Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

CHAPTER 6

The long polished table gleamed under the soft lights which, though subdued, were bright enough to take notes by. The board of trustees for Custis Hall met regularly once a month, more if the occasion demanded. The paneled room was in the original building.

Founded in 1812 as a school for young women, it remained true to its originating principles, now being one of the best prep schools in Virginia. The original funding came from the owner of Old Paradise, a grand lady who had made a great fortune running supplies through the British lines during the War of 1812. Had this indomitable woman been able to return she would have been satisfied, thrilled even, at how the school had flourished over the years. She would have been much less impressed had she visited Old Paradise.

These days, Crawford Howard, a board member, was slowly putting the holding’s owners, the DuCharmes, in his back pocket with money and improvements calculated to help Arthur again keep cattle. Crawford’s long-term goal was to buy Old Paradise. The DuCharmes would first fight among themselves but he could play a waiting game.

On moving to central Virginia, Crawford committed the mistake of building a garish new home designed to look old. He garnered attention. Not a penny was spared. Over time he learned that showing off his riches like this put a mark by his name as a vulgarian, even though he tried to make the place look historic. Far better to buy an historic estate. Even if one lived in one that was falling down, that still trumped the look of new money. Every place has its ways and Virginia remained steadfast in her habits, for both good and ill.

To Crawford’s credit, he cared about young people. One of his passions was education and he gave generously—as in six figures per annum—to Custis Hall. Young and attractive, Headmistress Charlotte Norton proved adept at managing him, a quality Sister Jane admired since she had failed to pacify Crawford when he was a hunt club member. Crawford’s business acumen also proved vital to Custis Hall.

Sister was now in her fortieth year on the board of trustees, for she kept getting re-elected. She valued Crawford’s contribution even as she disdained him personally. While lacking his degree of business sense, she had a bit. Moreover, she was one hundred percent committed to a strong humanities curriculum, which meant foreign languages, structured classes, knowing your country’s history along with world history. As a former professor of geology at Mary Baldwin College, the huntmaster was passionate about the natural sciences.

The board had wisely corralled a bank president, head of one of the best local law firms, and one music star—who worked very hard, to everyone’s surprise, as they thought she’d more or less show up for one meeting a year. Turned out that Mary Sewell Wainwright was as enthusiastic about all the arts as Sister was about the natural sciences.

The two women clicked, despite a thirty-year age gap.

Elected just last year and still finding their way were Phil Chetwynd and Mercer Laprade. The Chetwynds served on many boards but this was Phil’s first turn at Custis Hall, where his oldest daughter was a sophomore. Mercer was determined to create scholarships for young women of color, a much cherished goal.

Nancy Hightower, also African American, addressed the gathering. “My fear is that this interference will create a backlash.”

She referred to the S.O.L.’s, the Standard of Learning rules laid down by the federal government and then enforced by the state government.

“Not for us.” Phil put his pencil down. “Custis Hall exceeds all the criteria.”

“Let me be more clear, the backlash I fear is accusations about elitism. We outperform most every state school and we are right up there against St. Catherine’s and St. Christopher’s, Collegiate, St. Gertrude’s, Foxcroft, Madeira. We hold our own and better.”

“Private schools can’t be compared to state schools,” said Phil. “We can be far more demanding than the state.”

“Yes, we can and we should be,” Mercer agreed, his light voice clear, pleasant. “But the bulk of our students come from homes that are stable, value education, and strongly support same. We need more scholarship students.”

“Mercer, forty percent of our students receive some form of student aid,” said Isadore Rosen, head of personnel.

Now in his midfifties, Isadore had taken his job decades ago, thinking it would be temporary. But he had found his calling and stayed, to the benefit of all.

The six o’clock news anchor at a network station in Richmond and a Custis Hall alumna, Frances Newcombe agreed. “Mercer has a point. Private schools are seen as elitist and there is resentment about children not getting in because they can’t afford it. We all at this table know it takes more than money, what it really takes is aptitude, a willingness to work hard and frankly, there’s not enough of that as I would wish. This is a generation that expects to have everything given to them.”

Sister weighed in. “With all due respect, Frances, there are plenty of young people out there who would make good use of an education here if they could swing it. Custis Hall is expensive as are all the prep schools. It’s not just the expansion of scholarship funding, it’s also the housing, the food. You all see our budget statements. Lord, just keeping the physical plant and the grounds up to form costs us thousands upon thousands. And then if we could increase enrollment of scholarship students, could we raise the money to pay for it? Where would we build a new dorm without risking the historical character of this place? Custis Hall is one of the most beautiful secondary schools in the United States.”

In his commanding voice, Crawford said, “There is another way.”

The eleven other trustees stared at him as did the headmistress, Isadore, and the two other school administrators present.

“How?” Charlotte asked.

Never averse to being the center of attention, Crawford paused for a moment, then launched in. “We can’t create scholarships without creating more infrastructures as has been noted.” He couldn’t bring himself to credit Sister but she enjoyed that he had to acknowledge her concerns. “Custis Hall can create outreach programs. There’s no reason why we can’t rent space for early evening classes, weekend classes in Charlottesville, Waynesboro. Bringing in students who don’t live on campus is cheaper than construction. Yes, it takes planning and we would need to augment salaries for those on the faculty willing to do this. But even if we had to hire some new people, it’s more cost-effective than housing twenty or thirty new students on campus.”

A long silence followed this, then everyone talked at once, sparked by Crawford’s vision.

Sister, who always made a point of sitting next to him on the principle that you keep your enemies close, touched his forearm. “Brilliant, Crawford. Thank you.”

He nodded, then looked up as Phil called over the chatter, “Crawford, the old Chetwynd offices are serviceable in downtown Charlottesville. They need a bit of rehab but I could do that as a gift to Custis Hall if the board pursues this.”

Charlotte pounced but softly. “Phil, that is extraordinarily generous. Well, Crawford, you’ve given us all something exciting to consider. I don’t want this to slip away, frittered away in committees, so may I ask the following to be done for our next meeting? Crawford, would you examine our curriculum and determine what you think would be suitable for satellite locations or even e-courses? Most all students have access to a computer now.”

Apart from the reception to his idea this flattered Crawford, who assumed she’d always limit his input to financial matters. “Of course.”

“Phil, given your family’s long association with the area, might you explore other potential locations?”

“Are you willing to decentralize enough so that we could offer classes in Waynesboro and over by Zion Crossroads?” Phil inquired. “In that way, we could bring in students from western and eastern counties. Zion Crossroads could serve Louisa, Fluvanna, possibly even Orange. There are a lot of bright kids out there.”

“Hear. Hear,” Mercer said.

“Mercer, are you willing to secure, or even procure, the numbers of students in area schools who score in the top ten percent at their school, the ones with good grades?”

“Of course, but Charlotte, there are kids who aren’t doing well scholastically who would if we could just reach them.” Mercer truly cared.

The headmistress smiled for she, too, wanted to find those diamonds in the rough. “You’re right, but we may have to work up to that or find an efficient way to identify them. I know test scores aren’t always the answer; the answer is and always will be educators who take an interest in their students, which brings me to you, Lucas.” She addressed Lucas Diamond, who had worked in the State Education Department. “Find those teachers.”

He looked up at the ceiling, then around the table. “Well, if you all can do what you’re going to do, I will do my part.” Then he laughed.

“What about me?” Mary Wainwright asked plaintively.

“Mary, this board and me in particular are going to shamelessly abuse you.” That got everyone’s attention. “Once we have a plan, you are going to give a concert to raise money.”

All eyes were on Mary as she dramatically breathed in, then said saucily, “I will raise so much money you’ll be able to build a satellite campus.”

The room cheered. Sister thought it was the best board meeting she’d ever attended.

As it broke up, knots of people conferred and she found herself with Phil and Mercer by the long polished sideboard against the wall.

“Hey, to switch the subject, Sister, I know Lafayette is getting on. That fellow has to be fourteen or so, right?” asked Phil.

“We’re both getting up there.” She smiled at the thought of her aging horse.

“Keepsake and Rickyroo must be close to their early teens, too, if I recall,” Phil continued.

Mercer teased, “I feel a horse deal coming on.”

“I have a two-year-old and a three-year-old. One is by Guns and Roses and the other by St. Boniface, out of solid mares but they don’t have the speed for the track. They have good minds. Why don’t you come have a look?”

Crawford joined the group. “Phil, thank you for bringing my hounds back the other day.”

Knowing the history between Crawford and The Jefferson Hunt, Phil said, “It was Sister’s idea.”

As this transpired, Mercer glanced at his iPad, which showed he had a new e-mail. He checked on the message. “Sister, thank you,” Crawford said, doing the right thing.

“Crawford, they hunted wonderfully well under Shaker and they are in good flesh. Very handsome hounds.” Sister smiled.

Clearing his throat he responded, “Thank you.”

“What the hell?” Mercer exclaimed, then looked up. “Sorry.”

“Well, what the hell?” Sister teased him.

“Justin Sautter, with the help of Meg and Alan, have gone through the family papers and found a note about the delivery of Benny Glitters’s slate memorial. Roger Chetwynd”—Roger was old Tom Chetwynd’s son—“Lucius Censa, the Chetwynd’s stable manager, and a Negro worker accompanied the memorial. The Kentucky forensic people said the skeleton is that of an African American male, early forties, old break in the left leg. Anyway, they think the skeleton might be of the man who accompanied the slate memorial from here in Virginia to there. They also found a note in Lela’s hand about the slate and the man escorting it, whom she described as a ‘fine dark man with an adorable little dog.’ I’ll bet that was my grandfather!” Mercer said with excitement.

“I thought your grandfather walked into a whorehouse and never walked out,” Phil remembered.

“Am I missing a good story?” Sister leaned toward Mercer.

“Grandpa Harlan did,” said Mercer, “but I didn’t mention that the whorehouse was in Lexington, Kentucky.”

Phil calmly replied, “Mercer, even if it is your grandfather, why would he end up in a grave with a horse and a dog? It makes no sense.”

“It makes sense to someone,” Mercer’s voice rose.

“I’m sure they are all dead,” Phil replied.

“Well, they may be but that doesn’t mean someone who is alive doesn’t know,” Sister stated as Crawford, Mercer, and Phil looked at her.

“If you all will excuse me, I’m going to concentrate on the living.” Crawford withdrew.

“Me, too.” Phil smiled.

Mercer drew close to Sister. “You’re right. Someone might know. Wait until I tell Mother. I want to know who killed my grandfather and why. Mother’s become very intrigued, too.”

“I can understand that, Mercer, but you don’t know for sure that this body was your grandfather’s. As it was 1921, he must have had late children.”

“He did and my father, his son, had me in his middle years. In my family, we stay, um, virile and healthy a long time.”

“I hope so.” She winked at him.