Scarlet Fever

CHAPTER 7

February 28, 2019 Thursday

A long wide pasture alongside a wide hard-running creek set off the house at Heron’s Plume. As it was, this southernmost fixture proved rich in scent, soil, architecture, and owners. Over the last two hundred and thirty years the bottom land made a fortune for Robert Pickett, the first owner of what was then two thousand acres. Growing hemp, corn, wheat, and pumpkins, Pickett made enough money in those early years to throw up good brick barns and a two-story brick house flanked by brick outbuildings. Brick, easy to come by with all the clay in central Virginia, stood the test of time. So did the Picketts, the last male perishing in 1932. However, Madelenine Pickett had married a railroad baron by the name of Ingram. As the male Pickett line died out, the female surged ever onward. The family gave generously to nonprofits, especially those of a medical nature, the county rejoiced in the longevity of the blood. Proto-feminists, subsequent female Ingrams took the Pickett surname.

The brick gates into the estate, white topped with a flat pediment, had a large brass square on the right gate with script saying “Heron’s Plume.” The left gate, another polished brass square, simply announced “1789.”

The curiosity of it was that the gorgeous place never hosted foxhunts. No one really knew why. Sister always viewed it with lust but was far too well-bred to ask for permission to hunt.

Fate stepped in. Walter Lungren, in a fit of upgrading his wardrobe, happened to be shopping in the upscale men’s store in Barracks Road Shopping Center. Chalmers Perez, a pile of fine cotton shirts on the counter, stood in front of him. They chatted amiably, knowing each other superficially. Chalmers grabbed his chest, gasped, and dropped. Walter, a cardiologist, knew exactly what to do, literally saving Chalmers’s life. He also visited him every day in the hospital, for the fifty-two-year-old man needed a new heart valve. As the heavyset Chalmers recovered, the two men talked about his diet, his need for exercise, and more, his need for discipline. Without prompting, the owner of Heron’s Plume, married to a Pickett, Dulcie, invited Walter and Jefferson Hunt to ride at the old estate, which he promised overflowed with foxes.

He was right. As this was Jefferson’s first year on the grounds, a learning year, lots of hunt and peck, they discovered Mr. Perez told the truth. Foxes ran Heron’s Plume.

The day, overcast and cold, was at least relatively dry. Weevil, as soon as the small field mounted up, cast east along the creek, hitting in two skinny minutes. The red never showed himself but he wove in and out of brick buildings that had once housed cattle, horses, hay, plus a sumptuous chicken coop. Humans could live in that chicken coop, for Chalmers’s chickens were his pride. If the chicken was rare and a good layer, he had it.

The fox doesn’t live that can resist a henhouse but no fox could dig under, climb over, or even try to lure one of these prized birds into his jaws. However, this fox was smart enough to circle the glamorous pile then shoot straight up to a low ridge, maybe one hundred feet high, total lift above sea level maybe six hundred feet, enough for the wind to slice you if it was blowing, because once up there you were exposed.

The hounds felt it. The wind was really only about twelve miles per hour. Enough.

Trees, mostly evergreens, for the deciduous trees were denuded, swayed in the wind.

“Where’d he go?” Tattoo cried in frustration.

“He either dipped on the other side or he has a den up here.” Dreamboat, nose down, kept trying.

As the ridge ran from the southwest to the northeast, the other side was on the northeast from where the pack and the field climbed up. Wind usually hits from the west, northwest in this part of Virginia and it was hitting now. The pack dropped over the path on the ridge but scent had been blown to bits.

Weevil wisely clucked to his hounds, “Come away.”

They did, following him down. Once down in the lovely valley again they hit another line and damned if this fox didn’t run to the buildings, as well. Each time the pack encountered a building it slowed them, for they followed the scent around the building.

The fox literally ran rings around them.

“Woodpile.” Dasher flew over the hard ground, as the line had warmed a bit when the sun hit it.

Screaming, they flew behind the big hay barn, behind the grain silo, and hooked a right turn, winding up at the woodpile, where the fox scurried into a perfect den. So many creatures frequented the woodpile that the fox could chat up most everyone and even pretend to hunt mice. Given that the owners left so much grain on the floor of the silo, this fellow and most of the other foxes could eat leftover oats all winter. The corn had filled a smaller silo. That brought everyone in, too.

The wind picked up, Sister felt her face tingle plus the cold made her eyes tear.

Riding up to Weevil, she wiped her eyes. “Cast crosswind. That should get you all the way down to the farm gate. Then you can turn into the wind, which will be a bitch, I know. Hunt back to here. If we don’t get anything, call it a day.”

“Yes, Madam.”

Sister watched as he turned Showboat, Shaker’s handy Thoroughbred, crosswind, the pack obediently following their huntsman, who gave a little toodle.

Cindy Chandler, riding with the Bancrofts up front, liked being on this new fixture despite the trying conditions. The field, small, reflected her curiosity and her pleasure. The idea that after two hundred and thirty years Heron’s Plume finally was open to them seemed like magic.

Betty Franklin mirrored the pack, riding on the other side of the creek branch, which at this point was wide, roaring.

Tootie, on the left, followed outside the fence line, for the club had not yet had time to build jumps. After a half hour trying, Weevil lifted the pack, heading back to the trailers.

Everyone was glad to reach them, including the hounds. Chalmers and Dulcie hosted a breakfast.

“You look great,” Walter praised Chalmers once inside the house.

“Thirty pounds.” He patted his ever-shrinking stomach. “Dulcie’s support; well, everyone I know has really helped me. After that heart attack, I knew I had to change my life.”

Dulcie, his wife, had taken up walking with him, preparing meals low in fat, and watching his portions. She’d lost weight as well, not that she really needed it but most women feel they do so she was happy.

“Funny how we ignore ourselves until Mother Nature smacks us in the face. Here I am, a doctor, and I can be as pigheaded about my health as the next guy,” Walter confessed.

“You look in good shape.”

“Oh, I’m okay but my wind isn’t what it should be, and I use the excuse that I don’t need to run because riding takes care of it but it doesn’t. Need to use all those muscles.”

“What are you two talking about?” Sister joined them. “This is a lovely breakfast. Thank you.”

“Dulcie loves to entertain. But we are glad to have you. You know, it’s a beautiful sport, although I don’t envy you on the cold, cold days.”

“I’m not sure I do either.” She smiled. “Ah, here comes Gray.”

Now the four of them talked about an uproar in the county schools over T-shirts and ball caps with slogans, which upset some kids or at least their parents.

“I’m for school uniforms,” Sister posited.

“Saves money. Everyone looks alike and no one will be wearing naked ladies or whatever the offense du jour is.”

“Naked ladies are a lot more fun than the more political stuff,” Chalmers mused.

“Maybe not if you’re a young woman.” Gray smiled. “Don’t know. As far as I know, images of naked men haven’t lured women into wearing them.”

“Of course not. All a young lady has to do is stand there. You all would take off your clothing in a heartbeat,” Sister teased.

They laughed, chatted more, then Chalmers asked Walter, “How about Harry Dunbar? What a loss. You know he was often called to museums as an expert. I think the number of those is dwindling.”

“Maybe it depends on the period,” Gray spoke up.

“Chalmers, we all knew Harry for years. Good rider. Slowing down a bit but he said business had picked up. Cut into time,” Sister said.

“Sure does.” Walter nodded.

“But didn’t Harry and Drew Taylor get crossways years back?” Chalmers wrinkled his brow. “Honey, come here.” He turned to Sister, Gray, and Walter. “She remembers everything.”

Dulcie recapped the distant uproar concerning Mrs. Taylor’s furniture legacy. “Well…” Chalmers paused. “Drew was precipitous.”

“Because he didn’t get other opinions?” Walter had just been out of school when all this happened.

Betty, joining them, piped up. “The Taylors feel they are old Albemarle County and should be treated as such. Harry, for his own cover, should have suggested they get other opinions.”

“Betty, why? The brothers told him to clean out the junk; their words, according to Harry. If that’s what they thought, how can they come back later weeping and wailing? His exact word, junk.”

“That may be so but no one likes their ignorance made plain, do they?” Betty touched on human vanity. “And then again, Harry was in a business where a four hundred percent markup isn’t unusual. I’m not saying antiques dealers are crooks but they can slap on whatever price the market will bear.” She paused. “I guess that applies to anyone.”

“Art galleries are worse. Dulcie and I tread carefully.”

“You have such extraordinary work, but you and your wife specialized.”

Dulcie beamed. “We love sporting art, most especially of dogs. When we started collecting it was such a tiny group of people and the work was pooh-poohed by the modern art set. We got hooked. There’s a world of talent in those paintings, as well as emotion.”

As if on cue, a magnificent Gordon setter padded into the room to stand by Dulcie.

Her hand dropped to its well-proportioned head. “Living art.”

Gray smiled. “Sister feels the same way about her hounds.”

Sister inclined her head, saying to Dulcie, “Don’t we all love our animals and think they are the best?”

Dulcie nodded then asked, “Did you buy that Louis XV desk? Oh, Sister, those inlaid flowers, that marquetry. Really divine.”

“How did you know about that?” Sister noted Gray’s slight intake of breath.

“Oh, you know Harry. He called me down to look on his big computer at the American Kennel Club gallery museum. He said if I ever or we ever wanted to sell any of our collection there was a growing market. He knows the AKC director; of course, Harry knows, or knew, everybody. I can’t get used to putting him in the past tense.”

“None of us can, honey.” Chalmers put his arm around his wife’s shoulders.

“Fate? His time? I don’t know. But I do know as I grow older these goodbyes do not get easier. If anything they cut deeper,” Sister replied.

“The human condition.” Gray reached for her hand even as he wondered about the desk.

As the foxhunters left with thank-yous, Gray lingered to talk to Chalmers about a D.C. legal firm they both knew; Sister, outside, took Betty by the elbow, vigorously propelling her toward Betty’s trailer. “What is the matter with you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Harry was not a cheat. The Taylors got what was coming to them.”

“He was hardly a saint.”

“Well, who the hell is?” Sister’s eyebrows raised.

“I believe he did take advantage of people. And maybe the Taylors had it coming, given their social pretensions, but still. He could take advantage of people.”

“Only if he disliked them.”

Betty had to smile. “There is that. I always thought we should have bought Drew’s mother a tiara, the queen of western Albemarle County.”

They both laughed as they reached the truck cab. Gray had walked out of the house.

Sister, under her breath, “Do not say a word, one word, about the Louis XV desk.”

“I didn’t know anything about it. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Betty, I’m suffering the tortures of the damned over it. I was working up my nerve. I can’t throw money around like that.”

Hand on the door handle, Betty, voice low, “How much?”

“Starting at twenty thousand. I might have whittled it down. But still.”

“A lot. Then again, you have never gotten over your uncle’s desk being stolen. I don’t know. I can’t hardly pay the damn electric bill for the shop and then the house. Gets higher and higher every winter. But if I had the money, you know what, I’d buy whatever I damn well wanted.” She opened the door, climbing into the cab. “I’ll drop off Magellan. Outlaw had a fit this morning when I tacked up his pasture mate instead of him. Spoiled brat.”

“He’s a great horse.”

Betty smiled, ear to ear. “He is. I’m spoiled, too. Hey, I’ll clean tack tomorrow. I’ve got to run to the shop because clients are coming in for wedding invitations. Mother of the bride and bride are not in agreement. I can’t stick Bobby with two warring women.”

“Wise. I’m glad to hear true invitations are coming back. You said business was picking up.”

“Thank God. Nothing looks as good as a beautiful piece of paper, exactly the right color with exactly the right font and ink color cut into the paper. None of this computer or thermographed stuff. It’s cheap and it looks cheap. For the great moments in life you need correct invitations.”

“That’s why you and Bobby do the hunt ball invitations. Okay, see you tomorrow.”

Sister opened the door to her dually, ten years old and in great condition because she fanatically took care of it.

Betty drove off in front as Gray fired up the engine. “Louis XV.”

“Well, I didn’t buy it so I saw no point in bringing it up.” What a fibber she was right then.

“Janie.”

She shifted her weight in the comfortable seat. “All right. I would have told you but I can’t buy it.”

“Is it as beautiful as Dulcie said?”

“Ravishing.”

“Ah.”

They rode in silence, the farm was at the most now twenty minutes away hauling horses, going the speed limit.

“Honey, it is your money.”

“And you are an accountant.” She smiled at him because she knew it took a lot for him not to make a judgment. “I often wonder why it is that the two men in my life were and are money men. My father was good with money, as well.”

Gray, eyes on the road, thought about this. “Well, when you deal with money you see how easy it is to lose it. Ray,” he named Sister’s husband, who died in 1991, “could make money. He was a stockbroker. He had a kind of aggressiveness about money that I don’t have. I’m not a risk taker, not with money, anyway. I’m not cheap, at least I don’t think I am. But I’m careful. Sam is careful, since he cleaned up his life. Mercer was more than careful. Mercer was shrewd, but Aunt Daniella? Now, there’s a gambler at heart.”

They laughed, for Aunt Daniella proved fearless in all respects.

“What I think is funny is that both the men in my life were, are very masculine.”

“Toxic?” He turned slightly toward her.

“I try to avoid those ever-evolving ideologies,” Sister answered. “For whatever reason I am attracted to manly men. Broad shoulders. Little hips. Hard muscles. Strong faces. Big egos. Well, enough ego to succeed. I mean, Gray, does anyone get anything done without an ego? I have one. I’m better at hiding it.”

“You’re a woman. You’re better at a lot of things. But are you smart to hide your ego? You are.”

“Those heated replies from young women about how the qualities that make a man successful are derided in a woman, how a man can be called driven, while the woman is a bitch. That sort of thing. It’s true but it’s changing.”

“It’s changing, honey, because men can’t get the job done anymore. In truth, I don’t know if anyone can. But back to men and women. You do look good, sugar; oh, you do look good and you affect me. I’d be a liar if I said you would have the same impact if,” he paused, “you had not been blessed by nature. We are animals, after all.”

“You sweet thing.” She smiled. “Yes, we are animals. In some ways that’s as it should be. In other ways, a difficulty. But then again, we are of a certain age. For my generation a man needed a ‘can do’ attitude. He needed to carry the weight willingly in his way and we needed to carry it in ours. Of course, it is different now but I’m no different.”

“For which I am grateful. We’re supposed to change with the times but some changes…” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Well, I do know I could never be with a drag queen.” She stopped then laughed. “Sometimes in an evening gown I feel like a drag queen.”

“You mean I can’t raid your closet?”

“You’d never fit in my clothes.”

“I don’t have your beautiful breasts.”

“The moustache wouldn’t help.”

They laughed, happy in each other’s company. They really were the right two people for each other.

Gray pulled the trailer next to the stable so they could unload without fuss. Tootie and Weevil were in the kennel. Their horses were turned out, rugs in place. Betty’s trailer, neatly parked in the parking lot, displayed how muddy the roads were.

Horses unloaded, cleaned up, given fresh water and a bit of warm mash, were then turned out to romp before nightfall. Those four-legged kids could have hunted hard and long but they needed their playtime, equine gossip, and kicking up hind legs. What a life.

Finally back in the house, showered, hunt kit neatly hanging on pegs in the mudroom to be brushed tomorrow, boots polished, the two sat down for a restorative drink.

Golly, Raleigh, and Rooster plopped on the floor of the kitchen. Sister boiled water for tea. Gray made himself a simple scotch, two ice cubes with a splash of water. He could never understand why one would buy good liquor then besmirch it with stuff. Maybe an orange peel or lemon but that was the limit.

“Sure you don’t want a hot cup of tea to chase your drink? I still feel a bit of cold in my bones.”

“I can take the cold. It’s the rawness. Snow is easier than cold rain.”

“Is.” She brought her cup to the table.

“Baby,” he rarely called her that, “take me to see the desk. Now, I am not going to pay all of it, but if it’s that special we can split it. You have talked about that desk ever since I returned from D.C.”

“Thank you, honey.” She took a sip. “Gray, it goes so fast, both life and money.”