Рита Браун - The Hunt Ball

Heeding her joint master’s advice, she plunged into the tall grasses, some swishing up over her feet, tickling Aztec’s belly.

The music filled the air, a crescendo as sweet as Bach to a musician. Deep voices, middle voices, and the odd high notes of younger hounds blended into a chorus that had thrilled mankind since before the pyramids were built.

Artemis smiled on the hounds today. The mercury crept up to forty-two degrees, the air moist, low, the sky various shades of gray. Scenting was perfect.

Sister and Aztec blew through the twenty acres in a few heartbeats to soar over a tiger trap jump in the new fence line Walter built himself. They galloped down into a crevice in the next meadow, a tiny rivulet feeding a larger creek some half mile off, bisecting this whole meadow, which was in redbud clover. Aztec, beautifully balanced, powered over the frosty pasture. Then over an imposing hog’s back jump, two strides, and a drop jump from the bank onto another low farm road heading at a ninety-degree right angle straight west.

The fox followed the shady part of the road, tiny ice crystals jutting out of the earth. This slowed the hounds down slightly, but the minute he crossed over another frosty redbud clover meadow, they picked up speed.

They flew through Mill Ruins in half an hour, soon finding themselves on a pre–Revolutionary War farm called Cocked Hat. Fortunately, the owners allowed the hunt to pass through. After being slowed by some old barbed-wire fences, Sister and the field were soon on their way but had to press to catch up with the hounds.

The fox turned back east. They had to stop again, throw coats over the old barbed-wire fences, jump over, and go. Whoever left their coat on the wire could either stop to pick it up or leave it, returning for it later. The pace was so good that Walter, who had dismounted to put his coat on the wire, thought “the hell with it,” and chose to ride in his vest and shirt. He was sweating. He also made note to finally panel Cocked Hat. It was last on everyone’s list because the foxes rarely came this way.

If the fox was tiring he gave no evidence, for Betty, keen-eyed, caught sight of him vaulting over a fallen tree, serenely running on toward the hundred-acre enclosure called Shootrough, the very back of Mill Ruins. Peter had set up his clay pigeons here and Walter, sensibly, worked from close to the house out. It would be another three years before he cleaned up this field and fixed the fences; although the old snake fencing held, a few places sagged.

The fox leapt onto the top of the snake fencing and nimbly loped along, jumping over the places where the split rails crossed. He then jumped off, ran straight and true down to the strong creek that fed, finally, the millrace. He didn’t use the creek at that point but ran alongside it, neatly stepping on stones or anything to foil his scent.

Betty, keeping him in sight and riding hard on Magellan, marveled at this big red’s sangfroid.

Finally, he launched into the creek, swimming downstream, letting the current do most of the work. He clambered out two hundred yards later, shook himself, then trotted to his den, the main entrance being under the exposed roots of an enormous willow twenty yards from the stream but high up, for the ground rose up. Betty could see other holes in the ground from where she stopped, some cleverly concealed and others out in the open.

She breathed deeply, as did Magellan. They waited. The hounds sounded fabulous as they drew closer. She saw Cora and Dragon running neck and neck, the rest of the pack behind them by a few paces. Dragon flung himself into the main entrance. Cora followed.

As Shaker galloped up, Betty moved to him, wordlessly taking his reins as he dismounted.

He blew “gone to ground,” then patted each hound, praising them by name.

He mounted up, gathered the pack, turned toward the field.

“Big night tonight,” Sister said, glowing with happiness for the morning’s run. “Let’s go in.”

“Right you are,” he said, then rode alongside the field, stopping at the Hilltoppers, where Bobby Franklin doffed his hunt cap in appreciation of the excellent sport.

Shaker touched his cap with his crop, rode right up alongside Lorraine. He took off his cap, leaned over, and kissed her.

“Merry Christmas,” she whispered.

He kissed her again, smiled bigger than anyone remembered seeing him smile, put his cap back on, and rode back to the trailers at the mill. He whistled and sang to himself the whole way.

The hounds just thought it was the best.

C H A P T E R 3 2

The Great Hall, swathed in silver and white, dazzled the celebrants as they passed through the massive wooden doors. In the middle of the room, Bill Wheatley and his theater crew fashioned an enormous silver fox, seven feet high. This beautiful creature sat looking out over the crowd, her tail wrapped around her hind feet. Around her cavorted a litter of gray foxes with one black fox, in honor of Inky. Forming a circle around this family was a delicately interwoven garland of grapevines and holly, the berries red against the silver. A placard, black with silver script, rested at the base of the fox. It read: “In honor of our own silver fox, Sister Jane, MFH.”

Beyond the tables and the great fox was the dance floor, the raised dais behind that would hold the band when they made their appearance after dessert.

A separate room housed the silent auction. Sorrel, Marty, and the other ladies of the hunt spent the afternoon arranging the tables, carefully placing each item to good effect.

Marty did come through with one huge item—a nineteenth-century wicker cart, two big, graceful wheels at the side. Even if a guest was not a horseman, it would be sensational in the garden or used in decoration.

As the girls decorated they sang Christmas carols, which the ladies would then pick up and sing along. This progressed to where each room took turns selecting a carol. It was a lovely way to spend a December day, the light fading so quickly darkness engulfed the late afternoon.

The Jefferson Hunt ladies wisely brought their ball gowns with them. Charlotte arranged for them to use the various guest houses that dotted the campus. The ladies, in turn, gave generously to Custis Hall for this honor.

As classes had ended December 16, most of the girls had gone home for the holidays. But as was the custom since 1887, the best riders stayed on for Christmas Hunt and the hunt ball if they so desired. It was considered a singular honor to be asked to stay. And a few girls were chosen to stand in the receiving line, a tie of the younger generation to the older. No Custis Hall student so selected was required to pay for the ball, and if they wished, they could bring an escort. His fee would also be waived. Some girls asked Miller School boys, others headed straight for UVA. Valentina and Tootie, always fending off male attentions, wanted to go stag. Felicity surprised everyone by asking a boy from Woodberry Forest, Howard Lindquist, the quarterback on the football team.

Bill Wheatley wore scarlet tails as did Gray, since both men had their colors. The evening attire for a male foxhunter, while expensive, is breathtaking. Sister, in an off-the-shoulder white Balenciaga gown, a three-stand pearl choker at her neck, with two single pearl earrings, flanked on top by diamonds like teardrop leaves, her silver hair brilliant, was a showstopper herself.

Most women wore black. It was always easier to find a black ball gown. Marty’s had black bugle beads, and her ruby necklace, bracelet, and earrings were worth a king’s ransom. No one could fault Crawford for not properly honoring his wife as far as jewelry was concerned. And no matter how much a lady might tell the man in her life that jewels didn’t count, they did. Jewelry is the woman’s version of battle ribbons.