Рита Браун: The Tell-Tale Horse

Seated at the master’s table were Bill and Joyce Fendley, joint masters of Casanova; their daughter, Jeanne Clark, now also a joint master; and her husband, John. Sister and Gray, Marion Maggiolo, and the entire Bancroft clan filled out the rest. Every table on the ballroom floor hosted at least one couple from JHC. Libations flowed, the dance floor was jammed, and Sister danced every dance as the gentlemen in attendance lined up to squire the master. Being Virginians, they performed this duty without thinking about it. No lady should ever sit out a dance unless she chooses to do so. Age, looks, and bloodline certainly improve a lady’s chances of further engagements, but all belles have to be treated as great beauties. It’s the custom.

In Sister’s case, the gentlemen truly enjoyed dancing with her. Seventy-three, a trim six feet, with shining silver hair and buoyant spirits, she had the gift of making a man feel like a man and she was a wonderful dancer.

Joyce Fendley, passing her on the floor, called over her partner’s shoulder, “Don’t you ever wear out?”

Sister laughed. “If I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

As the music ended, High Vajay, head of the Vajay family and a stalwart of the Jefferson Hunt, held out his gloved hand for Sister. His family called him Lakshmi, but the Virginians, fearful of murdering his given name, had nicknamed him High. It suited him, for he was tall and reed-thin, with salt-and-pepper hair, a handsome man who reveled in the high life. His wife, Madhur, now Mandy, had been Miss Cosmos in 1990; at thirty-nine, her stunning beauty had only intensified with age. Their children, eight and ten years old, were tucked in bed at home, two hours southwest of Fauquier County, where everyone was gathered.

“Master, you move like a panther,” High purred.

“Means I have claws.” She smiled up at him, a pleasure for her since she often looked a bit down at a fellow.

“I’ve seen them.” He held her tighter.

He had, too; there were moments in the hunt field when she had to wield her power, lest a hound, horse, or human be endangered, usually in that order.

After their waltz, High walked Sister back to her table, where she and Gray sat down at the same moment. The band took a break.

“What a party.” Gray grinned, his military mustache calling attention to his white teeth.

“Anytime I’m with you, darling, it’s a celebration.”

He kissed her on the cheek. For a year and a half they’d been keeping company, as Sister’s generation politely called it. They drew closer each day, but neither one was prepared to say I love you.

But they did love each other. In fact, many of the people in this room loved each other, but they may not have recognized the feeling. Americans focus on romantic love, particularly the pursuit stage, glossing over the sustaining bonds of friendship, a condition Sister often thought of as love made bearable. She enjoyed the members of her club and loved a few with all her heart. There were Tedi and Edward Bancroft, friends for most of her life. She loved Betty Franklin, her first whipper-in, a prized position and sometimes a dangerous one. Betty Franklin, in her forties, stood talking to a group of people while Bobby, her husband, returned from the bar with her tonic water and lime.

Sister cast her eyes about the room and smiled, perhaps not realizing how very much she did care for many of those assembled but realizing she was happy: blissfully, rapturously happy.

Marion Maggiolo, owner of Horse Country, the premier emporium for foxhunting needs and other equestrian pursuits, swept back to the table, her thick gray hair, once liver chestnut, offsetting her perfect complexion. No woman could look at Marion without envying her incredibly creamy skin. The rest wasn’t bad either, for she knew how to put herself together, displaying the creative eye so evident in her store displays. Ladies may wear only black or white gowns to a hunt ball. Marion’s elegant white dress, clearly custom-made because it emphasized all of her best parts, was no exception tonight.

“This ball is a triumph,” Marion told Casanova’s masters, now back at the table.

Joyce, eyes sparkling, demurred. “We didn’t do a bad job.”

Bill, square-jawed, draped his arm over his wife’s back. “Joyce and the committee planned this better than the invasion of Iraq.”

“I don’t wonder.” Sister raised an eyebrow and the others laughed.

Slinking under the weight of black bugle beads, Trudy Pontiakowski, chair of the ball, made her way to Sister’s table.

Her face, tight around the eyes and mouth, bore testimony to her determination to look young; the plastic surgeon did the rest.

“Marion, no one is hopelessly inebriated. See?” She swept her hand to include the room.

“Not yet, Trudy.” Marion noted that Trudy herself was one drink away from the state she had just described.

“You could have lent us Trigger. He would have been perfectly safe.”

Trigger was the life-sized horse that Marion and her staff rolled out in front of the store each morning, usually reversing the process at night.

Joyce intervened. “Trudy, Trigger’s got an abscess.”

This made everyone laugh. Trudy, tipsy though she was, knew her master well enough to know this really meant, Shut up and leave Marion alone, so she left with a gracious nod.

Marion leaned toward Joyce. “Thanks.”

Joyce waved her hand in dismissal. “She’s a great social organizer, but not always as tactful as one might wish.”

Sister laughed. “At least she’s not a bulldozer.”

“Oh, well, we have a few of those, too,” Bill noted. “How can people open their mouths without thinking? The stuff that falls out!”

“Cost George Allen his Senate seat.” Gray referred to a popular Republican Senator who lost his reelection bid in 2006 thanks to loose lips.

“How do you keep from blurting out, You’re too dumb to have been born ?” Sister asked Joyce.

“Count to ten. Ten again.” She added quickly, “Failing that, I do multiplication tables.”

“Wise.” Sister sipped from her champagne flute. “I bite my tongue because I really want to say, You asshole.”

They all laughed.

High returned with a portly middle-aged gentleman from Pune, a city two hours southeast of Mumbai, set amid rolling green hills, and addressed Sister.

“Master Arnold, this is Kasmir Barbhaiya. He just arrived.” He introduced Kasmir to Marion and the others.

“So sorry to be late.” Kasmir bowed. In white tie and gloves, his gold foxhead studs with ruby eyes twinkled.

“Welcome to Casanova.” Bill stood and shook hands. Kasmir, educated at Eton, Oxford, and finally MIT, spent a fortune on his clothes. Not only were they bespoke—specially made just for him—he patronized the same sartorial establishments as did the Prince of Wales. He and High had met at Oxford, their friendship ripening over the years until now they were as close as brothers.

“I will repent of my tardiness by condensing pleasure in fewer hours.” His dark eyes shone.

As they left the masters, High looked over his shoulder to wink at Sister.

“That High, he’s cooking up something,” Sister said, and winked back. Then she noticed Marion suddenly break into a forced social smile. Since Ilona Aldridge Merriman was approaching, she understood Marion’s frozen countenance.

“Why, you Casanova darlin’s have outshone us, yes, you have, and I am so pleased to be here.” Ilona deposited the Cristal she’d been toting onto the center of the table.

“How extravagant,” Joyce murmured appreciatively.

“Thank you, Ilona.” Bill lost no time in motioning a waiter to uncork the liquid treasure.