Scarlet Fever

CHAPTER 19

March 16, 2019 Saturday

Neither years nor neglect had erased the purity of Bishop’s Court, an abandoned tiny Catholic chapel. The small stained-glass windows remained unmolested, as did the gilded cross on top of the chapel. Blue double doors faced each other, the paint so old it was mostly powder. This house of worship over the decades had protected the homeless, both human and fox.

The pack of hounds waited for their religious fox to come out. However, this gray, with a tight den in the office as well as places under the structure itself, wouldn’t budge.

“Come along.”

“He’s in there,” Aces correctly spoke.

“Come along,” Weevil sang out again as he turned Kilowatt away from the dignified church.

“Mass,” Pickens cheekily told the youngster.

“What’s that?” Aces wondered.

“Humans kneel and chant things,” Dasher filled him in.

“Is there anything to eat?” Angle, Aces’s brother, piped up.

“I don’t think so.” Dasher followed Weevil, as did the others.

Low clouds, mid-forties, not good golfing weather but good hunting, had given the pack a bracing run when Weevil first cast them from Little Dalby, a fixture at the edge of Jefferson Hunt territory.

The gray, young himself and surprised, ran for all he was worth to home, which took him fifteen minutes but the field a good twenty-five, for they traversed abandoned land, charged into the church land, also abandoned. Bishop’s Court, owned by early Catholics, endured, but unappreciated people back then built this small chapel for themselves. A streak of pride or rebellion or both provoked them to name their holdings Bishop’s Court two hundred twenty years ago.

Small as it was, so was the Catholic population in western Albemarle County. The faithful did come, a priest was found, and over time improvements were made, such as the stained-glass windows and a big brass door knocker for each door, a brass cross.

The church’s membership dwindled as prejudice against Catholics waned and a large church was built in Charlottesville, and then as the faithful grew, more churches appeared in surrounding counties.

Bishop’s Court finally closed in 1938 but even with peeling paint it looked as though it would stand for centuries more. From time to time an elderly person, remembering their youth in the chapel, would return. Some of their progeny did clean up the graveyard once a year as well as inspect the chapel.

Riding by, Sister considered all the strands that made Virginia. People did not necessarily believe the same things but they were tolerant. The new system of government held.

“We are a miracle, in our way,” she thought to herself then felt Keepsake twitch a tiny bit. He heard and smelled what she didn’t, a whiff of fox which the first-time lead hound, Pansy, had picked up.

Soon all the hounds surrounded a spot, noses down, sterns wagging. Then they opened and, boom, were off.

Keepsake needed no encouragement nor did Sister. The brief respite at Bishop’s Court was enough to restore them.

The field had reversed, running back in the direction from which they came, so once again they found themselves in the middle of Kingswood, an old land holding but a new fixture right next to Little Dalby. The field felt like they were in the back of the beyond. Almost.

The house, under construction, had the roof up and sides closed in. A blessing and one the construction crew, Robb Construction, had busted their butts to get done before the weather turned. Turn it did and no one could do squat until the incessant rain and snows passed. Even a temperature in the mid-forties seemed promising.

Fortunately, the new owners, from Raleigh, hunted down there with Red Mountain, so they couldn’t have been more helpful and Sister looked forward to when they would move in.

Given the straight run, a bit of a zigzag once into the woods, Weevil and Sister both thought they were on a red. The hounds knew they were, but they didn’t know this fox. They really didn’t know this territory but their task was to follow their noses.

A steep incline up ahead slowed the field, not because people couldn’t gallop downhill, First Flight could, but because the footing was so unreliable, why test it here in a place no one knew well at all?

Sister slowed, picked her way down, then squeezed Keepsake once on the other side. By now hounds had flown a good quarter mile ahead of her. The going, tricky in the woods, didn’t help. Finally she came out on East Chapel Cross Road. She was six miles from Chapel Cross itself.

Creeping along, two vehicles followed. Skiff drove Shaker in her truck. This territory, old in history but newer as fixtures, meant both huntsmen observed everything and mostly shut up. For Shaker this was unusual because if the hounds hunted on territory he knew there was an endless stream of corrective, ideas, the occasional curse.

Behind these two drove Yvonne, with Aunt Daniella in the passenger seat and Kathleen Sixt Dunbar in back. Yvonne had stopped into the store although it wasn’t formally opened, introduced herself, and offered Kathleen a Saturday’s ride. As she was learning hunting, the county, she thought the two of them could profit from Aunt Daniella. It was a nice gesture.

“What an incredible sound.” Kathleen had cracked her window.

“They’re roaring. I wish I could tell you what was happening but this is uncharted territory. Hounds are on but where we’ll end up is anyone’s guess.” Aunt Daniella also had her window down a tiny bit, for it was cool.

Yvonne slowly drove on the two-lane macadam highway obviously ignored by the state. However, apart from potholes, it held up, as did the old church.

Suddenly silence.

“Damn!” Shaker shouted as Skiff stopped first, followed by Yvonne, who turned off her engine.

“Hounds have lost the line,” Aunt Daniella told Kathleen.

“What’s a line?”

“A line of scent. Scent from different animals smells different, that’s obvious, but what nonhunters don’t realize…and many who do hunt, I am sorry to say…is that certain species throw off a stronger scent than others.”

“Like perfume.” Kathleen nodded.

“More or less.” The nonagenarian now put down her window a bit more, clutching her coat collar tighter around her neck. “For instance, bear scent is heavy. Coyote scent is stronger than fox, and if you smell fox it’s like a sweet skunk. Only way I can describe it. It’s not an unpleasant odor but it is very noticeable. But it can drift with wind and can evaporate fairly quickly in warm weather. I believe the fox has some control over his or her scent, but that’s me. For instance, during mating season scent is stronger, as it is for deer.”

“Kind of like ‘Hey, Baby.’ ” Kathleen laughed.

“Exactly.” Yvonne laughed with her.

“And now what has happened is the hounds have lost the scent,” Aunt Daniella told her.

“But they were screaming. How can it just stop like that?”

“Kathleen, if I knew that I would be the smartest person ever. For centuries, since Xenophon and Arrian, people have tried to figure that out.”

Kathleen, educated, knew who these two men were. Xenophon, a major-general and passionate hunter, was born in 430 BC and died in 354 BC. Apart from being a highly successful man, once his military career was over Xenophon retired to his estate, building a temple to Artemis, goddess of the hunt. He wrote about his pack, about breeding, about Celtic hunting customs. He was a traveled and highly intelligent man. What he wrote is as true today as the day he wrote it.

Arrian was born in 86 AD, a man of genuine charm, which comes across in his writings.

Of course, both men, writing before blood typing and advances in medicine, had ideas about rabies, things that proved untrue, but they paid attention to so much and did the best they could for their hounds.

Xenophon did his best for Artemis, too. He believed one should leave an offering at her temple if you hunted on his land. He was generous to others in that respect.

“You know about Xenophon and Arrian.” Aunt Daniella, who had mentioned them, was pleased.

“Classics major at William and Mary.”

“Ah, how did you wind up in Oklahoma City?” Yvonne was now fascinated.

“That’s a long story but I hasten to add there are people in Oklahoma City who read Latin and a few who read Greek. It’s not the cultural backwater East Coasters assume.”

“We are terrible,” Aunt Daniella agreed. “But I am delighted you know these early hound men.”

“Well, not like you do, Aunt Daniella.”

“Call me Aunt Dan. Everybody else does. What you call me behind my back I need not know.”

“What people say behind your back determines your place in the social firmament,” Yvonne sagely noted.

“Where did you study, Yvonne?” Kathleen asked.

“Northwestern.”

“Ah, a smarty.”

“If only that were true.” Yvonne laughed.

“Don’t let her fool you, Kathleen.” Aunt Daniella had grown enormously fond of the transplant. “As for me, no college. Education for girls was not important when I was young. I would have gone to Howard or Grambling or Alabama State; black schools, to be blunt. Good schools, too. Never doubt for one minute that people could and still do get a superior education there. But in our family it was my brothers who were important. All gone now.”

“Less distracting, I think. I mean, Northwestern was wonderful. Still there’s that edge if one is not white, you know,” Yvonne said.

“I don’t,” Kathleen honestly replied. “But I am sorry.”

“Don’t be. We all adjust, fight as best we can so the next generation has it easier.” Yvonne shrugged.

Aunt Daniella leapt right in. “But I think that’s the problem. Why do we make it easier? Oh yes, I believe one should have the chance of a good career, education, live where you please, but to truly make life easier, that’s how you make weaklings.”

The other two women didn’t know what to say.

Kathleen, not disagreeing, changed the subject a bit. “Xenophon wrote, ‘No one should admire those whose only aim is to fulfill personal ambition, in private or public life.’ ”

“Clearly, no one is reading Xenophon today.” Yvonne grimaced slightly.

“Oh, honey pie, it’s always been this way. It’s that now, thanks to the nonstop media, we can examine the vulgarity of others at our leisure.” Aunt Daniella looked out the window, to see Tootie fly by.

“You know more than I do and I went to college,” Kathleen said admiringly.

“You’re very kind. I’m old. There’s a lot upstairs.” She tapped her head. “And I am a reader.”

“What is my daughter doing?” Yvonne saw Tootie stop on a dime.

“That’s your daughter?” Kathleen beheld Tootie at her best.

“Out of hunt gear you’ll see how alike they look. Two gorgeous, gorgeous girls.” Aunt Daniella also peered at Tootie, who now had her cap off. “She’s viewed.”

The two in the front seats explained this to Kathleen, now completely enchanted with the hunt.

Tootie shouted, “Yip, yip, yo!” for all she was worth.

“What happened to ‘Tally-ho’? That much I know,” Kathleen asked.

“Actually, one should not shout that but people can’t help themselves. Must count to twenty first to give your quarry a chance.” Aunt Daniella took a breath. “ ‘Yip, yip, yo’ is the old call of the night hunters, which was then used as the rebel yell. Jefferson Hunt staff uses it so the huntsman knows staff has viewed. No one in the field is allowed the night hunter call.”

“You’re kidding.” Kathleen now sat on the edge of her seat.

“Oh, no. When I was a child the old men, the ancient, and I mean ancient, night hunters, used it. A few of them were veterans. The last veteran of that war died in the 1960s, I think. It’s been just recently that the last veteran of World War I died. God, what we do to one another.”

Before anyone could answer, Weevil and the pack charged up close to the car. Shaker, of course, had his head hanging out the window. Weevil could not stop to listen, which Shaker understood but that did not shut him up.

Yvonne and Aunt Daniella explained to Kathleen what had happened to Shaker and who Skiff was and that they quite liked her.

Weevil watched where Tootie pointed with her cap, where Iota’s head was pointed, and he laid hounds on.

“Got him!” Zane called, and then all were on.

“My God, I can’t believe this. I have chills up my spine…or down. Can’t remember which.” Kathleen had the window lowered all the way and the music poured in.

Next Sister barreled by, then the field, then Second Flight. They thundered on.

“But didn’t the fox just come from this direction?” Kathleen was confused.

“Yes,” Yvonne confirmed.

Aunt Daniella closed her window, as the cold began to bother her. The others did, too.

Skiff turned the truck around. Yvonne waited for them to go first. They could see Shaker gesticulating in the cab.

Now rolling, Yvonne checked her speedometer. “Fifteen miles per hour.”

“We won’t miss anything at that pace.” Aunt Daniella turned back to Kathleen. “Everything you’ve read about foxes in stories, how clever they are, it’s true. Granted, some of the stuff like Reynard the Fox is more about human behavior, but tales of foxes outsmarting us, hounds, other animals, they are uncommonly smart. Fiction may gild it but whatever goes on between their ears goes on much faster than what we think and their senses are sharper. This may be our fox and he’s turned back. It could also be another fox.”

“But why did it get so quiet?”

“Hounds lost the scent. There are a lot of tricks a fox can do to destroy its scent. Chances are, our fellow pulled one out of the bag,” Aunt Daniella replied.

Yvonne drove a little faster. “They are moving.”

Were it not for scarlet coats, the ladies in the car would not have been able to see the field. Then everyone burst out of the woods, flying back to the abandoned chapel. Again, a full stop.

Diana trotted to the chapel, checked around it. Walked to the double doors. Sniffed. Not a hint of scent. She rejoined the others, filtering through the tombstones with Irish, Polish, and Italian surnames. Many of these had gone AWOL from the English troops. Others arrived on our shores after the war. Here and there an English surname appeared. Perhaps someone sick of Catholics not being able to hold office in England.

Again, Yvonne cut her motor. They watched, silent.

Hounds made good the ground. Weevil walked with them, from time to time encouraging quietly. Betty followed, as did Tootie, on their respective sides.

Finally Weevil stopped them, for Sister sent up Gray to tell him they were out of territory. At the end of the back pasture they would be intruding on land rented by a deer hunting club. Even though deer season was over, many clubs forbid anyone on their land. For the actual landowner this could be a welcome bit of income on land unproductive or land they could no longer manage.

Weevil turned Kilowatt, hounds obediently followed.

“I hate when he gets away,” Pansy complained.

“Me, too, but this is the first time we’ve been back here. Next time we’ll know a bit more,” Diana wisely counseled.

It was one-thirty. They’d been out three and a half hours, much of that hard running. So the walk proved slow, everyone catching their breath. At Little Dalby all loaded up and drove to Tattenhall Station, where Kasmir and Alida hosted another breakfast. The owners of Little Dalby, awash with in-laws this weekend, couldn’t really do it. But this was fine.

Once in the station, Kathleen sat next to Aunt Daniella, for the older lady told her to do so. She said that everyone would come up to pay their respects and then she could introduce Kathleen. And they did.

Yvonne caught up with Sam, who hunted Ranger, a new green horse that Crawford had bought. He was buying a lot of horses lately.

Drew was there, having changed into tweed for the breakfast, fielding questions about Morris. He declared he had to get out of the house. He needed to hunt and he had hired the nurse for today to give Bainbridge a break, too.

The breakfast, like everything Kasmir and Alida did, was perfect.

Finally, Aunt Daniella, Yvonne, and Kathleen left. Pulling up to the stone house, Kathleen invited the two in for a moment.

“I want you to meet Abdul.”

So she introduced them to her sparky Welsh terrier then on a whim said, “Come downstairs for a moment.”

Dutifully, the two ladies trooped down.

Kathleen cut on the lights. “You know everybody, Aunt Dan, and you, Yvonne, have wonderful taste. Look at how you’ve turned out for the hunt.”

“That’s clothing, not furniture,” Yvonne demurred.

“Tell me, what can I do to improve?”

“Oh, Harry pretty much thought of everything,” Aunt Daniella praised him.

“What about an open bar, a place for coffee and tea? A place to sit down at the back? You know, so people would have to walk through the shop to get there.”

Yvonne, a media person, hadn’t thought of that. “There’s an idea.”

“You know how a supermarket puts milk in the back so you must walk down aisles to reach it. I mean, everybody needs milk.”

“Kathleen, here’s the rub,” Yvonne shrewdly realized, “everybody doesn’t need fabulous antique furniture.”

“No. Which is why I want to find ways to get people in here. Much of this stuff will sell itself.”

They chatted on, then Yvonne walked over to the Louis XV desk, a soft light shining down on it. “Gray told Sam, who told me, that Harry hoped to sell this desk to Sister.”

“Ah. I had no idea,” Kathleen murmured.

“Her uncle had such a desk and it was stolen over twenty years ago.” Aunt Daniella remembered it well, because it was such an unlikely thing to happen but it did. “This is beautiful.” She walked over, touching the inlaid leather top, running her forefinger over the ormolo on the corners. Two squarish drawers made up the sides, with a long narrow drawer in the middle.

“Do you think people know how to build like this today?” Yvonne joined Aunt Daniella.

Kathleen came over. “Maybe it’s like classical music. There will always be people willing to study, to take the hard path for beauty. Surely there are a few workshops even in our country where men are fashioning such treasures.”

“Men,” Yvonne said without rancor.

“Give the girls time. If they can become Marines and firemen, some ladies will begin to make beautiful things with their hands, I mean things like this, not pottery or something on a loom, not that I don’t notice pretty fabrics.” Aunt Daniella laughed. “Hell, we only got the vote in 1920.” Then she snapped her fingers. “Minutes ago.”

“May I open a drawer?” Yvonne respectfully asked.

“Of course,” Kathleen said.

Yvonne first opened one of the drawers on the corner. She peered at the two woods joining each other. No nails, nothing like that. These drawers were perfectly fitted pieces. Then she opened the middle drawer. A light blue envelope, dark blue handwriting, a man’s handwriting, on the face of it.

Kathleen reached in and picked it up. “That’s Harry’s handwriting.”

“Addressed to ‘Mrs. Jane Arnold, MFH,’ ” Yvonne read out loud.

“It’s sealed.” Aunt Daniella put her hand on Kathleen’s, turning over the envelope. “Expensive paper.”

“Kathleen, I drive by Roughneck Farm on my way home, would you like me to deliver it?”

“Yes, Yvonne, that would be thoughtful.” Kathleen, like the other two, was mystified.

Forty-five minutes later Yvonne pulled up to the stable, for Sister, Betty, Tootie, Weevil, and even Gray were in there. Tootie and Weevil had seen to the hounds, coming in to clean their tack with their last reserves of energy, but Betty, bless her, had already done it. Tired, they had collapsed on tack trunks, director’s chairs in the tack room for a moment.

Gray stood up when Yvonne entered, as did Weevil.

“Oh, please sit down, gentlemen. You’ve had a full day.”

Weevil smiled. “Terrific day.”

“Yes, it was,” Sister, Betty, and Tootie echoed.

Yvonne relayed how she and Aunt Daniella had stopped for a bit to visit Kathleen’s living quarters, meet the dog, then had gone downstairs, where Kathleen had asked for advice. Yvonne told how the envelope was found. She had dropped off Aunt Dan and stopped by with Kathleen’s permission to personally hand over the letter.

Sister rose, fetching a pocketknife from the stand-up Jefferson desk in the tack room. She slit open the seal, carefully removing the paper. Her face registered shock. She handed the paper to Gray while Betty leaned over his shoulder. Then Yvonne, Tootie, and Weevil read it.

Dear Jane,

Thank you for years of hunting, for breakfasts, for inspired chats. In the event of my death, this desk is yours.

Love,

Harry

His bold signature filled up half the page.

Sister sagged into her chair, her eyes moist. “Dear God,” she gasped.

Gray bent over her, placing his hand on her shoulder. She covered his hand with hers.

Betty blurted out, “It’s as though he had a premonition.”