Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

CHAPTER 11

Water sprayed off Mill Ruins’s water wheel, thousands of rainbows flying with it. Saturday, February 8, welcomed The Jefferson Hunt Club members, hounds and horses, with pale sunshine and a temperature of 36°F by 9:30 A.M. This tempered by nine-to-ten-hour winds from the north northwest.

Her senses keen from having hunted since childhood, Sister knew the mercury would rise, but not dramatically. Desirable as that was, a tricky wind could bump up quickly. You never knew about winds cascading from the north northwest, sliding down the mountains, which at Mill Ruins lay twelve miles west. The view always delighted people the first time they beheld the old mill and the clapboard house, some of which dated back to 1730. This had been Peter Wheeler’s home. Evidence of Peter’s unique personality lingered among his beloved boxwoods, his curving paths laid out to “alleviate the boredom of symmetry,” as he would counsel Sister. Peter had believed his tall paramour was overfond of straight lines, squares, and quadrangles. She was.

Presently, her Joint Master could be glimpsed in the stable, below tremendous oak beams holding it all together for close to three hundred years plus a few. Walter babied Clemson, his hunter, even though Sister would chide him, “You spoil that horse.”

“Look who’s talking” would come his swift reply.

Sister was a woman who couldn’t live without close relationships to men. A few, especially when younger, were sexual but most unfolded like Peter’s roses, revealing surprising depth of color. Men trusted her and loved her. She felt the same.

Fortunately, she also loved her girlfriends like Betty, Tedi Bancroft, and young women like Tootie, but for whatever reason she gravitated toward men.

As a Joint Master, Walter dealt with Sister almost every day, usually on the phone or texting. He’d traveled so much this hunt season from one medical conference to another that he’d missed a lot of the season. His specialty was cardiology and every day something new transpired in his field. He wanted to keep current so that his patients benefited from the latest procedures, as well as Walter’s deep concern. Walter was called to medicine the same way that Sister was called to hounds and horses.

She always told him his life was worth more than hers: He saved people. Walter would reply that she saved them in a different way.

“Oh, this will take fifteen minutes.” Atop her former steeplechaser, Matador, Sister laughed as she saw Walter run up Clemson’s girth.

Walter needed to walk Clemson around for five minutes, slide the girth two holes higher, and this would go on until the girth was tight enough for him to mount. But Clemson knew the trick of blowing out his stomach so once Walter—tall, with long legs—was tight in the tack, the horse would exhale. His stable boy would crank it one more time and, of course, Clemson would shy away from the side being worked on, usually the left. He was a stinker.

He was also plated in gold in the hunt field so one endured the horsey hijinks.

Betty, driving the rig, pulled on the long side of the barn, where Shaker had preceded them with the hound trailer.

With a minimum of drama, staff mounted. Betty, Sybil, and today, Tootie, remained behind at the hound trailer with Shaker.

At least once a week Sister put Tootie out with a whipper-in. If a visitor or one of the hunt members needed a buddy in the hunt field, then Tootie was assigned to ride near them. The young woman also worked young horses for others when time permitted. They paid her for this so she earned more pocket money. At the moment, Sister had no youngsters but when she found some, Tootie would be perfect to bring them along.

As Sister rode Matador toward those already mounted, a riderless Clemson hurried up to her.

“What have you done?” She grabbed his reins, leading him back to the stable.

“Nothing” came the unconvincing reply.

Sam Lorillard with his coworker, Rory, hurried out to take Clemson.

“Did Walter fall off?” asked a concerned Sister.

“No.” Sam smiled. “Dismounted for one more bathroom run. Clemson took off before I could grab his bridle.”

“How come you’re here today? I would have thought Crawford would be out.”

“He’s in Connecticut at Westover,” said Sam. “He wanted to talk to someone face-to-face about curriculum. He’s going to Miss Porter’s, a lot of those expensive schools out of state. He’s also contacting Andover, Exeter, Taft, Choate, St. Paul’s.”

“Got the bit between his teeth.” She paused. “Good.”

“Edgy took sick, called me so I came over. Walter needs someone in the stable.” Sam smiled.

“As do we all.”

Edgy, the stableboy, had gotten his name for his bad haircuts, which the young man declared were “edgy” so he was ahead of the curve.

Sister rode back to the ever-growing crowd. All were in their formal turnout, as Saturday’s rides were formal.

Vicki Van Mater and Joe Kasputys, in perfect turnout, waited with the others. Sister smiled and called to them as they had hauled their horses down from Middleburg, two and a half hours north.

The wind kept the pines rustling. Sister looked up to see the treetops bending. Just no telling what the day would bring. Like any day, she supposed.

Finally, everyone was up in the saddle. She used to just take the hounds and leave, but so many laggards created havoc trying to catch up that Sister now used the tactic of waiting while staring at them. Somewhat helped.

Henry Xavier, always called Xavier, Ronnie’s best friend, was present today. Sister noted he had lost one hundred pounds since undergoing the operation to shrink his stomach. He looked almost as he did when he was a boy, when he and Ronnie and RayRay, her son, would ride out in high spirits. Xavier never lost his baby face, which everyone had attributed to the fat, but his face remained youthful without the fat.

Looking over these people, some of whom she had known since they were born, others for at least forty years, others just a year or two, she thought Fate had brought them together. This touch of philosophy or superstition evaporated when Parker, a young hound, looked up at her and howled.

She laughed. “Well then, folks, we have our marching orders.” To Shaker, “Hounds, please.”

“Come along,” he called and hounds followed him over the arched bridge, past the huge turning water wheel that always startled horses unaccustomed to it, the slap, slap as well as the sight unnerving them. They headed past the mill, curved left on the wide farm road, patches of shimmering ice in the low potholes.

On other side of the road, two fenced fields beckoned. The original dry laid stone walls, rehabilitated by Walter, stretched a half mile down to the woods at the end of the pastures. At that point the fencing became three-board fencing, for who could afford new stone fences? Walter used what stone he could find to make jumps, but for keeping stock penned in, it was three-board—which was expensive enough. Those locust posts, if one could find them, cost a pretty penny. The left pasture ran easterly while the right was westerly and longer.

Sometimes hounds would pick up a fox behind the mill but not today.

“My feet are already cold,” Mercer grumbled.

Phil counseled, “A hard run will take care of that.”

“No, it won’t.”

“Okay, they’ll still be cold but you won’t notice.”

As he said that, Pookah, Parker’s sister, nose down, started trotting. Pansy, another hound from Sister’s “P” lineage, followed right behind her. Within a few minutes the whole pack, twenty-five-couple strong this weekend, kept moving—but silently.

Hounds are always counted in couples, a practice going back thousands of years to ancient Egypt.

Sybil, on the left, picked up the pace as did Betty, on the other pasture.

Ardent, a hound with a deep voice, one of Asa’s get, boomed out, “Hot, hot, hot!”

All at once it was as though someone put a blowtorch to the earth, for the scent lifted right off, filling those hound nostrils. Everyone spoke in unison.

On the road, Sister trotted, then galloped. She wouldn’t jump in at the coop in the middle of the field until she knew where the pack would head. It was just as easy to make the wrong decision as the right on a day like this but she made the right one today, for hounds took the coop instead. Flying over in tandem, one by one, they jumped the facing coop into the right field to fly straight for Betty and Tootie, who adjusted in hopes they didn’t cross the line of the scent. If they did, two sets of hoofprints could only do but so much damage.

Hounds headed due west to the edge of the pasture where two jumps formed a right angle. Betty took the western one, landing on a well-cleared path. Tootie followed. Shaker was soon over, then the entire field.

Mostly hickory and oak, with branches bare, these woods provided good views. The occasional oak had the old leaves, dried out, still attached. A steady wind, about nine miles an hour, kept up a light rattling sound. In a few dry places sheltered by rock outcroppings, the leaves underfoot crunched, but by February all the exposed places had the leaves squashed down, turning into the beginnings of soil.

The fox, a gray called Grenville, led them to a steep incline down to a narrow but deep creek. Hounds clambered down, then swam the few yards across to the other side and struggled up. Old tree limbs hanging out of the creek bed gave the place a sinister air. Sister picked her way along the edge to the crossing, walked across, then moved out.

A true February run lasted one hour and twenty minutes until Grenville returned to his den not far from the old mill and not far from a red fox’s den. Try as they might, the hounds had lost the scent.

As the trailers were nearby, a few people, winded, decided to retire.

Sister rode up to Shaker. “Let’s go to Shootrough.”

A twenty-minute hack down that same farm road took them all the way to the back of Mill Ruins, where there was once a large shooting preserve. Walter dutifully kept it planted with millet, Alamo Switchgrass, and stands of corn here and there. He himself didn’t shoot but he liked feeding the birds and, of course, the foxes, too.

The minute the hounds cast into the millet, they roared through. For two more hours, hounds would find a fox, run it, lose it, find another. Many days in hunting, especially in November, are trying. Once out of the November doldrums, however, one can expect a good run or two. Usually the great runs are from mid-January to mid-March, with February holding pride of place.

Sister had no proof of this other than her own memory and the memory of other old foxhunters. Maybe they told themselves that to make up for the bitterness of February, but she swore by it, and now she hadn’t enough breath to swear because she and Matador, her former steeplechaser, had just jumped a wide ditch, and took two long strides on the other side to clear a long line of boxwoods. Peter had planned these jumps and, of course, during his lifetime the boxwoods had grown. Being American boxwoods, they were looser than the English variety. She could hear the swish, swish, swish behind her.

A long, long expanse of pasture confronted her, and she could just see her whipper-in and the huntsman and pack. Everyone was flying and Sister thanked her lucky stars for riding a great horse. Other riders were pulling up. The pace had been too fast for too long for many riders. Sister thundered on, the panorama in front of her swerved right. A storage shed, a formidable seventy by forty, was on her right along a deeply rutted farm road. She stayed in the pasture, even as the pack was now out on the farm road, for Sister thought she knew this fox. She figured he would duck right into the shed, where Walter stored some seed as well as old pallets—always useful.

He did. Hounds dug at the side of the metal shed. They sang out in both triumph and frustration. Even though they couldn’t get to the den, they had put their fox to ground.

Shaker slid off Gunpowder, a Thoroughbred he loved, walked up to the entrance dug by the fox and blew “Gone to Ground.” Hounds hearing this distinctive call, not like any other, wriggled in delight. He praised them. Betty and Sybil, now alongside the hounds, remained mounted.

Shaker swung back up in the saddle effortlessly, which Sister envied as it was no longer that easy for her. Tootie stood on the other side of the shed, just in case the fox popped out.

Walter had just ridden up to the scene. Clemson lacked the speed of Sister’s Thoroughbreds, but what the horse lacked in speed he made up in good sense.

“Hell of a run,” Walter breathed heavily.

“The best. Just the best.” Sister looked down at those glorious hounds, full of themselves.

“We can do more,” Trooper promised.

His brother, Tattoo, agreed. “We can run all day. Really.”

Sister asked Betty, on one side of the pack, “Where’s Tootie?”

“Behind the shed, just in case.”

“Let’s call her to us. Shaker, I think we’d best head for the trailers. What do you think, Walter?”

“I think if we continue I’ll wind up with some new patients.”

They laughed and headed for the mill, walking along slowly. Took a half hour, and the wind came up, as did an unexpected rain; light though it was, it was steady and cold. Snow can be warmer than a rain in the high 30°Fs or low 40°Fs. By the time everyone reached their trailers, they were happy to dismount. After wiping them down and then throwing on a sweat sheet, most put their horses on the trailer. The heavier blanket would be thrown over soon enough when the sweat sheet was taken off.

Phil said to Mercer as they walked to Walter’s house, “Think there’s any food left?”

“If not, we’ll make those that came in early go to Kentucky Fried Chicken.”

“That will take an hour.” Phil knew how far the franchise was—too far when one is hungry.

Fortunately, the table was filled with hot meats, salads, corn bread, macaroni and cheese, jams, and far too many desserts. It did not disappoint.

Too tired to stand, people found places to sit, some even repairing to the old country kitchen. The bar got a good workout, too.

Mercer, Ronnie, Xavier, Phil, and Freddie Thomas, a very attractive female CPA, sat at the kitchen table.

Phil leaned toward the voluptuous Freddie. “May I get you another drink?”

“Phil, if I have another drink you’ll need to carry me out of here.”

“That’s the general idea.”

Xavier raised his eyebrows.

“I am shocked. Truly and deeply shocked.” Freddie never was averse to male attention but then what woman is?

“Did you view?” Mercer asked everyone in general.

Seeing the fox, always a thrill, was believed to bring good luck.

“No, I was too far back. Halfway through the hunt, I knew Diva and I”—Freddie named her mare—“needed to rate ourselves.”

“Yeah, me, too.” Ronnie nodded. “We started out with a great run, and then it just never stopped except for the hack to Shootrough. What a day!”

They replayed the hunt. Kasmir stuck his head into the kitchen and smiled. Someone called his name and he closed the door.

“You know, I don’t think anyone viewed because I never heard a ‘Tallyho,’ ” Mercer said.

“You’re right,” Phil agreed. “I didn’t either.”

As the food settled a bit, warmth crept into their toes, and the liquor added to the high spirits. They chattered away, people coming in and out of the kitchen, some sitting for a spell. The breakfast would be remembered as fondly as the hunt itself.

Freddie had a question for Mercer. “I know you’re a bloodstock agent, but I don’t really know what you do. I mean, do you sit and study bloodlines on the computer?”

“I do, but I’m fortunate in being able to see so many horses now and over the years. I go to Kentucky about once every two months and I’ve added Pennsylvania and New York to the list. About once every two years I’ll head down to Louisiana, too. You’d be surprised at how many good horses are down there. Florida, of course. Florida horses around Ocala have the advantage of limestone soils but no one has the advantage like Kentucky.”

“Really?” she asked, interested.

“Don’t get me wrong. Virginia can still breed great Thoroughbreds, along with some of our neighbors. You’re sitting next to one of the best.”

Phil slightly tilted his head to one side in acknowledgment. “Freddie, we now have so many supplements that we can give growing foals an advantage similar to Kentucky, but there they just turn them out. We have to spend extra money on supplements. You only get one chance to ensure a horse has strong, strong bones.”

“I never thought about that,” she said. “I just hop up on Diva and well, like I said, I never thought about it.” Freddie smiled, then added, “What did people do before supplements?”

Phil leaned in closer. “Broad Creek Stables was started by my great-grandfather back in the 1870s in a state wrecked by the war, no young men, no money, amputees in the streets. It must have been awful, win or lose, too many damaged people. Well, I’m off the track, literally.” He laughed. “But I think about Old Tom and then his son, Roger; they had to have had it really tough. But what they did and what Broad Creek did was to haul mares to Kentucky by train to foal. This way they got the same head start that a Kentucky horse did. We often used our own stallions and we built our reputations on them. Navigator being the first really great one. We’d bring the boarders back as yearlings or two-year-olds and so we got great bone in them.”

“And my family was part of that, my great-grandfather and grandfather,” Mercer interjected. “They loaded horses on the boxcars with stalls, traveled with them. Grandpa studied what was in Kentucky. He made suggestions to the Chetwynds that put Broad Creek Stables on the map, so to speak. My grandfather got Old Tom to purchase Navigator. I think Roger was studying at the University of Virginia then. Grandpa bought a few horses for himself. You know, a good horseman can usually survive. He might not always make money but that’s the thing about bloodline research, I don’t need to buy horses. My job, let’s say you want to get into the game and you tell me you have twenty thousand to spend on a yearling. That’s nothing, but I can set you up. Anyway, for a percentage, small, I will find you the best twenty-thousand-dollar yearling possible and since I have so many contacts, a lot of times I can get you a really good horse right out of the pastures. Avoid the auction. All I need is gas money, my computer, and my notebook. My overhead is low. Phil’s skyrockets but his profits are greater when it all works. I can put you in a syndicate, too, but that’s another story.”

Freddie listened intently to Mercer. “You love what you do, don’t you?”

“I do. My fear is that Kentucky will just blow itself up with this gambling mess.” He then explained to her how one could only wager on horses at the tracks, nothing else.

“But why would that hurt you?” She reached for a napkin.

“Freddie, people will go out of business. Horses will be dispersed to states where the legislature invites horsemen and gamblers alike. That means a lot more travel for me and having to make more contacts. Not to brag, but I know just about everyone in Kentucky. You have a mare who was bred to a son of A.P. Indy, take your pick, she delivers a foal and I call and ask about the foal or I send an e-mail. I know who I’m talking to and they know me. Besides, I can read between the lines. And remember, Kentucky is the heart of the Thoroughbred business. Destroy that business and you really take something from America. It’s part of our history.”

“True enough.” Phil agreed.

Feeling a bit sleepy, Xavier murmured, “Mercer can put you in a syndicate, too, like he said. You know, where a group of people own a horse together? This defrays expenses but allows people from all kinds of jobs to play. Some people love racing like we love foxhunting, but it’s costly. Syndicates open the door for more people.”

On and on they chattered until finally Freddie looked at the wall clock. “It’s four o’clock!”

They all turned around to look at the big round wall clock. “Time flies when you’re having fun.” Ronnie smiled, rose from the table, clearing everyone’s plates.

Once home, Sister, Gray, and Tootie took showers, then collapsed in the living room, fire crackling in the large fireplace.

Gray sipped his scotch while Sister and Tootie stuck to hot tea. They also replayed the day.

As though out of the blue, Sister said to Gray, “Honey, does your family keep scrapbooks?”

“No. Why?”

“Just wondered.”

He swirled the scotch around in the heavy glass. “We weren’t really a close family. My sister spent more time with Daniella, her aunt, my mother’s sister. Dad worked all the time. Mom basically turned us out of the house to do whatever while she did whatever she did. A lot of housework, I think. We were glad to get out of that. One of us would come back bloodied. Sam and I fought like roosters. I don’t know how we lived.”

“Worked out.” Sister smiled.

“Daniella might have family pictures but I don’t think any of them were too close, except for her and my sister. Also Daniella had too many marriages. High drama. My sister’s just like Aunt D.” Gray still could be irritated by his sister. “I will admit my mother, Graziella, could get just as uppity about our dash of Italian blood but Aunt D can outsnob everybody. She met Eleanor Roosevelt once and ever after referred to her as ‘My dear friend, Mrs. Roosevelt.’ You get the picture.” He rolled his eyes.

“I guess Mercer’s a bit of a snob,” Tootie blurted out. “He’s fun, though.”

“Yes, Aunt Daniella still casts her spell.” Gray laughed.

Sister looked at Tootie. “Gray, let Tootie show you something.”

Ten minutes later, in the den, Tootie showed him the Broad Creek Stable photo of Roger Chetwynd and the man who might have been Mercer’s grandfather.

“What do you think?” Sister asked him.

“Could be. It’s hard to tell from an old photo and sometimes we see what we want to see.”

“Gray, why would Tootie and I want to see a family resemblance to Mercer?”

“You’re right.” He bent over to study the photo more closely. “Snappy fellow. No names on the photo. Well, yes, it could be Grandpa Harlan Laprade but”—he shrugged—“doesn’t mean the bones with Benny Glitters or the watch belonged to him.”

Curious about Gray’s feelings, Tootie asked, “What if those bones do belong to your grandfather? You and Mercer have the same maternal grandfather.”

“Like I said, we weren’t close. I never knew him. He was long gone before I came into the world. And I hate to admit it but I am a little superstitious. I think you let the dead alone. I don’t believe they should be disturbed. Whatever Harlan Laprade did, however he wound up underground with a horse and a dog, I figure he went into the afterlife with at least one friend, his dog. Just don’t disturb the dead.”

“Well, it’s too late now,” Sister replied sensibly.