Out Of Hounds

CHAPTER 25

March 5, 2020 Thursday

Two fixtures, abutting each other, filled five hundred acres on the opposite side of the ridge from Crawford Howard’s Beasley Hall. As Crawford maintained his own pack of Dumfriesshire hounds, Jefferson Hunt feared rolling up over the ridge and then down into Beasley Hall. Although Sister and Crawford had made amends over the years, no one ever wants to wind up on land not granted to them to hunt. It would set his hounds crazy. The master doesn’t live who hasn’t had some offended, red-faced landowner screaming at them, or worse, passing a shotgun over the master’s head. Crawford would forgo the shotgun, which he considered redneck. Lawyers were his shotgun. He could make your life miserable. He might not flame out these days, but why take the chance?

To this end he allowed Sam Lorillard and Skiff Kane to hunt with Jefferson Hunt today. Sam rode Sugar in Second Flight. The horse, trained, had not been trained as a foxhunter, and much as Sam wanted to go slow, Crawford, not a horseman, wanted to know if he had made a good purchase. Sam’s idea was to keep the gleaming animal in the rear, keep calm, and if she became overfaced turn back to the trailers. Skiff rode with him on Czapka, Crawford’s made hunter, a warmblood who mostly tolerated his master’s squeeze-and-jerk method of equitation.

The group parked at Fairies Bottom, the day held promise, the mercury remained in the low forties and a heavy cloud cover pressed down chimney smoke as well as scent.

Fairies Bottom, so called because when the temperature lifted, that first night of late May or early June, the fireflies appeared in massive squadrons of light. Back in the mid-nineteenth century one of the children thought they were fairies and the name stuck. Next to this simple, well-maintained farm nudged, in a northwesterly fashion, Pitchfork Farm. Built in the 1920s, the buildings appeared modern compared to Fairies Bottom. And as is often the case in the country, the owners of Fairies Bottom had to sell the land when times grew hard. Soon after they did, the crash of ’29 plummeted everyone down with it. The owners of Fairies Bottom seemed prescient. As for Pitchfork Farm, drama swirled about it. The next owners, having bought it in the last six months, seemed easy enough. They gave Jefferson Hunt permission to hunt, but as yet they had not availed themselves of the social life of the club.

A few trees, buds swelling red, offered hope against the denuded trees. Spring would come.

Weevil, Betty, and Tootie surrounded the hounds, eager to go. Weevil couldn’t sleep last night because he wasn’t sure which way to cast. The last thing he wanted to do was create an uproar with Crawford Howard.

“I’ll cast in the first meadow. If we don’t find, I’ll swing toward Pitchfork Farm,” Weevil informed his whippers-in.

If hounds hit a hotline and kept running northwest, they would eventually land in Mousehold Heath, fifteen miles away. Healthy, that distance on a hard run will push close to an hour. As they had just hunted Mousehold Heath, Weevil hoped he could find something on these two fixtures without going too far afield. Weevil cleared a simple coop in the middle of the fence line directly across from the house.

Noses down, the pack moved forward. Pookah slowed under a hickory, branches reaching to the sky.

“Old.”

Cora, out today, checked the younger hound’s line. “Doesn’t mean it won’t heat up. Let’s see.”

Sterns swaying, all the hounds shifted over to the tree line at the edge of the pasture, still brown but a hint of green peeking underneath. On and on they worked, steady. This was not a sight to thrill those people who hunt to ride but it did excite those who ride to hunt. The younger “B” hounds quietly worked alongside the older hounds. Indeed the line did heat up. Hounds trotted, as did the field behind them.

Sugar, in Second Flight, followed the other horses. Her ears swiveled, her nostrils opened wide. She didn’t know what this was but everyone moved off so she did, too.

Czapka, next to the Thoroughbred, reassured her. “We might run, we might not. We have to do what hounds do.”

“What about the horn noise?” Sugar thought it brassy.

“I’ll teach you the calls. Right now it’s one long note and three short ones, kind of in ascending order. The huntsman is telling the hounds to draw the covert. If they find anything, he might scream. He’s not hurt.”

Sam possessed hands that transmitted confidence to a horse. Sugar relaxed because his rider was relaxed, plus Czapka knew everything. Not two minutes later Tinsel opened. They were off.

“Stick with me. You’re gonna love it.” The big warmblood broke into an easy canter, the sounds, the smells, the pace lifting all spirits.

—

As Sister and Jefferson Hunt broke into a run, O. J. Winegardner and Catherine Clay-Neal admired Andre Pater’s paintings in the gallery of Headley-Whitney Museum.

“Nobody paints jockey silks or jockeys like Andre Pater.” O.J. admired Fox Hill Farm Silks with Ramon Dominguez. The jockey, a handsome man who radiated thought, glowed resplendently in silks, the body divided into four red and white squares in front, the sleeves white with three red hoops, the cap red-billed with pie wedges of white and red silk. His wedding ring shone on his left hand. All the paintings of silks provoked amazement, but this one showed you something of the man’s character.

“You see fabric handled this way in paintings from the sixteenth and seventeenth century, but after that, with the exception of John Singer Sargent, we seem to have lost it.” Catherine stood before the work. “Or maybe we no longer value that kind of beauty or seem to realize that clothes really do make the man. Think of the representations of Henry VIII or Elizabeth I. Their clothing was a statement.”

“I fear we’ve become slothful, mmm, or we’re distracted by obvious things. We no longer look at jewelry, fabrics, colors, you name it, as tiny trails into a personality. Then again, so many of those who now have fame wear so little.” O.J. burst into peals of laughter.

“If you’ve got it, flaunt it.” Catherine crossed to the other side of the gallery.

“If I spent as much on my body as those women have, I suppose I’d flaunt it, too.” O.J. stopped before a painting of a German shorthaired pointer with a pheasant. “Gorgeous.”

The two longtime hunt friends strolled through the exhibit, each painting drawing them in.

“I like that he paints African American jockeys.” O.J. stood before a painting of a turn-of-the-century jockey in green and pink silks, an unusual combination that was stunning; then again, the jockey wore the colors with nonchalance.

“What was it, the first three Kentucky Derby winners were African American jockeys?” Catherine remarked. “So the men in charge passed a rule that black men couldn’t ride the big races. And you know, now we don’t have nearly enough African Americans in equine sports.”

“Well, the men go into baseball, football, or basketball. Big bucks. I can’t help but believe working with horses is a better life. Then again, I couldn’t imagine a life without horses.”

“Me, neither.” Catherine turned. “Do you think we could make this work?”

“One minute. I want to stare at Andre’s painting of you and Dude.” O.J. walked to a thirty by thirty-four painting of Catherine, sidesaddle, on a large, well-made flea-bitten gray, the flecks tiny specks of chestnut. She faced the viewer, a soft smile on her face, her top hat with a thin veil, almost transparent, over her face. Her right hand, white glove, rested on her hip and her left gloved hand held her crop. Her vest peeking out a bit added a touch of mustard. Her tack, perfect, down to the sandwich case, would impress even people who knew nothing about tack.

Catherine stood next to her friend. “Dude is the perfect gentleman. Everyone needs at least one great horse in their life.”

“This really is one of his best paintings, and I’m not saying that because we hunt together.” O.J. smiled broadly.

“Thank you. Then again, Andre has a way of capturing you. This exhibit has been a smashing success. And the timing is right for the joint meet, or the movable feast, however you think of it.”

The two walked back to Catherine’s office, passing one marvelous painting after another, into the center hall, thence to a tidy office. The two sat near each other as O.J. pulled her chair closer to Catherine.

“My idea is to have a formal tea here after the Sunday hunt. Given the distances people are traveling, I do think we need back-to-back hunts.”

Catherine replied, “If we get on one of our marathon coyotes, I don’t see how someone can go out the next day on the same horse.”

A pause followed this. “Sister and probably Deep Run may well bring their own horses, so that leaves us, Big Sky, and Red Rock people. I called Bull Run, too. I expect some of them will come. But they can trailer their horses. I know we can find stalls for them.”

“I don’t doubt that, but we have enough trouble finding mounts for visitors and now we will need two per person. We’d better think this through.”

“Okay.” O.J. looked down at her hands a moment, mind whirring. “But what about a tea? We can’t really do a dinner in here but a tea in the center part of the museum, we might can do that.”

“Hear me out.” Catherine leaned forward toward O.J. “If it were May or June we could have a high tea in the garden but March can be filthy. If we have it in here we almost have to ask people to leave their shoes at the door. You know, it will either snow or rain and, if not, the temperature may be twenty degrees Fahrenheit.”

“Or sixty-four Fahrenheit.”

“Yes. So why don’t we allow everyone to go to their hotel, shower, change, come here to savor the exhibit. Then we can either go to one of the halls at University of Kentucky or to the big room at Embassy Suites.”

“Why University of Kentucky?” O.J. wondered.

“Some of our guests will have children ready, or soon ready, to go to college. If they see our university, meet a few people, a few might enroll. When people think of University of Kentucky they think of basketball and there’s so much more to it than that.”

“You know, I never really thought of that. The Maxwell H. Gluck Equine Research Center is one of the best in the country.”

“We have a lot to offer.”

“Well, if we do as you suggest, then we should provide a dinner. They’ll be hungry by the time they get to the venue, whichever one it is.”

A knock on the open door captured their attention.

“Mrs. Clay-Neal, you might want to turn on your TV. Louisville channel.” Her assistant then walked over to turn on the TV and she left the room.

Both women sat without speaking. When the report ended Catherine turned off the television and sat back down.

“I don’t know what to think.” O.J. finally spoke. “I would guess some people here already have this virus and don’t know it. Have shaken it off.”

“A few, probably. If it’s in Italy and Germany, probably more than a few. How many Chinese have traveled here and back before China took harsher measures? Does anyone know anything?”

“Like what?”

“How long does the virus live? Say, on a table? Hours, days? How long does it gestate? The speaker didn’t specify anything.”

“Catherine, do you expect the media to pass up the opportunity to have us glued to the set, interrupted by ads for great discounts on new trucks? They’ll keep this thing going as long as they can.”

“Up to a point. If this truly is serious, they have to provide sensible, calm information. If not, then I suggest everyone in America cut their cable contract, shut down Facebook. People need to know the truth.”

“Yes.” O.J. thought for some time. “If it’s spreading, as that fellow said, then we’re in for it.”

“I hope not, but you’re going to have to decide. I wouldn’t hit the red button yet but you may have to cancel the meet.”

“Oh, dear.” O.J. was crestfallen.

“You’ll know what to do,” Catherine reassured her.

“I don’t see how anything good can come out of this,” O.J. fretted.

That depends on one’s definition of good. If one is a murderer or thief or both, a coronavirus pandemonium could provide opportunities.