Scarlet Fever

CHAPTER 10

March 7, 2019 Thursday

The sound of water often brought relaxation to people. Not at Mill Ruins, an old Jefferson Hunt fixture formerly owned by the late Peter Wheeler, who had bequeathed it to the hunt club. Walter Lungrun lived there now on a ninety-nine-year lease. The waterwheel turned, water flying off the paddles. Usually the sound pleased Sister but today as she rode by, all she could hear was water. Water melted from snowbanks and overrunning streams. Water dripped off trees. Water, water everywhere. You could drink most of it, unlike the Ancient Mariner.

The temperature climbed to fifty-three degrees Fahrenheit. She had crawled into bed last night with a frost already on the ground and woke up to what felt like the tropics after the recent cold weather and the snows.

Good thing the drive into Mill Ruins had been paved years ago. Potholes here and there testified to the fact that it should be paved again, but what an expense. Better to fill in the holes once winter had truly passed, which according to the calendar was to be at 5:58 PM, March 20, the vernal equinox.

Much as Sister wanted to believe that day would herald spring she knew better. Central Virginia suffered some bitter April snowstorms. March was always tricky but you knew that. April really could break your heart. She thought of T. S. Eliot, of course. As she was quoting “April is the cruelest month” to herself, a deep voice broke the recall.

“Somebody I don’t know,” Asa sang out.

Noses down, hounds trotted. While they liked to know whom they were running, any scent was better than no scent, plus this was an opportunity to learn the ways of a new fox.

Mill Ruins, large in scope, hosted foxes. The senior fox, James, lived behind the mill itself. What a crab. The other foxes, most newer to the area except for Grenville, a gray, who lived in the back acres called Shootrough, gave the old red fox a wide berth.

James bitched and moaned about everything and everyone. Hated the hounds, naturally. Felt the other foxes were worthless unless they gave the hounds a run. Why should he trouble himself? They’d come sniffing around his den and those younger hounds had no respect. They would sass him in his own den. Nothing one could do about the young whether fox or hound. Useless, a useless younger generation. The world, of course, was coming to an end. He predicted this often and at high volume. Even Walter, sitting in his den after a long day at the hospital, could hear the furious barking as James would walk around the house, the barns, pick up anything edible, then retire to his den.

The pack walked straight to his den once Weevil mounted up. Shaker had given Weevil an overview of the various fixtures as well as the quarry. Weevil called hounds away. They were now trotting down the farm road curving behind the old mill, splitting two large wet pastures, fenced in.

Hortensia, a gray, had crossed the pastures perhaps twenty minutes ago after a night out, not so much from hunger as from boredom. Game of any variety, who had been staying warm and dry in their dens, were glad for a little sunshine and warmth. She’d crossed the pastures, the road, the old farm paths all over the place, to return to a sturdy outbuilding almost as old as the mill itself. Two stories high with a sharply sloped roof, this was the original hay shed, with hand-hewn beams. Walter still stored hay in the top story, some of it filtering down below, where he put up two hay wagons and a small tractor for pulling same. Hortensia heard the hounds so she didn’t curl up in a hay wagon that she liked, as an old horse blanket had been tossed in the back. Instead she went to her den, warm enough although she was tired of being inside. At least on the hay wagon she could look about.

Hounds picked up her line, crossed the sodden first field, leapt over a stout jump in the fence flanking the road, moved across the soaked road to clear the matching jump opposite the one they had just taken.

All Sister could hear apart from her hounds was squish, squish, squish. Aztec, her chestnut Thoroughbred, slipped in a few places. A good athlete, he kept his balance, but slipping and sliding on horseback works your obliques. Sister knew her muscles were working overtime.

At the corner of this pasture a tidy three-log jump had been built in the fall by Walter from a downed tree. In a perfect world each side of fencing would have a jump in it but that takes energy and sometimes money if one had to purchase the materials. As a large gum tree had come down, he’d cut up the trunk, placing the jump in the corner, where it served double duty.

Weevil skidded a bit into it but Kilowatt easily sailed over without a rub. Seeing the bobble, Sister rated Aztec, trotting now. They, too, made it over, only to sink into mud on the other side.

She could hear the oomphs behind her but no cries or cussing. The field proved small on Thursday, which was normal. Given the terrible weather all season, most hunt fields were small throughout the Mid-Atlantic.

Hounds ran now. She kept up. They passed a small shed, tidy, for Walter loathed debris of any sort. Hounds reached the impressive hay barn, doors open a crack for ventilation.

“She’s here,” Little Tinsel yelled at the den opening.

All the hounds crowded around as Hortensia moved farther back in her den. Why did they have to make so much noise?

Weevil dismounted, squeezed through the slightly opened doors to go to the den. Hortensia’s fragrance filled his nostrils. He praised the hounds, patting each one on the head, and blew “Gone to Ground,” leading them out, where he closed the doors a bit more.

Mounted up he moved back to the pastures, intending to go all the way to the rear of the fixture if needs be.

Yvonne and Aunt Daniella drove slowly on the road.

“Sure glad this is four-wheel drive,” Yvonne said.

Behind her, Bainbridge drove an older Tahoe that was one of his father’s cars. Morris sat in the seat next to him. He knew what was going on.

On his horse, Drew, in a light twill scarlet frock, stood out. He had a coat in every weight, as well as a black frock. He looked wonderful and as he was the only man in the field apart from Walter and Sam Lorillard, Gray being up in Washington, Drew had the ladies all to himself, a pleasant event.

Freddie Thomas rode with him, an even more pleasant event.

On they struggled. One footing mess after another. Reaching the creek at the bottom of the road now crowded by two thick woods, Yvonne opened her window a crack.

“My God, it sounds like Niagara Falls,” she exclaimed.

“Does.” Aunt Daniella also ran down her window a bit. “Warm but the air’s raw. Do you notice?”

“All that moisture.” Yvonne closed the window. “I’m not going down there. I know this machine can go through that crossing but I’m not doing it. Let me pull over to the left. What’s his name again…?”

“Bainbridge.”

“Another snotty Virginia name?” Yvonne raised her eyebrows.

“As a matter of fact, yes, but not as snotty as the Taylors would wish. Bradford beats them hands down.”

“Bradford.”

“From 1607. Came with Captain Smith.”

“Ah.” Yvonne smiled. “You know them all, too, don’t you?”

“Well, not from 1607, but yes. Blood still matters here and strange to say, but do remember I am a Laprade and a Lorillard. And remember we were free blacks resented, I fear, by many. The old families all have tales of bad behavior, woe, sickness handed down from generation to generation, but in the main, they still contribute.”

“Even the crazies?”

“Define crazy.” Aunt Daniella folded her arms across her chest.

“You know, clinical depression, stuff like that.”

“Well, of course, until recently we didn’t have such terms, but take for instance many of the old families, even back to the seventeenth century. Most saved their family Bibles. What we now call manic depression runs in many families. If you read what happened to a few of them in each generation it’s apparent, and yet every generation of the old families contributes. Just the way it is.”

“Well, your family has.”

“Thank you but we, too, have had our misfits. For us it usually involves someone speculating. Land stuff or stocks. A strain of gambling seems to run in the Laprades. Now, I do not bring this up in front of Gray. He is so upright. It is possible to be too good.”

“He certainly made a name for himself in Washington.”

“Of all the places to be too good.” Aunt Daniella laughed. “Ah, there goes Bainbridge, passing you as slowly as a mother hen.”

“Nice-looking.”

“The Taylors are, and they greatly resemble one another through time. But the Taylor blood has watered down. Not stupid, mind you, but just enough money to make bums out of them.”

“Ah, yes. Lots of that in Chicago.”

“Do you ever miss Chicago?”

“I miss the symphony and the theater. Forgive me, Aunt Daniella, but Richmond is not a cultural powerhouse.”

A long pause followed this. “No. Richmond will catch up. Personally, I like the Philadelphia Museum of Art, as well as their Natural Museum. Much as I appreciate the cultural resources of New York, I like Philadelphia better. Maybe it’s because they were Quakers and opposed slavery early.”

“They did, didn’t they?”

“Before the war, New York had something like over thirty thousand slaves. I do tire of the posturing.”

“The times in which we live.”

“Yes, everyone is a pure little daisy in a field of bullshit.” Aunt Daniella laughed.

“So unimaginative, isn’t it?” Then Yvonne laughed, too. “I mean, I truly hate my ex-husband but that video of him on the sofa with the two women he was keeping, the further away I get from it the funnier it is. No pure daisies there.”

“Better than a financial scandal, that’s for sure.”

“Do you hear anything?”

Aunt Daniella pushed the electric button and the window purred down. “Not a thing. Sister will need to call the hunt. They’ve been out over an hour. They did have a small run. The footing is only going to get worse. Stop while you’re ahead.”

As if hearing the older woman, Sister called Weevil to her. After a brief discussion he lifted hounds. They walked back to the trailers. No one was disappointed, for the footing worried everyone. There wasn’t one rider who didn’t have splashes of mud all the way up on their breeches. Coming in early reflected how bad the weather had been for this hunt season.

The breakfast in Walter’s home brought everyone in, including Morris and Bainbridge, as well as Yvonne and Aunt Dan. People thoughtfully removed their boots, as a large bootjack stood by the door in the mudroom, aptly named. From there one stepped into the narrow side hall. The floors, clean and dry, didn’t feel too cold.

Sandwiches, cheese, fruit, brownies, and hot drink, as well as a bar, kept people happy. As Walter was a bachelor, no one expected him to mount a breakfast. Also it was a Thursday hunt, usually small.

Walter, no cook, had picked up food from Foods of All Nations the night before. Small though the store was, it had high-quality items.

Betty, a whizz at making good coffee, did that while Walter acted as the bartender.

Bainbridge kept away from his uncle but he did keep his eye on Morris happily chatting up Freddie Thomas, Tootie, any woman at all.

In the middle of this he walked over to help Betty.

“I’ve got it, Morris. Would you like some coffee?”

“How about a cup with milk and sugar for Sharon?”

She stopped a moment, for Sharon had been dead three years, then replied, “Tell you what, Tootie looks as though she could use a cup. Why don’t you give this to her and I’ll refresh the pot.”

As he walked away happy to be useful, Betty motioned for Drew to come over, and she told him of the exchange.

Drew thanked her, walked over to his brother while looking for Bainbridge.

“Did you enjoy the hunt?” Morris asked Tootie.

“Slick as an eel out there, but hounds found.”

“Heard them.” Morris grinned. “Excuse me. I need to bring a fresh coffee for Sharon. You know how raw air affects her.” Tootie simply nodded in agreement.

Then he stopped at Sister. “Where’s Sharon? She needs coffee.”

“She’s not here right now,” Sister stated, not as surprised as she might have been.

“She has to be. Sharon always comes to a hunt breakfast.”

“Come on, Morris. How about if I walk you out to the car,” Sister volunteered.

“No.”

Drew, having overheard the exchange, frantically looked for his nephew, now talking to Weevil. “Betty,” he called out. “Can you get Bainbridge over here?”

“Of course.”

Bainbridge came over as Betty explained to Weevil what was going on. Sister joined Betty, hoping this would go smoothly.

“Come on, Dad, let me drive you home.”

“Not without your mother.” He snapped his lips together.

“Come on, Dad.”

“No!”

Drew took one arm as Bainbridge took the other. “Come on, bro.”

“I want my wife.”

“Dad, Mom’s been dead for years.” Bainbridge couldn’t think of what else to say.

All of a sudden Morris howled, tears flowing. “No. No. You lie.”

Now Walter came over. The three men managed to get Morris out the door, despite resistance from the screaming, crying man.

Sister watched the ordeal.

Betty tapped a glass on the table. She tapped again.

“Folks. Morris was asking for Sharon. He had forgotten she’d passed on. There’s nothing anyone can do. I’m sure you understand. This is unfortunate.”

Sister whispered to Betty, “Bless you. I was a bit confused.”

This announcement was followed by a moment of silence and then people started talking to one another again.

Tootie joined her mother. Aunt Daniella was avidly talking to Sam.

“It must be awful for him to have to relive these events,” Tootie said to her mother.

“He’s a big man. I’m glad he didn’t throw a punch.”

“Walter is bigger.”

“That he is. Do you need anything?”

“No, Mom. Do you?”

“Yes. If you get by the pet store, will you buy a box of Greenies and maybe some dog crackers for the fox?”

“Sure.”

“And when you bring them, bring Weevil. We can all have a visit.”

“Okay.”

Yvonne put her hand on Tootie’s arm. “I can never tell you enough how much I love Ribbon. She is the best present anyone has ever given me. She knows how to sit now. We are working on stay.”

They heard more yelling from outside.

Weevil walked out to see if Walter or Drew needed help. Sam followed.

No one really knew what to do. They didn’t want to hurt Morris. Finally they hoisted him into the Tahoe.

The men watched in silence as Bainbridge, locking the doors, drove off.