The Hunt Ball

C H A P T E R 4

The bricks of Custis Hall’s original four buildings around the quad had faded over the two centuries of their existence into a glowing paprika. Mt. Holyoke, founded on November 8, 1837, boasted being the first institution of higher learning for young ladies. But Custis Hall, a preparatory school, predated Mt. Holyoke by twenty-five years. It masqueraded as a finishing school. The girls learned management, mathematics, Latin, French, embroidery (a good hand was considered one of the gracious arts), a smattering of history, and a bit of literature, although the reading of modern novels was discouraged by the administration. Novels were considered racy. A copy of Moll Flanders or Les Liaisons Dangereuses could park a pretty bottom on a hard bench in front of the headmistress.

Charlotte Norton smiled to herself thinking about the history of Custis Hall as she eased off the accelerator, turned right onto the campus, passing through the monstrously large wrought-iron gates, the morning sun hitting the buildings so they shimmered. She never tired of seeing the restrained architecture. She loved her work and felt not one pang of jealousy when her former graduate school classmates moved ever closer to becoming presidents of universities, a few already presidents of smaller colleges. Her passion was secondary school.

She noticed, as she coasted into her parking space, a van with the local TV station’s call letters and number on it. It was parked illegally alongside the main campus road and she had no idea where the campus police might be.

The only vehicles allowed beyond the parking lot were service vehicles. The door to her new Volvo AWD VC70 station wagon closed with a comforting heavy thud. She heard chanting.

Her boot heels clicked as she hurried along the stone path, worn from use, toward the back of Old Main Hall. She’d intended to dash into her office, change clothes, and get on with her day. She’d left her cell phone to charge on her desk and now regretted that decision. Usually she called Teresa Bourbon, her assistant, at least once before reaching her office.

The chanting grew louder. She pulled open the back door to Old Main, the long polished wooden corridor before her.

“Plantation! Plantation! The Custis Hall Plantation.”

“What the hell?” she muttered to herself, noticing, as she raced to her office, that no one was in theirs.

She skidded to her open door, Teresa commanding the anteroom.

“Mrs. Norton, we’ve got a situation.” Teresa met her boss’s gaze levelly as she used the old black expression.

“Jesus, what is going on?”

“There are fifty girls in the Main Hall, one TV reporter, and one print reporter. They have just discovered that Custis Hall was founded by a slave owner.” Teresa, African American, held up her hand, her silver rings shining. “And they are deeply upset by the artifacts displayed in Main Hall.”

A long stream of air blew out of Charlotte’s delicately shaped nostrils, her nose slightly upturned. “I can’t go out there in riding habit.”

“Oh, why not?” Teresa wickedly smiled. “You’ll confirm their idea that you’re the Miss’us.”

Charlotte loved Teresa. They’d worked cheek by jowl for nine years. The thirty-six-year-old woman knew exactly how to handle her. Charlotte flew into her paneled office, ran to the bathroom, shed her jacket, vest, and shirt, grunting as she pulled off her boots with the stand-up boot pull. She yanked a deep carmine cashmere turtleneck sweater over her head. This was followed by a pleated black skirt. She used her coveted staghandle boot pulls to pull up a pair of soft Italian leather boots. She took a very deep breath, then calmly walked out of her office as Teresa winked.

“Don’t you want to witness this?”

“No. Gotta mind the store. If it gets really good, I’ll lock the door and come fetch you home.”

“Oh, Teresa,” Charlotte smiled softly, “I think I’m about to be called a racist pig.”

“Could be worse.”

“I suppose it could.” With that, Charlotte squared her shoulders, lifted her head, and strode to the great entry hall at the front of Old Main.

At the sight of her, students renewed their vigor and volume. Dwayne Rickman, fiftyish, a local celebrity as a TV reporter, moved toward her with the microphone.

She saw the two overwhelmed security fellows, men way past their prime but still wearing a uniform, swing toward him.

Knute Nilsson, treasurer, looked relieved as she took over, as did Alfonso Perez, the director of alumnae affairs. They’d been holding the girls at bay, assisted by Amy Childers, the head of the science department, and her brother, a board member, Christopher Stoltenfuss. Knute, a natural leader, quick-thinking, told the other teachers to stay with their routine, don’t leave the classroom. Amy happened to be coming in for an appointment with Charlotte and simply got caught in the middle. Her brother had come for a meeting with Knute so they felt like deer in headlights.

Al Perez had walked out of his office the minute he heard the chanting. He and Knute worked well together. They had things, more or less, under control. Everyone adored Al, a sunny personality in his early thirties, a new baby at home, career on the upswing. To date, he was the only Hispanic faculty member, and he adamantly pushed for hiring more Hispanic faculty.

“Mrs. Norton, what is Custis Hall doing to accommodate its African-American students?” Dwayne asked politely.

“Custis Hall’s mission is to give each young women a superior education, a grounding for life. Her race, her religion, her class background are irrelevant to that task but relevant to our knowledge of her. We have the highest number of scholarship students of any preparatory school on the East Coast.” As she spoke her eyes swept over the fifty-odd girls. Perhaps one-third of them were students of color; the others, white, appeared even more impassioned than the African-American students. Her Hispanic and Asian students were conspicuous by their absence.

“Custis Hall is the plantation,” Pamela Rene, the ringleader, began the chant.

The others took it up but quieted as Dwayne asked more questions. He signaled his cameraman to cut the lights.

“Mrs. Norton, thank you.” He nodded to her.

Dwayne liked Charlotte Norton. She did a lot for the community. Her husband, Carter, head of neurosurgery at the local hospital, was another tremendous asset. Dwayne had been around long enough to know a setup when he saw one. He’d do his best with the footage he shot to make sure Custis Hall and Charlotte came out ahead.

The print reporter evidenced no loyalty to Custis Hall or Charlotte. He was new to the area and this story held about as much appeal to him as covering brush fires in the county.

“Ladies,” Charlotte addressed the assembled, who did give her the courtesy of silence, “I’d be untruthful if I didn’t tell you I’m surprised. I had no idea you were uneasy about our founder, our beginnings, but as you can see, Mr. Nilsson, Mr. Perez, Mrs. Childers, and our board of directors member, Mr. Stoltenfuss, are in front of you. We’ll listen, but we can’t listen in this setting. A charged subject demands cool heads and a better place in which to discuss the issues.”

Pamela spoke out, pointing to the locked glass cases that contained artifacts of Miss Custis’s life: George Washington’s epaulettes; a dress worn by his wife, Martha; pots, iron skillets, plowshares, old bits. A marvelous carriage, impeccably equipped, sat on a dais in the center of Main Hall. All objects represented the life of Martha Washington’s niece. “Slaves made these things but they get no credit! That’s wrong.”

Charlotte had to bite her tongue because the dress had been fashioned in Paris. This was clearly spelled out in the hand-painted cards identifying each item. However, Pamela was correct about the other artifacts. She neglected to mention that there was a brief gloss on slave labor. Didn’t matter. It wasn’t enough and it wasn’t what Pamela wanted: attention.

“Ladies, I’m willing to meet with you one by one or in groups. But this calls for quiet thinking and a great deal of research.”

Knute stepped in and spoke, for which Charlotte was grateful. “So much was destroyed between 1861 and 1865. We’ve lost a lot, including information about the Custis family. No one paid much attention to slaves or women. Their lives weren’t well documented. Miss Custis merited attention because she was related to George and Martha Washington. We’ll address your concerns as Mrs. Norton said. But let’s take this one step at a time, calmly and deliberately.” Knute felt no need to apologize for Custis Hall’s founder. The past was the past. It certainly was open to reinterpretation, but he couldn’t change a damned thing about it.

The situation cooled. The adults herded the girls out of the Main Hall. They promised to set up individual appointments. Also, this issue would be addressed at November’s convocation, the first of the new school year. The all-school assembly was held the first Monday of each month.

Just as the girls moved out of Old Main, walking across the quad were Tootie, Valentina, and Felicity.

In a booming voice, Pamela shouted at Tootie, “Traitor!”

Tootie blanched but did not reply.

Valentina did. “Pamela, you aren’t happy unless you’re unhappy. Go sit on it.”

Charlotte stepped forward. The three riders could now see her, as she’d been obscured by the crowd. “Ladies, that’s quite enough for one day.”

No one said a word, not even contentious Pamela, who stared daggers at Valentina.

When Charlotte reached the anteroom, Teresa looked up over Charlotte’s head before she could open her mouth. Hard on Charlotte’s well-shod heels tumbled Al, Knute, Christopher, and Amy.

Turning, Charlotte said in a sweet voice, “Come in. Let’s sit down and have a cup of coffee.”

“Coffee, hell, I want a drink,” Knute good-naturedly said.

“I second the motion.” Christopher wiped his brow with a Brooks Brothers linen handkerchief.

Knute, at forty-eight, maintained a boyish look and a trim body, his hair blond, lightly salted with gray.

Christopher, a few years older, carted around a potbelly that even his expensive suits couldn’t totally conceal. His complexion was florid, his manner brusque, which suited him as a prosecuting attorney aiming to run for governor. He bagged the high-profile cases and he won more often than not, even against the highly paid attorneys defendants hired. Christopher was a man to be reckoned with, to watch.

His sister evidenced the same incisive mind, although her field was the natural sciences. But like her brother, she had a combative nature. Being female, she tried to hide it, with mixed results.

Charlotte pointed the men to the bar, and Amy joined them. She stuck her head out of her office. “Teresa, call down to Dorothy and ask her to bring some sandwiches, more hot coffee, and hot tea; you know the drill.”

Dorothy directed food services.

“Will do.” Teresa, observant, keenly intelligent, and a touch shy, picked up the phone to buzz Dorothy.

Knute filled in Charlotte about the protest, for she’d missed only the first ten minutes. He said it appeared to be well organized.

“I’m open to all suggestions.” Charlotte sat in a wing chair as the others, drinks in hand, settled themselves in leather chairs or the comfortable leather sofa.

Al waited for tea. He wasn’t much of a drinker.

“Charlotte, the girls do have a point. We never gave much thought to what’s in those cases except to dust the stuff.”

“He’s right.” Amy gulped a gin and tonic, a bit of lime pulp catching in her teeth. She flicked it down with her tongue and bit into it—the tang of lime tasted wonderful. “Always looked like junk to me.”

“Amy, if it isn’t a mastodon’s tooth, you aren’t interested,” her brother teased her.

Knute ignored them. He addressed Charlotte. “I’ll help you call the board of directors if you like. We should schedule an emergency meeting.”

“Good thinking, but I don’t see how we can do that until Tuesday. It’s hard to get people together quickly at the end of the month, and there are only four more days left in October, two of those being Saturday and Sunday. Also, I want to meet with some of these girls before I meet with the board.”

“Good idea,” Al agreed. “Want me to call our largest contributors?”

“No,” Charlotte quickly said. “Not yet, Al. This may all blow over.”

“M-m-m, let sleeping dogs lie.” Knute held his shot of Johnnie Walker Blue under his nose for a moment.

Charlotte kept a well-stocked bar that she paid for herself. Knute would never open his wallet to buy such an expensive blended Scotch, but he was quite prepared to drink hers. Teresa locked the bar when she left each night if Charlotte didn’t do it first.

“You’ve got to hand it to the kids who planned this. They didn’t get destructive and had the forethought to call the media.” Christopher wanted another drink but waited for the coffee and tea. It really was too early.

“How could all those kids keep their mouths shut?” Knute wondered out loud.

It crossed Charlotte’s mind that Tootie may have known but refused to participate. Still, she, too, remained silent. Charlotte wanted to talk to Tootie, Valentina, and Felicity. Better to catch up with them after a hunt. As for the other girls, it was going to be a true sit-down.

“It’s a strange time in life.” Amy had now fished out the wedge of lime to suck on it. “They have good powers of thought, most of them, but they are emotionally retarded.”

“I take issue with that,” Al bristled. “Not every young person lacks experience. Nor is every girl blinded by her hormones.”

“Al, you make excuses for them,” Amy said, but not in an accusatory manner.

“I’m glad you care about them as you do.” Charlotte hoped to defuse the ever-present tension between Al and Amy, oil and water.

“What do you think?” Christopher asked Charlotte.

“We can handle it. And we do need research. We need a new light on everything in those cases. That’s an excellent task for all our history classes. The English classes can rewrite the descriptions. History classes can present the background of the time. Of course, this senior class will be out of here by the time all the evidence, if you will, is in. Still, it’s a start and it ought to smooth things over.”

“As in pacify them?” Al raised an eyebrow.

“Well, not exactly. Smooth things over is the wrong expression. Having the English and history departments involved means the girls really will be participating. Try to remember, Al, as headmistress I’d like this to be a harmonious place. As director of alumnae affairs I expect you’d like that as well.”

“I do, I do, but I don’t think we should trivialize their concerns.”

“Oh, bull, Al, Pamela Rene has been a pain in the ass since her sophomore year. I’m surprised she hasn’t thought of this before. She’s furious because she wasn’t elected class president. You will recall she accused Valentina of voter fraud. A bad apple,” Knute said.

“She has a mother who was once the highest-paid model in New York and still wants the limelight, and a father who has built one of the largest trucking companies in America. There’s not much time for Pamela.” Amy knew the Rene family well. “As for those treasures in the cases, do we really want the kids handling them?”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” Al glanced quickly at Amy.

Dorothy and two assistants rolled in a table of sandwiches, cakes, freshly cut vegetables, dipping sauces, a large pot of coffee, and a large pot of tea.

“I didn’t know how hungry I was,” Knute said, waiting for Charlotte to stand.

“Please”—she indicated they should fill their plates.

The two assistants poured coffee, helped with plates. Dorothy returned to her office over the dining hall, a room right out of Oxford, stained-glass windows shining bits of color on mahogany panels.

“Amy, Knute, Al, if there are any students you feel close to, talk to them. I’ll ask our other faculty to also be on the alert for anyone who might need extra attention or guidance. Sometimes the girls need to vent.” Charlotte couched her orders as thoughts while the others ate. “Christopher, I know you’re overburdened, but perhaps you could put an assistant on researching any suits that have been pressed over similar issues.”

“You know, that would be interesting,” and he meant that, too.

“Knute, one more time,” she smiled, “go over our budget and see if there’s any fat that can be squeezed to send some of the girls on research trips, say to Poplar Forest or Mount Vernon.”

“They can use the Internet,” Amy replied before Knute could.

“They’ll do that anyway,” Charlotte answered. “If they go to places Miss Custis knew as a child, as a young woman their age, it will make it much more vivid.” She turned to Knute. “Take a peek.”

“All right.” He settled in to a club sandwich.

They batted around more ideas. Charlotte discreetly kept her eye on the time.

“You know, we were lucky no one smashed a case,” Al said. “How could we ever replace Washington’s epaulettes? We were really lucky.”

Knute replied, “That’s exactly why I think the cases should stay locked, and I agree with Amy, the kids don’t need their hands on those things.”

“Do we have a value on that stuff?” Amy was curious.

“Well, we really don’t.” Charlotte wrinkled her brow for a second. “I guess we could hire an appraiser, but how would you value a page from George Washington’s diary or his wife’s hunting crop?”

“That’s just it, Charlotte, someone has to, because those things are irreplaceable. National treasures.” Christopher’s pleasant voice filled the room. “Course, if the girls smash the cabinets, I’ll have to get them on breaking and entering.” He smiled.

“Would you like me to find an appraiser?” Al asked. “I’m sure many of our alumnae have valuable items and would be a source for recommendations.”

“Al, with all due respect, I don’t think we should go that route until the waters are becalmed.” Knute sailed in his spare time and dotted his conversations with sailing terms.

“That’s a thought.” Charlotte leaned toward Knute. “If we discuss what we have in our care in terms of cold cash, at this moment, we may invite more reprisals. But I definitely think this is necessary for the near future and we must find someone whose credentials are impeccable.”

“You know, if I’d known it was going to be this much trouble, I’d have picked the cotton myself,” Amy commented and languidly sipped her coffee.

“That is so insensitive! Amy, you astonish me.” Al’s face reddened.

“For Christ’s sake, get a sense of humor.” She stared at him.

“But that’s always it, isn’t it?” He bore down on Amy. “The oppressed are supposed to laugh when the oppressor makes fun of them. How can you laugh at your own suffering? I mean, do you think it’s funny if someone white wears blackface? Used to be a scream. Do you think it’s funny if a man gets up in drag?”

“Watch it, Al, you’ll kick off the transgender discussion.” Christopher, unlike Amy, chose his words with some care.

“Oh, balls!” Al put down his coffee cup with force.

An assistant quickly took it away, replacing it with a filled one that hadn’t spilled.

“Al, Amy is direct. Perhaps she is insensitive sometimes, but give her credit for being honest.” Knute wearied of these two sparring.

“You can be honest and dead wrong,” Al replied.

“I suppose you’d like to emphasize the dead.” Amy did have a sense of humor.

“With all due respect, this has been a trying morning. I value each of you for your contributions, but I’m not up to being a referee for my faculty and staff at this exact moment.” Charlotte’s voice was firm. “Everyone here has appointments. If you haven’t had enough to eat, take a sandwich, we can put a drink in a carry mug for you. But let’s get back on course.”

Charlotte cleared her office in ten minutes. She thanked the assistants, then she walked out to Teresa. “Can you believe those two?”

“I tune them out.” Teresa glanced over a list of calls she’d taken while Charlotte met with the group. “Your husband called. He’ll be home by six. He said he has a surprise.” Teresa looked up and smiled. “Bunny called. Said call her back when you have a minute. Nothing urgent. Um, Sonny Shaeffer called, you’ll receive an invitation for the bank’s Christmas party but he wants you and Carter to put it on your calendar now, um-m, December sixteenth, Friday.”

“Teresa, what do you think of all this?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you saying that because I’m white?” Charlotte didn’t hold back.

“After all we’ve been through? Now you’re getting as sensitive as Al Perez.” She waited a beat. “If I’d had reporters in my face and Pamela Rene, you know, I’d be a little touchy myself. I don’t know what I think except—”

“Except what?”

“I have a strange feeling. I can’t pin it on anything. I know you hate clichés but, Charlotte, I think this is the tip of the iceberg.”