Рита Браун - Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

When Phil rumbled down Crawford’s long drive, at the turnoff, Sam Lorillard met him with a truck and led him back to the kennels, on which—like everything else—Crawford Howard had spared no expense.

Phil had called ahead to Sam, Gray’s brother, who worked for Crawford. No one else would give the former alcoholic a job, including his brother. Crawford took a chance on him, paid him handsomely, and was well rewarded by Sam’s loyalty and labor.

Sam unloaded the hounds. “How was the hunt?” he asked.

“Good,” Phil replied. “Where’s Crawford?”

“Up at the house. He drove in about an hour ago.”

“Well, his hounds hunted nicely under Shaker, if that matters to him,” Mercer piped up.

Sam nodded. “He fired the huntsman in the middle of today’s hunt. We will now be looking for number five.”

“Man would have to be a fool to take that job.” Mercer didn’t monitor his opinion.

Grateful as Sam was to Crawford, he knew Mercer was right.

“He’d do better with a woman,” Phil declared.

“Why’s that?” Sam watched the last hound walk into the well-lit kennel.

Phil folded his long arms over his chest. “I think women are better at dealing with difficult people.”

Mercer pulled out his pocket watch and as he did so he told Sam about the four people closing their watches at the same moment. “You know we’d better shoot out of here before he sees us and we hear the lamentations of Crawford Howard,” Mercer advised.

“Something elegant about a pocket watch,” said Sam.

Mercer said, “One of our relations had a gold pocket watch and he walked into a whorehouse and never walked out—remember that old story?”

Phil tilted his head. “Must have been a hell of a transaction.”

Eye on the big house, Mercer recalled, “Great-Aunt Jessamy would shake her head and say they never found anything of Grandpa Harlan’s. They found an empty wallet and his clothes were neatly folded in the laundry room of the establishment. Of course, the authorities couldn’t tell Jessamy that, but they told enough others. Word got around.” He looked at his cousin. “Funny what one remembers.”

Moving toward the driver’s door, Phil said, “Maybe some things are better forgotten.”

CHAPTER 6

The long polished table gleamed under the soft lights which, though subdued, were bright enough to take notes by. The board of trustees for Custis Hall met regularly once a month, more if the occasion demanded. The paneled room was in the original building.

Founded in 1812 as a school for young women, it remained true to its originating principles, now being one of the best prep schools in Virginia. The original funding came from the owner of Old Paradise, a grand lady who had made a great fortune running supplies through the British lines during the War of 1812. Had this indomitable woman been able to return she would have been satisfied, thrilled even, at how the school had flourished over the years. She would have been much less impressed had she visited Old Paradise.

These days, Crawford Howard, a board member, was slowly putting the holding’s owners, the DuCharmes, in his back pocket with money and improvements calculated to help Arthur again keep cattle. Crawford’s long-term goal was to buy Old Paradise. The DuCharmes would first fight among themselves but he could play a waiting game.

On moving to central Virginia, Crawford committed the mistake of building a garish new home designed to look old. He garnered attention. Not a penny was spared. Over time he learned that showing off his riches like this put a mark by his name as a vulgarian, even though he tried to make the place look historic. Far better to buy an historic estate. Even if one lived in one that was falling down, that still trumped the look of new money. Every place has its ways and Virginia remained steadfast in her habits, for both good and ill.

To Crawford’s credit, he cared about young people. One of his passions was education and he gave generously—as in six figures per annum—to Custis Hall. Young and attractive, Headmistress Charlotte Norton proved adept at managing him, a quality Sister Jane admired since she had failed to pacify Crawford when he was a hunt club member. Crawford’s business acumen also proved vital to Custis Hall.

Sister was now in her fortieth year on the board of trustees, for she kept getting re-elected. She valued Crawford’s contribution even as she disdained him personally. While lacking his degree of business sense, she had a bit. Moreover, she was one hundred percent committed to a strong humanities curriculum, which meant foreign languages, structured classes, knowing your country’s history along with world history. As a former professor of geology at Mary Baldwin College, the huntmaster was passionate about the natural sciences.

The board had wisely corralled a bank president, head of one of the best local law firms, and one music star—who worked very hard, to everyone’s surprise, as they thought she’d more or less show up for one meeting a year. Turned out that Mary Sewell Wainwright was as enthusiastic about all the arts as Sister was about the natural sciences.

The two women clicked, despite a thirty-year age gap.

Elected just last year and still finding their way were Phil Chetwynd and Mercer Laprade. The Chetwynds served on many boards but this was Phil’s first turn at Custis Hall, where his oldest daughter was a sophomore. Mercer was determined to create scholarships for young women of color, a much cherished goal.

Nancy Hightower, also African American, addressed the gathering. “My fear is that this interference will create a backlash.”

She referred to the S.O.L.’s, the Standard of Learning rules laid down by the federal government and then enforced by the state government.

“Not for us.” Phil put his pencil down. “Custis Hall exceeds all the criteria.”

“Let me be more clear, the backlash I fear is accusations about elitism. We outperform most every state school and we are right up there against St. Catherine’s and St. Christopher’s, Collegiate, St. Gertrude’s, Foxcroft, Madeira. We hold our own and better.”

“Private schools can’t be compared to state schools,” said Phil. “We can be far more demanding than the state.”

“Yes, we can and we should be,” Mercer agreed, his light voice clear, pleasant. “But the bulk of our students come from homes that are stable, value education, and strongly support same. We need more scholarship students.”

“Mercer, forty percent of our students receive some form of student aid,” said Isadore Rosen, head of personnel.

Now in his midfifties, Isadore had taken his job decades ago, thinking it would be temporary. But he had found his calling and stayed, to the benefit of all.

The six o’clock news anchor at a network station in Richmond and a Custis Hall alumna, Frances Newcombe agreed. “Mercer has a point. Private schools are seen as elitist and there is resentment about children not getting in because they can’t afford it. We all at this table know it takes more than money, what it really takes is aptitude, a willingness to work hard and frankly, there’s not enough of that as I would wish. This is a generation that expects to have everything given to them.”

Sister weighed in. “With all due respect, Frances, there are plenty of young people out there who would make good use of an education here if they could swing it. Custis Hall is expensive as are all the prep schools. It’s not just the expansion of scholarship funding, it’s also the housing, the food. You all see our budget statements. Lord, just keeping the physical plant and the grounds up to form costs us thousands upon thousands. And then if we could increase enrollment of scholarship students, could we raise the money to pay for it? Where would we build a new dorm without risking the historical character of this place? Custis Hall is one of the most beautiful secondary schools in the United States.”