there. So Tootie is covering the left side. If hounds go into that thick wood up there and turn farther left, then Betty will jump back over and get on their right side in the woods or wherever they go. But right now, she needs to be just where she is.”

The fox, a clever gray who had come to sneak by the red fox who lived behind the mill, realized the red fox wasn’t going to be the problem, as that big fellow would fuss since the gray was in his territory. The droppings of grain in the barn proved too enticing, so the younger fox figured he could easily outrun the older. Now he had to outrun the pack.

The mercury, not yet at 50°F, cooperated in holding scent, but the low cloud cover really helped. The sun wasn’t going to burn off anything and the temperature might stay down. Perfect hunting weather usually occurs with a low cloud cover and the temperature between, say, 38°F and 48°F. But good runs could be had in the 50s and 60s, especially down low by creek beds. The fox knows this, so on a sunny day he or she goes out into a pasture or onto a dirt road, sometimes even a macadam one, boogies along, and by the time the hounds reach the spot the scent has either evaporated or is rising over their heads.

Not today.

Sister, up front riding Aztec, her TB/QH cross, took the coop into the large pasture, then soared over the large log fence at the end of the newly mown field. She landed on a good wide path, good footing in the woods. Hounds at full cry tore up ahead of her. Betty had jumped back out onto the farm road and followed the pack on the road. If they turned farther left, which would be north, she could easily find a path into the woods, not as wide as the center path but she could get around. She knew the territory. Staff knows the territory often better than the people who own it.

“The creek,” Parker shouted, and put on the afterburners hoping to reach the swift-running creek before the fox, who was far ahead moving fast to faster.

Walter fastened his seat belt. “You’d better do the same. Once we leave the hayfield the road is rutted. If you have any loose fillings they’ll come out.”

“Thanks.” She looked for the Jesus strap and grabbed it.

Sure enough the fox headed straight down, for the land began to steeply incline to the creek. He jumped in and swam at a diagonal, crawled out on the other side, and took off.

Dragon reached the place where the fox entered the creek. Sniffing, he leapt into it, water breast high. He reached the other side. No scent.

“Move up or down,” his mother, Delia, ordered him.

Hardheaded though he was, Dragon listened to his mother. Staying in the water, he moved upstream first, up along the bank, sniffing. Twist, knowing older Delia knew her stuff, leapt into the creek and duplicated Dragon’s efforts moving downstream. Twist was a weedy hound—no matter what Sister and Shaker did, they couldn’t get much weight on the smallish fellow. Young, still learning, he could move with blinding speed which irritated Dragon, who wanted to be in front.

“Here!” The slender hound sang out, which really pissed off Dragon, who clambered out of the creek, flew to the spot, and opened before Twist could climb out.

The pack, in the creek, hurried out.

Thimble, Twist’s sister, now alongside him, praised him, “Good work.”

“I hate him. I really hate him.” Twist indicated Dragon now ahead of them all.

Shaker, on tried-and-true Showboat, jumped straight down into the creek, holding onto the mane as Showboat leapt up in the air to get out. He was such an athlete he hit the top of the bank, water flying off his legs, as Shaker sat deep and tight. Off they ran.

Tootie, already ahead, had the presence of mind to think the fox would cross, so she went to an easy crossing, as did Betty on the south side. Finding a decent path proved more difficult. If both whippers-in remained in the woods they’d be dodging trees and bramble, and really fall behind.

Betty, having hunted this territory since childhood, swerved hard right, found the well-trod deer trail, and kicked on. Tootie moved into the wide cleared path and thundered ahead of the huntsman. She hoped she’d see a cross path so she could move farther left. She needed to be on the outside of the pack, not behind them.

Meanwhile, Yvonne thanked heaven for the seat belt and Jesus strap. Otherwise, her head would have smashed up into the roof of the old 2008 Tahoe. Walter rolled down the rutted dirt road, the incline not giving comfort. Finally at the bottom, they roared across a ford, and Yvonne gave thanks they weren’t stuck in the creek bed. Walter knew what he was doing and moved along, his tires now creating mud tracks. Windows rolled down, he and Yvonne could hear the hound music as well as Shaker blowing “Gone Away.”

The huntsman also let out an encouraging scream to his pack.

Walter laughed. “We tell him he sounds like a girl when he does that.”

“It is high-pitched.”

“A high pitch excites the hounds, but that doesn’t mean we won’t torment Shaker.”

“I doubt anyone would mistake him for a girl.” Yvonne laughed, too.

“He’s the manly type. Huntsmen are, except for the lady huntsmen—but they are tough as the men.”

“I guess you would have to be to do this.” She shut up as he encountered another rut.

Walter pulled ahead as Second Flight followed Sister in the woods, where the sound ricocheted off the trees, the leaves muffling some of it.

Reaching open fields, uncut, he drove to where the rutted road intersected another rutted road, then turned around so the nose of the Tahoe faced the field and the woods, which were about a half mile away. The glorious sound came closer and closer.

“There.” Walter pointed to some broomstraw bending.

Sure enough the gray popped out of the field, ran right toward the Tahoe, passed it, and flew to a huge old storage building down the road. He ducked into his den, dug under and into the outbuilding, a perfect site for coziness in all kinds of weather.

Yvonne, thrilled to have seen the fox, twisted around to follow his progress. “He doesn’t look frightened.”

“He knows he’s got us beat. They usually do. Ah, here come the lead hounds.”

Dragon, Dasher, Twist, and Thimble shot by, immediately followed by the rest of the pack, Asa bringing up the rear. Being the oldest, Asa wisely would stop from time to time to check and make sure the fox hadn’t followed them and cut across the road or, worse, doubled back. Convinced the line was still true, he picked up speed, joining the rear of the pack.

Sister came out, reaching the road. She moved by Walter and Yvonne, for Walter had parked to the side to give everyone room. Within about five minutes all of First Flight had gathered by the storage building. Then Second Flight joined them.

Shaker, already on foot, blew “Gone to Ground.”

“I was first.” Dragon pushed forward.

Shaker patted the braggart’s head, reached to each hound, praising, patting. “Good hounds. Well done.”

Parker and Pickens, still young, about wiggled themselves to death, they were so excited.

Easily swinging back up in the saddle, Shaker tooted a few notes, then moved down the road toward where the creek in the woods poured into a deeper, rougher creek. His idea was to draw back to the mill.

Walter followed. “We’re on a part of the land called Shootrough, because Peter Wheeler, who formerly owned all this, would bring out his cronies and they’d bird hunt. It’s pretty good bird hunting, which I’m sure our fox knows.”

“Tootie told me foxes are omnivorous.”

“It’s a good survival mechanism. We have it as well. Foxes are good hunters; they hunt much like cats do. But any animal will take the easy way out if you give it to them, and game gets scarce in winter, which is when we fill up all the feeder boxes. We have so much land, so many big fixtures that the kibble bill just for foxes can run about a thousand dollars a month, which is why we wait until winter. Clubs with smaller fixtures—which is to say most clubs north of the Mason-Dixon line, or even the Northern Virginia hunts these days—they might be able to feed year-round.” He turned to her. “Development. It’s a hunter’s curse, any hunter.”

“I read in one of the papers that the English are creating new villages. They have a housing shortage and they’re trying to make the new places look like old places, I guess. But it sounds environmentally forward.”

“Does. I expect some very smart young developers here will figure that out, but right now it’s just divide up the land into squares and slap up houses, even if they’re five-hundred-thousand-dollar houses. Not much thought goes into it.”

She nodded. “We’re so spoiled. We have so much land we forget to take care of it. I can’t say as I thought of that until we sent Tootie to Custis Hall. Visiting there, walking the grounds, actually going to some of the teachers’ lectures during parents’ weekend. I began reading.” She looked back at him. “There are greens in Chicago and people who want to protect the environment, but it’s not the same as here. Here you live it.”

“We try.”

A deep boom rang out. Then a higher squeak.

Walter beamed. “Asa. The squeak was a young entry honoring Big Daddy, so to speak. What a joy it is to watch a hound learn its trade. Well, kind of like being a parent, I guess.”

“I’m seeing Tootie in a new light.”

“She’s good, Yvonne, very good. Has the instinct for it as well as the physical ability. In truth, a whipper-in must ride better than anyone, better than the huntsman. However, most huntsmen started out as whippers-in so they can ride, and ride well, but you’re riding behind the hounds. It’s a different skill.”

“I had no idea foxhunting was so complicated. When did you learn?” She grabbed the strap again as they reached the deep creek.

She also prayed they would not be crossing it. She had not brought water wings.

“In 1984. I was twelve. We hadn’t much money but Sister and her husband, Ray, allowed me to ride their horses. Sister gave me lessons. I loved it from the first, and I loved her, too.”

“I can see why.” And she could.

Hounds would speak, then fall silent. Speak again as Shaker hunted them back toward the mill, which was anywhere from two to five miles depending on which way one rode.

Hunt and peck, hunt and peck. Hounds cut up turning toward the higher woods. Walter backed out, got on the road, turned left this time when he hit the intersection, then sat at the edge of the woods. Hounds moved through it. Opened again, and this time it stuck.

Walter crept along. They reached the edge of the fenced pastures. Betty jumped in from the woods while Tootie leapt first over a coop forty-five degrees away from Betty. The two whippers-in waited for the hounds to appear, then Betty took two o’clock and Tootie took ten o’clock. Hounds came out working slowly, noses to the ground, but speaking.

Walter informed Yvonne, “It’s a fading line. They’re working steadily. If it heats up we’ll have a good run. If not, the field will stay at a trot or walk, but this is good hound work.”

She watched attentively.

The line never heated up but it did hold, and the pack returned to the mill, going behind it to the den of the red fox.

“Buzz off, blowhard. I could hear you for the last forty-five minutes.” A voice wafted up from one of the den openings.

This so startled Pickens, Parker’s littermate, that he stepped back.

Cora stepped forward. “Rude.”

“You’re disturbing the peace. Go to the party wagon and leave me alone.”

The mill fox knew the drill inside and out, calling the hound trailer by the name the hounds and humans called it, “party wagon.”

“Come along. Good hounds. Good work.” Shaker sang out, they turned and followed.

“He didn’t have to be so rude,” Pickens complained.

“He’s a red fox,” Dasher said. “They think they’re the center of the universe.”

—

The breakfast, held in the old house that Walter, renting it for a ninety-nine-year lease, had rehabilitated, kept everyone eating, drinking, talking.

Walter introduced Yvonne to Margaret DuCharme as a colleague. She was a sports doctor, he was a cardiologist. He left the two women to talk while he made the rounds as host and Joint Master.

“DuCharme.” Yvonne thought. “Old Paradise. Tootie has told me about it. Very romantic.”

Margaret shook her head. “Yes and no. Crawford Howard has finally bought it from my father and uncle, who don’t speak, by the way, just so you know. At any rate, Crawford played a waiting game.” She took a deep breath. “It’s for the best. Since Tootie told you a bit about it, why don’t I give you the tour when you’re available?”

“I’d love that.”

They moved on to others. Sister came up to Margaret, who had taken up hunting only two years ago. As she was a natural athlete, it came easily. “Looking well.”

“As are you, Master.”

“How’s it going?”

“It’s really interesting. Of course, neither Dad nor I live in any of the dependencies anymore, but I can’t stay away. The old foundation of the big house, as you know, withstood everything because it’s cut stone, heavy thick stone, fitted together. Crawford has had it wrapped in heavy plastic, that awful blue stuff, and he’s dug around the outside.”

“Really?”

“He’s pouring in goo, for lack of a better word, to seal it. No water will ever seep through.”

“I’ll be damned.”

“He’ll be glad to do it.” Margaret teased her.

“Crawford thinks of everything.”

“I bet they’ve found stuff in the walls.”

Margaret nodded. “Pack rats.”

“Binky,” she mentioned her uncle, “now that he has money again, is being impossible. Bragging about how much the DuCharmes have done for the county since 1812.”

“Well, snobbery hasn’t done either your uncle or your father much good, has it?” Sister got right to the point.

Margaret laughed, then looked serious for a minute. “I’m tired of being the go-between. Now that they’ve sold Old Paradise, have gobs of money, the hell with it. I love Daddy but he’s set in his ways. Hates change.”

“A lot of old people do,” Sister said.

Margaret smiled. “If I ever get like that, Sister, shoot me.”

“Ditto.” Sister changed the subject. “Think the lost treasure of Old Paradise will be found with all this digging, rebuilding? Is there any old estate in Virginia that doesn’t have a story of lost treasure, murder, woe, perfidious Yankees? Ever notice it’s rarely perfidious Southerners?”

“We do no wrong.” Margaret clinked glasses with Sister, as she’d picked up her drink.

As Sister walked over to chat with Kasmir and Alida, visiting for a long weekend, she thought about wrongdoing. Yes, there were old murders, thefts, family feuds of which the DuCharmes were a leading example, but what Virginians excelled at, reveled in, were sexual peccadilloes. Wrongdoing. Yes, but so very fascinating.

Daniella Laprade, a fountain of old war stories, of scandal and sin, knew more than she was telling. Sister thought she’d wait a bit, then revisit the intrepid lady.