Crazy Like A Fox

CHAPTER 14

Two white heads, leaning together, reflected the light in Daniella’s living room. Gray listened as his aunt and Tom Tipton galloped down memory lane. Daniella, a few years older than Tom, had formerly dazzled the young man. As her people were in the Thoroughbred business, they knew each other. Often if a horse didn’t make it to the track it was trained as a foxhunter. Daniella, thanks to her great beauty, was used by her father to attend the meets and comment on how glorious a client looked on the potential sale. This worked a treat if the client was male. If female, not quite so much.

“Remember when Brenden DuCharme got hung over the tree branch? Oh Lord.” Tom laughed, his voice still strong, not wavering at all.

Daniella clapped her hands in delight. “Damned fool. Turning around to look back at his wife during a hard run. Didn’t see the tree looming ahead, the branch caught him right in the middle and there he dangled.”

“And Margaret rode right by him!” Tom, overcome with mirth, wiped tears from his eyes.

“I happened to be driving Daddy’s truck—he liked it if I could make specific comments about the hunt to the client. Saw you ride toward Brenden to help him and heard Weevil cuss you like a dog.”

“ ‘Hounds are more important than Brenden. He’ll fall down eventually.’ So I left him suspended there and hurried to the hounds to evade sulfurous speech. Tell you what, Weevil always put hounds first.”

“Do you remember the time that buyer from Boston—rode with the rich hunt right outside of Boston—asked me if I was colored? Said I was whiter than white women he knew.”

“Yes, I do, and I remember it was at the breakfast afterwards at Skidby. Could have heard a pin drop.” Tom nodded.

“And Weevil came over and punched his lights out.” Now Daniella had tears in her eyes.

“Those were the days.” Tom smiled.

“And the nights.”

They both laughed.

Gray interjected. “Tom, Skidby is being restored. By Helen Lutrell’s granddaughter. She married a rich doctor.”

“You don’t say. Helen was a good woman. Always gave hunt staff a gift at Christmas. I reckon people don’t do that anymore.”

“They do.” Gray jumped in again. “Sister gives hunt staff a bonus, but club members pitch in so it’s one check from members as opposed to lots of small checks.”

A knock on the door interrupted the reveries.

Gray got up, opened the door, whispered, “They’re ready.”

Sara had dropped Tom off so the old acquaintances could catch up. She’d brought a small cooler, then brought another one as she would drive Tom, while Gray would drive his aunt. Once Daniella heard Tom Tipton would be at the Saturday hunt at Old Paradise, she wanted to go. However, each of these nonagenarians should sit in the front passenger seat so Gray elected to give up his Saturday hunt to drive his aunt. After the hunt they could all join in at the breakfast.

Daniella, dressed in a long suede skirt, a tweed coat, and a white open-collared shirt with an Hermès scarf tied around her neck, looked every bit the non-riding follower.

Tom, also in a tweed, wore his old breeches and boots. He said that in case anyone needed a hand, he’d mount up, but really he wanted to show he could still fit into his hunt kit.

Just because they were in their nineties didn’t mean all vanity had fled.

Sara had bought single-cask bourbon for Daniella and rye for Tom.

“Gray,” she whispered in his ear. “I’ve got special stuff for your aunt. Cooler’s in your car. Oh, two crystal glasses. God forbid Aunt Daniella’s lips should touch plastic.”

The two rounded up their charges as Tom and Daniella argued that either one would be happy to sit in the back. A lie, of course.

As Sara drove Tom to Old Paradise, she filled him in on Crawford’s shrewd waiting game. How he had bought out the brothers, how the two non-speaking men had agreed without needing to see each other.

“H-m-m. What’s he going to do?”

“Bring it back. Right now he’s got cattle on some of it. Has already restored the stable.”

“Rich. Rich. Rich.”

“M-m-m, with the personality trait of a man who has made his own money.”

Tom shrugged. “At least he’s given people jobs.”

“That he has. Every time I go by there more men are working, and that’s just what I can see in the fields. Fence repair, some stone fences, fertilizing, hay along the roadside. Cut now, of course. And he’s got the old house plans.”

“You don’t say. With digging maybe they’ll find the Old Paradise treasure.”

“Wouldn’t that be something?” Sara smiled.

Within twenty-five minutes, the Chapel Cross area slowed them due to the horse trailers. Sara turned down the main drive to Old Paradise.

Tom, hand gripping the handrest, stared. “I haven’t been back here in thirty years. One of the last times I rode with Sister. Great day!” He saw the stables.

“Incredible, isn’t it?”

“They’re beautiful. Now—oh, Sara, the people who have gone on, the people who I wish could see this.”

“Peter Wheeler?”

“For one. Big Ray. Well, I reckon I’ll see them soon enough.”

“Tom, only the good die young.” Sara shot that at him, and he laughed at the common phrase.

Daniella hadn’t seen the foundation work at the house ruins, the four majestic Corinthian columns, guardians to survival despite all. Even the Virginia creeper had been cleaned off just as it was turning red for fall.

“I can’t wait to see the house when it’s finished. Years, I bet.”

“He has over forty people just working on the house alone.” Gray told her about the packing around the foundation—what Sister called goo—the backfill, and now the prep work for rebuilding.

Sister, wearing her bespoke tweed, resplendent on Lafayette, her gray, drew all eyes to her. Next to her sat Crawford on Czpaka.

As this was a cubbing hunt, individual tastes showed more than during formal hunting. It was coolish this September 30 morning, for which both Masters were thankful, as were the two huntsmen and hounds. People donned tweeds in various colors all suitable for them, happy for the temperature. Kasmir wore a sleek beige tweed with a subtle thin green-and-magenta windowpane check. A perfectly tied green tie, matching the thin stripe, set off his look. His boots, peanut brittle in color, and his cap, brown, marked him as a man who had grasped all the subtleties. Alida, next to him, shone in a simple blue herringbone, brown field boots, and an understated dark blue tie with a white stripe. As her eyes were clear blue, one couldn’t help but notice them or their effect on others.

Every single person really made an effort. Their horses gleamed, their spurs, whether Hammerheads or Prince of Wales, sparkled. Their gloves, paper thin as it would warm up, were usually mustard. A few were a light, handsome brown. The bridles and bits shone as much as the boots and spurs.

Crawford, having learned proper turnout when he hunted with The Jefferson Hunt, like Sister, wore a bespoke coat in a light green, lighter than Keeper’s tweed, with an expensive old army green tie enlivened by thin orange stripes edged in gold. Understated, he made a good showing.

All gathered in the huge European courtyard at the stables. The workmen couldn’t help themselves; they’d drifted over to admire the pageant. One young man with a bushy black moustache tipped his ball cap to the ladies.

The two packs stood together looking at Shaker and Skiff. They shone. They wanted to go.

After the Masters thanked everyone, Sister especially thanking Crawford for having the hunt at Old Paradise, they walked off.

Sam Lorillard winked at Aunt Daniella.

Yvonne, in Margaret DuCharme’s car, as Margaret thought this would be the best way to see Old Paradise, noticed how much Sam looked like Gray. In her one lesson, she hadn’t focused too much on the man. Her attention had been riveted on the horse, which seemed so big. Sam looked as though he was born on a horse. Poor though he was, his turnout was impeccable. Hunt clothing is made to last. His jacket, seventy years old if it was a day, a houndstooth pattern much preferred in the 1940s, fit him like a second skin. Crawford had bought him a pair of Dehner boots last year, as his old boots had finally disintegrated. He wore a robin’s-egg-blue silk four-in-hand tie, mustard gloves. Passing Margaret and Yvonne, he tapped his brown cap with his crop.

“You’re the model. Think of the damage you could do to the men if you were out there,” Margaret teased Yvonne.

The spectacle, not lost on Tootie’s mother, secretly inflamed her. She would be out there, and she would look divine.

She smiled. “I am off men.”

Margaret, who knew of the divorce thanks to Vic Harris’s stupid media attack on his wife accusing her of deserting him, simply said, “Every woman says that at some time in her life. Ah, there’s my fella.” She waved to Ben. “He’s the sheriff.”

Yvonne blinked. She’d heard about the DuCharmes. Tootie had filled her in as best the young woman could. Here was someone from a once powerful family, a family that made its fortune in 1812, dating a sheriff?

She couldn’t help herself. “I thought Virginians were, well, Tootie went to Custis Hall and—”

“Snobs.” Margaret shrugged as she cut on the motor. “You can find them anywhere. Things have changed here. I’ve seen a lot of change and I’m in my early forties. Dad talks about it. Says it really started after World War Two. Mostly it’s for the good.”

“I hope that’s true everywhere, but I don’t know. All this divisiveness.”

“Media. All media-driven, I swear.” Margaret then gulped. “Sorry, you and your ex own a magazine, TV channels.”

“You don’t have to apologize. Bad news sells.” She half smiled. “There’s something in the human animal that loves misery, so long as it’s happening to other people.”

“Ain’t that the truth!” Margaret crept about fifty yards behind Sara Bateman’s and Gray’s cars. “I know you know a little bit about hunting because of Tootie. But I’ll give you my running commentary, and as we pass things I’ll tell you what they are or were. When the hunt is over I’ll show you the big house—well, the foundation for the big house—and I’ll show you the dependency where Dad and I lived and the duplicate where my uncle and his wife lived, not close together but you’ll get the idea. In the nineteenth century, up until the 1920s, this place had two hundred and fifty people working on it.”

“Dear God. I can’t imagine the payroll.”

“Fierce, but you could make money in agriculture then. People were housed as part of their compensation. Now that doesn’t count. Minimum wage is as though everyone works in cities. Most of the workers lived in clapboard houses scattered around the five thousand acres. And given that Norfolk and Southern eventually came through this area, that just bumped up business.”

“The 1920s?”

“Depression after World War One. And the influenza epidemic. Hurt everyone everywhere, I think. The economy began to improve, but young people trickled away. After World War Two the trickle became a flood and Dad said the G.I. Bill, wonderful though it was, lured men from farming.”

“I’m not strong on history.”

“I’ll make up for that.” Margaret grinned. “What a voice. Asa. Oh, now everyone’s on it and good news, Crawford’s hounds are right there. He’s gone through huntsmen like potato chips; the pack has been one riot after another. Hired this lady last year and for whatever reason, he listens to her, and to his wife. Miracles do happen.”

Yvonne, window open, listened. The sound of hoofbeats was now deafening. Blended with two packs of hounds on full throttle she felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up. She would join them someday, whatever it took. This must have been what a cavalry charge sounded like.

Slowly driving toward them from the opposite direction was a young man, broad beard trimmed, baseball cap squarely on his head. The old Rangler, large spots with paint rubbed off, had seen better days, but it was running. The bed was filled with fence boards. He smiled and waved as he approached, then slowed.

“They’re on fire. Thought I’d better get out of the way.”

Margaret smiled. “Sounds great, Hank.”

He passed, and she continued slowly. She knew some of the workers and he was gentlemanly, knew hunting, and worked very hard.

The combined packs hooked toward Chapel Cross, the intersection now three miles east, and a mile after that the railroad tracks, Tattenhall Station.

Hounds poured over the fence onto the road, called, obviously, Chapel Road.

Skiff took the sturdy black painted coop first, landing in the grass strip along the road. Shaker followed. Hounds sped across the tertiary road and blew through Binky DuCharme’s Gulf station, the sign from the 1950s still hanging and intact. With no fences to impede them, hounds picked up speed, churning onto the front lawn of the chapel where they stopped.

“Try the graveyard,” Reuben, one of the Dumfrieshire hounds, suggested.

The field clattered up, halted. Tricolor Jefferson Hounds and black and tan Dumfrieshire hounds worked together through the graveyard.

Diana knew this territory from her youth. She sat to study the terrain. No mud puddles offered quick kills to scent. The ditch by the road, when wet, also gave a fox the chance to slip away, baffle the pursuit.

Noses down, hounds diligently worked the immaculately kept graveyard. A whine here and there testified to their frustration. The two huntsmen, on the edge of the graveyard, where many markers were two centuries old or more, kept still and quiet. Let the hounds work it out. They could pack them up and move off soon enough.

Parker, young, came up to Diana. “How does the fox do that?”

She replied, “I think I know. Follow me.”

Dutifully following his idol, Parker returned to the graveyard, walked past it to a filled wheelbarrow at the edge. The sexton, Adolfo Vega, upon hearing the hounds, had left his chore, returning to his house to wait it out. While he liked the hounds fine he didn’t want to be in the middle of them, or even worse, the riders.

Diana backtracked to the road where they lost the scent. Asphalt or packed dirt holds scent so long as there’s moisture in the air and it’s coolish, but the temperature was now in the mid 50s. Not impossible but not great.

“He walked down the road, turned to the chapel. Put your nose down. Faint and fading,” Diana ordered.

Wanting to make a show, Parker opened his mouth.

“Don’t you dare,” she reprimanded him.

“But he’s been here. He turned here.”

“Use your head, Parker. If you open everyone will rush here, and then what? This is a smart, smart fox. Just follow me.” She walked to the wheelbarrow. “We don’t want everyone fouling what little scent there is.”

The other hounds hadn’t given up, but they had checked every inch in that graveyard.

From the wheelbarrow, Diana took one stride to the first tombstone. Then the next. Parker watched, astonished.

“On top of the tombstones,” she sang out as she stood on her hind legs.

In a flash every hound there ran to a tombstone. They opened one by one.

Diana, in the lead, reached the easternmost boundary of the graveyard. Woods marked the end of the chapel property and the beginning of Orchard Hill.

The fox didn’t use the woods. Instead, Diana still working intensely, he jumped from tombstone to tombstone at the graveyard’s edge, then with a mighty leap hit the ground, ran straight to the road, and there again scent became difficult.

Betty Franklin, now on the southern side of the intersection, didn’t move. Hounds slowly walked toward her, working the grassy edge. Diana, in the lead, Parker fighting for his place next to her, moved deliberately.

“He had to get off this road sometime,” she advised the youngster.

Ardent, right behind, working in tandem with Reuben, agreed. “He didn’t go to Tattenhall Station. Dragon and Dreamboat ran over there to check. That s.o.b. is using the road.”

Sister turned Lafayette’s head toward the west. Crawford followed suit as did the field, still waiting patiently. The sight of hounds on their hind legs, literally walking with the scent, excited the people about as much as a terrific run.

People who don’t hunt don’t give foxes credit. Clearly, they’ve never read Aesop or writers from thousands of years ago. Throughout history, people have remarked on the intelligence of foxes. Even if they had read such materials, modern readers would assume this was all in the name of a good story.

Seeing is believing. Those people who hunted September 30, including those in the cars, would remember this day for the rest of their lives.

Tom was so overcome he couldn’t speak.

Diana reached the intersection, lifted her nose for a moment, took her bearings. Picking up a trot she returned to the big coop they’d jumped out of Old Paradise.

“Over!” She scrambled over, immediately followed by Parker.

The two packs rushed for the jump; other hounds wriggled under the board fencing. And yes, they found fresh scent. Running, stretched to the fullest, the extraordinary grace of a flying hound mesmerized the people even as they kept their legs on their horses, hands forward. If anyone feared a hard gallop they got over it.

Betty kept up on the right shoulder of the pack. Tootie, farther in the pasture, hung on the left. Sam Lorillard, the only whipper-in Skiff had, moved about a football field behind Tootie. An experienced whipper-in, Sam knew that should the pack reverse, he had to be there and he’d be up front. The burden would fall on him to protect them from the road.

Sister turned for a second. So far the field kept up, no stragglers, no one hit the ground. Farther behind, Bobby Franklin kept everyone together.

The music was deafening. Both Shaker and Skiff blew “All on” in unison. This meant all the hounds were on the line. Then they blew “Gone Away,” and a prettier sound was rarely heard.

Everyone’s blood was up. Another jump at the end of the pasture, three logs tied together, challenged them onto a cleared path in thick woods. The fox, having a sense of humor, ran them through an illegal still destroyed a few years back. Riders circumvented the debris, heading up. They were literally at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Then he turned. Well ahead and with time to think, he came back down and, stretched to the max, he launched into a hard-running creek, water coursing down between crevices in the eastern face of the mountains.

The otters, merry fellows, hearing the commotion, quickly disappeared into their dens.

A red-shouldered hawk, high up, watched everything, knowing mice would scamper everywhere once the horses had passed.

Hounds reached the creek. Dragon jumped in, swimming to the far bank. He began searching for scent. Others joined him. Diana walked along the creek side. Yes, the fox had leapt in where Dragon followed, but she knew he wouldn’t emerge directly opposite. Also, he could just as easily double back if he swam downstream.

She walked and walked but whatever he’d done, he’d skunked them.

Flanks heaved; people slipped a hand in a coat pocket retrieving a handkerchief to wipe their brows. As this was a well-trained field of people as well as a well-trained pack of hounds no one spoke. But the sounds of heavy breathing, riders petting the necks of their horses, horses blowing out their nostrils, kept the otters securely in their dens.

If only the people would leave, then they could play some more.

Shaker and Skiff conferred.

“Let’s head back to the open fields. I don’t want to climb the mountains, do you?” the attractive huntsman asked.

Shaker nodded. “Good call. It’s early in the season. Not everyone is quite hunting fit.”

Skiff peered at the field, turned her horse toward the path leading to the westernmost field. Took them twenty minutes to reach the field.

Shaker hopped down, opened a gate. No jump welcomed them in this fence line, nasty barbed wire. If they picked up another fox there’d be jumping enough, farther along. Save the horse.

He swung back into the saddle with enviable ease, calling over his shoulder, “Gate, please.”

Now the people chattered, as hounds weren’t working.

Ronnie Haslip, the treasurer, dapper, eyes wide, swore to his old grade-school friend Xavier, “My God, what a run.”

“The graveyard. How many years have we hunted with Sister? I have never seen anything like that.”

These two men, in their forties now, had been best friends with RayRay, Sister’s son. When the fourteen-year-old boy was killed in the farm accident in 1974, it hit the boys hard. They vowed to watch over Sister as RayRay would, if alive. They kept their vow, remembering to bring her gifts on special days, dropping by. She loved them beyond words.

Hounds moved within sight of the stable, trotting toward the southeast where Little Dalby and Beveridge Hundred lay. Had they continued east they would have been back at Chapel Cross but Tinsel stopped, her stern starting to move. Roger, one of Crawford’s hounds from his R litter, joined her. They opened, heading directly southeast. Now the pack was all on again, moving fast but not at blinding speed for scent proved tricky. All wound up at the rock outcropping where Sarge, Earl’s son, rested. He’d gone out early in the morning to a cutover cornfield on Old Paradise. His father, Earl, had stayed in the stable. Earl’s den, a disguised burrow, led under the tack room. He had another den in a stall. Life was good. This morning Sarge drew close, then saw the horse trailers so headed back to his new den in the boulders. He’d made improvements. No marauder could touch him.

“He’s in there,” Roger bellowed.

“He’ll stay in there, too,” Pookah grumbled.

Folks, hunting hard for two and a half hours, finally turned back to the trailers. Had the day been cool, say a February day, everyone hunting fit, maybe they’d have kept casting but hounds performed beautifully. Stop while you’re ahead.

Sister and Crawford rode side by side, reliving the hunt as was everyone behind them.

Ahead, Shaker and Skiff’s horses walked in step, reflecting the harmony between the two huntsmen. Although they had hunted hard, hounds, heads up, stepped with a lively spring. They, too, recounted the day.

A bit of scent pushed them into a trot, but it was over before it began.

Back at the trailers, before dismounting, the two huntsmen blew in unison “Going Home,” a long drawn-out melody, a touch mournful for it means the hunt is over.

In the distance, “Going Home” came back to them, deeper in tone.

Tootie, now on foot, helping Shaker load hounds, said, “That happened last time we were out here. What a strange echo.”

Sister listened. Most people heard it.

Tom Tipton, getting out of Sara’s car, remarked, “Sounds like a cowhorn. Who’s doing a cowhorn?”

Sara shrugged. “Probably a bounceback from the mountains. Shaker and Skiff blew quite a little toodle.”

Tom didn’t argue with her. He just added, “Hardly anyone knows how to blow a cowhorn anymore. Weevil was good at it.” He paused, smiled. “I used to think if a huntsman used the brass horn he was a Yankee.”

Sara teased him. “You would.”

Misty-eyed, he just tilted his head. “It’s all gone now. All so far away.”

Tables filled the center aisle of the main barn. Fried chicken, ham biscuits, sandwiches, sliced raw vegetables, and a variety of dips, and Crawford had a caterer slicing hot roast beef, which delighted everyone. Cooked carrots, tiny potatoes, asparagus, whatever you wanted, it was there. Most riders, having wiped down their horses, watered them, and put on a sweat sheet, zoomed straight for the bar.

A tub at the door of the stable was filled with raw carrots for the horses.

Tedi whispered in Sister’s ear, “A big success. That echo was odd, wasn’t it?”

“It’s the second time we’ve heard it out here.” Sister squared her shoulders. “We need to build on this success. Slowly, we’ve got to get Crawford to register with the MFHA as a farmer pack. That will solve a lot of problems.”

Tedi sipped a perfect old-fashioned, which her husband had the bartender make for her. Crawford had hired a professional bartender as well as the caterer.

Ed came alongside. “What a hunt, and wasn’t the hound work at the chapel spectacular?”

“Was.” Both women agreed.

Sister made her way to Tom Tipton and Aunt Daniella, seated side by side in front of the mahogany-paneled tack room, which gave off a faint whiff of fox. Gray, on duty, fetched the drinks. Sara, juggling plates, brought their food.

“Oh, how I wish I had ridden today.” Tom glowed.

“Next best thing, riding with Sara.” Sister smiled.

“Who is the hound that found the scent on the tombstones? Sara thought it was one of your Ds but we were a bit behind.”

“Diana.”

“Extraordinary.” He reached up to squeeze her hand.

“Gray has been keeping all this from me.” Daniella lifted her chin. “I must come out more often.” She turned to Tom. “Seeing you has lifted my spirits.”

Shaker and Skiff talked hounds, enlivened by what they loved.

“You know, if you want to walk your hounds with ours it will be fine. Sister would like it. Well, you know the history. We need to get Crawford on board. No more potshots,” Shaker suggested.

Chewing, as delicately as she could, a piece of divine roast beef, she swallowed. “Today ought to go a long way toward that.”

Just then Crawford tapped a glass. Eventually silence prevailed.

“Allow me to show you what I’m doing at the big house.”

With him leading the way, they trooped, drinks in hand, well fed, over to the four majestic in-line columns, with the long marble pediment on top. Having backfilled the foundation, the workmen now refitted any cut slabs for the basement floor, while another group checked the blueprints.

Men carried lumber, sawhorses, and tools to begin reconstruction of the house. At its prime the exterior had been a thin smooth whitish marble over the timber frame. It was supposed to resemble the mansions outside of Venice, those designed by Palladio.

As Crawford explained everything, the workmen stopped from time to time to listen.

Alfred DuCharme, Margaret’s father, drove up, got out to join them.

Seeing Tom Tipton, he hurried over to greet him. “Tom, how good to see you. My mother thought the world of you. She’d say ‘Watch Tom. He’s a good whipper-in.’ Those were happy days, weren’t they?”

The workmen stopped as Crawford nattered on. Also, Yvonne was certainly not lost on the men, but they were workers so they couldn’t flirt. When Tootie came and stood next to her mother, the resemblance was astonishing. Sister noticed the men looking from one woman to the other.

Earl prayed for the people to leave. So much food had been dropped in the center aisle he would have his own feast.

Much as people admired the plans, what had already been achieved with the stables and outbuildings, they wanted to return to the food and the well-stocked bar. Alfred especially wanted to visit the bar.

Tom, transfixed, stared up at the top of the Corinthian columns.

“Come on, Huntsman. Bourbon calls.” Sara followed his gaze upward. “Do you think anyone knows how to build like this anymore?”

“Yes.” He took a deep breath. “But this kind of beauty isn’t valued now. You go on, Sara. I’ll be there in a minute. I just want to”—he paused—“remember. I was so young. It seems like yesterday.”

“Okay.” Sara left him as the workers started back to it.

Alone, looking out from the top of the forty-feet-long footsteps, Tom leaned on a corner column. The faces of the departed came to him, as did the feel of his favorite Thoroughbred, General Ike. How he loved that dark bay. He could almost hear Andrew, a sensational hound, along with Dietrich, a superb girl. Tears came.

“You were a good whipper-in,” a familiar voice praised him.

Tom grabbed the huge column for support even though he barely could get his arms around it. He was afraid to look behind him.

“We’ll never see days like that again. Fewer people, fewer roads, fewer cars. People understood hunting, even those in cities. Remember?”

Forcing himself to turn, Tom faced his huntsman. “I do. Weevil, you’re dead.”

Devilish smile on his handsome face, Weevil laughed low. “Maybe. But I’m here.”

“How?” Tom felt his heart race.

“There are so many dimensions in life. We don’t see them. The animals do. But we deny what we can’t prove. I’m here. I needed to come back to Jefferson Hunt one more time. Maybe I came back to find the Old Paradise treasure. But I’m here.”

Shaking, voice low, Tom managed to get out, “You won’t hurt me, will you?”

Head back, laughing, Weevil answered, “If I was going to hurt you I would have done it when the trains still stopped at Tattenhall Station.”

Scared or not, Tom shot back, “That wasn’t my fault.”

“It’s always the whipper-in’s fault.” Weevil, smiling, pointed a finger at him. “Luckily, the whole pack made it across. Tom, you’re white as a ghost.”

“I’m talking to a ghost.” Tom hadn’t lost his wits.

“One question. Who is still alive? Who is still alive who remembers?”

“Daniella Laprade. Most everyone else is gone on. Their children, many of them, are gone, too, but there’s still a lot in their sixties. Christ, we’re getting old.”

“Happens.” Weevil paused. “When I disappeared, Brenden DuCharme accused me of stealing his wife’s jewelry. I did not.” Then Weevil turned, walking toward the old hay barns, all the old restored equipment sheds that lined the farm road past the stone stables.

Tom, still holding the column, breathed deep breaths. Sweat rolled down his forehead. He couldn’t walk. His legs were jelly.

Below him, at the stables, the breakfast continued.

Sara, plotting with Sister about adding fixtures, hunt territory, changed the subject.

“I left Tom at the big house. He should be back here by now. A trip down memory lane can’t take that long.”

“I’ll go out with you. Maybe all this commotion pooped him out.”

The two Masters, one active, one retired, left the stables by the enormous open wooden doors, leaded glass on top of the heavy, heavy oak.

“Uh-oh.” Sara started to trot, followed by Sister.

Running up the steps like teenagers, they reached Tom, grasping the columns.

Sara put her arm around his waist. “I’ve got you. Sister’s here. Where do you hurt?”

He shook his head but he did let go. “I saw Weevil. He spoke to me here. Right here.” He took a ragged breath. “He hasn’t aged.”