Рита Браун: Homeward Hound

Yvonne, walking close to him, remarked, “Does this make it more difficult for you? Yes, we want to keep things as they are, but you can also call upon us.”

“Thank you.” Gregory looked to Ronnie. “This is where you are invaluable. It isn’t just dollars and cents. It’s public relations. Soliden has been a leader in the state in contributing to the arts, to education. I think we can find a way to protect your environment and history. We need to work together.”

“Well said.” Dewey’s deep voice carried throughout the room.

“You know, we’re always the bad guys—our entire industry. But this nation runs on oil and gas. For all the talk about alternative energy, and we are making some progress, we are utterly dependent on gas and oil.” Gregory pulled a beautiful ribbed gold cigarette case from his inside pocket, offering anyone a cigarette as they would soon be outside. They refused. He slipped the case back into the inside pocket of his coat.

“Yes, we are.” Ronnie flatly agreed, as did Dewey.

Gregory walked with them, although he was staying at the country club. At the front door he mentioned to the Van Dorns and Yvonne, “Perhaps I will see Beveridge Hundred tomorrow.”

“Up to the fox.” Ronnie laughed.

“Doesn’t mean we can’t all have a drink at the house after the hunt. Our little two-stall barn is empty. You can put your horses in there and then drive home.” Cecil smiled.

“Perfect.” Gregory smiled.

CHAPTER 3

Rainbow splinters, brilliant shards of purple, blue, green, yellow, orange, and red dazzled the eye as they flew off horses’ hooves, rose up behind hound paws. Christmas Hunt, Saturday, December 23, got off to a perfect start from Tattenhall Station, the revitalized formerly abandoned train station in the westernmost part of the county. Snow clung to the Victorian bric-a-brac, horse trailers filled the old parking lot, a few old hitching posts still intact. Kasmir Barbhaiya, a fabulously wealthy middle-aged man from India, educated in England, bought all the land from the railroad, restoring the station as a clubhouse for The Jefferson Hunt. He built a true Virginia clapboard farmhouse for himself, elegant, modest, historically correct at the highest point of the land, some two thousand acres.

Christmas Hunt is the third of the High Holy Days in foxhunting. Opening Hunt is the first, then Thanksgiving, also often the children’s hunt, and lastly New Year’s Hunt. A High Holy Day involved wearing one’s most formal attire, a shadbelly or weazlebelly, a tailcoat for women and men respectively, a glossy top hat, boots polished to such a shine a man could shave using them. The tack on the horses evidenced not so much as a smudge. Bits gleamed, as did spurs, and every single horse was braided, eight braids for a gelding, nine braids for a mare, and the Master counted. If something was amiss, Sister proved gentle about it. Sister would never criticize someone in front of others. Actually, she didn’t have to do so. Every hunt field in every foxhunting club in North America contains fashionistas, usually a woman of middle years or beyond who recalled the glories of Mainbocher or Balenciaga. Somewhat younger women might know Saint Laurent, Halston, or de Givenchy and those even younger focused on Jil Sander. A whisper from one of “the dragons,” as they were referred to behind their backs, usually had the corrective effect.

A gentleman noticing a misplaced stock tie pin, or gloves the wrong color, usually tried to buttonhole the offender at the trailer for a confidential word and often a loan of proper gear. Experienced foxhunters carried all manner of goods in their trailers and trucks: extra gloves (never black), most especially string gloves for under one’s stirrup leathers placed with the rear of the glove facing the front. Almost everyone stashed extra stock ties because was there ever a hunt when someone didn’t stab themselves, blood spurting over the shockingly white tie? Many a rider rode out with thumbs like a pincushion, for those damned pins were lethal. However, properly placed, the pins looked divine and held down one’s tie, a four in hand no less.

A High Holy Day created stress. People expanded their vocabulary of abuse while their horses simply turned their heads in amusement. Humans were a volatile lot.

But it mattered. Why? Because those people in the hunt field measured up to sartorial tradition close to four hundred years in practice. Before that, there was hunting on horseback for stag, boar. Fox was considered inferior game to the first two creatures but one just doesn’t blow off four hundred years, and the fox moved up in status by the early eighteenth century. At least one didn’t blow off tradition when riding with The Jefferson Hunt.

As the ninety-some people trotted out behind Tattenhall Station, with three inches of powdery snow on the ground that only enhanced their turnout, an observer could easily think this was the eighteenth century. Some people from “other parts,” as was said in central Virginia, felt they were still living in the same. No one argued the point. Why lower yourself?

The dots of scarlet weazlebellys, scarlet frock coats for the men who had earned their colors, caused Charlotte to exclaim, “How beautiful.”

“Never fails to impress.” Marty Howard thought the black shadbellys on the ladies quite slimming.

Hands in pockets, the cold seeped into one’s bones. Crawford nodded to people once mounted. Over the last year he, thanks to Marty, Sam, and Skiff, his huntswoman, reached a workable accord with Jefferson Hunt.

Sister, happy to have Sam in her hunt field, settling a youngster for Crawford, kept the relationship friendly. She invited Skiff to bring Crawford’s outlaw pack to her farm in the summers once a week so they could walk out with her hounds. She planned a joint meet with his hounds in her territory and vice versa. This last consideration violated Master of Foxhound of America rules about outlaw packs.

The MFHA forbade recognized packs and their members from congress with outlaw packs. Well and good, but Crawford lay smack in her best territory, and his portfolio burst as did his bank account. Best you reach a working accord with such a person.

Crawford, too, began to see the wisdom of assistance from someone who knew as much as Sister. Also, some of these people were his neighbors.

“Perhaps I should add foxhunting to my research,” Charlotte said. “I bet Sophie Marquet hunted.”

“She had her own pack.” Crawford knew a bit about the fabled founder of Old Paradise, her fortune made from her beauty and raiding British supply and payroll wagons during the War of 1812.

“As do you, Darling.” Marty slipped her arm through his.

Crawford stiffened, having just caught sight of a smartly turned-out Gregory Luckham. “That man is either thickheaded or impossibly arrogant or both. To show up here.”

“You knew he was riding,” Marty, voice calm, cooed. “Why dignify him with noticing?”

Crawford grunted.

Charlotte, taking her cue from Marty, said, “Seeing how incredible this territory is, how much land is out here in the Chapel Crossroads area, he might realize he’s facing an expensive, toxic even, fight.”

“Toxic. Good word.” Crawford grinned. “Where’s Sam?”

“Coming up beside Gray. Trocadero looks calm. Sam is good for him.” Marty praised Sam.

“He does look calm.” Crawford wanted to hunt the flashy youngster next season.

Gregory Luckham chatted up Kasmir, remarking on how Tattenhall Station looked like something out of a Victorian photograph.

Kasmir, smiling and subtle, acknowledged the compliment, adding, “My wish is it will remain so, a step back in time.”

That was much better than growling, “No pipeline.”