Рита Браун - Hotspur

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Hotspur: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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In her well-received novel Outfoxed, Rita Mae Brown vividly and deftly brought to life the genteel world of foxhunting, where hunters, horses, hounds, and foxes form a tightly knit community amidst old money and simmering conflicts. With Hotspur, we return to the Southern chase-and to a hunt on the trail of a murderer.
Jane "Sister" Arnold may be in her seventies, but she shows no signs of losing her love for the Hunt. As Master of the prestigious Jefferson Hunt Club in a well-heeled Virginia Blue Ridge Mountain town, she is the most powerful and revered woman in the county. She can assess the true merits of a man or a horse with uncanny skill. In short, Sister Jane is not easily duped.
When the skeleton of Nola Bancroft, still wearing an exquisite sapphire ring on her finger, is unearthed, it brings back a twenty-one year old mystery. Beautiful Nola was a girl who had more male admirers than her family had money, which was certainly quite a feat. In a world where a woman's ability to ride was considered one of her most important social graces, Nola was queen of the stable. She had a weakness for men, and her tastes often ventured towards the inappropriate, like the sheriff's striking son, Guy Ramy. But even Guy couldn't keep her eyes from wandering.
When Nola and Guy disappeared on the Hunt's ceremonial first day of cubbing more than two decades ago, everyone assumed one of two things: Guy and Nola eloped to escape her family's disapproval; or Guy killed Nola in a jealous rage and vanished. But Sister Jane had never bought either of those theories.
Sister knows that all the players are probably still in place, the old feuds haven't died, and the sparks that led to a long-ago murder could flare up at any time.
Hotspur brings all of Rita Mae Brown's storytelling gifts to the fore. It's a tale of Southern small-town manners and rituals, a compelling and intricate murder mystery, and a look at the human/animal relationship in all its complexity and charm.

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Beyond the apple orchard they passed an old peach orchard, filled with delicious Alberta peaches. Tempting though it was to cast in there, both huntsman and master wanted to reach the sheep’s meadow between the farm road and the woods. That pasture’s rich soil held scent. On a good day, hounds might tease a line into the woods or back toward the orchards and the pace picked up accordingly. Not that hitting a scorching scent right off wasn’t a dream, it was, but sometimes, especially with young ones, a teasing scent helped organize their minds. You never knew with scent.

A black three-board fence marked off the meadow, a coop squatted in the best place to jump. Shaker on Gunpowder, a rangy gray formerly off the racetrack, effortlessly sailed over. His whippers-in had preceded him into the field. Sister could always push up a straggling hound.

“Noses down, young ones!” Cora commanded.

“I got something. I got something!” Trident, a firstyear entry, squealed.

Asa ambled over, sniffled, “ Yes, you do, son. That’s a groundhog.”

The other hounds laughed as Trident, ears dropping for a moment, accepted his chastisement, then decided he’d follow Asa. He couldn’t go wrong then.

A sweetish, heavy, lingering line greeted Diana’s sensitive nose as she probed a mossy patch amidst the timothy swaying in the east wind. “Pay dirt.”

Although only in her second year, Diana, tremendously gifted, had earned the respect of the older hounds.

Just to be certain, Asa touched his nose to the spot. “We’re off.”

Both Diana and Asa pushed forward, Cora already ahead of them. Her nose, while not as extraordinary as Diana’s, was plenty good enough. Yes, this line was perhaps fifteen minutes old and, on the dew, the temperature in the low sixties, it would hold for perhaps another five or ten minutes in the hay. Then the rising sun plus the wind would scatter it forever.

Trident inhaled the light fragrance. “This is it! This is it! I’m really hunting. It’s not foxpen. This is the real deal.” He was so overcome, he tripped and rolled over.

Trudy, his littermate, laughed as she moved past him, her nose on the ground. “Showtime!”

Archie used to say “Showtime!” when hounds would find. It made everyone laugh, relaxing yet energizing them.

Hearing their former anchor hound’s phrase from this new kid made the others really laugh.

The scent grew stronger, snaking toward the woods. Whoever left it was in no hurry.

Whoever left it happened to be dozing on a rock outcropping about a quarter of a mile into the woods. Uncle Yancy, a red fox and the husband of Aunt Netty, filled with blackberries, peaches, and grain from Sister’s stable, needed a nap to aid his digestion. Uncle Yancy would frequently sit on the window ledge and watch TV at either Shaker’s or Doug’s cottage. Now that Doug had taken the horn at Shenandoah Valley Hunt, he wondered if anyone would be in there. He could see the picture better from Doug’s window than from Shaker’s. He liked to keep up with the world. Raleigh and Rooster never minded his curiosity, but that damned cat would torment him sometimes. She’d call out to the hounds, “Look who’s here, you lazy sots.” Then some offended creature would open his big mouth and Yancy’d push off.

He lifted his head from his delicate paws. “Oh, bother.”

Bitsy, on her way home from a very successful night, screeched, “They’ll be fast, Uncle Yancy.”

“Ha! The foxhound isn’t born that can keep up with me.”

Bitsy landed on a low maple limb. “Pride goeth before a fall.”

He stretched as the sound grew closer. “Not pride. Simple fact. If you want a good time, fly with me as I send these young ones in the wrong direction. Might even unseat a few humans, too. Why any creature would want to totter around on two legs is beyond me.”

“That’s why they ride horses. Then they have four,” Bitsy sensibly concluded.

“I hadn’t thought of that. Of course, some of them can’t stay on those horses, now can they? A weak and vain species, the human, but a few are quite lovely. Oh well” —he shook himself— “let’s cause as much mayhem as possible.”

He left the rocks, walked down to Broad Creek, crossed it, then climbed out on the other side. He shook off the water.

“I’m telling you, Uncle Yancy, these young ones are fast.”

“Bitsy, they aren’t supposed to run in front of the pack. They’re supposed to run as a pack.”

“That’s what cubbing is for, to teach them. And I wouldn’t be so cocky if I were you. If St. Just is about, he’ll make trouble.”

St. Just, king of the crows, hated foxes, especially red foxes, because Target, Uncle Yancy’s brother, had killed his mate. St. Just swore revenge on the whole fox nation and he had led one young red to his death last year.

Finally heeding the little owl, Uncle Yancy started trotting east.

“It’s getting stronger!” Trudy yelped as she approached the rocks.

Sybil, up ahead, spied Uncle Yancy slipping through a thick stand of holly. “Tallyho!”

Yancy decided to run after that. He broke out of the holly, crossed an old rutted path, dove into a thick thorny underbrush, then slithered out of that and headed for the edge of the woods.

“Over here.” Dasher, a second-year dog hound, littermate to Diana, reached the edge of the creek the same time as Cora. He splashed across the creek, then began whining because he couldn’t pick up the scent.

“Don’t be a nincompoop!” Cora chided him. “Do you really think a fox is going to walk straight across a creek? You go left, I’ll go right. And who’s to say he didn’t double back? Trudy,” she called to the youngster, “you and your idiot brother work that side of the creek.”

While hounds searched for the scent, Sister and the field quietly waited on the rutted wagon road.

Crawford had just unscrewed the top of his silver flask when Dasher hollered, “Here.”

“Drat.” Crawford knocked back a hasty gulp, motioned for Marty to have a sip, which she declined. As they trotted off he screwed on the cap, its little silver hinge ensuring it wouldn’t fall off. Not a drop sloshed on him even though he’d filled it to the brim. He was quite proud of himself.

“Stronger!” Cora, again ahead, spoke in her light, pretty voice.

Bitsy flew back to watch the hounds, then took off again to give Yancy a progress report. “They just ran into the thorns.”

“Damn,” Yancy cursed. These hounds were faster than he thought.

He broke out of the woods and into the easternmost meadow of Roughneck Farm, which was filled with black-eyed Susans, Queen Anne’s lace, and cornflowers; it hadn’t been weeded or overseeded in years. Sister thought of it as her wildflower experiment and was loath to return it to timothy, alfalfa, or orchard grass.

A hog’s-back jump loomed in the fence line. Sister and Lafayette sailed over it as the pace was picking up. She saw Betty, up ahead, already flying over the spanking-new coop that marked the westernmost border of After All Farm.

“This fox is a devil,” she thought to herself.

The hounds, in full cry now, roared across the wildflower meadow. Even Trident was on, his concentration improving.

Walter Lungrun, riding Clemson, an older and wiser horse, steered clear of Crawford, whose horse, Czapaka, a big warm-blood, occasionally refused a jump when he’d had enough of Crawford sawing at the reins.

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