Hotspur

CHAPTER 26

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Never!” Betty vehemently spoke.

The rest rumbled their agreement.

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

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

“Well—yes,” Crawford sheepishly replied.

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

No one knew what to say.

Betty started to cry.

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

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

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

Everyone laughed.

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

“Hear! Hear!” Ken applauded.

The others followed his lead.

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

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

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

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

Everyone laughed again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone laughed.

“Me too,” Ken agreed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How did you do it?” Betty was agape.

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

A silence followed this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Frances thinks of everything,” Ralph boasted.

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

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

“Married you,” Ronnie said, and laughed.

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

“It will clear up.”

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

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

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