Рита Браун - Hotspur

“True.”

“We’re like chemicals. We react with one another differently.”

“What did you think of her?”

“Oh, she was great fun. As a woman, I saw her differently than men did, obviously. She had a great sense of humor, loved practical jokes, had energy to burn. She had lots of girl friends, which is important. You need friends of your own sex. But I thought she was heading for a fall.”

“Why?”

She folded her hands. “She was getting a little too wild. Enjoying her hold over men a little too much.”

“And Tedi didn’t see it?”

“No. Well, she was beginning to sense it, but as I said, parents are blind.”

“Here it comes.” The rain hit the windows and Golly moved off the sill.

“Back on track. Bobby Franklin will be our president for as long as he can stand the job. He’s good at it and we’re lucky to have him. If you want to be a joint-master, you must work with Bobby. And Betty, too.” Sister returned to what Crawford needed to do.

“You’ve never had a joint-master. Think you could do it?”

“If you or whoever stays out of the kennel, I can. I won’t have anyone messing with my hounds or my breeding program.”

“Well, what happens if you drop dead?”

“Crawford, I do make allowances for the fact that you are from Indiana, but for God’s sake could you be a little less direct? Of course, I will drop dead one day, as you so bluntly put it. Who knows when?”

“Well, who will continue your breeding program?”

“Shaker.”

“What if he’s gone?”

“I’ve written it down. But you do point out a vulnerability. If you are chosen as a joint-master, I will need to be training someone to take my place when that time comes. A true hunting master.”

“I understand that.”

“Good.”

They talked a bit more, then Crawford rose.

She accompanied him to the back door. “Would you like an umbrella?”

“No. I’ll make a dash for it.” He pecked her on the cheek. He’d grown fond of her even though she frustrated him. “Are you worried about this Nola thing?”

“The truth?” She took a deep breath. “I’m worried sick.”

CHAPTER 14

At six-thirty on the morning of Saturday, September 7, a light easterly wind carried a fresh tang in the air, a hint of changes to come.

A hardy band of twelve gathered at the kennels in these last moments before sunup. Sunrise was 6:38 on this day. The first day of cubbing excited the hard-core foxhunters, the ones who would follow hounds on horseback or on foot, in cars, in rickshaws if there was no other way. For this happy group, hunting with hounds was a passion right up there with the ecstasies of Saint Teresa of Avila.

Those hounds waiting in the draw run, a special pen to hold the hounds hunting that day, leapt up and down in excitement. Those not drawn wailed in abject misery.

Not to go out on the first day of cubbing was no disgrace to a hound. Only a foolish huntsman or master would stack the pack with young entry. Each day of cubbing, like each day of preseason football, different young hounds would be mixed with different mature hounds. By the end of cubbing, huntsman and master would have a solid sense of which youngsters had learned their lessons and which older hounds had become a step too slow.

The older, trusted hounds understood this training process, but that didn’t mean they wanted to stay behind even if they knew perfectly well they’d be out next time. No good hound wants to sit in the kennel.

Atop her light bay with the blaze, Sybil Fawkes’s quiet demeanor belied her inner nervousness. She had accepted the position of honorary first whipper-in, the honorary meaning no remuneration, with excitement and fear. She could ride hard, but she wasn’t sure she could identify all the hounds even though she’d come to the kennel almost every day since the end of July. Doug had spent a lot of time with her before leaving to carry the horn at Shenandoah, but she was still nervous.

August had drained Sybil. It hadn’t just been the heat. The ceremony at Nola’s grave, although restrained, even beautiful, had hammered home her loss.

She found herself snapping at her boys. Ken, sensitive to her moods, kept the kids busy.

Sybil’s restorative time proved to be with the hounds. Working with the animals, with Sister and Shaker, gave her some peace. Their focus on the pack was so intense, it crowded out her sadness over Nola.

When she worried that she wouldn’t make a good whipper-in, Sister encouraged her, telling her she’d make mistakes but she’d learn from them.

“I’ve been hunting since I was six and I still make mistakes. Always will,” Sister had said.

Betty Franklin, who had been second whipper-in for over a decade, could have filled the first’s boots but she had to work for a living. There might be times when she couldn’t show up. Also, Betty had limited resources and one daughter to get through college. She couldn’t afford the horses. She owned two fabulous horses, Outlaw and Magellan, and Bobby owned a horse. They couldn’t afford any more horses, which depressed Betty.

But she was anything but depressed this morning. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach just as the real things were awakening to soft light.

Sister, too, had butterflies. Opening Hunt would mean the beginning of the formal season, but this, this was the true beginning and she so wanted her young entry to do her proud.

As Crawford and others had predicted, nothing more was learned concerning Nola’s death. The murder crept into conversations but not with the earlier frequency and intensity.

Tedi accepted the offer of a sip from Crawford’s flask as she sat on Maid of Honor, her smallish chestnut mare, who possessed a fiery temper—but then, she was a red-head. Tedi’s salt sack, an unbleached linen coat worn in hot weather, hung perfectly from her shoulders, a subtle nip in at the waist. Salt sacks usually hang like sacks, but Tedi, a fastidious woman, had hers hand-fitted.

Every stitch of clothing on her body had been tailored for her over forty years ago. Good hunting clothes pass from generation to generation. A few fads might appear— such as short hunting coats during the seventies and eighties—but hunters soon return to the tried and true. A longer skirt on a hunting jacket protects the thigh. Sensible. Everything must be sensible.

Cubbing granted the rider a greater latitude of personal expression in matters of dress. One could wear a tweed jacket with or without a waistcoat depending on the temperature. It was already sixty degrees, so everyone there, seasoned hunters, knew by the time hounds were lifted they’d be boiling in a vest. Their vests hung back in their trailers.

People wore white, yellow, pink, or oxford blue shirts with ties. Their britches were beige or canary, as no one wore white in the field on an informal day.

Betty wore a pair of twenty-year-old oxblood boots; their patina glowed with the years. Her gloves were also oxblood and she wore a thin, thin navy jacket with a yellow shirt and a hunter green tie.

Bobby, after asking the master’s permission, rode in a shirt only. It wasn’t truly proper, but he was so overweight that the heat vexed him especially. He wore a lovely Egyptian cotton white shirt and a maroon tie with light blue rampant lions embroidered on it. He’d worn the same tie for the first day of cubbing for the last fourteen years. It brought luck.

Shaker wore a gray tweed so old, it was even thinner than Betty’s navy coat. His brown field boots glistened. His well-worn brown hunting cap gave testimony to many a season. He carried the cap under his arm. Protocol decreed he could put on his cap only when the master said, “Hounds, please!”