Рита Браун - The Hunt Ball

“One dollar.”

“I could learn to hate you.” Valentina fetched another crinkled dollar, fuming as Tootie hid a smile behind her gloved hand.

“Thank you.” This time Felicity snatched the money.

Hounds sounded as if they were swinging toward them; the notes on the horn played one long note followed by a series of doubled and even tripled notes, one long note, and the process was repeated.

“All on,” Tootie remarked.

Bunny Taliaferro drummed the basics of foxhunting into those students she selected as proficient enough to ride hard over big fences and uneven ground. The show-ring riders who panicked outside of a flat ring where they counted strides could never join the chosen few. This caused tensions because often the show-ring girls looked much prettier on a horse. Unfortunately, flying down a steep hill usually meant they popped off their horses like toast. The sound of “ooff” and “ohh” punctuated the hoofbeats on those occasions.

Valentina, Tootie, and Felicity performed well in the show ring—they’d made the school team—but they excelled over terrain, so had earned the privilege to hunt. Each girl could handle sudden situations calling for split-second decisions, and each girl could usually keep a horse between her legs even when the footing was slick as an eel. What Bunny prized most about them was they were bold, keen, go-forward girls.

“All on and heading our way.” Felicity recognized the horn call, straining to make sure her ears weren’t playing tricks on her.

“Christ, they’ll all see us!” Valentina worried more about saving face than getting chewed out.

“One dollar.”

“Christ isn’t swearing.”

“Christ isn’t swearing. You are.” Felicity in a rare moment of dry humor held out her hand.

“Not fair.” Valentina bit her lip.

“Oh, pay up. You’ve got more money than God anyway,” Tootie half-laughed.

“Sure,” Valentina said sarcastically.

All of the girls came from wealthy families, but Valentina received the largest allowance and was the envy of the other students. To her credit she was generous.

She forked over the dollar bill.

“Look, they really are coming this way. Let’s slip back into the mists. We can bring up the rear right after they cross Broad Creek,” Tootie suggested.

“Fox could turn.” Felicity considered the gamble.

“Yes, but if he doesn’t, the crossing is up past the trees. We’ll hear them. If they turn, we’ll keep going until we find the hog’s back and then head toward Sister Jane’s.”

The kennels were at Sister Jane’s farm, Roughneck Farm. Jane Arnold had been master of the Jefferson Hunt Club for over thirty years. Her late husband had also been a master.

“Vote.” Felicity thought this would short-circuit Valentina’s protest since Valentina hated agreeing readily with Tootie.

“You don’t have to vote.” Valentina turned toward Tootie, the mist rising a bit, swirling around the beautiful girl. “It’s a good plan.”

“I can’t believe you said that,” Tootie giggled. “F., we’d better remember this day.”

They would, but for quite different reasons.

They backtracked fifty yards from the creek crossing.

“Why?” Felicity asked.

“Because the other horses will smell ours,” Tootie sensibly replied. “Go on back a little more.”

“Tootie, we’ll lose them again.” Valentina was more worried about Bunny and Mrs. Norton, the headmistress, than she cared to admit.

“No, we won’t. Let me be in front this time.”

Tootie rode tail during the entire hunt, which is one of the reasons they got lost. Felicity, in front, didn’t have the best sense of direction. When the whole field jumped a black coop in the fog, they landed into a woods, ground covered with pine needles. Those needles soaked up the sound of hoofbeats. By the time Tootie got over the fence, Felicity had turned left instead of right with the others. It was too late to catch them. For ten minutes they couldn’t hear a thing, not the horses, not the hounds, not the horn. So Tootie led them south along Broad Creek since she could hear the water.

Neither Valentina nor Felicity argued, since both knew Tootie was a homing pigeon.

They quietly waited.

A splash sent the ears of all three horses forward. The humans heard it, too.

Comet reached their side of the bank, shook, then sauntered toward them.

“You three are as useless as tits on a boar hog,” the male gray fox insulted them.

“Tally ho,” Felicity whispered as though the other two couldn’t see the fox sitting right in front of them.

Tootie glared at her. One should not speak when the fox was close or when hounds were close. The correct response would be to take off your cap, point in the direction in which the fox would be traveling, and point your horse’s head in that direction also.

“Tally human.” Comet flicked his tail, tilted his head. He could gauge the sound of the hounds far more accurately than the three girls before him. “Well, chums, think I’ll motor on. You look ridiculous sitting here in the middle of the covert, you know.”

He vanished.

“He barked at us!” Valentina was thrilled.

“I’ve never been that close to a fox.” Felicity was awed and a little scared to look the quarry square in the eye.

The beautiful music of hounds in full cry came closer. The girls stopped talking, almost holding their breath.

Moneybags, Valentina’s big boy, started the chortle that leads to a whinny. She leaned over, pressing her fingers along his neck, which he liked.

“Money, shut up.”

He did just as the head hound, a large tricolor, Dragon, vaulted off the far bank into the water. Trident, Diana, and Dreamboat followed closely behind the lead hound.

Within a minute, the girls heard the larger splashing sound of Showboat, the huntsman’s horse, fording the creek, deep, thanks to recent steady, heavy rains.

Another four minutes elapsed before Keepsake, Sister Jane’s hardy nine-year-old Thoroughbred/quarter horse cross, managed the waters. After that the cacophony of splashing hooves and grunts from riders, faces wet from the horses in front of them, filled the air.

“Come on,” Tootie said as loudly as she dared.

The three crept forward just as the noise seemed finished. Crawford Howard suddenly crossed, though. He’d fallen behind. He was startled to see the three young women riding out of the mists, as was his horse, Czpaka, who shied, unseating Crawford right in the middle of Broad Creek.

“Oh, shit,” Valentina said low.

“One dollar.” Felicity truly was single-minded.

“Not now, F. We’ve got to get him up, apologize, and get with the field before we lose them again.” Tootie hopped off Iota, her horse, handing the reins to Valentina.

“Mr. Howard, this is my fault. I am so sorry.” She waded into the creek, cold water spilling over her boots down into her socks.

Swiftly, she grabbed Czpaka’s reins, still over his head. Czpaka considered charging out and leaving Crawford. A warm-blood, big-bodied fellow, he wasn’t overfond of his owner.

“Whoa,” Tootie firmly said.

“Oh, bother. I hope he freezes his ass.” The horse did stand still, though.

“Then he’ll kick yours,” called out Parson, Felicity’s horse.

“I can dump him anytime I want,” Czpaka bragged. “The only reason I let him sit up there like a damned tick is I like following the hounds and being with all you guys.”

Tootie led Czpaka out. He stepped up on the bank. Crawford sloshed out. While he could be pompous on occasion he did see the humor of his situation. Besides, foxhunters had to expect the occasional opportunity to show off their breaststroke.