Рита Браун: Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

The deepest things in life are not logical.

The elegant rooms filled with Woodford people and Jefferson people. Old silver trophies, continually polished over generations, reflected light, adding their own silver glow. Old and new gossip was rapidly dispensed with so folks could get to the real conversation: horses and hounds.

Walnut Hall represented both accumulated wealth and excellent taste. In a sense, it was like an old European home where generations refined the art of living and in the case of Meg, of giving. Kasmir was another giver.

Mingling among those who had financial great fortune in their lives were those who barely had two nickels to rub together. Apart from those two poles, the bulk of the group watched their pennies, got along, and enjoyed life with what they were able to earn.

Exuberance, love of nature, physical energy counted for more than money. And of course, character counted most of all. Foxhunters, like any group of humans anywhere in the world, provided a rich assortment of the good, the bad, and the plain old rotten to choose from.

O.J. found Sister in the scrum. “Took me two hours to thaw out.”

“I’d still be blue if it weren’t for Gray,” said Sister. “He helped me take my boots off, got me in the shower, then handed me a cup of tea. I think that’s the coldest I have ever been. Then he picked out tonight’s clothing, insisting I wear this cashmere sweater with a wraparound skirt. He said I needed to stay warm.”

Eyes twinkling, O.J. laughed, then said low into Sister’s ear, “Remind me of the connection between the Chetwynds and the Laprades? Didn’t the Laprades work for them since World War One?”

“Before and after. The Laprades had and still have a great eye for a horse. The Chetwynds were smart enough to use it.”

“As long as they stand Guns and Roses and Loopy Lou, people will haul mares to Virginia. They’ve also got St. Boniface, young, his first year crop looks good.”

“O.J., you remember your horses.”

“So do you. So much of what’s good in Virginia goes back to Mr. Mellon’s stud, the Chenerys, of course. But tell me about the Laprades.” O.J. leaned in closer.

“Related to Gray. Gray’s mother, Graziella Lorillard, and Daniella Laprade were sisters. I add, they weren’t close but they more or less got along. The Laprades made a lot of money with the Chetwynds. Not so much in salary but in betting at the track, or so I’m told. Mercer”—she indicated a well-dressed man in his fifties—“still advises Phil Chetwynd as well as others. Gray says he makes money at the track as well.”

“Well, he doesn’t look poor,” said O.J. “Anyone riding in a Hermès saddle isn’t poor.”

“Drives Gray nuts.” Sister shook her head. “Gray does not believe in flash.”

“You might remind Gray that a Hermès saddle will last at least three generations and if it fits you and your horse, it’s worth the price.” O.J. grinned. “The Chetwynd money isn’t all from horses, right? I thought their fortune started with coal in West Virginia.”

“Did. They still own the mines. Phil”—she nodded at the Chetwynd standing nearby next to Gray, towering over him actually—“doesn’t run the mines. His brother does. Phil is in charge of the breeding and racing operation, Broad Creek Stables. Phil works closely with Mercer. There’s always been the thought that they are related back through Phil’s grandfather and Mercer’s grandmother. No one says this outright but Gray told me and he wondered if it ended there. He’s good about so-called sexual sins but prior generations lied through their teeth. Phil comes to Kentucky regularly for the big races but he does most of his business in the mid-Atlantic.”

“Dear Lord, Sister, the way things are going, racing might shift to the mid-Atlantic.”

“Kentucky will always be first in Thoroughbreds,” Sister predicted.

“Sister, each year over five hundred million dollars shoots out of this state into Indiana casinos. And we can’t get slots in the racetracks. It’s crazy.”

“It’s kind of like killing the goose that laid the golden egg.” Sister had no idea how immense was the financial drain Kentucky was experiencing.

Both their heads turned when they noticed their host Alan Leavitt opening the front door to the two men, Fred and Arnie, who had been at the graveyard. After a quick conversation, Alan hastily threw on his overcoat and left with them, shutting the door behind him.

He returned within fifteen minutes, said something to Meg.

Meg’s expression changed from calm to disbelief. “Alan, that can’t be,” Sister heard her say.

“Well, come see.”

As others overheard this exchange, curiosity rose.

Alan looked over his shoulder as he stepped outside the door. “Come on. Might as well see this, but put on a coat. Sun has set and it’s getting cold again.”

Sister, Gray, O.J., Betty, Phil Chetwynd, Mercer Laprade, who was in the front hall, Tootie, Kasmir, and a group of the Woodford members dutifully put on their overcoats and went outside to trod upon the sodden ground squishing beneath their feet.

For the ladies in heels, this was not a good idea.

At the Walnut Farms burial grave site, Fred and Arnie pointed down. Fred held a strong flashlight while Arnie knelt down, slinging away mud.

“Who was Benny Glitters?” Tootie asked, then quickly shut up.

“What’s that?” Meg exclaimed, for a smashed gold pocket watch and chain caught the gleam from Fred’s flashlight.

Arnie scraped around a bit more and a dog skull appeared, possibly that of a small terrier, then a thumb and human forefinger also appeared not far from the watch. The forefinger was bent toward the unseen palm.

Sister inhaled sharply, then whispered. “Death beckons.”

CHAPTER 3

Tuesday, February 4, some clouds and some sun hinted that the weather might turn in the foxhunter’s favor. Sister Jane knew better than to be too hopeful. She’d lived through whopping snowstorms as late as mid-April in central Virginia. As a rule of thumb, though, the last frost was around April 15 and she fervently hoped this year would run true to form. However, it was now February, a notoriously difficult month.

Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays were The Jefferson Hunt days. Back from Kentucky, Sister, her hounds, her huntsmen, and two whippers-in prepared for what they hoped would be a good day. As so many people worked, Tuesdays and Thursdays drew smaller numbers. When the season passed New Year’s Day, the diehards slipped away from work as they knew the last half of hunt season always flew by faster than the first half.

As Field Master, the seventy-three-year-old Sister led the riders in First Flight, those who took the jumps. Bobby Franklin, Betty’s husband, a man of prudent judgment, led Second Flight. Mostly they didn’t jump, although they might pop over a log.

The pasture—dull brown, patches of old snow here and there—lay below them. Within two months it would shine bright green.

Another reason people came out on this particular Tuesday was that they were hunting a new fixture, Oakside. It takes a season to learn a fixture, sometimes more, both for hounds and staff.

Led by Cora, an older, wiser hound, the pack fanned out over the lower pasture. They’d lost the line, easy to do in even the best of conditions, for the fox is every bit as smart as the old myths and stories tell us.

Noses down, concentration intense, the Jefferson pack made Sister proud. Shaker Crown, her huntsman of many years, knew when to urge them on and when to sit tight and shut up. This was a sit-tight-and-shut-up situation.

Pookah, young, a trifle silly, was momentarily distracted by the pungent odor of a bobcat. “Hey, this smells kind of interesting.”