Рита Браун - The Hunt Ball

At that they both laughed.

Charlotte chided him, “You wouldn’t make a good monk.”

“No.”

“So coming to the office for peace and quiet?”

“Yes, and to crunch numbers.” He opened the large main door, the paned glass on the top half frosted. “Amy wants four new centrifuges. She said what she has is ancient and two are broken. My God, Charlotte, do you know how much a centrifuge costs? I told her she’d better not break any of those microscopes because that’s it for this year’s budget.” He paused. “Really, the security patrol is wreaking havoc with the numbers.”

“I know,” she commiserated. “What can we do, Knute? We have to have that presence to create confidence.”

“I don’t think the students are in danger. Whatever happened had to do with Al, himself, not any of the girls.”

“Let’s hope so. The problem is, we don’t know.” Her loafer heels clicked on the polished floor as they walked by the artifact case.

“We could reduce the number of security people. Shave two people off the payroll. I’m not sure anyone would notice.”

“No.”

He frowned. “We’ve got to do something. And I guarantee you the bill Professor Kennedy submits with her report will be as fat as the report.” He stopped when they reached the door to her office. “She didn’t give any kind of hint, did she? Like when and how much?”

“She said she’d have the report to us right after New Year’s. But she gave no indication of the final cost. She probably doesn’t know until she sits down and adds it all up.”

“I dread it.”

“I do, too, but I dread unrest more. We can’t afford that kind of publicity. At least belt-tightening doesn’t have to make the news.”

“Be sure to tighten Bill’s first.”

C H A P T E R 2 2

The remnants of the moon, still full enough to cast light through the clouds, revealed low popcorn clouds, sailing in from the west. By eight-thirty they’d turned into low, fleecy gray clouds.

When hounds were cast at nine o’clock at Little Dalby, the temperature leveled off at forty-seven degrees. The moisture in the clouds gave the morning a raw feel. From a foxhunter’s point of view, this was good because scent would hold on the ground.

Eighty-four people in formal attire filled the pasture where the trailers had parked this Saturday after Thanksgiving. Holidays brought people out. Many were eager for a foxhunt to sweat off the calories. Then, too, the cold air cleared the head from all the family tension that holidays seem to bring out.

Postcard Thanksgiving dinners so rarely occur. The soup isn’t the only thing simmering. Many a person seated atop their sleek hunter inwardly groaned at the thought of Christmas. The expense of it was bad enough; worse, for some, was spending it with their families. Since southerners, especially, put a good face on it, many people thought they were alone in their misery.

People needed a good brisk day out to release their pent-up, silent resentment.

The hounds couldn’t wait, charging out of the party wagon. Sybil and Betty dropped the thongs on their whips, calling, “Hold up. Hold up.”

Shaker, voice calm, sat atop HoJo. “Settle down. Just relax.”

“We’re ready!” Delight said.

“And it’s a new fixture. I can’t wait.” Her littermate, Diddy, twirled in a circle.

“If you don’t quit babbling, Shaker will put you back on the trailer,” Ardent warned with the wisdom of full maturity.

That shut up the two giddy girls.

Once Sister thanked Mrs. Wideman and informed the field that a tailgate would follow they got right down to it. No point wasting a minute on a day as promising as this.

The staff didn’t know the foxes on this estate. Little Dalby backed up on Beveridge Hundred, which had been hunted by Jefferson Hunt for over a century. If a fox skedaddled that way, they’d have a better chance of knowing the fox since the animal’s home territory might be Beveridge Hundred.

But hounds no sooner put their noses down on the grass than Dasher found a strong line and called the others to him. Before people could tighten their girths they were off, in some cases literally.

No harm done as those who had parted ways from their mounts lurched back up, usually with the help of a friend holding on to their horse. It’s difficult for a horse to stand still when the rest of the herd thunders away. However, these pathetic humans couldn’t run a lick, so the good horses knew to wait and hope they could catch up without their passenger flying off again.

The fox headed straight south away from Beveridge Hundred, straight as an arrow, too. Within twenty minutes Sister and the first flight cleared six new coops and post-and-rail jumps they’d built. Then, as so often happens, the fox vanished.

Hounds cast themselves looking for the elusive scent. As no creek or river was near, no one knew how he or she did it, but it was as though that fox had never existed.

Sitting at the check, Sister felt the slight drop in the temperature and a cool air current curling out of the forest. The faint rustle of the dried leaves on the oaks filled the air as did the cry of an angry redtail hawk overhead. The hounds spoiled her hunting.

The low series of hills stretched out before them was covered with broomsage. These fields needed care. However, what’s bad for grazing may be good for game.

Out of the corner of her eye, Tootie saw a large red fox walking toward the forest. He’d circled them, arranging to ruin his scent where the hounds lost it. She resisted the urge to blurt out “Tally ho,” which would have sent the fox on faster as well as brought up the hounds’ heads. Every time a hound lifts its head a precious moment may be lost because the scent, nine times out of ten, is on the ground.

Sometimes if scent is breast high the hounds can carry it until it lifts over their heads.

Heart pounding, Tootie turned Iota in the direction the fox was moving. She took off her cap, stretched her right arm out straight, and said nothing.

Sister didn’t see her, as Tootie was behind her. A low murmur alerted her; she turned and saw with pride that the young woman did just as she was supposed to do. She also heard at that moment Crawford bellow, “Tally ho.”

Shaker, trotting and now close to the field, said in a voice that carried, “Mr. Howard, kindly shut up.” Crawford fumed, face cerise, but he did button his lip.

Shaker quietly called the hounds to him, walking them toward the sighting. At that moment, since there was no wind, he didn’t have to factor in how far scent would drift. He had to give the fox time to get away. Scent was good today. No reason to gallop about.

He glanced at Tootie, put the hounds on her vector but fifty yards behind. As the hounds passed her, then Shaker, he touched his cap with his crop.

Tootie grinned from ear to ear.

Before her grin faded, Cora, good as gold, called, “Let’s go.”

The fox, full of vigor, feeling loosened up from the first part of the chase, glided into the forest, darted over rotting logs, their pungent aroma detectable to the humans. The fox, inexperienced with hounds, had heard from the Beveridge Hundred foxes how the chase worked.

Confident that he could elude and outrun the pursuers, he merrily ran. He scrambled over huge orange fungus sprouting from the base of trees. His weight broke off pieces, releasing their earthy scent. He skidded across pine needles, the fresher the needles, the stronger the scent.

St. John’s lay dead ahead and he shot right for it. He inhaled an enticing aroma from under the church but knew if he ducked in there so would the hounds. Better to allow the marvelous fragrance to throw them off. He’d be long gone by the time they gave that up.