Рита Браун - Hotspur

“And would you give him that blessing?”

“I would, as would Shaker.”

“I would be happy to pay the salary of the next professional whipper-in.”

Her eyebrows raised. “Crawford, that’s very generous. You must be in a giving mood today, because Ronnie Haslip told me what you just pledged to the Nola Bancroft Trophy.”

“Ah.” He wondered if Ronnie was calling to make him, Crawford, look good or if Ronnie had called to make Ronnie look good, boasting about what he’d managed to pry out of him. He wasn’t sure about Ronnie. No matter. He was sure about himself. “You know I like the Bancrofts. And while I never knew their younger daughter, I’m happy to do this. Mostly, I enjoy supporting the club.”

“And we are all grateful to you.” Her smile was genuine.

When she smiled like that, Crawford could see her as a young woman. Odd.

“I’m sure there’s a pool of people who might qualify for the job,” Crawford said.

“I’d ask the Masters of Foxhounds Association director, Lieutenant Colonel Dennis Foster, if he knows anyone who is suitable. There are always people out there who might have the skills you need for the job, but the chemistry is wrong where they are.” She wondered if he had a candidate who would then be his mole. She respected Crawford’s intelligence but wished he didn’t continue to think a hunt club could be run as a business. It was something quite different, halfway between a church and a charity perhaps. She was never sure.

“I’d be happy to help in the search.”

She breathed a sigh of inner relief. He wasn’t going to foist someone on her. “Crawford, would you still consider making the salary contribution if for this year I utilized an honorary whipper-in? I think Shaker and I can handle the kennels.”

“Yes, but I thought the first whipper-in was responsible for keeping the hunt horses fit.”

“True. But the hunt club could use that money. Desperately. Our truck is on its last legs. It’s twelve years old and has 180,000 miles on it. These one-ton Duallys are so expensive now. Forty thousand dollars.”

“Who will take care of the horses?”

“If I had part-time help, Jennifer Franklin after school, perhaps, I think we could do it. You don’t have to give me an answer now. Maybe this feels like a bait and switch.”

“No, I held out the bait. The workload is overwhelming. Can you really do it with one less pair of hands?”

“Like I said, I think we can.”

“What would you do with the cottage?”

“Rent it out as a hunting box or convert it into an office. We don’t have an office. Papers are stuffed in Shaker’s house and mine. I’m not sure yet. I’ll have to think this through.”

But the fact that she had ready answers for the whipper-in position told Crawford she’d already considered encouraging Doug to apply for the huntsman’s job.

“Let me buy the truck. GM is making the best right now.”

A pause followed; Raleigh put his head on Sister’s knee. Her hand rested on his shiny black head.

Golliwog, sitting in the kitchen window over the sink, remarked, “Rain coming. Be here in fifteen minutes. It’s on top of the mountain.” As no one responded, she raised the decibel level. “Isn’t anyone listening to me?”

“Golly, hush,” Sister chided her.

“It must be raindrops, so many raindrops.” The cat warbled the song she’d heard on the golden oldie radio station.

Sister didn’t listen to oldies, but Shaker did.

As Golly’s singing filled the room, Sister stood up and walked over to the window.

“You’re just awful.” Then she glanced out the window. “Crawford, rain’s sliding down the mountain. Are your car windows closed?”

“They are. This has been a wet summer.”

“Compared to last one. I love the weather. Let me amend that. I love observing the weather. For instance, you’d think when raindrops are hanging from a branch, you know, hanging not dropping, that scent would be fabulous. My experience is that you can’t find a damn thing.”

Not schooled in the refinements of hunting or country life, Crawford was nonetheless interested. “Doesn’t compute, does it?”

“No, but there it is.” She sat back down as the cat preened in the window. “I am overwhelmed by your willingness to share your resources. And I’m not unmindful that you want to be my joint-master.” She smiled. “I would hate for you to give us all this money and be disappointed down the road.”

“If you told people you wanted me, I’d be joint-master,” he bluntly replied, but in good humor.

“Don’t feel that I don’t value you. I do. But Crawford, you are not a hunting man. You’re still new to it.”

“Ten years.” This came out in a puff of wind.

“For the first two or three years, you, like every other beginner, were just trying to hang on. It takes a long time to learn about foxhunting, and the truth is most people are out there to run and jump. Real hunting is an art, and I don’t pretend to be Rembrandt, but I know it takes study, then more study, and the recognition that these animals are often far wiser than we are. I guess I’m saying it takes humility.”

Crawford could not believe that any animal was superior to the human animal, but he did know her assessment of his early years was accurate. “I’m willing to learn.”

“And I respect that. You must also realize, surely you know, that if you are elected joint-master there will be one whopping fight.”

He looked up from his cup. “I know. I’ve stepped on toes.”

“Let me throw this out to you. I don’t expect you to be a hunting master, Crawford, but you can certainly learn what it takes to run a club. Money is a big part of it, but the medley of breeding, of seeing to the health of your foxes, of landowner relations, of relations with the Board of Governors, of opening new territory and maintaining the old, it’s a great deal of work. One must treat people with a light touch.”

“I’m not good at that,” he honestly admitted.

“And you know nothing about hounds.”

“That’s true, too. One hound looks pretty much like the next to me. But I have ideas. I have resources. And if I do say so, Marty would be invaluable to our social members.” He meant Marty would throw a lot of parties, a real plus.

“Promise me this: that this hunt season you will pay attention. Try to keep your ego in check. It will make a difference.”

“So, you are considering me?”

“I am. And what about Bobby Franklin? He punched you and bodily threw you out of his shop last year. He’s our president.”

A club president ran the various committees. It, too, was a big job. The master was responsible for hunt staff, hounds, territory, and actual hunting in a subscription club—which the Jefferson Hunt was.

“Unusual circumstances.” Crawford cleared his throat.

“Can you bring yourself to apologize?”

“Yes.” This was hard.

“You have no children. People are blind about their own children, and what you told him about Cody may have been one hundred percent on the money. But few fathers could hear it.”

Cody, the Franklins’ oldest daughter, was currently in jail. The beginning of this dismal reality was her infatuation with drugs.

“I understand.” He paused. “Do you think you were blind to your son’s faults?”

“I’d like to think I wasn’t, but I’m sure I was. He was a beguiling boy.” She smiled.

“Speaking of children, it’s funny. I’ve asked people about Nola Bancroft and gotten some wildly different replies. Some men thought she was Venus, others thought she was a bitch.”

“I expect there were more of the former than the latter.”