The Hunt Ball

C H A P T E R 5

“Lights, camera, action!” Marty Howard threw up her manicured hands, one magnificent marquise diamond catching the light. “Every year every hunt club puts on the standard, three-speed hunt ball. We’re breaking out.”

“As long as break out doesn’t mean break bad,” Sister slyly inserted into Marty’s eruption of ideas.

“Oh, Sister, how bad can it be?”

At that, Betty roared, “You have no idea. Get a mess of foxhunters in their best duds liquored up, all that cleavage suddenly in view, and fistfights and running off with other people’s spouses seems normal.”

Marty exclaimed, “Nothing like that ever happened in Indiana.”

“That’s why you moved here, dear,” Sister said in a silken voice.

Marty, while bright, missed the gradations of Virginia humor. She blinked. “Well, we came because Crawford wanted to retire at forty and get into the horse business, but I guess we got more than we bargained for. He’s built the hunter barn, the steeplechase barn, and now he wants to breed Herefords, the kind with horns. He’s either researching bloodlines on that computer he had built—to the tune of fifteen thousand dollars—or he’s reading stock market quotes on it.”

“Back to this hunt ball. Marty, I so appreciate you taking on this task. Getting Bill Wheatley and the theater students to help with decorating was a master stroke,” Sister praised Marty. “And I know even if you don’t make it public that you and Crawford have given a generous donation to Custis Hall for the theater department’s services.”

“We were happy to do it.” Marty glowed, for she did like being useful, and after eleven years she was finally feeling like part of the group.

“Betty as vice chair—and I accentuate the vice—really does know where all the bodies are buried and she can take care of the table sittings.” Sister smiled at Betty. “What else? Forgive me, by the way, for not being better organized. Over the years our social chairs have kept the Jefferson Hunt hopping and popping. I didn’t have to do but so much. Also, I’m not too good at this kind of thing.”

Betty was scribbling on a notebook Sister had given her. “Your job is to show sport. Our job is to show we’re sports.”

“What a good way to put it,” Marty agreed. “Well, this will be the hunt ball to end all hunt balls.”

“Key position: head of the silent auction. Hunt balls can’t pay for themselves. The silent auction is your one hope to get in the black.” Betty reminded them of the ever-present need for money. “How’s Sorrel Buruss doing on getting items?”

“So far so good. She’s gotten the usual stuff—framed prints, weekend getaway spots, and dinners. What we’re lacking are the big, flashy items,” Marty answered.

They chatted awhile longer, drew up lists, again picked through the budget.

They experimented with different days over the years, throwing the ball the evening of Opening Hunt, or the evening of Closing Hunt. They found December to work the best. Everyone was in a holiday mood, people could get off work, and the bills had not rolled in to spoil everything. This year’s ball was set for Saturday, December 17.

The venue, the Great Hall at Custis Hall, had been used by Jefferson Hunt for over one hundred years. The vaulted ceilings added a medieval air to the many celebrations, concerts, convocations that took place there.

Ten years ago the whole facility had been rewired, refurbished. A rock band could play without frying the electrical system.

The serving kitchen had also been updated.

The Great Hall supplied Custis Hall with bonus money, as groups would rent it to the tune of thirty-five hundred dollars before food, service, linens, tables.

Given the long relationship with Jefferson Hunt, the club need only pay for the food, service, and tableware.

Their century-plus relationship was the reason Jane Arnold sat on the board of directors. The senior master of the hunt club had served in this capacity since 1887.

As the ladies finished their coffee and biscuits, wrapping up details, Marty’s cell rang.

“Hi, honey,” she answered. “You’re exactly right.” She listened some more. “I’ll be home shortly. At least you and Sam could hunt this morning before all this happened.” More listening. “You know best.” She made a big smooching sound. “Bye bye.” She pressed the off button. “His computer blew up again. I use my Dell, got a good deal, and I have a real nice printer. Whole thing about nine-fifty.” She laughed. “But Crawford hires some geek from New York, builds the whole deal, has to have an ASUS motherboard, this bell and that whistle. And now my dear, darling husband is on the phone once a day to this computer whiz because he can’t figure out how to work the expensive piece of junk.” She sighed dramatically. “Men.”

“Boys and their toys,” Betty laughed.

“I can’t pick on them. I’m just as bad. If there’s a gadget in the hardware store that promises bliss, I buy it.” Sister’s workshop bore testimony to this small passion.

“Before I forget. Are you going to make an appearance at Custis Hall’s Halloween party?” Betty asked the master.

“No, are you?”

“We’ll be there,” Betty replied.

“Crawford and I will be going, too. That’s our second stop that Saturday. Halloween is a major party night.” Marty smiled. “Full moon on the seventeenth. There won’t be enough light to cast an eerie glow.”

Halloween fell on Monday this year, but all the parties would be on Saturday, naturally.

“Well, I know Charlotte will be glad you all are attending. I can’t go. Delia might whelp that night. I don’t want to leave her because I told Shaker he could go to the party with Lorraine at the firehouse. He was going to sit up with Delia. He hardly ever gets out. He is the most conscientious man. We’re lucky to have him.”

“Hear. Hear.” Betty adored the huntsman.

“This thing with Lorraine might just work out,” Sister winked.

The phone rang. Sister got up. Caller I.D. showed the number was Charlotte Norton’s.

“Excuse me, girls.” Sister picked up the phone. “Charlotte, hello.” She listened. Then she listened intently. “I see.” She was quiet again, then said, “Well, it can’t be ignored, but perhaps it can be contained.” More listening. “A special meeting Tuesday afternoon.” She checked her wall calendar. “I’ll be there. We’ll be finished hunting. Actually, you might need the exercise to get your blood up for all this.” She scribbled on the calendar with a 0.7 thickness of lead mechanical pencil. “I’ll be there and let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

As she hung up, Betty’s eyebrows raised, she pursed her lips. “What?”

“There’s been a protest at Custis Hall. About fifty girls, black and white, called the school a plantation. They appear to be particularly upset over the displays.”

“What, a bunch of dresses and hair ribbons?” Betty threw up her hands.

“The girls feel there has to be better recognition of slave contributions. That’s what I’ve gotten out of this so far. Charlotte said she’ll be meeting with the girls to dig underneath.”

“The girls may have gone about it the wrong way, but we do need to recognize slaves’ work. History, at least the way they taught it in Indiana when I was in school, was and probably still is about great men and wars.” Marty, a liberal in most respects, instinctively sided with the protesters.

“Who will ever know the truth?” Sister shrugged as she sat back down. “Whoever wins writes history. The truth has nothing to do with it.” She stopped herself. “Well, I doubt this protest will dampen the Halloween dance.”

“Oh, it will all blow over,” Betty predicted.