The Hunt Ball

C H A P T E R 2 9

Her heels clicking on the highly polished floor, Charlotte walked through the Main Hall on her way to her office.

Bill Wheatley and Knute Nilsson stood in front of the case containing Washington’s epaulettes.

“Knute, you look mournful,” Charlotte said.

“I was thinking about the lemonade stand I had when I was six. I made two dollars and I thought I was rich. Well, I was. I went home and that night I bragged to my father how much lemonade I sold. He seemed proud of me, but he warned me, ‘Now that you have assets, you have to protect them.’ I look at all this stuff and I see assets.” He waved his hand as if this was boring. “You’ve heard it all before. I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

Bill, his usual ebullient self, put his arm around Knute’s shoulder. “You don’t have to figure it out before Christmas vacation. You don’t even have to figure it out when Professor Kennedy’s report comes in. You are perfectly within your rights to ask the board of directors for suggestions and help. Doesn’t do you any good to carry the weight of the world, or at least Custis Hall, on your shoulders. Besides, Knute, there’s Christmas to celebrate.”

“An excuse to waste money.”

“Knute, stuff cloves in oranges and give them as gifts. Won’t cost more than twenty dollars and they smell wonderful,” Charlotte suggested with a hint of merriment.

“I know, I know, you two think I’m Scrooge.”

“We think no such thing.” Bill let his arm slide off Knute’s back. “We know! Except for your sailing hobby you are tighter than the bark on a tree.”

“All right. I’m leaving.” Knute half-smiled and headed toward the hall containing the offices.

Bill turned to Charlotte. “He’ll worry himself into a heart attack. There is such a thing as being too conscientious.”

“Perhaps, but that’s why we depend on you, Bill, to lighten the mood.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Do. I hear that you and some of the students in your department have come up with a fantastic theme for the hunt ball. Marty Howard told me the best thing she ever did was get you all involved.”

“You just wait and see.” He winked. “Silver and white. Crawford and Marty appear to have a limitless budget. Even Knute and Yvonne are going to come, and you know how hard it is to get him in a tuxedo.”

“That puzzles me. If a gentleman wears scarlet, that’s tails. So why aren’t hunt balls white tie?”

“Technically, they should be, but I guess allowing men to wear tuxedos is a nod to the wallet. More men own a tuxedo than black tails. Of course, if they would wear white tie the effect would be smashing.” He glowed; he loved costumes and staging. “You’ll be in white or black?”

“I surprised myself and my husband. I bought a white gown from Nordstrom. I am sick of wearing black.”

“You’ll look beautiful no matter what.”

“Bill, you flatter me and I am grateful. Okay, I have one more question since you study these things. Since Jane Arnold is master, why can’t she wear scarlet?”

“Well, that’s a good one. If she wanted to upset the applecart, she could. She’s the master, right? Who could stop her? But convention and unwritten laws are stronger than the written ones. A hunt ball decrees that women wear white or black. That’s it and you know as well as I do that Sister is a slave to tradition. She doesn’t wear scarlet in the hunt field, and many American lady masters do.”

“Actually, Bill, given our recent uproar here, I’d not use the word ‘slave.’ ” The corners of her mouth turned upward. She knew how much Bill devoured a tête-à-tête and this little comment would delight him.

He lowered his head, whispering in her ear, “A servant to fashion.”

She whispered back, “I look forward to all of us being servants to fashion.” She gazed into the display case. “Those epaulettes look brighter than I remember.”

“When Professor Kennedy took everything out to examine and photocopy, she had the girls clean them. Pamela, wearing surgical gloves, began to repent of her protest when all that dust and mold shot up her nose.” He laughed.

“Well, maybe we won’t have to clean for another few decades.” She paused. “Guess not, huh?”

“Hey, for all I know, Knute will install a system where the air circulates and the objets d’art or d’histoire clean themselves. Actually, I shouldn’t poke fun at him; it really has become one hell of a burden.”

“I guess it’s like his father said, protect your assets. Bill, back to my desk, though I’d much rather talk to you. I really do look forward to seeing what you all do for the ball.”

“You’ll never forget it.”