Full Cry

CHAPTER 6

Thursday morning, New Year’s Day, when Sister awoke at her accustomed five-thirty, a low cloud cover hinted more snow was on the way. Darkness enveloped the farm. The thermometer outside Sister’s bedroom window read thirty-six degrees Fahrenheit.

When the sun rose two hours later, the cloud cover remained. This was going to be an interesting day: the ground was hard, icy in spots, and the snow hard packed to about a foot and a half. Sister could smell more moisture coming.

In the winter most Virginia hunts meet at ten. As the earth tipped her axis and more light floods the rolling pastures and woodlands, that time is pushed up to nine, often by mid-February.

New Year’s Hunt, however, begins at eleven: a concession to the rigors of braiding and the struggle to sober up for many. The later time also allowed the earth to warm a bit more, though today’s cloud cover held in some warmth.

Later that morning, parked to the right of the covered bridge at Tedi and Edward Bancroft’s After All Farm, the hounds peered out of the party wagon. They saw some people blowing on fingers as they slipped on polished bridles, while others repaired unruly horse braids or tried for the umpteenth time to force their stock tie pin level across their bright white or ecru stock ties.

The most fashionable of hunters, and this was unrelated to wealth, wore a fourfold tie on formal hunting days. Occasionally, they might wear a shaped tie, but on the High Holy Days, one wouldn’t dream of anything but the fourfold tie. For one thing, it looked better. For another, it kept one’s neck warmer. These good features did not make the tie any easier to work with. Many a foxhunter expanded his or her vocabulary of abuse while fumbling.

The High Holy Days required members and horses to look their best. In the old days of hunting when agricultural labor, indeed all labor, was less costly, people came to every formal hunt with their horses’ manes braided. They usually came with two horses. Their groom kept the second horse at the ready to be switched halfway through the hunt. Then, also, many hunts enjoyed a brief repast while members switched horses. Those days had vanished.

Most foxhunters worked for a living. They prepared their horses themselves, and braiding sucked up time as well as patience. At the Jefferson Hunt Club, braiding was now required only for Opening Hunt, Thanksgiving Hunt, Christmas Hunt, and New Year’s Hunt. Many older hunt clubs wished their members to braid for a meet with another hunt, but few could enforce this. It was seen as a tip of the cap to the visiting hunt, a form of respect and welcome.

With the exception of Tedi, Edward, Sybil, Crawford, Marty, Sister, Betty, and Shaker, everyone present had braided their own horses. As master and huntsman, Sister and Shaker had Lafayette and Hojo braided by Jennifer Franklin, who also did her mother’s horse, Outlaw. Of course she held it over her mother. At seventeen Jennifer could be forgiven.

On New Year’s Hunt, Sister Jane wore her shadbelly: a black swallowtail coat, exactly as one sees in the nineteenth-century prints. The canary points of her vest peeked out underneath the front, perfectly proportioned. Her top hat glistened, the black cord fastened to the hook inside the coat collar in back. Her breeches, a thin buckskin, were much like what Washington himself wore when he hunted. Over the years they had softened to a warm patina: once canary, they were now almost buff.

For years, people could no longer find buckskin. Then Marion Maggiolo, proprietor of Horse Country in Warrenton, found someone in Europe to make them. One pair of breeches could last a lifetime, justifying the stiff price of six hundred and some odd dollars.

For Christmas, the members had all chipped in and bought Sister a new pair of buckskin breeches. Betty drove up with her to Warrenton to be properly fitted, and Sister couldn’t wait for their arrival.

Crawford, of course, flashed about in his impeccably cut scarlet weaselbelly. His properly scarlet hat cord, a devil to find these days, hung from his top hat, the crown of which was about a half inch higher than that worn by a lady. Both top hats slightly and gracefully curved into the brim. Like a red hat cord for a man, a lady’s proper top hat was a deuce to find. Given the difficulty in finding the real thing—it could take years—many women gave up, donning dressage top hats. No one was critical, and although they didn’t look quite as lovely, they still looked good.

Leather gloves were soft canary or butter. Along with leather gloves, a pair of string gloves were under the horse’s girth. These warm gloves helped riders keep the reins from slipping through their fingers if it rained or snowed. Then, if necessary, riders would tuck their leather gloves in their pocket or under their girth and pull out the string gloves, which were brilliant white or cream.

Men with colors wore boots with a tan top. The ladies with colors wore boots with a patent leather black top. Everyone else wore butcher boots, usually with the Spanish cut—meaning the outside part of the boot covering the calf was longer than the inside portion. Butcher boots had no tops. All boots were polished to such a feverish degree that one could see one’s reflection.

The spurs, hammerheads or Prince of Wales, also sparkled, even with cloud cover.

Fabulous as people looked—some wearing hunt caps, a few others in derbies, which were proper with frock coats—the horses trumped them all. Chestnuts gleamed like flame, and bays glowed with a rich patina. Seal brown horses and blood bays, not often seen, caught everyone’s eye. A blood bay is a deep red with black mane and tail. It’s a beautiful color, as is a flea-bitten gray or a dappled gray. A few of these were present, as well as some of those dark brown horses that appear black to the human eye.

Henry Xavier had mounted his paint, Picasso—a large warmblood—to account for his increasing weight. Dr. Walter Lungrun was so resplendent in his tails, black rather than scarlet, that women swooned when they beheld the blond doctor. He was on a new horse he’d purchased in the summer, Rocketman, a big-boned, old-fashioned thoroughbred bay with a zigzag streak down his nose. Clemson, Walter’s tried and true, went out with him on informal days.

The horses were bursting with excitement, for the morning was cool and they liked that. In many ways, they reflected their owners’ skill, status in the hunt field, and, in some cases, dreams. Hunt fields always have those members who are overmounted, members who want desperately to be dashing on a gorgeous horse. Usually they’re dashed to the ground. Sooner or later, such folks realize what kind of horse they truly need. Pretty is as pretty does. If not, they stalk away from foxhunting with grumbles about how dangerous it is and how stupid their horse is. It’s not the horse that’s stupid.

Hunting is dangerous. However, the adrenaline rush, the challenge, the overwhelming majesty of the sport, the sheer beauty of it get in a rider’s blood. Those who foxhunt can’t imagine living without it; even the danger adds spice.

Life itself is dangerous, but millions of Americans in the twenty-first century are so fearful of it that they retreat into cocoons of imagined safety. Small wonder obesity is a problem and psychologists are thriving.

Humans need some danger, need to get their blood up.

It was up at eleven. The field was large even with the cold. Seventy-one riders faced the master.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the hounds and I wish you a Happy New Year. We wish you health, prosperity, and laughter. May you take all your fences in style, may your foxes be straight-necked, and may your horse be one of your best friends.

“Shaker, Betty, Sybil, and I are grateful that so many of you have turned out, looking as though you’ve stepped out of a Snaffles’ drawing, on this cold day. The footing will be dicey, but you’ve ridden through worse.

“Tedi and Edward invite us all to breakfast at the main house after the hunt. Do remember to thank them for continuing the wonderful tradition of New Year’s Hunt here at After All Farm.

“Let’s see what the fox has in store for us.” She looked to Shaker, cap in hand. “Hounds, please.”

He clapped his cap on his head, tails down (for he was staff). Whistling to the pack, he turned along Snake Creek, which flowed under the covered bridge.

Huntsman and hounds rode up the rise, passed the gravesite of Nola Bancroft, Tedi and Edward’s daughter, who had perished in her twenties. She was buried alongside her favorite mount, Peppermint, who, by contrast, lived to thirty-four. This peaceful setting, bound by a stonewall, seemed especially poignant covered in the snow.

Betty, first whipper-in, rode on the left at ten o’clock. Sybil, second whipper-in, rode at two o’clock. The side on which they rode did not reflect their status so much as it reflected where Shaker wanted them on that particular day at the particular fixture. He usually put Betty on the left though.

Sam Lorillard and Gray also rode out today. How exciting to have Gray back in the field. Crawford had requested Sam to ride as a groom, and Sister had given permission.

The edges of Snake Creek were encrusted with ice, offering scant scent unless a fox had just trotted over. Shaker moved along the low ridge parallel to the creek. An eastern meadow about a quarter of a mile down the bridle path held promise of scent. The sun, despite being hidden behind the clouds, might have warmed the eastern meadows and slopes.

Once into the meadow, a large expanse of white beckoned.

Delia advised her friends, “Take care, especially on the meadow’s edge. Our best chance is there because the rabbits will have come out on the edge of the wood and meadows. All foxes like rabbits. Our other chance for scent today is if we get into a cutover cornfield. Fox will come in for the gleanings.”

Asa, also wise in his years, agreed. “Indeed, and foxes will be hungry. I think we’ll have a pretty good day.”

Trudy, in the middle of the pack and still learning the ropes in her second year, inquired, “But Shaker’s been complaining about the temperature and the snow. He says snow doesn’t hold scent.”

“Shaker is a human, honey. His nose is only good to perch spectacles on. If there’s even a whiff of fox, we’ll find it.” Asa’s voice resonated with such confidence that Trudy put her nose down and went to work.

The hounds diligently worked the meadow for twenty minutes, moving forward, ever forward, but to no avail.

Trudy’s, Trident’s, Tinsel’s, and Trinity’s brows all furrowed.

Delia encouraged them. “Nobody said it would be easy today, but be patient. I promise you: the foxes have been out and about.” She said “out and about” with the Tidewater region’s long “o.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the T’s responded.

Cora, as strike hound, moved ten yards ahead. Her mind raced. She’d picked up an old trail, but discarded it. No point yapping about a fading line. Her knowledge and nose were so good Cora could tell when a line would pay off, when it would heat up. She never opened unless she had a good line. Some hounds blabbed if they even imagined fox scent. Those hounds were not found in the Jefferson Hunt pack. Cora couldn’t abide a hound that boo-hooed every time it caught a little scent.

“Mmm.” She wagged her stern.

Dragon noticed. He hurried right over, but dared not push Cora. She’d lay him out right there in front of everybody, and then she’d get him again on the way home in the party wagon. He tempered his aggressiveness. Now he, too, felt his nostrils fill with the faint but intensifying scent of gray dog fox.

Diana trotted up, swinging the pack with her as she intently watched Cora. She could bank on Cora, her mentor.

The hounds, excited but still mute, moved faster, their sterns moving faster as well.

Sister checked her girth.

“Ah, ha, I knew it!” Cora triumphantly said. “A suitor.”

She and the others usually recognized the scent of the fox they chased, but this was a stranger, a gray fox courting a little early, but then foxes display their own logic. The common wisdom is that grays begin mating in mid-January, reds at the end of January. But Cora remembered a time when grays mated in mid-December. Just why, she didn’t know. No great storms followed, which could have boxed them up, nor a drought, which would have affected the food supply then and later. All these events could affect mating.

Perhaps this gray simply fell in love.

Whatever, the scent warmed up.

“Showtime!” Cora spoke.

Dragon spoke, then Asa and Delia. Diana steadied the T’s when she, too, sang out and told them to just stick with the pack, stick together.

The whole pack opened. A chill ran down Sister’s spine; Lafayette’s too, his beautiful gray head turned as he watched the hounds.

Those members with a hangover knew they’d need to hang on: when the pack opened like that, they were about to fly.

A thin strip of woods separated the eastern meadow from a plowed cornfield, the stubble visible through the windblown patches. A slight slope rested on the far side of the cornfield. The hounds had gotten away so fast they were already there.

Sister and Lafayette sped to catch them. She tried to stay about twenty yards behind Shaker, depending on the territory. She didn’t want to crowd the pack, but she wanted members to see the hounds work. To Sister, that was the whole reason to hunt: hound work!

The footing in the cornfield kept horses lurching as the furrows had frozen, buried under the snow.

All were glad once that was behind them. A simple three-foot coop rested in the fence line between the cornfield and the hayfield. The bottom half of the coop, where snow piled up, was white.

“Whoopee.” Lafayette pricked his ears forward as he leapt over.

Lafayette so loved jumping and hunting that Sister rarely had to squeeze her legs.

Everyone cleared the coop.

Hounds could hear their claws crack the thin crust of ice on the snow. In a few places they’d sink in to their elbows, throw snow around, and keep going, paying no heed.

Within minutes, the pack clambered over another coop, rushing into a pine stand, part of Edward’s timber operation. The scent grew stronger.

The silence, noticeable in the pines, only accentuated the music of the hounds. As the field moved in, a few boughs, shaken by the thunder of hooves, dusted the riders underneath with snow.

Sam Lorillard felt a handful slide down his neck.

Crawford tried to push up front, but Czpaka wasn’t that fast a horse. Crawford hated being in the middle of the pack, and he really hated seeing Walter Lungrun shoot past him on Rocketman.

Jennifer Franklin and Sari Rasmussen giggled as the dustings from the trees covered their faces. Both girls loved hunting, their only complaint being that not enough boys their own age foxhunted.

On and on the hounds roared, turning sharply left, negotiating a fallen tree, then charging through the pines northward, emerging onto the sunken farm road, three feet down, the road used to service an old stone barn in the eighteenth century. The building’s crumbling walls remained. The field abruptly pulled up as hounds tumbled pell-mell over one another to get inside the ruins.

“He’s gone to ground!” Dragon shouted. “Let’s dig him out.”

“Dream on, you nitwit.” A high-pitched voice called out from inside.

“Uncle Yancy, what are you doing here? Where’s the gray?” Cora recognized the small red fox’s voice. He was not pleased with the visitation.

“You could be on a little red Volkswagen for all I know, Cora, but you haven’t been chasing me.”

Shaker dismounted and blew “Gone to ground.”

The hounds loved hearing that series of notes, but Cora, disgruntled to have been so badly fooled, sat down. Where had that gray gone?

“There’s nothing we can do about it,” Dasher advised.

“Oh, yes, there is,” Cora determinedly replied. “I know the difference between Uncle Yancy and a stranger. Somehow we got our wires crossed back there in the pines, and we were all so excited we didn’t pay proper attention.”

Diana said, “Cora, if you’d switched to Uncle Yancy, you would have known.” She walked over and poked her head into the den. “Uncle Yancy, is he in there with you?”

A dry chuckle floated out of the main entrance. “He left by the back door not ten minutes ago.”

“Damn you, Yancy!” Dragon frantically began searching for the back door of the den, which happened to be outside the walls of the old barn.

The sound of Dragon’s travails made Yancy laugh even harder. Infuriated, Dragon could hear the fox’s mirth. He ran for the opening where a door used to be to get outside the ruins.

“Dragon, come back here and pretend you’re thrilled about this,” Cora commanded as Shaker finished the notes on his horn. “We can put up the gray once we’re out of here.”

And that they did. As soon as Shaker mounted back up, the hounds moved around the outside of the structure.

“Got ’im!” Asa called as he’d found the correct exit. With that he ran north, ever northward, as the scent was now hot, hot, hot on the cold snow.

Asa lost the line for a moment when they reached a small frozen tributary of Snake Creek, a silver ribbon of ice. Young Trident put them all right when he crashed across the ice, the water running hard underneath, and picked up the scent on the far bank.

The fox zigzagged west. After fifteen minutes of flat-out flying, the pack, the staff, and the field soared over the stone fence, leading into After All’s westernmost pasture. Within minutes, they’d be on Sister’s farm.

Again the fox turned; grays tend to do that. He was running a big figure eight, but the scent stayed hot. The pack, in full cry, ran so close together they were beautiful to behold.

Back over the stone fence, across a narrow strip, over the old hog’s back jump, which looked formidable in the snow. Lost a few people on that one. On and on, then finally Cora skidded to a halt beneath a pin oak, its brown leaves still clinging to the snow-coated tree. Those leaves wouldn’t be released until spring buds finally pushed them off their seal.

Snow spun out from paws as the hounds abruptly put on their brakes.

“Got you!” Cora stood on her hind legs, her forepaws as high on the tree as she could reach.

“He climbed the tree! He climbed the tree!” Trinity was so excited she leapt up and down as though on a pogo stick. “I never saw a fox do that!”

Asa, thrilled but in control, said, “If we get too close, those grays will climb up neat as a cat. Can you see him up there?”

“Yes!” Trinity spotted a pair of angry eyes staring down.

“Go away,” the gray yelled, just as the snow again began to fall, the clouds now dark gray.

“Who are you?” Diana asked.

“Mickey. You should all just go away. Look at it this way, you need me to come courting, don’t you? Means more foxes next year,” he said raffishly.

Shaker handed Showboat’s reins to Betty. He walked up under the tree. “Hey there, fella. Hell of a run.”

“Yeah, well, you can find your pleasures elsewhere,” Mickey barked.

Shaker lavishly praised his hounds for their excellent work, then mounted back up and called them along. He beamed.

The pack, in high gear, cavorted as they turned back east.

“I’ll find another fox!” Dragon bragged.

“You are so full of it,” Ardent, Asa’s brother, growled. “You aren’t the only hound with a nose, and furthermore, I suspect we’re going back.”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t run another fox if we find one,” Dragon sassed.

“True.” Cora would have liked another hard run. “But we’ve been out an hour and a half, the footing is deep— slippery in spots—and some of the horses are tiring. Sister’s smart. She’ll end the day on a high note, and we’ll be back at the trailers in twenty minutes. Plus, it’s snowing again.”

“Ever notice how more people get hurt at the end of a hunt than at the beginning?” young Trudy wondered out loud.

“They’re tired, horses and riders, and sometimes they get so excited they don’t realize it. It’s those last stiff jumps that will get them if it’s going to happen. It’s New Year, we’ve got until mid-March to hunt. This is a wise decision.” Asa spoke to Trudy.

“Yancy is a cheat.” Dragon switched subjects.

“No, he’s not.” Cora laughed. “If another fox ducks into his den for cover, Yancy can hide him. But I’m surprised that Uncle Yancy is at those stone barn ruins. He lives closer in.”

“Oh, Uncle Yancy moves about.” Ardent knew the fox, same age as himself. “Changes his hunting territory and gets away from Aunt Netty.”

Aunt Netty, Yancy’s mate, harbored strong opinions and was not averse to expressing them. Yancy, a dreamy sort, liked to watch Shaker through the cottage windows or simply curl up under the persimmon tree. After the first frost when the persimmon fruit sweetened, Yancy would nibble on the small orange globes.

When the hounds returned to the covered bridge, cars, trucks, and SUVs lined the drive for a half-mile up to the house. Some cautious few parked nose out in case they couldn’t get enough traction. This way they could be pulled with one of Edward’s heavy tractors.

New Year’s breakfast attracted nonriders, too. Upon the riders’ return, After All was already filled with people. The event was hosted by social director Sorrel Buruss, who merrily bubbled with laughter and talk. Having Sorrel run the breakfast meant both Tedi and Edward could hunt.

“Well done.” Shaker patted each hound’s head as the animal hopped into the party wagon. Inside this trailer at the rear, a two-tiered wooden platform had been built. A second platform on a level with the lower one on the rear ran alongside the sidewall. This way hounds would climb up or snuggle under a platform and relax. Like humans, they preferred one hound’s company to another’s, so there were cliques. This platform arrangement allowed them to indulge their friendships. No one wanted to be next to someone who bored him or her silly.

Cora hung back. She liked to go in last, partly because she always wanted to keep hunting and partly because she liked seeing the humans back at their trailers. Some would dismount and be so exhausted their legs shook. Others would nimbly slide off, flip the reins over their horse’s head, and loosen the girth a hole or two. They’d remove the bridle, put on a nice leather halter, and then tie the horse to the side of the trailer, careful not to allow the rope to be over long. That caused mischief. The horse would step over the rope or pull back and pop it. Wool blankets, in stable colors, would be put on the horses. The different colors looked pretty against the snow.

Cora liked horses, although, as they were not predators, she sometimes had to think carefully to appreciate what was on a horse’s mind. She was always grateful when a staff horse informed her what was behind her; their range of vision was almost, but not quite, 360 degrees.

“Cora.”

“Oh, all right.” She grumbled as Shaker tapped her hind-quarter.

The other hounds fell silent when the lead bitch entered the trailer.

Asa said, “Happy New Year, Cora. You were wonderful today.”

The others spoke in assent.

Henry Xavier, in his trailer tack room, exchanging his scarlet weaselbelly for a tweed coat, commented to Ronnie Haslip, who had already changed and was standing at the open door, “The hounds are singing ‘The Messiah.’ ”

Ronnie, always dapper, smiled. “Damn good work today. I didn’t think we’d do squat out there in that snow, did you?”

“No.” Xavier shook his head.

“Tell you what, I’d put this pack of hounds against any other pack out there.”

“Me, too. I wish Sister pushed herself more. You know, would go to the hound shows and publicize our club more. People don’t know how good Jefferson Hunt is until they cap with us.”

Ronnie nodded in agreement. “When Ray was alive, she did go. She needs the push, and she needs more hands. Remember, she used to have Big Ray, Ray Jr., and then until last year she had Doug Kinzer. It’s probably a little lonesome for her, you know.”

Doug Kinzer, a talented professional whipper-in, had moved up to carrying the horn at Shenandoah Hunt over the Blue Ridge Mountains. In the past, particularly during the days of slavery, many an African American carried the horn. After the War Between the States, people couldn’t feed themselves, much less a pack of hounds. When hunting with a large pack again became feasible, about twenty years after the end of the war, it was often feasible because of Yankee money. For whatever reason, having black hunt staff made the Yankees uncomfortable. Doug, an African American, carried on a long, complex, even contradictory tradition. The last great black huntsman whom folks could remember in these parts was the convivial, talkative Cash Blue. He had hunted hounds for Casanova Hunt Club way back when today’s older members were children.

“If only I didn’t have to pull those long hours, I’d love to go to the shows, wash hounds, stand them up.” Xavier straightened his stock tie.

“Yeah, but not having to pay that extra salary has put the club in the black.” Ronnie, tight and treasurer, appreciated the bottom line.

“Listen, Crawford Howard hemorrhages money when he walks to the john.” Xavier disdained him. “If Sister asked him, he’d come up with the salary. I heard through the grapevine that he offered to do so last year.”

“He did. He made sure we all knew that, but not from his lips.” Ronnie half smiled: Crawford was beginning to learn some of the round-about Virginia way. “He did, but his condition was that he be made joint-master.”

“She has to pick someone soon.” Ronnie folded his arms over his chest.

“Wouldn’t want to be in her boots. She’s between a rock and a hard place.” Xavier had known Jane Arnold all his life. Although he didn’t know it, he loved her. He was devastated when Ray Jr., his best friend, had been killed. Sister was part of his past, present, and future, as she was for Ronnie.

“You said a mouthful. Crawford’s got the money, but he’ll alienate the club or at least most of us.”

Xavier stepped down from the tack room, closing the door. “I heard that Shaker said he’d leave. He wouldn’t serve under Crawford even if she kept that blowhard out of the kennels.”

“Heard that, too.” Ronnie straightened the blanket on Xavier’s Picasso.

“Thanks.”

“As I see it, the choices are Crawford, Edward, possibly Sybil, or maybe even Bobby Franklin. Each has pluses and minuses. Clay Berry could do it, he’s making a lot of money these days, but I don’t think Izzy would go along with that. She covets social events, traveling. Being master would take up too much time for her taste. And there’s you, Xavier; there’s you. As head of that nice big old insurance company, you know everybody, and everybody knows you. Some of us even like you.” He slapped his childhood friend on the back.

“Well,” Xavier put his arm around the smaller man’s shoulders, “I would love to be joint-master. Really, I would, but right now the business is demanding. Insurance has been in a slump since September eleven. You can imagine the hit the huge carriers have been taking. Rates are changing, and that impacts even a small guy like me who deals with those carriers. I try to find my people the best rates, and even I’m appalled. I don’t know where this is headed, but I do know these next couple of years, I’ve got to keep my nose to the grindstone.”

“Sorry to hear that. You’d be good.”

“And Dee would love it.” He mentioned his wife by her nickname. “Saw our Explorer, so she’s already here and wondering why I’m not at the house. Come on.”

They walked through the snow, following the line of other hunters.

“Crawford would rile everyone but Jesus, X.” Ronnie called Xavier “X,” as did other old friends. “The pressure financially would be off. Of course, it would be off if Edward or Sybil logged on.”

“Edward is in his midseventies, and he’s glad to pitch in, but he doesn’t want the full-time responsibility. Same for his daughter. Sybil would be good, I think, but her boys are in grade school, and, truth be told, I don’t think she’s recovered from that whole gruesome mess with her ex-husband.”

“She still loves him.” Ronnie, for all his paying attention to money, did have a romantic streak.

“Jesus Christ, I hope not. What a rotter.”

“Yep. That leaves Bobby Franklin.”

They neared the front door, festooned with a sumptuous wreath, bright red berries dotting the dark evergreens.

Xavier whispered since people were close, “Bobby’s got some money. Their business has been really good this year. He knows hunting. Wife and daughter know hunting. Great family, except for the daughter in prison, but hey, she’s not the first person in America to go haywire on drugs.”

“True.” Ronnie felt quite sorry for the Franklins. Cody, their oldest girl, once showed such promise.

“He and Betty work like dogs down at the press. That’s why they’re successful, but I don’t see how he’d have the time to be a master.”

The Franklins had weathered the challenge from home printing off computers only because their work was of such high quality. They had invested in a Webb printing press back in the early nineties, which expanded their capabilities, bringing in business throughout the mid-Atlantic region.

“So we’re back to Crawford?” Ronnie thought Crawford would tone down, and he thought Shaker would come around.

“Sister will pull a rabbit out of the hat. You just wait,” Xavier predicted.

“Time’s a flyin’.”

“You just wait.” Xavier smiled, then focused on Sam Lorillard, holding a glass, whom he could see as the front door swung open. “That sorry sack of shit.”

Ronnie’s gaze fell on Sam. “He was in the hunt field behind us. Riding groom.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t have to like that either, but you know the rules: you hunt with whoever is out there. Doesn’t mean I have to drink with the son of a bitch.”

“He’s dry now.”

“Oh, bullshit. He’ll be back on the sauce before Valentine’s,” Xavier predicted.

“Well, I hope not.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass. That piece of excrement cost me thousands of dollars; you know that.”

“I know that, Xavier, I do. What he did was terrible, but the past is past. Maybe he can be useful and productive. And maybe he can make amends. He didn’t do right by me either when he worked in my stable. Not that I had it as bad as you did. He cheated you, and he betrayed you.”

“If he dies, that will make amends.” Xavier pressed his full lips together.

Ronnie stood up on his toes to whisper into Xavier’s ear as they walked past the cloakroom. “Why didn’t you say something when Crawford hired him?”

“Because I don’t give a good goddamn what happens to Crawford. In fact, I figured I’d sit back, watch the show, and eat popcorn.”

Inside the Brancrofts’ house, the two men brushed through the crowd as they moved toward the bar.

Dee, who kept her shape even as her husband lost his, spied him. She pushed through the throng. “Honey, I was starting to worry that perhaps you’d bought some real estate.” She used the phrase for hitting the ground.

“Dee, he rides Picasso very, very well,” Ronnie defended his friend. “Now I wish you’d come out. We need a little pulchritude.”

“Liar!” She poked Ronnie in the ribs. Since he was gay, she figured he was teasing about pretty women.

“I love looking at beautiful women. I just don’t want to marry one.” He kissed her on the cheek.

“Hey, you’re my best friend,” Xavier said, shaking his head good-naturedly, “but I tell you, that’s the one thing about you I don’t understand.”

Ronnie flattered him. “When I look at Dee and the life you’ve made together, I don’t know that I understand it, either.”

“Oh, Ronnie, you are sweet.” Dee threw her arms around him, giving him a big hug.

“I saw that!” Betty Franklin yelled from the crowd. “Another Jefferson Hunt affair.”

“Ronnie, take a number and get in line,” said Walter, walking up behind the three, and towering over them.

“Walter, you don’t need a ticket. I’ll take you right now,” Ronnie fired right back at him.

“Three points.” Walter laughed. “Dee, can I freshen your drink?”

“No, I’m going to drag my husband to the bar. I want to hear every detail of the hunt, and hopefully a few misdeeds as well.”

“Crackerjack day.” Walter smiled.

As husband and wife left, Ronnie said, “There’s something about hunting in the snow.”

“Indescribably beautiful,” Walter agreed. “Say, Ron, how about a drink for you? Hi, Sorrel.” Sorrel, in her middle forties and a recent widow, walked over.

“Gentlemen, they’ve gone through two cases of champagne, a case of scotch, two and a half of vodka, and we’re running low on the roasted boar. You’d better hurry to the table.”

“The muffin hounds have struck again.” Ronnie called nonriders muffin hounds, as did everyone else who rode.

“Let’s go.” Walter led the way. The men chatted, touching hands or shoulders of others they met along the way.

Lorraine Rasmussen, slight and shy, stood with her daughter, Sari. The two closely resembled each other.

“Mom, everyone is friendly. Come on.”

“Oh, honey, I don’t ride. I feel—”

“Lorraine!” Sister emerged from the kitchen. It was the only place she could grab a bite. Once people saw her, she never got the food to her mouth.

“Sister, this is so grand.” Lorraine smiled. Her light brown hair, well cut, fell to her shoulders.

“Tedi and Edward never do anything halfway. And, of course, Sorrel is the best social director we’ve ever had. Now come meet people, Lorraine. Most of the people here didn’t hunt today. You can tell. Their shoes are clean, and there’s no blood on their faces.”

“And they’re fat.” Sari giggled.

Sister saw Shaker squeeze through the crowd. Shaker had to attend to the hounds, but today was a High Holy Day. Staff were allowed a spot of socializing before driving hounds and horses back to the kennels and stables.

Today, while not particularly long, had been hard, thanks to heavy footing. Shaker didn’t like hounds or horses standing around too long after a hard hunt.

“Shaker, let’s all get a drink, shall we?” Sister suggested, intercepting Shaker’s escape from socializing.

“Why don’t I get a plate for you, sir?” Sari, polite, knew how hard Shaker worked.

“Thanks, Sari.” He liked the young girl and could see some of her mother in her. Though he knew little of Lorraine, he thought her a polite woman. Looking at her now, he realized she was pretty, too.

“Sari said today was just one of the best,” commented Lorraine. “She said when the hounds ran into the stone ruins, she got goose bumps.”

He smiled at Lorraine. “We got lucky.”

“Nonsense,” said Sister. “You’re a fantastic huntsman.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Excuse me.”

“Sister,” Marty Howard called to her.

As Sister reached Marty, she brushed against Gray Lorillard. A flicker of electricity shot through her.

“The weather fouled our lunch date,” Gray said. “How does January third at the club sound to you?”

“Do I have to wear lipstick?” She laughed.

“Sister, you don’t have to wear anything at all.” Gray smiled. “Twelve.”

“Twelve.”

“Sister,” Marty breathlessly grabbed the master’s hand, “Sam has found me the most exquisite horse. I am so excited. A gelding. I like geldings, and he’s right out of a Stubbs painting.”

“To hunt?”

“Oh, no. Sorry, I’m so excited. No. To run. A timber horse. Oh, I’ve always wanted a timber horse. He’s been calling around, and he just now told me. I’ve been on cloud nine. I’m calling him Cloud Nine!”

“Where is Sam? I can’t wait to hear the details,” she replied.

“Last I saw him was by the fireplace in the living room.

But it will take you half an hour to reach him. We’re packed like sardines.”

Twenty minutes later Sister reached the living room. Sam looked better than he had in years but still had the gaunt thinness of a lifelong alcoholic who forgets to eat. He smiled when he saw the master.

“Happy New Year, Master.”

“Sam, glad to see you in the hunt field. Gray, too. I hope you’ll be out with us more often.”

“Depends on the man.”

Sister smiled. “In your case, it just might depend on the woman. She’s levitating over the timber horse you’ve found.” She paused a moment as she nodded to friends in the crowd. “How’s it going?” Sister asked.

“Pretty good.”

She placed her hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Well, I hope the job works out. Crawford’s a demanding man but, ultimately, a fair one. And I’m happy to have you in the hunt field.”

“Take it no one much likes Crawford,” Sam whispered.

“People who are against something or someone are always more expressive than those who think things are just fine. He has his detractors, but over the years I’ve learned to appreciate his good points. If you need anything, Sam, call or drop by.”

“Thank you. That’s white of you.”

She laughed. “You are bad, Sam Lorillard.”

Sliding back through the crowd, Sister squeezed up behind Clay Berry. His wife, Isabelle, hair shoulder length and honey blonde, didn’t see Sister behind Clay’s broad shoulders. She might have changed her tune had she known Sister was there.

“Not another horse, Clay. You have two perfectly good field horses, and I never see you as it is.”

“Sugar, that’s not true.” His light tenor hit a consoling note.

“The hell it’s not. You disappear during hunt season. I have one month with you when it’s over, and then you’re off to the golf course. I might as well be a widow.”

“Izzy,” he called her by her nickname, “you’re being overly dramatic.”

“I’m starting to think of you as my insignificant other.” She pouted. “And how you can think of another horse when you know I am dying, dying for that new 500SL convertible. I want it in brilliant silver with the ash interior.”

“That car costs a hundred and six thousand dollars with the options you want.”

“I’m worth it,” she coolly replied.

He shifted gears. “How could any man put a price on such a beautiful woman? Of course you’re worth it, baby. However, it is a big hit at this time.”

“Oh, pooh.” She suddenly became flirtatious. “You’re making money hand over fist. My birthday is coming up and,” she rubbed the back of his neck, her lips now very close to his, “you will never regret it. I’ll do anything you want whenever you want it.”

He swallowed. “Honey, let’s talk about this later.”

Sister tried to get beyond these two, but the crush of people was so great, the din of conversation so loud, she was pinned.

Izzy stood on her tiptoes to kiss her husband. She bit his lower lip. In doing so, she saw the master.

“Sister!” She quickly reached around Clay to grab Sister’s hand. “I need you to weaken Clay.”

More power to you, Sister thought to herself. At least you aren’t denying what you are. She then spoke out loud. “Isabelle, I think you can weaken Clay all by yourself.”

“But I’d love to be between two beautiful women.” Clay rolled his eyes heavenward.

Izzy, in a studied breathless voice, crooned, “I must have that 500SL. I mean I am dying for that car. It’s the sexiest thing on the road. Sexier than a Ferrari or Porsche Turbo or the redone Maserati. I’m nearing forty. I need a boost.” She now held both of Sister’s hands as the crowd pressed them bosom to bosom, and both ladies were well stacked.

Sister found the situation comical. “It is a spectacular car, and you’d make it even more spectacular. Mercedes-Benz ought to pay you to drive one.”

“You say the sweetest things. I want to grow up to be just like you. You’re so beautiful.” Izzy waxed enthusiastic.

“She’s right.” Clay seconded his wife. “Except for your silver hair, you look just like you did when I was in Pony Club. I don’t know how you do it.”

“She has a painting in her attic,” Izzy recalled the famous plot from Oscar Wilde’s The Portrait of Dorian Gray.

“Thank you. You’re both outrageous flatterers, but it does my heart good to hear it.”

Clay leaned down, his face serious. “I do mean it. You’re beautiful, Sister.” He smiled then. “And your arms are more muscular than mine, and I work out like a demon.”

She cocked her head a bit sideways while looking up at him. “I don’t know about that, but I do know farm work sure burns the fat off your body.”

“Oh, Clay, guess you’d better buy another hunter, and I’ll take care of it.” Izzy laughed, a pleasing musical laugh.

Walter spied Sister pressed between Clay and Izzy. He pushed his way toward her.

“You can’t have her all to yourselves. It’s my turn.” Walter kissed Izzy on the cheek, which she rather liked, then used his body to make a path for them through the people.

“You’re a hero.”

“You say that to all the boys,” Walter teased her.

Once out of the worst of the press, she took a deep breath. “Well, Walter, it’s been my privilege to watch how a woman works a man for her gain. Whew. I never could do it.”

“You never needed to do it.” His slight grin enhanced his rugged handsomeness.

“Walter, you are a true Virginia gentleman.”

“I mean it. Guile, throwing yourself at a man, deceit, and that sort of thing. It’s not you. You could never do that.”

“Maybe that’s why Ray found other women attractive. I didn’t play the game.”

“Ray found other women attractive because he needed conquests to feel like a man.” Walter, Ray’s natural son, said this with authority.

Both Walter and Sister had learned of this old secret a year ago. Everyone knew but them, and Walter was the spitting image of Ray Arnold Sr.

“It’s all water over the dam, honey. We’re still here, and life is wonderful.”

“Life is wonderful because I have you in my life.” He kissed her tenderly on the cheek. “You’ve given me foxhunting, understanding, and more than I can express.”

“Walter, you’ll make me cry.”

He hugged her. “That would shock everyone here.”

“Have you been drinking?”

He laughed. “No. One cold beer. No, my New Year’s resolution is to tell the people I care about how I feel. I’m overcoming WASP restraint.”

“Is there a class for this? I need to sign up.”

They laughed together, then Walter said, “Did you hear on the news? Found one of the alcoholics dead down at the train station.”

Walter could have said winos, but, being a physician, he looked at alcoholism with a scientist’s eye.

“What a dreadful way to squander a life.” Sister shook her head.

“Yes,” Walter replied. “It’s an insidious disease in that it’s both chemical yet voluntary. In my darker moments I wonder if they aren’t better off dead. Medicine can’t reach them. Perhaps God can reach them.”

Sister considered this sentiment. She truly believed that people could be redeemed.

Xavier bumped into her, back to back. “Pardon me. Oh, Sister, if I’d known it was you, I’d have bumped you harder.”

Walter kissed her again on the cheek and moved away. “Any New Year’s resolutions?”

“Lose forty pounds.” He grimaced. “Damn, I don’t have a spare tire, I’ve got enough to put four Goodyears on a Camaro.”

“It’s all that sitting at work.”

“If only I had your discipline,” he moaned.

“Not sure it’s discipline. I don’t sit at a desk. I’m in the stables, in the kennels, out on the land. I burn it right off. Humans weren’t meant to sit still for hours. Apart from the pounds, think what it does to your back.”

“Damn straight.” He leaned over to her, speaking softly into her ear. “Is Sam Lorillard going to be hunting with us a lot?”

“I don’t know. It’s up to Crawford.”

“I’m not the only one with a big grudge against Sam. Edward’s not overwhelmed with him. Jerry Featherstone either. Ron. Clay. Actually, if you went down the hunt roster, there are a lot of us who gave him a chance over the years. He either seduced our wives, stole money, lied about horses, or smashed up trucks.”

“I know, Xavier, I know. But in the hunt field, all that is left back at the trailers. What you all do or say when we’re not hunting is your business.”

“I’m not going to make a scene in the hunt field, but I might rearrange his face if he looks at me cross-eyed.”

“You don’t think people can change?”

“Hell, yes, they can change. I’m gonna be forty pounds changed. But inside? Their character? No. Sam was born weak, and he’ll die weak. He’ll probably die dead drunk, forgive the pun.”

“I hope not, but I appreciate your feelings. If he’d lightened my wallet, I think I’d turn my back on him, too. I’d like to think I wouldn’t, but I reckon I would.”

The swirl of gossip and laughter and the running feet of the children filled the Bancroft house. A group of men and women, standing in the corner of the dining room, were discussing why the state of Ohio produced great college football teams but rotten pro teams. The discussion was raising the rafters.

Everything Tedi and Edward did, they accomplished with great style. Before leaving with Betty Franklin, Sister thanked her host and hostess as well as Sorrel Buruss.

“Great day. The snow has picked up.” Outside Betty squinted at the deep gray sky.

“If you want to go home with Bobby, go on. You can pick up your car tomorrow or whenever.”

“I don’t mind driving home in the snow. Gives us a chance to be together.” Betty happily stepped into Sister’s red GMC half-ton. “How do you like your other truck now that you’ve had it a year?”

“Like it fine. Nothing pulls like the Ford F350 Dually. But I like this for everyday.”

“You had that truck since the earth was cooling.”

Sister turned on the motor, flipped on the windshield wipers, and waited a moment while the blades flicked off the new-fallen snow. “Nothing about this on the weather report.”

“Why listen? We’re right at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains. We have our own weather system.” Betty shivered. The heat would kick on once the motor warmed up.

“Got that right.” Putting the truck into four-wheel drive, they carefully rolled down the long driveway. “What did you think today?” asked Sister.

“Hounds worked well together, and you were smart not to bring out the young entry. Even though we finally hit a good line, the patience it took to find it might have been too much, what with all the people.”

“Thanks. I’m pleased. Thought the T kids came right along. They’ve matured early,” Sister said proudly.

“Good voices.”

“Yes.” She changed the subject. “Betty, Xavier and others sure are upset about Sam Lorillard hunting with us today.”

“He’s not high on my list, but he’s no problem out in the field. I just hope the guy can stay the course. His brother spent good money on him. A one-month stay at a detox center complete with counseling dents the budget. The horrible thing is, half the time the people slide right back to their old ways. Look at how hard Bobby and I tried to keep Cody off drugs,” she said, referring to her oldest daughter. “She couldn’t or wouldn’t do it, and by God, she’s paying the price, but so are we.”

“Can she get drugs in jail?”

“Of course she can.” Betty sighed. “She says she isn’t using, but I don’t believe it. She puts on her good face when Bobby or I visit. She tells her sister more than she tells either of us. And you know what, I have cried all the tears about it I can cry. You birth them, raise them, bleed for them, cry for them, and pray for them, but they’re on their own.”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry. Sometimes I forget that you might be glad to have Ray Jr. here even if he did drugs.” Betty exhaled through her nostrils. “I don’t think Rayray would have gone that route. Kid always had sense. Some do, some don’t.”

Sister slowed for a curve, “Oh, they’ll all try whatever is out there: marijuana, cocaine, ecstasy, the date rape drug. I can’t even keep up with the proliferation of mood-altering substances. I think all kids try it once. I worry more about alcohol than drugs. Our whole society pushes booze and drugs at you. The stuff I like to sniff is the odor of tack, horse sweat, and oats. Don’t even mind the manure. And I like the sweet scent of my hounds, too.”

“Heaven.” Betty put her hands up to the heating vent. “Doesn’t matter what any authority decrees in any century, people will take whatever makes them feel good. You and I have one kind of body chemistry, Cody and Sam have another. And who knows why?”

“Big Ray drank, but he controlled it. He could go months without a drink and then maybe knock back four at a party one night.”

“He was tall though. He could handle it better than a pip-squeak.” She turned to observe Broad Creek, swollen and flowing swiftly under the state bridge on Soldier Road. “Another day of this, and that water will jump the banks.”

“We were lucky we didn’t run into trouble today.”

“I thought of that, too.” Betty turned to look at Sister. “Want to hear something crazy?”

“You’re talking to the right woman.”

“I feel younger, stronger, and better now than I have for years—years. Cruel as this sounds, I think it’s because Cody is put away. She can’t come home and drag me down. She can’t call from Los Angeles or Middleburg or Roger’s Corner.” Betty mentioned the convenience store located at the intersection of Soldier Road and White Cat Road. “I’m free. She’s in jail, but I’m free. My energy is my own.”

“I understand that.”

“I didn’t at first. I thought I was a terrible mother. Bobby set me right.” A glow infused her voice. “How did I have the sense to marry that man? He’s not the best-looking guy in the world. When I was young, I thought I was going to marry someone handsome, rich, all that. But he persevered. The more he did, the more I got a look at his good character. He’s a wonderful man, a loving husband, and a loving father. I am one lucky woman.”

“He’s lucky, too.” Sister pulled off Soldier Road onto the dirt state road, considered a tertiary road by the highway department. Snow was deeper here.

“Thank you, Jane. You’re a good-looking woman. I hope you find someone again.”

“I thought about it for a time after Big Ray’d been dead two years or so, but then it faded away.” She turned onto the farm road, snow falling harder now. “I thought I was past that until Walter returned to the hunt club two years ago. Last time I saw Walter, he was on his way to college. Once Walter was hunting with us, I felt so drawn to him. It was physical. Shaker finally told me, bless his heart. Wasn’t easy for Shaker. Maybe I knew without knowing.”

“Everyone knew but you and Walter.”

“That he’s Ray’s natural son?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Stirred me up. Not that Walter is going to sleep with me. The man is in his middle thirties and I’ll be seventy-two this August. Or is it seventy-three?” She giggled for a moment. “Can’t believe it, no matter what the number is. Christ, the years fly by so damned fast I can’t keep track. But I woke up, or my body woke up, or something. You’re sweet to tell me I look good, but Betty, how many men are going to look at me unless they’re eighty? The game’s over for me.”

“It’s New Year’s Day. Want to make a bet?”

“How much?”

“One hundred dollars.”

“Betty!”

“I bet you one hundred dollars that a man does come into your life before December thirty-first. Deal?”

“Easiest one hundred dollars I’ll ever make.” Sister laughed as she pulled into the stable yard.

In the stable, the two women checked their horses. Having left the breakfast early, Sari and Jennifer had gotten all the chores done. The radio hummed, on low for the horses. The news was reported on the hour.

“Hey, did you hear that?” Betty, standing next to the radio, called over to Sister, who was checking water buckets.

“Not paying attention.”

“The first guy, the one they found dead the night of the twenty-seventh, Saturday? Well, he was full of alcohol to the gills, but hemlock as well.”

“What?” Sister paused for a moment.

“He drank hemlock, just like Socrates.”

“On purpose?” Sister was incredulous.

“And this morning they found another one frozen down at the train station. Dead.”

The two women looked at each other. Sister said, “What on earth is going on?”