Out Of Hounds

CHAPTER 2

February 6, 2020 Thursday 7:00 pm

February is rarely anyone’s favorite month. Social events, special fundraisers, are not scheduled, as they are starting in April. The variability of the weather, cold adding to that discomfort, discouraged people from leaving home.

They were bored. If the weather wasn’t horrid many would throw on winter clothes to get out.

Kathleen Sixt Dunbar, factoring in the February doldrums, thought a grand reopening for the 1780 might prove successful. Her husband’s death meant she inherited the store built in 1780, hence the name.

He had lived in Charlottesville, she had lived in Oklahoma City. They never divorced, remaining friends. His untimely passing brought her to Virginia.

Enough time had passed that she felt she could have a gala opening. One needed to respect manners in these things.

Wisely paying professionals to improve the lighting, to keep an open bar, and to have hors d’oeuvres served, she could follow the hunt without fretting.

Kathleen was determined to enjoy her own party. Another wise decision.

Manfredo Sabatini, his wife at his elbow, stared at a Lionel Edwards on the wall. Edwards worked in the early twentieth century, having been born November 9, 1878, in Bristol, England. Kathleen knew when it came to any equine art, the purchase was usually emotional.

Carter Nicewonder, smartly turned out in a tweed light brown jacket with a light lavender windowpane overlay also admired the painting. His lavender tie completed the outfit; he had an eye for color.

Speaking to the Sabatinis, whom he knew from various fundraisers, Carter remarked, “He was very good. Lived to be eighty-seven. And, as you may know, he remains affordable.”

“I know so little about art.” Elise Sabatini smiled. “Fortunes today are made with paintings that look like someone did it with their feet.”

Carter smiled. “Give it time. Someone will do so and the art dealers, hoping to clean up, will declare this a comment on a peripatetic, rootless society.”

“At least I can see the workmanship in Lyne’s work.” Elise nodded at his comments. “I have a lot to learn.”

“You are too modest. Any woman who selects understated, stunning ruby and diamond earrings has a sense of proportion and color. I always think of color as paprika thrown on the roast.”

She laughed. “What an interesting description. Actually the compliment goes to my husband. He selected the earrings.”

Carter nodded to Manfredo. “Beautiful jewelry for a beautiful woman.”

Winding through the crowd, Kathleen introduced herself, as she had missed these two when they had walked in. Given that Elise Sabatini wore a man’s thin gold Patek Philippe watch, her husband had funds, the type of watch an indication of some originality. Women usually don’t buy their own watches if married. As for her husband, his jewelry consisted of a complementary thin Patek Philippe watch, a signet ring on his little finger, and a suit obviously bespoke. Kathleen had to size up a customer quickly and nothing announced money for a man faster than a bespoke suit and a thin watch as opposed to a sport watch. But it announced it quietly unless the materials were flashy. Carter was working the room. Kathleen found him amusingly single-minded. She returned her attention to the Sabatinis.

For a Virginian to judge someone with an Italian name was unfortunate, but the old ones often did or asked, quietly to others, “Who are their people?” Times had changed and the idea that someone with an Italian surname would wear a shiny suit, a gold chain around his neck, were gone except for those who studied you head to toe when you weren’t looking. Kathleen did so but not in an obvious fashion nor did she believe in stereotypes, but again could someone afford a true Hepplewhite sideboard? The newly rich in sweatpants could but had no idea of the aesthetic value. At least they bought Maseratis and Lamborghinis, which kept the great Italian car makers rolling. Actually Kathleen wouldn’t mind a Ferrari herself.

Extending her hand, she said, “Thank you for coming tonight, I’m Kathleen Sixt Dunbar. If you have any questions, I am happy to try to answer. If you have any questions regarding genealogy, do ask Aunt Daniella, the lady in the aqua dress holding court by the fireplace.”

Elise smiled, extending her hand. “Elise Sabatini.”

“I’m with her. Please call me Gigi, an old nickname.” He, too, held out his hand. “We’re new to the area, just now getting out, as our construction is almost complete.”

“Welcome. Having driven by Showoff Stables…a delightful play on showjumping, by the way…the show ring, I should say. I can see how much you’ve accomplished. When I saw your sign I burst out laughing and thought, ‘I must meet them.’ Beautiful proportions, beautiful colors. Everything laid out for the benefit of the horses.”

Elise glowed. “Thank you. Gigi and I tormented ourselves over every detail. Well, I tormented him.”

She was quite a bit younger than Gigi. He grinned. “She’s the rider. I resisted some things but when I saw how practical her ideas would be, I stopped complaining. Always marry a woman smarter than yourself.”

Kathleen laughed. “Well said. Come along. Allow me to introduce you to Daniella Laprade. She admits to being ninety-four. I don’t know, but Aunt Dan looks maybe seventy, if that.”

As the couple approached, Aunt Daniella looked from wife to husband and back again. Yes, she had the picture, then she beheld the smile on Kathleen’s face, which brightened her own.

After the introductions, Kathleen inclined her head. “Aunt Dan, I leave the Sabatinis in your capable hands. Who better to make them feel at home but you? They have built a gorgeous, gorgeous stable.”

As Kathleen walked away she already heard Elise’s laughter. God Bless Aunt Dan.

Sister came over. “You’ve outdone yourself. I thought the store lovely but this makes it almost exotic, warmer, really, and the furniture bathed in soft light, fabulous gilded mirrors, make me want to buy every one.”

“Please do.” Kathleen laughed at her.

Gray walked up. “Honey, did you see the old weather vane?”

“Yes.” Sister nodded, focusing on Kathleen. “Wherever did you find that?”

“I called all of Harry’s older clients and as luck would have it, one of them was…the word now is downsizing…and she wanted to sell things from the barn, the weather vane, mmm, late 1700s, up to maybe 1820. The simplicity of it makes me lean toward the first part of the nineteenth century, that breakover from Georgian to Federal. Well, we had Federal in the eighteenth but it was very simple, became what we now know, still simple yet with artful touches later. Oh, forgive me, Crawford and Marty just walked in and with Skiff. Amazing how she has lasted as his huntsman.”

As she walked away, Gray, usually prudent with money, took Sister by the arm, walking her to the large weather vane, golden, smack in the middle of a large, tremendously expensive Sheraton dining table, the real deal not a knockoff, which while not the real deal is still impressive.

“Beautiful.” Sister then added, “What has provoked you to be drawn to a large rooster weather vane?”

“Mother kept chickens. She had a big Plymouth Barred rooster, St. Paul, who followed her everywhere. If she were alive I would buy it for her.”

“Let’s buy it together. We can move the horse weather vane somewhere else. There are times, Gray, when one should give in to nostalgia, memory, love. We will of course call him St. Paul.” She kissed him on the cheek, which she could do without standing on her tiptoes. She was originally six-one but had shrunk to six foot. Gray stood at six-two. They were hard to miss.

Kathleen moved from group to group, chatting, pointing out what may be of interest to them, but all was low-key. Kathleen believed a good piece of furniture or art sold itself.

Crawford studied a painting by Ben Marshall, circa 1897. Like Stubbs, he received commissions to paint successful racehorses, a practice carried down to the modern day by twentieth-century artists like Richard Stone Reeves.

Gigi joined him. Crawford turned to the new fellow. “What do you think?”

“For an antiques shop she has incredible things. When I received the invitation I didn’t expect art or those studies for painting by Michael Lyne.” He held out his hand. “Gigi Sabatini. Showoff Stables.”

“Crawford Howard. Old Paradise, which I’m restoring, and Beasley Hall, which I built. I take it we’re both not native Virginians.”

“Medford, Massachusetts.”

“Jasper, Indiana.” Crawford shrugged. “It was a start.”

“I’ve only ever been to French Lick, Indiana. Good golf course.”

“Not my game. Haven’t the patience. If you’re ever interested, I’m happy to show you and your wife Old Paradise. It has quite a history.”

“I’ve just met Aunt Daniella, speaking of quite a history.”

Sister joined them. “Sister, this is Gigi Sabatini,” Crawford introduced them.

“Pleased to meet you. Your place sits between two of our fixtures. Forgive me, I should explain, I’m the master of Jefferson Hunt and Crawford has a private pack that I call the Kingmaker’s Hunt since his hero is Warwick the Kingmaker, the man who helped put Edward IV on the throne during the War of the Roses.”

“Ah,” replied Gigi, clearly not someone who cared much about anyone’s history, much less England’s.

“There you are.” Elise joined them and introductions were made.

“If you are interested in foxhunting, either of us can help you,” Sister offered.

“Thank you. I’m not sure I could do that. I’m a show-ring girl.” Elise smiled. “I’m sure it’s exciting.”

“It can be.” Sister smiled. “Your estate rests between two of our fixtures. I’m not asking to hunt it, especially since you all are new to the area. It is our state sport, for what that’s worth. I have no control where the fox runs and Welsh Harp and Wolverton, the two fixtures you sit between, are good fixtures. We rarely run your way but should that happen, do I have permission or could I ride on your outskirts to stay with hounds?”

Elise answered for both of them. “We have very expensive show horses boarded there. Is there a way you can go around us that doesn’t disturb the horses?”

“Yes, the riders can, but the hounds will follow the fox and the huntsman will follow the hounds. What I can do is tell my huntsman to do his best to turn hounds away. As it happens, we have never run a fox in your direction from Welsh Harp, which is east. But you never know. Perhaps you would like to see a hunt. We can take you in an SUV or truck.”

“I would like that. We’re pressed for time now, as we are finishing up the indoor arena, finally putting in the dehumidifier. I’ll spare you the details.” Elise smiled. “When that’s finished I will take you up on your offer.”

“Sister,” Walter called.

“My joint master. By the way, he’s the best cardiologist in central Virginia. I hope you don’t need him, but put Walter Lungren in your vital people book.” She waved to him and left.

Crawford and the Sabatinis broke up while Betty Franklin, seeing Sister chatting with the new people, walked over to do the same.

Crawford asked Kathleen about the drawings of Michael Lyne in front of Kasmir; Alida; Walter; Sister; Buddy Cadwalder, the Philadelphia furniture dealer; Father Mancusco; Reverend Sally Taliaferro; and Freddie Thomas.

“He is terribly underrated, Lyne. If you study the draftsmanship in those sketches for the full painting you can see how talented he was, but when you are working at the same time as Sir Alfred Munnings, well?” She held up her hands.

“You must come to Beasley Hall. I own the painting of his wife, Violet, sidesaddle habit, standing next to Sir Isaac,” Crawford invited her.

“I had no idea,” Kathleen exclaimed.

Buddy Cadwalder, shrewd enough to cultivate Radnor Hunt outside of Philadelphia and Fair Hills, once the private hunt of Will Dupont and Mr. Stewart’s Cheshire Foxhounds, the man knew his business, blurted out, “My God, that’s worth millions.”

Crawford shrugged this off. “Bought for my wife when she rode sidesaddle.”

The Sabatinis and Betty drifted over as Crawford discussed this treasure. As that group broke up into smaller groups, Betty, who had caught the tail end of it, explained Sir Alfred Munnings to the Sabatinis, who did know of him but had no idea such an extraordinary work would be in the community. Betty with tact explained Crawford’s fortune began when he built strip malls in Indiana, his subsequent generosity to Custis Hall, the private school, as well as the work archaeologically, architecturally at Old Paradise.

The grand opening was a success. Kathleen kissed Sister on the cheek when she left, thanking her for her help in getting people there but especially for introducing her to Aunt Daniella after Harry had died. Aunt Daniella took Kathleen under her wing, never sparing her salacious gossip regardless of decade.

Yvonne and Sam also attended but there were so many people, so much going on, they didn’t get to talk to Sister and Gray.

In Gray’s Land Cruiser driving home, St. Paul in Sister’s lap, she looked at the rooster. “He is quite the fellow. Just don’t read Saint Paul’s letter to the Ephesians to me. Why did your mother name her rooster St. Paul?”

“I have no idea. But she would tell us the story of his conversion to Christianity on the road to Damascus. She had favorite Bible stories. Sam listened more closely than I did but Mother was insistent.”

“I guess whatever religion one practices your parents have their favorite stories often repeated to keep you in line.”

“What were yours?”

Sister laughed. “Christ preaching to the men in the temple. Mother would give me her look and say, ‘Don’t get any ideas to tell me what to do. You have no halo and if you did remember, when a halo slips it becomes a noose.’ ”

As they were laughing, Kathleen, tired, thrilled, climbed the stairs to her living quarters, where she was rapturously greeted by her Welsh terrier, Abdul.

“Did you miss me?” He wagged his tail.

She sat down as he crawled into her lap. “Abdul, we made enough for good dog biscuits, greenies, and maybe a knuckle bone or two.”

“I should have been downstairs. There could have been a bad person there. I should always be with you. I will protect you.”

She listened to his little noises, petting his head, happy but exhausted. “Did you know, Abdul, that there is a famous Munnings’s painting in this county?” She paused. “Maybe there is more than one. I haven’t been here long enough to know and I haven’t asked the right questions. But now that I am finally settled, I should discretely investigate.”

“Take me with you,” he wisely advised.