The Hunt Ball

by Rita Mae Brown

  The last Christmas of Peter’s life, he drove his truck—he could no longer ride as his hips had been shattered once too often—in full regalia: black weazlebelly, top hat, the works. She fought back the tears then and she fought back the tears now.

  Walter lived at Mill Ruins, renting it from the hunt club. He had a long-term lease, which helped the coffers grow. He poured money into the place. Slowly, Mill Ruins returned to its former glory. It needed a wife, children, chickens, dogs, and cats running about to be absolutely perfect. Walter, however, did have a pet fox with one paw that had been amputated and a sweet little Welsh terrier.

  Sister thought of Peter as Walter welcomed the crowd to his place on this, the third of the High Holy Days. She refocused on the present. Ninety-eight people sat on braided horses, puffs of condensed air escaping from their nostrils.

  The Custis Hall girls with the exception of Tootie and Valentina, not big into the theater program, were decorating the Great Hall under Bill Wheatley’s direction. Apart from their absence most of the riding membership was present.

  Aztec fidgeted. This was his first High Holy Day. He could feel the excitement from humans and horses.

  Finally the formalities were over, Sister called “Hounds, please,” and off they walked down toward the great three-story mill, the millrace running hard and fast to the wheel. An arched stone bridge carried them over the millrace. As the wheel turned, flumes of water slid off the paddles, spraying thousands of rainbows into the air. The smell of water, of grain, of the damp stone foundation filled everyone’s nostrils. As they passed the mill, they came onto a wide farm road that ran through a small pasture and then into a heavy woods.

  It wasn’t until he reached the woods that Shaker realized Lorraine was on a horse. He was so intense when hunting, in this case when he was holding the hounds, that he barely noticed the people. He glanced up once or twice but it only now registered. A grin crossed his face and he regretted that he couldn’t ride back to the Hilltoppers and give her the biggest kiss.

  Heavy frost silvered the pastures, the low shrubs in the woods, some with bright red berries, a contrast to the world of silver, gray, brown, and black.

  Delight whispered to Diddy, “What do you think?”

  “Need the temperature to come up five degrees. Then even a human could put his nose to the ground and get it.”

  “We can get something off the frost.” Trident also whispered because talking on the way to a cast is considered babbling.

  None of the hounds wanted to be censured.

  “Have to hit it right and be careful not to overrun. It’s not as hard as people make it out to be.” Ardent, older and wiser, quietly encouraged the younger hounds. “Go a little slower until you’re sure. You have a long nose to warm the air you inhale, so you’ll pick it up. Just be more deliberate.”

  “Why didn’t Shaker cast us at the mill? All the foxes go there.” Diddy liked learning.

  “Not sure.” Dreamboat wondered why, as well.

  “Better to pick up a fox on the way to the mill than one on the way out. If he’s eaten any grain he’ll just turn around and go into the mill. This way we might get a longer run,” Ardent again explained. “There’s an art to it, kids. Shaker’s got it. Trust your huntsman.”

  “What happens if you get a stupid huntsman?” Diddy wondered.

  “Hounds ignore him and do what they want.” Ardent laughed. “Never been one at Jefferson Hunt. Never will be, not as long as Sister’s the human anchor hound.”

  “Getting a little loose, kids,” Shaker quietly reprimanded them.

  They continued walking, as he didn’t cast until they reached the edge of the woods and jumped over the lovely stone fencing into the pasture. He swung the hounds crosswind, then turned Gunpowder’s nose toward the woods. The hounds fanned out over the middle of the pasture but kept in mind the direction of Gunpowder. They’d work a big half circle before moving into the woods, where they would be directly into the light wind.

  Dasher found a stale line. He kept with it, hoping it would freshen. It didn’t. So Cora, after checking that line, moved twenty yards away. Although mid-December, sometimes the grays will begin courting. Courting time varies greatly with how the foxes interpret the coming spring’s food supply. Somehow, they know. If it’s going to be an early, fecund spring, the grays will start in December in Virginia. The reds usually follow suit two to three weeks later.

  Cora wanted to hit early. On a day like today, the fox had most of the advantages, but the sun washing over the pasture would warm the scent if a fox had crossed over.

  Old lines continued to tantalize them but not enough to open. No point boohooing on a stale line. It might sound great to the humans but mostly you’d walk your fox to death if hounds even got close to him. If a Jefferson hound was going to open, it would open on a strong, fresh line. Therefore, they had to work together very well and possess great drive. Colder-nosed hounds don’t need all that much drive because they’ll always find something to talk about. The Jefferson hounds had good noses but they weren’t what’s called cold-nosed, as some other types of foxhounds are. Each type of foxhound has its devotee, and always for good reasons.

  “Let’s go into the woods,” Cora commanded.

  “Be colder in there.” Trinity questioned Cora’s judgment, not a good idea.

  “Yes, it will, you impertinent pup! And the fox knows that, too. He’ll be a little more lax traveling through the underbrush. Don’t you ever question me again or I’ll roll you in front of everyone, humans included.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Cora trotted ahead, leapt over the stone wall, landing on soft, moist earth. These woods, mostly hardwoods, carried a different scent than evergreen woods. The scent of pine could be overwhelming in those woods, beautiful though they were.

  She put her nose down. The rest of the pack crawled or leapt over. On landing they moved forward like the front line of a football team. To anyone loving hound work, this was an impressive sight. Not one hound lagged behind or skirted off.

  For twenty minutes they worked in silence, total dedication.

  “I got it!” Trudy, thrilled to be the first, shouted.

  Cora noted the direction of Trudy’s travel, ran ahead of her by ten yards, put her nose down, and honored the third-year bitch’s finding. The rest of the pack fell on the line so quickly that Shaker didn’t have to blow the tripled notes in succession. He went right to one long note, tripled notes, repeating this three times. Betty and Sybil, on either side of the pack but about a quarter mile out, heard and knew it was time to press on.

  Sister patted Aztec’s neck, held him a moment so Shaker could get far enough ahead of her that she wouldn’t crowd him, then she squeezed the six-year-old Thoroughbred and he answered with a smooth surge of power like the acceleration of a Mercedes 500S.

  Sister reached the farm road in the woods. When the hounds turned hard left, she picked up the deer trail that Shaker, too, had picked up.

  She emerged on the other side of the woods, where a twenty-acre field of Alamo switchgrass waved in the wind. This was one of Walter’s forage experiments. Turned out to be useful for cattle but not much good for horses. The mice, ground nesters, and foxes sure liked it, though.

  The hounds were in the switchgrass. Sister could see the long slender grasses bending as the hounds moved through. She usually rode around the outside of any planted field, but Walter yelled up, “Go on. I don’t care.”

  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.

  The Custis Hall girls wore no major jewelry. Even Valentina’s parents knew better than to give her important stones. Young women should not wear large diamonds, rubies, or sapphires. They are not yet ready to carry such responsibility, for jewelry, in its way, determines a woman’s place. Much is expected of a woman perceived as wealthy. Then, too, few young women understand the value of those stones. One has to live to understand both money and value, which are separate. Valentina wore a simple platinum necklace with a solitaire diamond nestled in the hollow of her beautiful throat.

  Pamela Rene, proud of her work on the silver fox, wore beaten-silver earrings that her mother had sent by FedEx for the occasion, along with a black dress that looked quite good on Pamela.

  Tootie wore no jewelry at all. Felicity wore a single strand of pearls that had been her grandmother’s.

  The girls had had no time to investigate the silent auction but each was hoping there might be some pin or bracelet there that would be ap
propriate. Felicity desperately wanted one of the nineteenth-century painted crystal pins that she heard had made it into the auction thanks to Mrs. August, a member now in her nineties. This was Sorrel’s coup just as the wicker cart was Marty’s.

  The girls stood in the receiving line along with Charlotte, Sister, and Walter. A four-piece combo played until the dance band showed up.

  By six-thirty the room was packed. The girls were amazed at how handsome Knute Nilsson was in white tie. As for Bill, they knew he’d be the peacock and he was, for with his scarlet he wore silk breeches, white silk hose, and the dancing pumps of the eighteenth century. The other men wore patent-leather dancing shoes, but they stuck to pants. It had to be admitted that Bill looked good because he had good legs.

  Dorothy and the food service did a marvelous job on the food. The open bar in its hour of glory was used well. The wine and champagne flowed and by the time the couples hit the dance floor, everyone was in exceedingly good cheer, including Shaker, who didn’t drink but was intoxicated by Lorraine’s effort to please him by hunting.

  As the gyrations on the dance floor intensified, Crawford was bumped hard in the rear by Bill Wheatley, which sent Crawford straight into Lorraine’s cleavage. As he reached out to balance himself he had the misfortune to grasp the front of Lorraine’s dress, which freed her bosoms to the light. Beautiful as they were, this was not what Lorraine had ever intended. She screamed and crossed her arms over her breasts as Shaker manfully pressed himself to her until she could hike up her gown. Once this was accomplished, Shaker whirled to an ogling Crawford, hit him with a straight right, and decked him.

  Sister couldn’t reach her huntsman fast enough to prevent what she feared would happen. Gray escorted Shaker off the dance floor.