Out Of Hounds

CHAPTER 1

February 6, 2020 Thursday

Wind carries messages. As Jane Arnold, “Sister,” flew across a large pasture sleeping under a light snow, the message hitting her face was a dramatic change in the weather. Jefferson Hunt started the day at ten in the morning under relatively balmy skies for early February. The temperature hung at a decent 42°F.

Clods of earth, the grass brown mixed in with it and a smattering of snow, flew off Keepsake’s hooves, her marvelously balanced horse. Hounds screamed up ahead. They’d been running at top speed for twenty minutes.

Sister passed low bushes festooned with stoplight red berries, took a sagging coop at the end of Beveridge Hundred, an estate from the late eighteenth century, and kept flying. These are the runs one dreams about on a torrid July day pitching hay. Tears filled her eyes from the speed. Up ahead she could see the scarlet coat of her young huntsman, Wesley Blackford, “Weevil.” In front of him like a football team racing downfield to attack the offense waiting for the kicked-off ball, those tri-color American hounds ran, sang, stretched flat out.

While she kept her pride to herself, she loved those hounds, hounds whose bloodlines she had known for over forty years. Her late husband’s uncle had known and bred them for forty years before that.

The wind licked her face with a cold hard tongue. A storm would follow, but when? She couldn’t turn back. Nor was she going to twist her head around while galloping to check the northwestern sky. She was heading due south.

Out of the corner of her right eye she saw her dearest friend, Betty Franklin, on the outside of the pack on the right. Betty had the good fortune to be running on a decent farm road. The other whipper-in, Tootie Harris, in her early twenties, no farm road but still pasture, kept apace. The women wore black, the old attire for a lady hunting. As this was America in the twenty-first century they were entitled to scarlet but both passed. Sexism wasn’t an issue for either of them and given that men hardly ever get the chance to be the peacocks that women can be, they wore their black or deepest navy, an especially attractive color.

Keepsake’s ears, forward, flicked a moment. Sister slowed just a bit, rating him, for she trusted him with her life, as does anyone astride a horse.

She faced another coop, this one newer and no sag. Over they went, hitting the slick earth on the other side. Keepsake, a Thoroughbred/quarter horse cross, was so handy he could turn on a dime and give you a nickel’s change. He slid slightly, pulling his hind legs up under him. Sister reminded herself to give him an apple cut to fit a peppermint inside, his favorite treat and one she made for him.

Keepsake’s ears flicked again. As they approached the woods, a trail running through the middle of it, out lumbered an unamused black bear—a large, unamused black bear.

“Jesus H. Christ on a raft,” Sister cursed under her breath.

The bear, irritated, for the hound music was not music he liked, stopped, stood up on his hind legs.

Keepsake swerved to the left, making a large detour. The bear looked at them and then decided to be the center of attention for the large field, perhaps twenty yards behind Sister, the forward part of First Flight now beheld the bear. Horses spooked, people hit the ground as their horses abandoned them to their fate.

Pleased with himself, the large fellow, at least four hundred pounds, dropped down to all fours to saunter back into the woods.

As master of this hunt and field master, Sister was in charge of the field, forty-four strong today. She might have stopped but she felt cleanup was the obligation of whoever was riding tail. Today it was her joint master, Walter Lungrun, M.D. She would stick close to hounds. The pace was too good.

As times have changed, some First Flight masters will stop when someone bellows, “Rider Down.” However most of the older masters did not. It’s the way they were taught and the way they were going to ride.

Fortunately, Keepsake, a lovely bay, was nimble and smart. But a true Thoroughbred had speed. Fast as Keepsake was, if Sister had been on one of her pure Thoroughbreds she might have nudged a bit closer, for her huntsman was on Kilowatt, a horse of blazing speed. Kilowatt had washed out on the track but not because he wasn’t blindingly fast. He did not feel compelled to run in circles even if they were big circles.

He wasn’t running in circles now. That long, effortless stride, that magical reach from the shoulder backed up by a powerful engine in the rear, made Kilowatt look as though he wasn’t really going that fast.

He was.

Weevil, breathing hard as much from excitement as the long run, didn’t bother to blow his horn. Hounds were on. They knew they were on. He’d blown “Gone Away” when everyone hit. Snaking through the woods he emerged on the far side, passing a huge rock outcropping perhaps a story and a half high. All manner of creatures lived in there but the hounds did not veer toward it. Their hunted fox was moving, moving straight. Weevil felt certain this was a gentleman fox who had visited a lady in hopes of wooing her. Fellows will travel for miles to be in the company of a vixen. The vixens can take them or leave them. Those vixens look them over. No sensible girl wants a lazy bum, regardless of species.

Now Sister rode by the rock outcropping, colder there, a deep chill, the water that seeped between the rocks froze ice blue, beautiful despite the cold.

The tall six-foot woman, in her early seventies, long legs, could stick on a horse. Since she kept moving all her life, never indulged in smoking or much drink, she remained in fantastic shape. Good thing. She needed it now.

She knew to the right of the woods, across the road, rested another old estate, a small Virginia farmhouse called Old Dalby. Like many farms and estates in central Virginia things remained in the family, passing through either the male line or the female line but the name of the estate stayed the same.

Coming out of the woods, she slowed to a trot, for hounds lost the scent on a patch of running cedar, a scent killer known to foxes. They know every trick in the book. People who don’t have an acquaintance with them think all those stories about a fox’s superior mind are fanciful. Not if you’re hunting one.

Grateful for the respite, rider and horse stopped to watch the hounds work. High, driven, frantic to pick up the scent, they cast themselves, pushing, pushing, pushing.

The wind, stronger now that they were in the open, moved, as it usually does in this part of the world, from west to east, most often from the northwest down.

Weevil studied the situation. Sister could have told him what to do but as this was his second year hunting the hounds she would not interfere. Nor would his two whippers-in, standing at a distance on the right and the left. If he wanted help he would have asked.

Weevil did not suffer from false pride.

He looked up, watched treetops swaying back in the woods. Taking a deep breath, he asked Kilowatt to walk thirty yards to his right and forward. The woods somewhat shifted the wind but not too much.

“Get ’em up,” he encouraged them.

Aces, a young hound, eagerly followed, as did the others. The other twenty-three couple of hounds, which is to say forty-six hounds, for hounds are always measured in couples and have been since the days of the pharaohs, followed. Cora, a brilliant hound, started feathering, that tail picking up speed like a windshield wiper.

“Got him!” she shouted as she took off.

Within seconds the pack moved off, Weevil behind. Again, the pace was blistering.

The brief wait allowed Sister to check the field. Some had fallen behind. Not all horses were as hunting fit as they might be, and then again, not all horses were fast. A few would finally bring up the rear or fall back to Second Flight, which took small jumps but often used gates, a time-consuming process.

The wind bit now. Glad she wore her white cashmere sweater under her heavy Melton coat, a white stock tie covering the neckline, Sister again moved out.

On and on they rode, the pace faltering then picking up again until hounds reached Bishop’s Court, formerly the only Catholic church in Albermarle County in the early eighteenth century before, as the population grew, the economy finally soared after we had paid our war debt and other Catholic churches cropped up. In those days being Catholic was no advantage, as most of the settlers came from the British Isles where, with the exception of Irish ones, if one was Catholic, they often hid it. Henry VIII and the Dissolution saw to that as well as mass deaths from turning out the monks, nuns, hunting down priests like vermin.

Sister saw the quarry, a healthy large male red fox who sped to the church, ducking into a den he’d dug under it. Hounds reached the spot perhaps four minutes after he’d gone to ground.

Weevil hopped off Kilowatt, his legs the tiniest bit shaky, for it was a long, long, hard run, where he blew “Gone to Ground.” Patting each hound’s head he praised them by name as Kilowatt patiently stood.

Finally Weevil turned to his horse, stroked his head, and kissed his nose. He loved animals and they loved him. Swinging up in the saddle, he smiled at his whippers-in.

The hunt had to turn back, as this was the last fixture before the end of the road, the southern spike from Chapel Cross, each road called by its direction, north, south, east, or west. The road ended before an odd ridge, left by the glacier, prevented further travel by car. The ridge was thick up there and steep. It was also full of game and perhaps a few illegal activities, for the waters ran crystal clear down to creeks below.

Sister rode up to Weevil. “The best.”

He grinned. “The breeding season runs are always the best.”

“So they are.” She turned to indicate the field. “We have about a seven mile walk back and I think we do need to walk. They look tuckered out but happy.”

“It was a test.” He nodded.

“I wouldn’t admit this to too many people but I feel it. This was the longest continuous run of our season. It’s been a spotty season.” She looked up and west. “And we’re about to get more snow. Okay. Let’s go.”

As the horses, hounds, and people turned to walk along, Sister joined the field, chatting with people as they walked. No need to be silent now. One does not speak in the hunt field, but the hunt was over so, of course, everyone wanted to weigh in on the bear. Death defying.

She smiled, listened, enjoying what she thought of as her people.

Their goal, Tattenhall Station, would take a good forty minutes at this pace but that was fine.

First Flight and Second Flight merged, more fun for all.

Crawling along on the road, driving her big BMW 5 SUV was Yvonne Harris and Aunt Daniella Laprade with, in the backseat, Kathleen Sixt Dunbar, an antiques dealer who had moved here when her husband died last year, leaving her his business. Kathleen, Daniella, and Yvonne became dedicated car followers, and soon good friends. Tootie waved to her mother, Yvonne, as she kept her eye on the hounds, just as happy as the people to return to water and a biscuit. Once at the kennel they would be given a warm mash after such a day. Sister would pour in a bit of whiskey. She claimed it was her secret ingredient for a terrific hound. It was a secret, or not-so-secret, ingredient for many in the field as well, for they drained their flasks. It may not have slaked thirst but one felt warm.

Twenty-five minutes later Sister reached the hill behind Tattenhall Station, which could be viewed in the distance, as welcome a sight as it once was for much of the county, being the old train station for the Norfolk Southern Railway, the line running east and west. Falling into disuse as passenger lines vanished, cars taking over, the Victorian structure held many memories. Norfolk Southern finally sold it to an Indian gentleman, Kasmir Barbhaiya, who restored it to its bric-a-brac glory, as well as the over one thousand acres he purchased around it. Educated at private, called public, school in England, thence on to Oxford, he had a brilliance that resulted in an enormous fortune made in the pharmacy industry in India. Once free of running the business he repaired to central Virginia, for he had fallen in love with the place.

Not only did Sister daily give thanks for this warm, loving man, she especially gave thanks as she looked at the train station, now perhaps seven minutes away. Anything to feel warmth.

Weevil, Betty, and Tootie reached the parking lot before the others, already dismounted, and were loading hounds into their trailer, filled with fresh straw so hounds could bed down. Once hounds were up, the three did not untack their horses except to take off the bridles. Each threw a heavy blanket over their mount, keeping the saddle on to keep the animal’s back warm. Most people removed the saddle but Sister believed the saddle and the pad kept the horse warm until you reached home. No point having a cold-backed horse. Also loaded onto the trailer, feed bags hanging inside, they were happy. Good hay can make most any horse happy.

Reaching her trailer, Betty and Tootie’s horses already inside, Sister steeled herself. Once her feet hit the ground they would sting like the devil. Swinging her right leg over, she slowly slid down Keepsake’s left side. Good boy that he was he didn’t mind this slow dismount. Accustomed to Sister’s ways he knew he’d soon be toasty in his heavy blanket, eating hay with his buddies.

“Dammit to hell,” Sister cursed under her breath.

Father Mancusco, at the next trailer, remarked, “I heard that.”

“Father, I apologize. But I will not do the stations of the cross.”

“Of course you won’t. You’re an Episcopalian. These things happen.” He teased her good-naturedly. “By the way, I do hope you realize that we were running Catholic fox. Popped right in at Bishop’s Court.”

“I did.” She adored the middle-aged priest, glad he was a hunting man, for he had been transferred to the area within the last six months.

Fewer and fewer men dedicated themselves to the priesthood, so Father Mancusco’s taking over of the church in Charlottesville was good for all. Sally Taliaferro, also a new member, had been assigned as the priest at St. Emmanuel’s Episcopal church in Greenwood, and the two hunting divines, which was how Sister thought of them, struck up a friendship. Both faced many of the same problems.

“Need a hand?” Weevil offered, his lips about blue.

“Almost done. Honey, go inside and warm up.”

“Forget her, Weevil. She’s a tough old bird,” Betty called as she opened the trailer door.

“Watch your mouth.” Sister led Keepsake into the trailer while Betty held the door.

“Hell of a run.” The mid-fiftyish Betty beamed.

“Was. It’s been an on-again, off-again season for everyone but those hunting coyote.”

“Right.” Betty closed the door as Sister emerged. “Come on, I can’t feel my feet.”

“I can’t either.”

The two hurried into the Tattenhall Station, each step a little stab of pain. Once inside it felt like heaven. Two fireplaces, the original heating system, blazed at either end of the large room, the original waiting room, while an enormous wood-burning stove commanded the center of the room. A fence had been placed around it, as sometimes hunters imbibed too much and might lurch into it. No danger of that with the cavernous fireplaces, simple brick with deep white mantles.

Kasmir and his lady friend, Alida Dalzell, had staff to prepare hot food, hot drinks, put out a full bar. He happily shared his wealth. Kasmir and Alida chattered with animation, as did everyone, concerning the hunt.

Carter Nicewonder, a private jeweler, a Jefferson Hunt member for a year, visited everyone, eagerly describing the estate “new” jewelry he purchased recently. He pulled out of his pocket an antique pin, Artemis’s visage thereon. Freddie Thomas, an accountant who often worked with Ronnie Haslip, club treasurer, passed on it but she would think about it.

Kasmir walked over to Carter. “How was your trip?”

“Cold, rainy, wonderful. England will always be England.”

“That it will. Any luck?”

“Yes. I bought a few good things. I always enjoy finding old jewelry wherever I go, but as England and America are so close in taste, or once we were, the pieces are lovely. The Saudis buy quite a bit, as many have been educated in England. I don’t have as many contacts there but yes, it was good.”

“Glad to hear it.” Kasmir clapped him on the back. Then he left to circulate.

“Notice how cold it was, piercing cold, by that huge rock outcropping?” Alida mentioned to Margaret DuCharme, M.D., who had hunted today.

“Cut you to the bone but wasn’t the blue ice gorgeous? Like Ginger Rogers’s dress in ‘Cheek to Cheek.’ ”

“Margaret, that movie was in black and white.” Alida, another movie buff, laughed.

“The pictures were of an ice blue dress. What an athlete she was, and she loved horses.”

As they chattered on, warming up with hot toddies, Aunt Daniella, ninety-four, although that was fudging, sat in the large wing chair in front of the eastern fireplace. “I was in the car and I got tired. You all must be exhausted and famished.”

“Yes, but I am happy to bring you a drink.” Weevil doted on the elderly lady, one of the great beauties of her day.

“A double bourbon would be most restorative.” She beamed at him and off he went to fetch her the drink.

Kathleen Sixt Dunbar sat next to Aunt Daniella, as the irrepressible African American lady, who could pass for white if she wanted to and she did not, knew everyone and would introduce her to people.

A clap of thunder cut the talk.

Sister walked with Weevil to Aunt Daniella. “It’s been years since we had a thundersnow but that sounds ominous. Better get hounds home.”

“Yes, Master.” He handed Aunt Daniella her drink.

Aunt Dan, in a deep purple cashmere turtleneck, thanked him then said to Sister, “What next?”

“Aunt Dan,” Sister said with a smile, “never say that.”