Рита Браун - Scarlet Fever

“Trust your hounds.” Weevil repeated this to himself, a mantra.

Ardent lifted his head. Then Dasher, Thimble, and Taz followed suit. Four hounds standing stock-still, noses in the air. Then without a yelp they trotted west, occasionally rising on their hind paws.

Hounds may run silent when very close to their game but it is unusual otherwise. It’s not something staff particularly wants, yet here were four solid hounds running without a peep. The pack followed them to the fence line between Tattenhall Station and Old Paradise, the two-lane Chapel Cross South Road in between.

Hounds crossed the road, leapt over the stone fence, stopped.

Weevil and Jean got over first, followed by Sister.

Now two fingers of wind smacked them in the face.

Weevil put his horn to his lips. Jean intervened.

“Forgive me, but wait a moment. You were going to move them a bit off the wind, right?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“This wind is like a thin blade. It’s not spreading, it doesn’t cover territory to the sides. Your hounds picked up the scent high. If you wait a bit, the wind may drop for a moment. Then speak to them, for scent will have dropped with it.”

Hounds waited, lifting their noses but not moving forward. Weevil waited, too, a moment or two, and as wind often does, it slacked.

“Get ’em up.” He smiled at the hounds.

Diana, nose down, needed no encouragement. Scent settled. She opened, for she now had little doubt, plus it’s hard to open when you’re running with your nose high in the air, occasionally standing on your hind legs, which is what set Jean to rights.

The pack roared, heading straight for the elegant original stable. Now finished, the old stable looked like something out of a nineteenth-century print. The copper roof gleamed, verdigris not yet in evidence. The three huge cupolas also gleamed, and the middle one had a large copper flag, created to look as though it was waving. It was the Union Jack.

Earl, resident of this architectural gem, had already ducked into his den in the next-to-last stall. He also used the tack room for his lazing about, but if he needed to escape, the stall was the answer.

Hounds rushed into the center aisle, then into the stall, as all the doors were open. No horses were yet at Old Paradise and would not be there until the entire estate was regenerated.

Everyone sang at once.

Weevil dismounted, throwing the reins up to Jean, walked in, blew “Gone to Ground,” and praised everyone. Then he leaned down and called into the den opening. “I know you’re in there.”

A bark greeted his hello. “Yes, I am. Time to find another fox.”

Smiling at the response even though he didn’t know what the fox said, he walked outside, the entire pack around him, swung back up in the saddle, taking the reins from Jean.

“Thank you for that advice.”

She smiled at him. “I was born and raised in these parts and I’m long in the tooth,” she mocked herself.

“Madam, if you were long in the tooth you wouldn’t be riding with the huntsman.”

She laughed, happy to be up, happy to be with hounds, and while the run was short, the music was good.

Weevil cast southward from the stable and carriage stable, past the newly discovered slave graveyard along with remains of Monacans, for this was once Monacan territory.

Dutifully, hounds kept noses down. Not until the woods’ edge was there a bit of speaking. The pack fanned out. Scent would appear then disappear, frustrating.

Sister noted footing was better on the woods’ path but hounds then turned east, moved toward the road. They crossed over to Beveridge Hundred, began working back north toward Tattenhall Station. All opened at once, charging north.

A stout coop divided Tattenhall Station from Beveridge Hundred at this point. Yvonne, Aunt Daniella, and Ribbon sat in the car in Yvonne’s driveway. Once everyone was over the coop or through the gate, she crept out onto the road.

This turned into a straight shot, no maneuvers to throw off hounds. Scent, relatively fresh, was in a straight line as though laid down by a drag, which of course it wasn’t. They threaded their way through the woods, which covered the rear of Tattenhall Station starting about a half a mile from the coop. So there was a burst over the meadow then the woods, and of course trees had come down in the high winds earlier in the week…the whole season, really.

Cursing, for all were losing time, Sister did her best to keep up, but even Weevil couldn’t. Hounds easily negotiated the obstacles. Not so horses.

Finally out in the open again, she galloped toward Tattenhall Station, which was visible a mile and a half away. To her right, low, ran Broad Creek, the same waters that flowed through After All. The fencing behind Tattenhall Station was zigzag, as it was in colonial times. The entire fence line behind the station where everyone could see it was zigzag fencing. Along the road it was three-board. Sister picked her spot, over, pushing on, for this fellow had passed the station, crossed Chapel Road East, and moved into Tollbooth. There hounds stopped, for Gris, the gray whose scent they had picked up, was in his den in the outbuilding. He could easily get into the outside entrance. Hounds could not.

It was now two and a half hours since the first cast. Had this been a normal season Sister would have stayed out another hour, at least, but given the footing and the season it had been, no one’s horse was truly fit for such a full day.

Tattenhall rested across the road, rigs parked there, so all walked back.

Within twenty minutes everyone had a drink in their hand, some sat with a plate of food at the tables. A buzz filled the room.

Jean and Cindy Chandler relived old days of hunting with the late Jill Summers or the late Bobby Coles of Keswick Hunt. They remembered great masters from Maryland, wonderful whippers-in.

As those two caught up, Yvonne sat down with Sam, Tootie joining her.

Kasmir, as always, saw to the comfort of his guests.

Marty and Crawford attended although they didn’t hunt. Skiff was with Shaker. Those who hunted spoke of the odd wind currents. The great thing about hunting is one never runs out of things to discuss.

“Strange. A pool of blood perhaps the circumference of a plate,” Sister recalled how she and Betty had been checking out their fixture for Thursday. Pitchfork had everyone wondering how it would be. The weather reports kept Sister running to the TV and The Weather Channel. Drove her and everyone else crazy, but she was determined to finish out March and sidestep yet another downpour.

Sam, sitting across from Sister, who was starved, said, “Betty said you all saw a coyote.”

“We did,” Sister confirmed as Betty now sat next to her.

“They’re out there and they’ll kill anything.” Sam had heard them howl at Beasley Hall at sundown.

“You’d think he’d be carrying whatever it was,” Sister puzzled.

“Who knows? And you don’t know how many of them there were. You only saw one. Usually there’s more than one.” Sam watched wildlife, especially coyotes and foxes.

“True,” Sister agreed.

“Pray we don’t get one on Thursday. The last thing we need is a coyote hunt on a fixture we haven’t hunted in years.”

The breakfast, with people eating, talking, drinking, not wanting the season to end when they were so close, went on for two hours. Finally folks trickled away.

Jean bid her goodbyes, complimented Weevil, and pulled Sister aside to tell her he was young and good, all he needed was time on the target.

Then she got in her car, headed back through Charlottesville, pulling off Route 250 to Dunbar’s Antiques.

As she opened the door, Kathleen looked up. “How was the hunt?”