The Hounds and the Fury (8 page)

On those perfect scenting days, this pack would hunt with brio. The other little thing Crawford would discover the hard way is that English hounds, as a rule, don’t have the cry that American, crossbred, or Penn-Marydels do. Again, given where they were developed, they didn’t need it to the degree that the New World needs a big booming sound, for much of the English countryside is open. One can see the hounds working.

They were big, they were beautiful. That part would swell his ego. Maybe he should just mount up and parade them around until he could find a real huntsman.

As she passed the beginnings of the stone St. Swithun’s Chapel she had ample time to consider the unholy mess Crawford was creating for himself—and for her, too.

“Happy New Year.” She sighed.

As she drove through the imposing gates, two huge bronze boars guarding the entrance had icicles dangling from their snouts. Their bristly chests glistened with ice rivulets. She turned west.

A quarter mile down the road she noted Donny Sweigart’s treads from last night’s supposed deer hunt.

Curious, she pulled as far off the road as she could given the conditions, hit her flashers, and got out. She wanted to see if there was a carcass or deer offal in the snow. She looked down the slight embankment, then over the expanse of snowy meadow. A copse of trees and shrubs stood out against the white. Something bright caught her eye.

She slid down the embankment. Tracks were partly covered with snow, but she could make out boot marks. She followed them toward the copse. Once there she saw a glob of congealed blood, fist sized, bright red.

There were no signs of struggle, no feathers either. If Donny had set out a trap she’d see it. No trap.

It was eerie, a hunk of frozen blood. She returned to her truck wondering what the hell was going on.

CHAPTER 10

B
en Sidell slouched in the passenger seat of Sister’s red GMC early Monday morning, January 2, St. Basil’s Day. “Take me to Paradise.”

“If I were young, I would,” she sassed back.

He laughed as he unrolled the map on the dash.

These expensive, lovely maps had been donated to the Jefferson Hunt by Francis McGovern, a buoyant member more on the road than home to hunt.

“Apart from the home fixtures, how old are the fixtures adjacent to Paradise?”

“Mill Ruins, Mud Fence, Orchard Hill, Chapel Cross are original fixtures going back to the beginning of the hunt. Course they’re older than 1887, but once the hunt was founded their landowners were part of the fun. What’s happened in certain parts of the county, especially the east because it’s closer to town, is large estates, over time, have been broken up. Newcomers don’t understand foxhunting or they plain don’t like it, and we lose, say, fifty acres, which make the one thousand acres we use to hunt unhuntable for practical purposes because we can’t get around the fifty acres. Even if we do figure out a way around, hounds can’t read. They go through the No Trespassing area and you get an enraged phone call, Sheriff.”

“In time some of the comeheres change their minds.”

“Some.” She nodded. “But there are other people who just don’t get it and never will. They want to live in the country, but they aren’t of the country. Pretty much they look down their noses at us.”

“Do they look down at people like Tedi and Edward Bancroft?”

The Bancrofts had been wealthy since the Industrial Revolution, the family wise in nurturing that wealth.

“The comeheres don’t even know they’re not in the loop. If they see Tedi and Edward at a big party they think they’ve made it. Know what I mean?”

“I think so,” said Ben. Originally from Ohio, he had been hired three years earlier to be sheriff of the county.

“It boils down to this: the arrogant ones only talk to other arrogant ones. They’re ignorant of their social status. They think because they’ve built a McMansion on twenty acres, they’re elite—if you can stand that word. They haven’t a clue that they’re close to the bottom of the barrel. A poor but warm person from an old family has much higher status than they do.”

He smiled wryly. “You’re at the top of the heap.”

“Not in wealth but in other respects, yes. No point in false modesty. And the reality is, if you’re of it, you don’t dwell on it. I mean by that, you take it for granted. Maybe the first lesson new people need to learn is to treat people with respect regardless of their bank balances.”

“Yep.”

She slowed. “Okay, here’s Chapel Cross. Orchard Hill and the other fixtures all fan out from this crossroads, an old tertiary road in highway department terms. Everything you see, I’ll drive slowly, is our territory right up to the Blue Ridge. The top of the mountains divides us from Glenmore Hunt in Augusta County.”

“Why don’t you go up the mountains?”

“Would you?” She laughed. “For one thing, it’s hard going. For another thing, there’s boar up there, and I fear them like death. Lastly, there are folks in those hollows who come to town maybe once a year. They are famous for the purity of their country waters.”

He knew about the distilleries in the hollows but not their location. Most moonshine busts were made when a trucker was pulled over and moonshine was discovered in the rig’s closed bed.

Also, no prudent sheriff in any county would send a lone deputy to seek out the stills.

“Let me go back for a minute. Some of the new people really are good. They take to hunting, they value wildlife, they are good stewards of the land, and we’re lucky to have them. We’re lucky, too, because they’re usually more liberal, politically, than we are and they challenge us, force us to question. I believe that’s a good thing. If all you do is converse with people who think just like you do, you don’t learn much.” She slowed again, pointing to a lone brick fireplace. “Used to be the gatehouse to Paradise.”

The gatehouse pillars, brick with a shield of arms near the capped top, still stood.

“Are you going to tell me the Yankees burned it?”

“No.” She laughed a deep appreciative laugh. “Not this one. Way back before you were born, electrical wire was wrapped in silk. Anyway, a short burnt it to a cinder. The big pile with towering Corinthian columns is at the end of this road. It was incredible. It survived 1865, but each year it fell further and further into disrepair.” She paused. “Thanks to Margaret’s efforts, we’ll be back hunting here. You’ll see it Saturday. Decayed as it is, there’s magic to Paradise. God, what it must have been in its heyday.”

“Why did Margaret help?”

“Walter and Jason asked her to do it, and she likes to see the hunt. She’s just not a hunter. Golf is her game.” Sister paused. “Just one of those things. Binky and Alfred had another major disagreement—not face-to-face, of course, but through their lawyers—so the lawyers suggested no hunting because of the liability. Alfred’s always been warm to hunting, and, really, Margaret worked on her father. Once lawyers get in anything it’s a mess.”

“Yeah,” Ben agreed.

“In a way this is still paradise. There’s a forlorn majesty to the ruin.” Sister felt the pull of the place.

“Where are we, about four miles north from Chapel Cross?”

“Right. Good judge of distance. If we turned around, passed through Chapel Cross, we’d reach Tattenhall Station. From Chapel Cross, Little Dalby and Beveridge Hundred are on the south and west side of the road. Orchard Hill and Mud Fence are on the south and east side. Tattenhall Station is straight south. Paradise is five thousand acres, and it covers both sides of the old road north of Chapel Cross. Beyond Paradise it’s billy-goat land owned by Franklin Foster in northern Virginia. At long last, he’s given us permission to hunt there. Walter and I drove up to Fairfax to see him last summer. With the leaves off the trees and snow on the ground, you get a good sense of how the land rolls. All crisscrossed by creeks. It’s good soil. Some of the grades might scare you on a tractor, though.” She laughed.

“I just heard that Jason Woods made an offer on this land.”

“Good God.” Sister’s silver brows shot upward. “He’ll have his work cut out for him. Binky and Alfred won’t agree to sell.” She added, “Offer must be less than a day old. I usually hear about those things. It’s hard to keep a secret in this county.”

“I think it’s a place of secrets.”

She considered this. “Maybe you’re right. The little secrets leak out. The big ones—well, some escape like evils from Pandora’s box. And others we’ll never know. I’m thinking about Nola Bancroft buried near the covered bridge for all those years.”

Tedi and Edward’s oldest daughter had been murdered and buried at the site where the bridge was being built. Decades later her skeletal hand, huge sapphire still on the third finger, had broken through the surface, ultimately pointing to her killer.

“That was one of my first big cases on the job.” He glanced at the hunt club map again. “That’s when I learned to listen to you.”

“Go on.” She smiled.

“Forgive the pun, but you know where all the bodies are buried.”

“Some. Not all.”

“The brothers live simply?” Ben inquired.

“In dependencies, buildings that used to house workers like the farm manager. Smaller ones housed slaves. They live at opposite ends of the farm, so they don’t have to pass and repass too much, as we say. Oh, one other thing, Arthur maintains all the machinery.”

“Mechanical ability runs in the family,” he noted.

“Right.” She nodded. “What Margaret does is mechanical in a way.”

“Do you think Arthur keeps a still on the property? I’ve heard rumors to that effect.”

Sister, not one to tell on people, replied, “Arthur wouldn’t be that stupid. There are so many hollows with clear running streams as you get right up next to the mountains, he’d do it there. Arthur wouldn’t jeopardize Paradise.”

Ben considered this. “Good point.”

She dropped into a lower gear as the road narrowed, beginning the switchback climb up the eastern slope of the mountain. “Seen enough?”

“Sure.”

She turned around, sliding. She’d learned to drive in snow before four-wheel drive. “Ben, there are many ways to circumvent the law. For instance, if someone wants to poach bear on my land, they can take their license plates off, shoot the bear, say up by Hangman’s Ridge, and even if I stop them what do I have? No I.D.”

“I know. You foiling Arthur’s line, are you?” The corner of his mouth turned up as he used the hunting term.

“No. There are, however, greater sins than making moonshine. Do I think he makes it? Of course. Do I know where? No. Nor do I want to know. Ignorance is protection. If I don’t know, then I’m not in a position of covering up, right? I don’t cotton to lying for someone.”

“I understand.” And he did.

“You know, Ben, there are a lot of things I don’t understand. Seems to me you spend just as much energy breaking the law as you do making an honest living. You know we have thousands of years of evidence to prove the wisdom of the Ten Commandments. They’re broken every minute.”

“Yep.” He turned his head to the right as they passed the pillars and lone fireplace near them again.

“Then there are things you learn on your own.”

“Such as.” He was interested.

“Anyone who refuses love is a fool. Every now and then the gods give us the chance to open our hearts.”

He placed his forefinger on the sensitive skin just above his upper lip, a habit when thinking. “I hear you.”

She laughed. “The worst that can happen is you’ll have a great story to tell when you’re my age. The best that can happen is you achieve paradise.”

CHAPTER 11

J
efferson Hunt took out hounds on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, weather permitting. This Tuesday, January 3, the weather was permitting but the footing tried the patience of all the giving saints. However, the fixture card read Tattenhall Station, 9:00 a.m., and Tattenhall Station it would be.

Hunts varied their meeting times to adjust to the light and the temperature. Cubbing days would begin at 7:00 a.m. or 7:30 a.m. As fall gained strength, Sister moved the time to 8:00 a.m.

For cubbing most hunts did not print a fixture card. A fixture card was a handy list of times, dates, and places, called fixtures, usually printed on heavy stock paper, the print perhaps in the hunt’s colors. Traditionally, a fixture card should fit into a jacket pocket.

Some hunts dispensed with tradition, issuing fixture cards in varying sizes and even on lightweight paper, which meant the card couldn’t hold up to the rigors of a season.

In the family scrapbook, Sister could read fixture cards used by her grandparents.

A stickler for tradition, Sister, the fifth master since 1887, had printed Jefferson Hunt fixture cards exactly like those from 1887.

The Franklins’ printing business had dies from that time.

Fixture cards were usually received by mail before Opening Hunt. They could also be personally handed to a member by the master. This was considered a proper invitation to hunt.

Sans fixture card, a person rode as the guest of a member. The member’s social obligation was to call and inform the master.

Someone who landed in Sister’s hunt territory without knowing a member could write or call to ask permission to cap on a particular day. A cap was the amount of money a visitor paid to hunt that day. It can be collected by a field secretary or dropped in the offered field master’s cap. Recently people had begun to e-mail to request permission. Strictly speaking, this was not a 100 percent correct way to ask the master.

Sister would inquire if they were a member of a recognized hunt. It not, had they capped at other hunts or ridden with farmer packs?

The point of these queries was to gather information so as not to overface the rider. The last thing any master wanted was for people to risk injury or to scare the bejabbers out of themselves.

If callers truly were neophytes, Sister suggested they go out with the hilltoppers. If their schedule was flexible, she’d suggest a day when territory was more forgiving.

Riding was necessary for foxhunting, but not sufficient. A foxhunter needed to know the fundamental law: hounds always have right-of-way.

The old siding lot at Tattenhall Station originally existed for mules and the baggage carts they pulled. As the mules disappeared cars began to park there. In the early 1960s, railroads abandoned unprofitable spur lines. This fate befell Tattenhall Station. The tidy, dark mustard board-and-batten buildings that housed the switchmen, the fireboys, various laborers, and the all-important telegraph operator looked picturesque covered with snow.

Their condition was a tribute to Norfolk & Southern’s solid construction.

The few residents of the pretty little community around the old spur line faithfully plowed out the parking lot, still called the siding.

Nine rigs and the party wagon came out on Tuesday.

Ronnie Haslip and Henry Xavier rode up behind Sister. Charlotte Norton, Bunny Taliaferro, Dr. Jason Woods, Tedi, and Edward trudged through the snows. Bobby Franklin followed with Garvey Stokes and Lorraine Rasmussen in tow.

However, after an hour, Shaker and the hounds doing the best they could under clear skies, Shaker called it a day. No point in frustrating the hounds.

The worst the field could complain about—if they were in the habit of complaining, which, praise Jesus, they were not—was that they enjoyed a bracing winter’s ride among good company.

Back at the trailers, Ronnie Haslip, a childhood friend of Ray Jr. and treasurer of Jefferson Hunt, surprised everyone. He had hired one of the silver-quilted food trucks, Jack’s Snacks, that visit construction sites to stop by.

Hot coffee, hot tea, hot soup, hot dogs, and hamburgers warmed everyone.

“Ronnie, that is the classiest thing any member has ever done.” Xavier held up a Styrofoam cup to toast him.

The others joined in.

Ronnie, shoulder to shoulder with Sister, asked, “Does Gray want my job?”

“No; do you want out of it come May?”

May 1 was the general meeting date on which master or masters were elected, along with administrative officers.

“No.”

“Are you baiting me?” She smiled at Ronnie, two inches shorter than herself, whose turn-out was always impeccable.

“A little.” He grinned, for he loved gossip, any manner of personal information. “Isn’t this his first day at Garvey’s?”

“It is,” she laughed. “You’ll notice Garvey is here, so he doesn’t have to deal with it.”

Jason, who had devoured an entire bowl of chili and was glowing from the warmth, joined the conversation, “I’ll probably have to prescribe tranquilizers for Iffy this afternoon.”

Ronnie’s eyebrows raised. “She’s always been high maintenance.”

Jason thought a moment. “Even people who aren’t high maintenance can become that way if they’re sick or injured.”

Sister agreed. “People need extra reinforcement.”

“Attitude.” Ronnie pronounced judgment. “Attitude is everything.”

“Medicine helps,” Jason wryly smiled.

Betty walked over. “Ronnie, spectacular idea!”

“Thank you.”

She turned to Sister for a moment. “The weatherman predicts the temperature will climb into the high fifties tomorrow. All this will start to melt, then freeze over every night. But he said it will be a short January thaw.”

“I know.” Sister frowned. “If it’s really bad, I’ll cancel Thursday’s hunt, but I’m not going to worry about it until seven Thursday morning.”

She put changes to the day’s hunting on the Huntline two hours before the time posted on the fixture card.

“This will take a long time to melt.” Jason looked around at the dazzling snow.

Ronnie noticed Xavier on the other side of the small knot of people. “His lordship commands my presence.”

“You’re awful.”

“Speaking of high maintenance.” He winked at Betty as he excused himself.

“Jason, I heard you’ve made an offer on Paradise?” Sister asked. Ben hadn’t said this was privileged information, so she felt free to bring it up.

“Put down the earnest money last night.” Triumph illuminated his face.

“Paradise? DuCharme’s Paradise?” Betty couldn’t believe her ears.

“The same.” Jason’s lad cap added a jaunty air to his presence.

“How did you ever get those two nitwits to come to the table?” Betty blurted it out.

“Well, one came to the operating table. He credits me with saving his life.” Jason tried to sound humble.

“That may explain Alfred’s cooperation, but what about Binky?” Betty’s curiosity flipped into the red zone.

“Milly worked on him. No contingencies in the offer. No financing. She knows they’ll never see an offer like this again. They can’t afford to run a place that big. Don’t think Margaret, when it passes to her, can afford it, either. The far fields are going down. The houses they live in aren’t in great shape, either. This is an answered prayer for the DuCharmes.”

Betty reached for a hot dog and hot coffee. She wasn’t sure it was an answered prayer. However, she simply asked, “Have you signed a contract?”

“Two weeks from now. Both parties wanted their lawyers to read it. Cut and dried, but we’ll go through the lawyer song and dance.” He paused, eyes down, then up quickly. “Both said Margaret had to agree. I made the offer New Year’s evening, and I haven’t talked to her yet.”

“Five thousand acres,” Sister said in wonderment.

“Plans?” Betty knew she was being nosy.

“I’m going to work from old photographs and restore Paradise.”

“Those stone barns are beautiful. The slate on the roofs held up.” Sister lusted after stone.

“What shell remains is better than I’d hoped, even though it looks like a war relic.” He laughed. “I know I can restore the outside of Paradise. The interior will be the challenge.”

“What a fabulous project.” Sister meant that, but she was equally glad she wouldn’t be doing it. She wondered exactly what was in that contract, noting he didn’t utter the dreaded word “development.”

“Meant to ask you”—Betty touched the blackthorn crop he carried on informal days—“where’d you get that?”

“A present from Iffy.” He paused. “She can be very thoughtful, but she gives me too much credit. She wanted to be well.” He paused again for effect, then smiled. “Do you two ladies believe the story about the treasure at Paradise? From the War of 1812. I’ve heard more than one version.”

“I do.” Betty flatly stated. “It’s there.”

“I’d like to.” Sister smiled.

“Which version do you all subscribe to?”

The two women looked at one another, then Betty spoke. “We always heard that Sophie Marques, a maternal I don’t know how many greats-grandmother, raided a pay wagon for the British somewhere on the Bladenberg Pike. Anyway, she came here rich as a queen and bought all the land we know as Paradise. Before Sophie it was virgin timber. She created every pasture you see, sited every barn and outbuilding.”

Sister interjected, “She built a little house on it, a two over two. She lived in it while she created Paradise. What she didn’t spend she buried.”

“Why?” He shrugged.

“Didn’t trust banks. She’d seen too many collapse,” Sister responded.

“You’re telling me that the ancestor of those two yokels was a highwaywoman?” Thus he revealed his disdain for Binky and Alfred, who weren’t exactly yokels.

“Well…yes.” Betty hedged a moment. “The story goes that she worked throughout Maryland during the war as a spy. A pretty woman, she used her wiles to extract information from British officers. After serving her country for no pay she made one big haul in 1814 and had the wisdom to repair to Virginia.”

“Make a great movie.” He laughed.

“I expect there’s a good story about every old place in Virginia.” Betty took it for granted.

Jason’s cell rang. “Excuse me.” He walked to his trailer. Amid the hubbub of conversation he could not be heard, but Sister noted the expression on his face.

He finished the conversation, closed the phone. “Iffy.” He sighed. “She’s feeling shaky. Says Gray is making her sick.” He paused. “I don’t know if one’s emotional state can trigger cancer. I doubt it, but I do know we all do better if we’re stable.”

“Can she truly recover from lung cancer? Excuse me. I realize a doctor can’t discuss a patient. I apologize,” Betty asked.

He waved it off. “Her tumor is gone. Starved, to put it in layman’s terms. The danger for Iffy is if the tumor was able to seed itself. Despite all our advances, we don’t always know that. It’s one of the reasons I continue to run tests on Iffy. But she has an excellent chance for survival. Her work now has to be with a physical therapist. The treatments debilitated her more than most people. But let’s face it; they’re unpleasant for anyone.” He waited a moment. “Speaking of time, I could begin walking out hounds in February. That gives me time to adjust my schedule. Will that work for you?”

“Yes.” Sister’s shoulders stiffened.

“Make me a whipper-in, and you’ll see Paradise.” He beamed.

She didn’t quite know whether this was an offer or a bribe. “Jason, I see paradise each time I hunt,” she said good-naturedly.