Scarlet Fever

CHAPTER 3

February 23, 2019 Saturday

“Bother,” Mr. Nash thought to himself as the many rigs pulled into Close Shave, the farm where he lived. Mud Fence’s footing had proved so dreadful Sister switched the hunt, with both landowners’ permission. The Mud Fence owners suggested the switch.

The red fox, a large fellow, somewhat new to the area, had learned about Jefferson Hunt during cubbing season, which started right after Labor Day. If those crazy people wanted to run around behind hounds, fine. He felt no obligation to entertain them, especially today, for the low clouds and light drizzle, so fine you could barely see it, meant he’d stay inside his spacious den. Years ago the den had been inhabited by reds but as is the nature of such things the girls married, moving not terribly far away, and the boys sought dens elsewhere. Nature favors the female.

Mr. Nash accepted this. He and three younger males in the area did not yet have mates but he felt confident in time he would find the right vixen. As it was mating season, and late this year due to the insufferable weather, he searched every day, but not today.

As the red fox curled up in his straw-filled den, a few old shredded towels in there as well, the trailers parked nose out toward the farm road. Close Shave maintained excellent farm roads, crusher run on them as well as all around the six-stall barn, which the new owners of this old place were restoring. Crusher run, small crushed stones, gray or tan, often provided a better road surface than slightly larger stones. The horses would come later but there the owners were, bundled up, offering stirrup cups. Good people.

“God, why do they have to take a drink? Let’s go!” Rickyroo, one of Sister’s Thoroughbreds, danced a bit under her.

“Calm down, Ricky.” She patted his sleek neck.

“You’re the master. Why do you tolerate this? The sooner we’re off the sooner we find a fox,” he sassed as she continued to pat him, which he liked.

“No thank you.” Sister smiled at Della Vosburgh, the owner. “I can’t drink, as I’m staff. And I look forward to you and your husband cubbing with us next year. The stable is coming along.”

“I can’t wait.” Della smiled, her dimples adding to her friendly demeanor.

“Gather round,” Sister called to the field, thirty-five strong on this iffy day. “We’ll head south toward Chapel Cross.” She glanced skyward. “The worst should hold off for a bit.” She looked at Weevil, as did most of the women in the field, although she had a purpose in doing so, for he was her huntsman. “Hounds, please.”

“Madam.” He smiled, leaned over a bit, and said in a low voice, “Let’s boogie, babies.”

“I love it when he does that.” Tinsel giggled.

Sterns up, they pranced, packed in front of their huntsman, walking down to the fence line separating the stable paddock from a large pasture.

First Flight burst with the diehards; no threat of bad weather could keep away Kasmir Barbhiya, Alida Dalzell, Dr. Walter Lungren, Jt-MFH, Gray and Sam Lorillard, Freddie Thomas, everyone wearing heavy gloves, too.

Tedi and Edward Bancroft, Sister’s dear friends and neighbors, her oldest members, in their mid-eighties, no longer rode out in bone-chilling weather or rain. Sensible though it was, she missed them, for they always rode in her pocket, which was their right as the oldest members of the club. They had earned their colors back before most of the current members had been born.

First Flight filled out with only fourteen people today. Everyone else was jammed up in Second Flight, led by Bobby Franklin, Betty’s husband. Ben Sidell, the sheriff of the county, rode with Bobby, who had noticed over these last few years that the sheriff, fortyish, missed little. Ben was a good man to have around. Drew Taylor, smartly turned out in his scarlet Melton, rode in Second Flight today.

Following slowly in his truck was Shaker Crown, now in his early fifties. Sister’s longtime huntsman had cracked vertebrae in his neck from a strange riding accident. He was on medical leave, so to speak. He hated it. A rival hunt’s huntsman, the very attractive Skiff Kane, hunting Crawford Howard’s outlaw pack, drove, for Shaker was not to drive. She tended to him and as fortune smiled on them, they spoke the same language.

“Goddammit!” he cursed. “I hate not riding. Hate it!”

Perhaps she didn’t speak the same language at that moment.

“Honey, keep your pants on.”

He tried to turn his head toward her but the neck brace limited his motion. “Later.”

“Ha,” she rejoined as the First Flight easily popped over a jump built to resemble a chicken coop, and therefore was called a coop.

Sister quietly sat while Ricky smoothly took the coop. Rarely did she ever need to squeeze this glossy bay. He knew all the horn calls, knew the various hound voices, and could smell the fox a lot better than she could. Ricky believed he was assisting a limited creature. After all, she only had two legs, and a weak nose, but he gave Sister credit, she had sharp eyes and quite good hearing for a human. Then again, he loved her and she loved him. However, he felt it imperative that she let him make the decisions, such as where to take off for a jump. Mostly she did, for she trusted this horse.

Sister’s attitude was if you don’t trust your horse, don’t ride him. If you don’t trust your hounds, don’t hunt them. The problems were always with the people, for some evidenced not one grain of sense. No way you could trust them in the hunt field or elsewhere. But those tried and true over the years, like Betty or the young Tootie, you’d go to the wall for such people and they for you.

Twenty minutes passed as they trotted along. “Faint.” Angle, a young fellow, inhaled.

“Yeah.” Zandy concurred. “The fellow who lives here won’t be bolted. Sticks in that den.”

“He doesn’t know the territory but so much.” Asa, the oldest hound hunting, spoke. “In time he’ll give us some runs once he knows all the hideaways.”

“I thought this was breeding season. Why isn’t he out?” Pookah asked.

“Good question.” Taz wanted to find scent.

“Lots of competition around here and too much rain. Nonstop rain or snow,” Parker, a hound now in his prime, offered. “Foxes at Crawford’s barn and outbuildings. Foxes at Mud Fence Farm and Tollbooth Farm and tons at Tattenhall Station. If we push past Tattenhall, due south, there are all those foxes around Beveridge Hundred and the farms farther south. He needs to settle in.”

Diana stopped, nose down, slowly following a teasing trail that was warming up. “Somebody. Don’t know who.”

Hounds opened, moved forward at a trot, for the scent wasn’t heavy. If they ran too fast they might lose or overrun it. On a day like today, better to be prudent.

“Push your fox,” Weevil sang out to them as he watched Tootie glide over a stone wall on her beloved Iota, a horse she’d had since private school.

Bobby led his charges to a gate. Ben dismounted, unhitched the gate, opened it. Everyone rode through. Freddie Thomas, a strong rider in her fifties, on a new horse today, stayed. No one should be left alone at a gate because most horses when they see other horses move off will move off, too. One shouldn’t be left holding the gate, only to be dragged along holding on to reins. That promised a surefire bad outcome.

“Thanks, Freddie.” Ben tapped his crop to his cap. “How do you like the horse?”

“So far, so good. Alida found him for me.”

“You can go to the bank on Alida.”

Freddie laughed. “Believe I will.”

That fast the hounds opened, the humans shut up and squeezed on. They needed to catch up to Second Flight, which had broken into a gallop. People in Second Flight could ride but they did not take the big jumps. A log or something perhaps two feet they’d jump but other than that they kept all four feet on the ground.

“Jeez,” Ben muttered, trying to catch his breath.

Up ahead the hounds charged through the last big field belonging to Close Shave, stepped into a woods that would eventually back up to the old Gulf station at the crossroads, but the fox had other ideas.

Pickens, Parker’s littermate, crossed the asphalt road, barreled into a new estate being built from land cut off from the Gulf station, which had holdings on both sides of the road. Since the Gulf station’s owner and his brother sat in jail, Millie DuCharme, wife of Binky DuCharme, had sold off the land. She said she couldn’t take care of it. Well, she could, or her son could, but she was showing signs of greed in her old age despite her pleasant personality. She sold everything else to Crawford Howard.

A large sign, deep maroon background, gold letters in script, announced Crackenthorpe, the name for the estate that was not yet built. At least everyone knew the name, although it was not the name of the owners. That story would be told sooner or later. Every place in Virginia had to have a story. As the colony was founded in 1607, stories covered the Old Dominion. Some of them were even true.

Checking the road, Sister trotted across, slid down the small embankment onto Crackenthorpe land, then galloped on. The fox was turning toward the chapel that sat on the northeast corner of Chapel Cross.

The hounds pressed on then swerved east, then stopped.

“Unfair!” Audrey whined.

Was, too, for the fox had hurried to where a bulldozer sat, there to clear ground. He had run right through the oil slick.

Hounds milled about but the oil stink filled their nostrils.

Cora, moving away, circled the area, paused, then called out, “Tollbooth. He’s headed for Tollbooth.”

On they ran. Tollbooth and Mud Fence were east of the church, abutting each other beyond the church lands. By the time they reached Tollbooth, Gris, the hunted fox, was secure in his den with his partner, Vi. Their den utilized the old hay shed; doors closed, it was cozy. They enjoyed being in the shed itself, for there was old hay scattered about, half in the shed and half out. Tunnels had been dug underneath, too, just in case a human left the doors open.

“Blow ‘Gone to Ground,’ ” Shaker fussed in the truck.

Weevil was dismounting to do that as Tootie rode up to hold Matchplay’s reins.

Weevil blew the happy song then patted the hounds’ heads. “Well done. Well done.”

“Tricky.” Cora stuck her nose back into the den entrance.

“Come on, girl.” Weevil effortlessly swung back up.

He drew for another hour but the drizzle intensified into a light steady rain, footing worsened, so they trotted back to Close Shave. A cold rain seems colder than a falling snow. People were glad to dismount, their feet stinging when boots hit the ground. Sheets were tossed over horses. Many people loaded their horses, feed bags hanging inside, to keep the animals out of the rain.

As most sheets, called rugs if they are heavy, are waterproofed, the horses would have been okay in the rain but it was thoughtful.

The people then walked to an outbuilding that had a gas fireplace at one end, for it was formerly a repair shop for farm equipment. Della and Lamar set out tables, chairs, and the bar. Everyone pulled up chairs, the warmth felt wonderful, for the rain chill seeped into their bones.

Sister, thirsty, gulped a tonic water with lime.

“Refill?” Ben Sidell asked.

“Sheriff, thank you, no. How are you?”

“Sit with me for a moment. I need your insights.” He pulled up a chair for her.

“Now, what woman could resist flattery like that. Insights. Shoot.”

“You’ve known generations of people here. I’m learning. You probably heard that we picked up Bainbridge Taylor with a bagful of silver. His name was not made public. The officer who found the car thought he was drunk, and the officer didn’t know who he was. Turns out he was on Oxycontin plus booze. He’s in the hospital.”

“Lucky to be alive, I would guess.”

“And lucky to be apprehended by a young officer who doesn’t know the family. The doctors used Naloxone. They’re getting accustomed to this, I’m sorry to say. I expect Bainbridge will be identified in this afternoon’s paper. The reporter will certainly know the Taylors, I think.”

She nodded. “I’m sure someone must have told you his father, Morris, ran through a fence at Cindy Chandler’s.”

“They did. Thinking of either father or son driving is unnerving. But here’s the thing, the son swears he did not steal the silver and he did not take a drink. He admits to the pills. And, of course, his uncle paid off the media. So is this a young man who has not had to suffer for his misdeeds?”

“To a point.” She drew in a breath. “Bainbridge is a failure in his father’s eyes. Drew says Morris still knows his son. They don’t speak. Bainbridge discovered drugs instead of education at private school. It’s a well-worn path.”

“Yes, it is. Bainbridge has no arrest record but he did say he spent time in rehab. One of those expensive ones.”

“I suppose it worked. He’s switched from cocaine to legal drugs. Maybe that’s progress. He’s doing business with a better class of dealer.”

Ben, crossing one leg over the other, shrugged. “Says he’s not hooked but he found the pills and why not?”

“I don’t believe it. You know neither Drew nor Morris ever showed signs of addictive behavior. Morris had a very good mind, which we all figured is why he was so hard on his son. Bainbridge wasn’t a stupid kid but he wasn’t brilliant. Morris couldn’t understand that.”

Gray came up, smiling. “Do you need to be saved?”

“From Ben? Never.” She smiled back then looked at the group around the stove. “But I think Weevil does.”

Gray nodded, headed toward Weevil, Tootie, Shaker, Betty, and Skiff.

“Those staff discussions can go on forever. How is Shaker, by the way?”

“Oh, Ben, he’s healing, but the vertebrae remain a little crooked. The doctors want to straighten them out, perhaps even place a small pad there, but Shaker says no one is going to cut into his neck.”

Ben pressed his lips together. “I can understand that.” He noticed Drew in deep conversation with Freddie.

“The other thing, Drew came to the hospital then called on me to ask if we were going to press charges. Because of the silver and the drugs.”

“And?”

“I looked at him and said, ‘It’s your silver.’ ”

“Ah,” she murmured.

“He won’t press charges. He said he would pay any bills and he also promised he would send Bainbridge back to rehab. Morris originally sent the kid…well, he’s not a kid anymore…years back but Drew said he would do it now. Said sometimes a person has to repeat these things and he’s right about that. It’s not one size fits all.”

“Do you impound the silver?”

“I suppose I should, but no, I gave it back to him. Had the Taylor crest on it. But you know, it does seem odd that a thirty-two-year-old man would steal his own family’s silver, drive off the road, and stay put. Yes, he was loopy but he could have run.”

“Does. It’s the curse of our time, drugs. Well, if I hear anything, I’ll tell you. As I said, father and son about hate each other and I can attest to the fact that Drew is not impressed by his nephew. However, he’s trying to help.” She, too, noticed him chatting up Freddie. “Never misses a pretty girl.”

“Are you sure I can’t get you another drink?” Ben asked.

“No, thank you.”

They both rose and walked closer to the stove.

“I’m telling you the pink slips will fly, or fall like those raindrops outside,” Freddie Thomas, an accountant, predicted to Drew.

“The banks will be clever,” Gray, who had joined the conversation, offered. “They’ll promise no one will lose their job then start the contraction process maybe a year later,” he added.

Drew nodded. “Never fails.”

The group knew that Gray had been a partner at one of the most prestigious accounting firms in Washington, D.C. A firm that was often called in to examine government department records, so their name spread fear as well as confidence.

Kasmir, a good businessman, having made great sums in India with his pharmaceutical business, also agreed. “It’s the way business is done now but I thought the merger would be with a Southern regional bank and, say, Chase Manhattan. That would give both banks in the merger a wider geographical presence.”

“This is what I don’t understand.” Sister held her hands toward the stove. “The Dodd Frank Act was to clean up banking, right? And banks are now bigger than ever. The community banks paid the price. Or so it seems to me. Big, big, big.”

“And accountable to whom?” Freddie held her hands palms upward. “I am not anti-bank. I believe banks are a pillar of the economy, but not as they are today. On the one hand, they’re hogtied thanks to the mortgage crisis of their own making. On the other hand they keep merging and are now so big, Congress fears them despite blabbing to the contrary.”

Everyone started talking at once then Sister said, “We should all move our money to Chase Manhattan in New York.”

“Why?” they asked.

“Well, the late Mrs. Jeffords owned Count Fleet, a very great horse. Foxhunters should always support horsemen. Even if Chase is no longer guided by equine wisdom, let’s give them a chance.”

They laughed, ate more, talked more. Turned a rainy day into a happy day.

Mr. Nash could smell the food. He wasn’t all that far from the old hay shed. Why didn’t they go home? Humans always left food. A Virginia ham biscuit and a moist pound cake would be perfect on this wet day.

Humans were slow, insensitive to the vulpine palate, and noisy, so noisy. However, they could cook. That was worth something.