Рита Браун - Scarlet Fever

The curiosity of it was that the gorgeous place never hosted foxhunts. No one really knew why. Sister always viewed it with lust but was far too well-bred to ask for permission to hunt.

Fate stepped in. Walter Lungren, in a fit of upgrading his wardrobe, happened to be shopping in the upscale men’s store in Barracks Road Shopping Center. Chalmers Perez, a pile of fine cotton shirts on the counter, stood in front of him. They chatted amiably, knowing each other superficially. Chalmers grabbed his chest, gasped, and dropped. Walter, a cardiologist, knew exactly what to do, literally saving Chalmers’s life. He also visited him every day in the hospital, for the fifty-two-year-old man needed a new heart valve. As the heavyset Chalmers recovered, the two men talked about his diet, his need for exercise, and more, his need for discipline. Without prompting, the owner of Heron’s Plume, married to a Pickett, Dulcie, invited Walter and Jefferson Hunt to ride at the old estate, which he promised overflowed with foxes.

He was right. As this was Jefferson’s first year on the grounds, a learning year, lots of hunt and peck, they discovered Mr. Perez told the truth. Foxes ran Heron’s Plume.

The day, overcast and cold, was at least relatively dry. Weevil, as soon as the small field mounted up, cast east along the creek, hitting in two skinny minutes. The red never showed himself but he wove in and out of brick buildings that had once housed cattle, horses, hay, plus a sumptuous chicken coop. Humans could live in that chicken coop, for Chalmers’s chickens were his pride. If the chicken was rare and a good layer, he had it.

The fox doesn’t live that can resist a henhouse but no fox could dig under, climb over, or even try to lure one of these prized birds into his jaws. However, this fox was smart enough to circle the glamorous pile then shoot straight up to a low ridge, maybe one hundred feet high, total lift above sea level maybe six hundred feet, enough for the wind to slice you if it was blowing, because once up there you were exposed.

The hounds felt it. The wind was really only about twelve miles per hour. Enough.

Trees, mostly evergreens, for the deciduous trees were denuded, swayed in the wind.

“Where’d he go?” Tattoo cried in frustration.

“He either dipped on the other side or he has a den up here.” Dreamboat, nose down, kept trying.

As the ridge ran from the southwest to the northeast, the other side was on the northeast from where the pack and the field climbed up. Wind usually hits from the west, northwest in this part of Virginia and it was hitting now. The pack dropped over the path on the ridge but scent had been blown to bits.

Weevil wisely clucked to his hounds, “Come away.”

They did, following him down. Once down in the lovely valley again they hit another line and damned if this fox didn’t run to the buildings, as well. Each time the pack encountered a building it slowed them, for they followed the scent around the building.

The fox literally ran rings around them.

“Woodpile.” Dasher flew over the hard ground, as the line had warmed a bit when the sun hit it.

Screaming, they flew behind the big hay barn, behind the grain silo, and hooked a right turn, winding up at the woodpile, where the fox scurried into a perfect den. So many creatures frequented the woodpile that the fox could chat up most everyone and even pretend to hunt mice. Given that the owners left so much grain on the floor of the silo, this fellow and most of the other foxes could eat leftover oats all winter. The corn had filled a smaller silo. That brought everyone in, too.

The wind picked up, Sister felt her face tingle plus the cold made her eyes tear.

Riding up to Weevil, she wiped her eyes. “Cast crosswind. That should get you all the way down to the farm gate. Then you can turn into the wind, which will be a bitch, I know. Hunt back to here. If we don’t get anything, call it a day.”

“Yes, Madam.”

Sister watched as he turned Showboat, Shaker’s handy Thoroughbred, crosswind, the pack obediently following their huntsman, who gave a little toodle.

Cindy Chandler, riding with the Bancrofts up front, liked being on this new fixture despite the trying conditions. The field, small, reflected her curiosity and her pleasure. The idea that after two hundred and thirty years Heron’s Plume finally was open to them seemed like magic.

Betty Franklin mirrored the pack, riding on the other side of the creek branch, which at this point was wide, roaring.

Tootie, on the left, followed outside the fence line, for the club had not yet had time to build jumps. After a half hour trying, Weevil lifted the pack, heading back to the trailers.

Everyone was glad to reach them, including the hounds. Chalmers and Dulcie hosted a breakfast.

“You look great,” Walter praised Chalmers once inside the house.

“Thirty pounds.” He patted his ever-shrinking stomach. “Dulcie’s support; well, everyone I know has really helped me. After that heart attack, I knew I had to change my life.”

Dulcie, his wife, had taken up walking with him, preparing meals low in fat, and watching his portions. She’d lost weight as well, not that she really needed it but most women feel they do so she was happy.

“Funny how we ignore ourselves until Mother Nature smacks us in the face. Here I am, a doctor, and I can be as pigheaded about my health as the next guy,” Walter confessed.

“You look in good shape.”

“Oh, I’m okay but my wind isn’t what it should be, and I use the excuse that I don’t need to run because riding takes care of it but it doesn’t. Need to use all those muscles.”

“What are you two talking about?” Sister joined them. “This is a lovely breakfast. Thank you.”

“Dulcie loves to entertain. But we are glad to have you. You know, it’s a beautiful sport, although I don’t envy you on the cold, cold days.”

“I’m not sure I do either.” She smiled. “Ah, here comes Gray.”

Now the four of them talked about an uproar in the county schools over T-shirts and ball caps with slogans, which upset some kids or at least their parents.

“I’m for school uniforms,” Sister posited.

“Saves money. Everyone looks alike and no one will be wearing naked ladies or whatever the offense du jour is.”

“Naked ladies are a lot more fun than the more political stuff,” Chalmers mused.

“Maybe not if you’re a young woman.” Gray smiled. “Don’t know. As far as I know, images of naked men haven’t lured women into wearing them.”

“Of course not. All a young lady has to do is stand there. You all would take off your clothing in a heartbeat,” Sister teased.

They laughed, chatted more, then Chalmers asked Walter, “How about Harry Dunbar? What a loss. You know he was often called to museums as an expert. I think the number of those is dwindling.”

“Maybe it depends on the period,” Gray spoke up.

“Chalmers, we all knew Harry for years. Good rider. Slowing down a bit but he said business had picked up. Cut into time,” Sister said.

“Sure does.” Walter nodded.

“But didn’t Harry and Drew Taylor get crossways years back?” Chalmers wrinkled his brow. “Honey, come here.” He turned to Sister, Gray, and Walter. “She remembers everything.”

Dulcie recapped the distant uproar concerning Mrs. Taylor’s furniture legacy. “Well…” Chalmers paused. “Drew was precipitous.”

“Because he didn’t get other opinions?” Walter had just been out of school when all this happened.

Betty, joining them, piped up. “The Taylors feel they are old Albemarle County and should be treated as such. Harry, for his own cover, should have suggested they get other opinions.”