Рита Браун - The Tell-Tale Horse

“That’s how you should address your master.” Sister made light of his predicament and reached out her hand, which he grasped for balance to stand.

“Mandy looked out the window this morning and declined to brave the elements. She’ll be sorry when she hears how good it was. I’m delighted I came out.” He paused. “People think India is hot, but we come from the north by the mountains. Snow and ice descend upon us, but I must confess I never hunted in cold weather before moving here.”

“High, it was a lucky day when your family came on board.” She meant it; their buoyant spirits and natural warmth lifted everyone up.

Kasmir, stepping much more carefully, joined them. “A most delightful day. Thank you, Master.”

“Mr. Barbhaiya,”—she breathed an inward sigh of relief that she had remembered his name correctly—“we are honored to have you. Your turnout is perfect and, sir, you can ride!”

Pleased, he smiled, his teeth sparkling under his bushy mustache. “I find myself in London often. I do believe the best tailors for gentlemen are on Jermyn Street.” Indeed, the street he named was famous for such establishments.

“No doubt, although should you ever find yourself in Lexington, Kentucky, there is a tailor on Red Mile Road, Le Cheval, who does a credible job. I have my vests and coats made there. And you must go to Horse Country. That’s where I buy everything else, plus the really heavy winter frock coats are just the warmest. The clothing is ready-made but alterations can be effected.”

“Ah, yes, I stopped into that enticing establishment.”

High laughed. “He made Marion very happy. Three thousand dollars happy.”

Kasmir lifted his eyes to heaven. “Ah, I am a weak mortal. When Miss Maggiolo took me under her wing I became distracted by her skin, her mane of steel-gray hair, her very graciousness.”

Bemused, Sister asked, “Did you convey these sentiments to my dear friend?”

“I conveyed a bottle of Mumm de Crémant via messenger after I left the store. This was the Saturday morning of the ball. I was favored by two dances that evening and a tête-à-tête stroll down the hall.” He paused. “I am not a handsome fellow like High here. I am middle-aged, portly, and a widower. It will take a long siege, I think, to gain favor with Maid Marion.”

“Mr. Barbhaiya, Marion is not superficial, I can promise you. A good kind heart will count heavily in your favor. And, sir, you underrate your looks.” She thought to herself how subtle he had been to send Mumm de Crémant and not a flashy brand.

This especially delighted him. For all his sparkling personality, he was a lonely man in the small hours and wondered if he would ever again find a woman to truly love him and not his money. “Please call me Kasmir. I would be honored.”

“Kasmir, the honor is mutual.”

“He’s going to settle here,” High declared matter-of-factly. “Leave Mumbai forever. Kasmir says his late wife came to him in a dream and told him he would find happiness here.”

Kasmir blushed. “It is true.”

“If there is anything I can do to help you, please allow me to do so.” Sister genuinely meant this. She understood how it felt to lose your spouse and force yourself to go on.

“I am most obliged. Good evening, Master.” He bid her farewell correctly, even though it was just noon.

Sister was thrilled Kasmir gave the proper address of “Good evening, Master.” As the two men started to walk away, she stepped forward. “Kasmir, excuse me.” The two men stopped. “Norfolk and Southern will sell Tattenhall Station, three hundred acres surrounded by commanding views and some gorgeous building sites.” She paused. “And as High owns Chapel Cross”—this was the estate named for the crossroads—“you would be country neighbors. I can give you the number of the person to call. The company has at long last decided to sell these small stations, while still retaining rights to the spur lines, the actual tracks. The only reason I know this is because the decision was made just last week. A friend of mine is a corporate officer and knows how much Tattenhall Station means to us. It will be publicly offered next month.”

After writing out the number, Sister made her way to the tailgate but was waylaid by Cabel Harper. “I was so sorry to hear what happened to you and Marion after the ball. It must have been a terrible shock.”

“It was.”

“Makes you wonder.”

“Does,” Sister agreed. “By the way, Ilona mentioned how wonderful she thought the Casanova Ball was.”

Both women looked to Ilona, now conversing with Kasmir and High.

“The decorations exceeded my expectations. Did Trudy Pontiakowski come up with the theme? She was the chair, you know.” Cabel rubbed her cold hands together.

“Trudy never does anything halfway. I expect the theme was voted on by the ball committee and passed by the masters.”

“Why don’t we try a theme next year? Our decorations are too predictable.”

“That’s a good idea.” Sister waited a moment, smiled, and then sprang, just like a fox leaping on an unsuspecting mouse. “Please accept the honor and the hard labor of being next year’s ball chairman. You’re so creative.”

Cabel, knowing she was caught but rising to the challenge, said, “I will. And I know beforehand it will be one long agony with Ronnie over the budget.”

“That’s possible, but given your persuasive powers I’m sure you can get things donated. You have a wealth of contacts.”

“I’m going to start right this minute. Ilona doesn’t know it, but she’s donating a winter’s supply of bottled gas for the auction.”

The Merrimans owned a local gas company, selling natural gas and oil to heat houses. Their reputation for service was spotless. Ramsey ran the company, the third generation of Merrimans to do so, while Ilona successfully played the stock market.

Sister watched as Cabel spoke to Ilona, who seemed to brighten during the conversation. Praise a fool, Sister thought to herself.

Later, back in the kennels, horses put up, rubbed down, and very happy, Sister went over the list of hounds who had hunted that day.

Shaker fed everyone, checked them for cuts and soreness, and then put the girls back with the girls, the boys with the boys.

Both humans were grateful for the quiet time together in the functional office, filled with photos of Jefferson Hunt dating back to 1887.

“Good idea today, swooping down to Chapel Cross.”

Shaker rubbed some cream into his hands, now sore and chapped. “Thanks, but on fine scenting days any huntsman looks good.”

“True, it’s the in-between days that show up a good huntsman. On the bad days, Jesus H. Christ himself couldn’t get a fox up.”

Shaker smiled. “Maybe he could.”

“Well, all right. Say, I heard they got the roof on Crawford’s chapel. St. Swithin will be pleased.”

“Asshole.”

“St. Swithin? He’s a good saint.”

“Crawford.” Shaker laughed. “Good he got it under roof, though. He must have three crews working there.”

“Sam says he’s possessed.”

Sam Lorillard was Gray’s brother, a talented horseman and recovering alcoholic.

“Whose day is it today?” Shaker asked.

“Empty.”

“Really?”

“According to my Oxford Dictionary of Saints it is,” Sister replied.

She possessed an odd talent for dates and kept the saints’ days for herself, feeling those former figures deserved to be remembered. She’d consult her saints’ book if she couldn’t recall whose feast day it was. February 19 was the day Henry the Fourth defeated the rebels at Bramham Moor in 1408, and the beginning of the battle of Iwo Jima in 1945, which lasted until March 17.