Рита Браун - Homeward Hound

Crawford’s other stableman—not a rider, more of a cleaner, repairman, turning horses in and out—had his hand on Sam’s foot. The two laughed about something. Then Rory moved through the people, walking over to Crawford, Marty, and Charlotte.

“Storm’s not supposed to hit until later but you can feel the mercury dropping,” the barrel-chested fellow declared. “Glad I put on extra layers.”

“Glad I’m not riding,” Crawford said. “My feet are cold enough now and these Eddie Bauer boots are supposed to stay warm up to minus twenty degrees Fahrenheit.”

“My feet are cold, too,” Marty agreed. “Why don’t we get in our cars?”

“You girls go ahead,” Crawford advised. “Rory and I will take a look at the Carriage House. I want to make sure the delivered lumber is all inside. I didn’t spend all that money to have it ruined by weather.”

He and Rory headed for his Range Rover while the women eagerly piled into her Range Rover. Marty cut on the motor and the heat. They watched the hunt move off. Then they headed back to the Howards’ big estate.

The sky, slate gray, seemed to darken a bit.

As the riders moved south, behind the station, the sound of hoofbeats muffled by the snow still provided that rhythm of horse gaits, a rhythm put to good effect by the Roman poet Horace and many poets later. Poetry and music mimic natural sounds and rhythms.

Funny what goes through your head, Sister thought to herself as she held the reins lightly in her begloved hands, mustard colored. If the weather turned wet she’d reach under her saddle flap, leg forward, pull out a string glove from under the stirrup leathers, put it on, repeat the procedure for the opposite side. Her hands would get wet but the string gloves would not slide on the leather reins. You could keep your grip. Sister had hunted as a child. It came as easily as breathing, and along with it came a deep appreciation and love of nature, as well as the fact that no human being, hound, or horse was as intelligent as the fox.

Off they rode. Ronnie Haslip rode alongside Gregory Luckham, his scarlet tails faded to perfection, which meant a long-lived foxhunter. His boots, made by Henry Maxwell, an English company, cost about seven thousand dollars new if bespoke: a subtle reminder of status, but a reminder nonetheless.

No one said a word about the pipeline uproar even though most of those mounted people felt queasy about it. As hounds were not yet cast, whispered conversation could commence. These little moments usually involved a comment about your neighbor’s horse, hounds, or the weather. You could be next to an Oscar winner and what would you say? “Nice horse. Good mover.”

If ever there was a sport that practiced equality, it was foxhunting. You could either ride the horse or you couldn’t. There were people out there in the invigorating air—they said invigorating but it was damned cold—who barely had two nickels to rub together. There were people like Kasmir who had billions and many who had a million or two, but most of these riders were middle-class whites and blacks, passionate about the game, adrenaline pumping.

In the old days, during slavery and after, the African Americans rode as grooms, which meant they had to extricate their white employer or owner from trouble. Times had changed, perhaps not as fast as some would have it, but they had changed for the better.

Following along in Daniella Laprade’s big-ass Range Rover—it was a vehicle made for country life so many people owned one—was Yvonne Harris. A conservative estimate was that Yvonne was worth double-digit millions having built an entertainment empire with her despised ex-husband in Chicago. Being driven, Aunt Daniella, who was coy about her age, smiled seraphically when people waved at her.

And you’d better wave at Aunt Dan. A word from this formidable lady could make or break you.

“Who is that with Ronnie?” Aunt Dan inquired.

Yvonne replied, “Gregory Luckham, the president of Soliden Company, the big oil company embroiled in the fracking uproar. Had dinner with him and the Van Dorns last night. I’ll tell you about it as we drive along.”

“Good for Ronnie, having him over land that is endangered.” Aunt Dan, eyesight good, squinted. “Why do people think we can enjoy all our comforts, electricity, cars, you name it, without despoiling the environment? If it isn’t oil it’s coal and if it’s windmills then it kills the birds in flight. People don’t want to face the truth.”

Dewey Milford waved at Aunt Dan, who waved back. “Sneakiest real estate agent in Virginia, I swear. Just has an instinct for what the new people want.”

“Oh, Aunt Dan, who is that with Sam?”

Gray Lorillard, Sister’s partner—her generation would not say lover—and Gray’s brother, Sam, were Daniella’s nephews, her son having died two years ago. She was always close to her nephews but now closer.

“The slight fellow?”

“Yes.”

“That’s Raymie Woolfe.”

“He looks comfortable.”

“Steeplechase jockey. He and Sam competed against each other when young, then Sam went off to Harvard and”—a long breath—“came home from Harvard.”

Yvonne had heard all this before for Sam, alcoholic, lost his scholarship at Harvard as well as his discipline. He slunk home in disgrace, found jobs working with horses, but wound up living at the train station with the rest of the drunks. His brother saved him by throwing him into a program in Greenville, North Carolina. Gray paid for it, too. Never threw it up in his brother’s face. Sam had been sober for over a decade and was now Yvonne’s riding instructor, for Crawford built a huge indoor arena big enough for indoor polo. She was determined to ride.

Aunt Dan, noticing the conspicuous silence, grumbled. “Threw away a brilliant future. Brilliant.”

“He has restored himself. He’s a good man, Aunt Dan. You can be proud of him. Do we need another asshole lawyer from Harvard?”

At this the older woman exploded in laughter. “You’re sweet on him.”

“I am not. I am never having another man in my life again.”

“Well, baby girl, send them to me. I might be old but I can still wear their ass out. I’ve lost count of my husbands but I could handle another—if the price is right.”

They both laughed as the field broke into a slow canter; all conversation stopped.

Shaker Crown, the huntsman in his middle forties, rode ahead of Sister and the field. The hounds, eager, in front of him, picked up scent. As the snow lay on the ground but lightly, the fox would not be hampered. If so, Sister would have canceled the hunt. One must always give the quarry a sporting chance, which is why if a fox is spotted one hollers, “Tallyho” after counting to twenty. Actually only a flight leader or a whipper-in should do that, but in the excitement of seeing an insouciant fox, they are all insouciant, the person bellows, hat off pointing in the direction the fox was moving. If they wear a cap with a strap then they stretch out their hand using a handkerchief or their crop.

The fox probably would have preferred hearing, “Isn’t he handsome?” but “Tallyho” would do.

Looking down, Shaker noticed fresh tracks. Scent held, not hot but not fading. Promising.

He didn’t blow his horn. Their noses were down. Why bring them up? He couldn’t stand a noisy huntsman. Shaker, set in his ways, thought only of his hounds. Never bring their noses up. He would call or blow a bit more often in rough territory or heavy woods just to let his whippers-in know where he or Sister was. As the Blue Ridge Mountains loomed to his right, to the west, one could easily ride into a ravine; sound would bounce around. Now with the leaves off the deciduous trees, sound carried much better, but sound and wind by the mountains could play tricks on you. Even the hounds with their fabulous hearing might pause, listen more intently.