Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

by Rita Mae Brown

  She passed a collapsed shed, then the entire pack, Trident still in front, turned west, headed for Chapel Cross. A narrow ditch divided the church land from Mud Fence and it was full of running water from melting snows higher up. Aztec leapt it. Sister didn’t look down. Never a good idea to look down.

  They clattered by the graveyard, right past the small lovely church and had to cross the north/south road, which meant Sister was right at the Gulf station. Apron on, Milly stood in the picture window with DuCharme Garage written in the top. She waved to the people, which made a few horses shy.

  Sister waved back but kept moving. The fox crossed the east/west road almost at the crossroads, shot into the edge of Old Paradise, and ran along the snake fencing. A roar above them announced Crawford Howard’s Dumfriesshire hounds, who joined them.

  To Sister’s relief, the two packs ran together. The music was incredible. The cry of these hounds must have reverberated over the mountain all the way to Stuarts Draft.

  The new, larger pack soared over the snake fencing, crossed the road again, this time a good mile from the crossroads. Trident was still in the lead and to Sister’s surprise, Dreamboat was pushing his way forward.

  Sister was so proud of him. His great day at Oakside had emboldened him. He now believed he could lead and he was right up there.

  She easily jumped over the snake fence, hit the road, slowed for a moment, then rode along the three-board fence marking Kasmir’s land. A new coop beckoned; it was stout. Again, as it was close to the road, she had only a few strides to hit it right and sail over, which she did; but like any rider, a little wiggle room was always desirable.

  Within seconds she was right back in the woods and hounds just tore through those woods, finally losing their fox at a small meadow with large fallen trees on it bordered by a tributary feeding into a larger creek.

  How did the fox lose them? Scent vanished.

  Hounds cast about, Shaker patiently waited, moving a bit here, a bit there, but that boy was gone.

  Everyone pulled up. Some slumped over, trying to catch a deep breath.

  The two packs kept trying to pick up a lead. Shaker called them over and Crawford’s hounds followed, as though part of the Jefferson pack. He headed the group south, and try as he might for the next hour, their efforts were fruitless.

  They’d been out for three hours, so Shaker turned back toward Tattenhall Station. Once again, hounds opened.

  This brief run took them down to the larger creek. After fifteen blazing minutes, that was over.

  Although she had hunted since childhood, Sister never deluded herself into thinking she understood scent. Only the fox understood scent. Hounds could smell it but they didn’t understand it either.

  Oh, she knew the basics. She knew a fox could jump into the creek and run in the water to destroy scent, which this fox may well have done. A clever fox with some den openings into a creek bed could get in and out without leaving much of a trace, or so Sister thought. He could roll in running cedar or cow dung, which threw hounds off for a time. He could also, if he knew where one was, go straight to a carcass. That never failed to confuse hounds.

  But those thoughts were the thoughts of reason. The fox didn’t care what she thought.

  The group of humans chatted excitedly on the way back to Tattenhall Station. If hounds had spoken, the people would have quieted. Sister had them well trained. Crawford’s hounds merrily tagged along. A gabby field drove her bats. Her people respected tradition. The human voice can bring a hound’s head up, the last thing you want to do. They need their full powers of concentration. The only thing worse than bringing a hound’s head up was kicking one. Turning a fox back into the hound pack ranked right up there with these cardinal sins as it meant certain death for the fox. Sister didn’t want to kill foxes nor did most other Masters.

  Fortunately The Jefferson Hunt people, most all of them, rode to hunt as opposed to hunting to ride. Observing hounds when they could was a goal for many of them.

  Sister motioned for Tootie to catch up to her.

  “See anything?” she asked.

  The younger woman shook her head, then added, “Well, I did see Lila Repton take that coop on the road. Her horse didn’t.”

  “She all right?”

  “Yes. I stayed back to get her up.”

  “Could she make the jump then?”

  “She was a little put off so I jumped her horse over. She climbed on the coop and mounted up while I untied Lafayette from the fence line. He’s so good, that horse.”

  “Well, that was good of you.”

  “Lila is desperate to ride First Flight. I figured maybe this would help.”

  “Mmm. Good run.” Sister beheld both packs walking quietly up ahead. “How long before he tears down here with his hound trailer and raises holy hell?”

  Turns out, Crawford didn’t show up.

  Sister, Shaker, and the whippers-in put up the Jefferson Hounds and Phil Chetwynd kindly allowed Crawford’s hounds to rest in his horse trailer. His horse and Mercer’s horse, Dixie Do—tied outside, happily munching away at feed bags—didn’t mind.

  The station had a long kitchen at one side. Kasmir had outfitted the place so the club could enjoy hot breakfasts. Old railway benches pushed up to long tables provided seating. Once people selected what they wanted from the food tables outside the kitchen, they were glad to sit and not stand holding plates. There was also a cook in the old kitchen to scramble eggs, flip pancakes, fry bacon. This was pure luxury.

  The old station exuded an ambience of time gone by. To Kasmir’s credit, he did not dispense with the sign over a door that said Ladies Waiting Room nor the old one that spelled out Colored. He talked to many hunt club people about it but Gray settled the issue for him. Gray simply said, “It’s our history. Let’s not hide it.”

  History infused the place. As people excitedly replayed the hunt, some could imagine ladies in long dresses, bonnets, repairing to their waiting room where their delicate sensibilities would not be offended by the unwanted attentions of men.

  The Southern concept is that every man surely wants to be in the company of a lady.

  Sister figured there was some truth to that and she swept her eyes down the long tables to see the women, flushed from the exercise, exuberant. Even those not especially favored by nature became attractive. And then there were the ones like Tootie, so beautiful, so young and sweet, that she took a man’s breath away. Tootie had no idea of this. That made her even more beautiful.

  Unfortunately, not enough young men hunted but when one did show up in the hunt field he gravitated toward her.

  Tootie’s dream was to hunt hounds one day after becoming an equine vet, a dream that infuriated her ever-so-rich Chicago father and didn’t much please her socially-conscious mother either. Why would their beautiful, brilliant daughter want to operate on horses as well as be an unpaid amateur huntsman?

  On and on the assemblage chattered. Sister, coat hanging on the rack at the door along with everyone else’s, pulled her grandfather’s gold pocket watch from her vest. Snapping it shut with a click, she laughed, for Phil, Mercer, Gray, and Betty had imitated her with their pocket watches.

  “Grandfather’s.” Phil smiled. “I know that’s our grandfather’s.”

  Betty chimed in. “Dad’s.”

  “What about you, Mercer?” Sister asked.

  “Bought it at Horse Country. You know the case of antique jewelry? Couldn’t resist.” Mercer smiled.

  “The workmanship on those old pieces is, well, I don’t know if people can make jewelry like that anymore.” Sister again pulled out her grandfather’s pocket watch, admiring the filigree and his initials in script, JOF for Jack Orion Fitzrobin. Sister was a Fitzrobin on her mother’s side and an Overton on her father’s. She’d had a wonderful childhood of hunting with both grandfathers and grandmothers.

  Betty, Phil, and Mercer again pulled out their pocket watches, opened them, and then all four clicked watches toge
ther, which gave them a good laugh.

  After the breakfast, Sister kissed her Thoroughbred Aztec, then along with Betty and Sybil, rendezvoused at the hound trailer, also known as the party wagon.

  Betty asked the obvious, “What do we do about Crawford’s hounds?”

  “Take them to him. I think they’ll load into our trailer.” Sister put her hands on her hips. She had no desire to see Crawford. However, she would always help hounds.

  As his trailer was near the hound trailer, Phil overheard. He and Mercer usually hauled their horses together using a top-of-the-line four-horse conveyance.

  “Sister, I’ll take them to Crawford. I pass his farm on the way to mine and our guys will be fine with hounds all around them, plus we have the dividers. As long as they have their hay bags they don’t care.”

  Dividers, a padded type of guard hung on a hinge, could be used to separate horses.

  “That’s kind of you.”

  “I don’t mind a bit.” Phil smiled broadly.

  When Phil rumbled down Crawford’s long drive, at the turnoff, Sam Lorillard met him with a truck and led him back to the kennels, on which—like everything else—Crawford Howard had spared no expense.

  Phil had called ahead to Sam, Gray’s brother, who worked for Crawford. No one else would give the former alcoholic a job, including his brother. Crawford took a chance on him, paid him handsomely, and was well rewarded by Sam’s loyalty and labor.

  Sam unloaded the hounds. “How was the hunt?” he asked.

  “Good,” Phil replied. “Where’s Crawford?”

  “Up at the house. He drove in about an hour ago.”

  “Well, his hounds hunted nicely under Shaker, if that matters to him,” Mercer piped up.

  Sam nodded. “He fired the huntsman in the middle of today’s hunt. We will now be looking for number five.”

  “Man would have to be a fool to take that job.” Mercer didn’t monitor his opinion.

  Grateful as Sam was to Crawford, he knew Mercer was right.

  “He’d do better with a woman,” Phil declared.

  “Why’s that?” Sam watched the last hound walk into the well-lit kennel.

  Phil folded his long arms over his chest. “I think women are better at dealing with difficult people.”

  Mercer pulled out his pocket watch and as he did so he told Sam about the four people closing their watches at the same moment. “You know we’d better shoot out of here before he sees us and we hear the lamentations of Crawford Howard,” Mercer advised.

  “Something elegant about a pocket watch,” said Sam.

  Mercer said, “One of our relations had a gold pocket watch and he walked into a whorehouse and never walked out—remember that old story?”

  Phil tilted his head. “Must have been a hell of a transaction.”

  Eye on the big house, Mercer recalled, “Great-Aunt Jessamy would shake her head and say they never found anything of Grandpa Harlan’s. They found an empty wallet and his clothes were neatly folded in the laundry room of the establishment. Of course, the authorities couldn’t tell Jessamy that, but they told enough others. Word got around.” He looked at his cousin. “Funny what one remembers.”

  Moving toward the driver’s door, Phil said, “Maybe some things are better forgotten.”

  CHAPTER 6

  The long polished table gleamed under the soft lights which, though subdued, were bright enough to take notes by. The board of trustees for Custis Hall met regularly once a month, more if the occasion demanded. The paneled room was in the original building.

  Founded in 1812 as a school for young women, it remained true to its originating principles, now being one of the best prep schools in Virginia. The original funding came from the owner of Old Paradise, a grand lady who had made a great fortune running supplies through the British lines during the War of 1812. Had this indomitable woman been able to return she would have been satisfied, thrilled even, at how the school had flourished over the years. She would have been much less impressed had she visited Old Paradise.

  These days, Crawford Howard, a board member, was slowly putting the holding’s owners, the DuCharmes, in his back pocket with money and improvements calculated to help Arthur again keep cattle. Crawford’s long-term goal was to buy Old Paradise. The DuCharmes would first fight among themselves but he could play a waiting game.

  On moving to central Virginia, Crawford committed the mistake of building a garish new home designed to look old. He garnered attention. Not a penny was spared. Over time he learned that showing off his riches like this put a mark by his name as a vulgarian, even though he tried to make the place look historic. Far better to buy an historic estate. Even if one lived in one that was falling down, that still trumped the look of new money. Every place has its ways and Virginia remained steadfast in her habits, for both good and ill.

  To Crawford’s credit, he cared about young people. One of his passions was education and he gave generously—as in six figures per annum—to Custis Hall. Young and attractive, Headmistress Charlotte Norton proved adept at managing him, a quality Sister Jane admired since she had failed to pacify Crawford when he was a hunt club member. Crawford’s business acumen also proved vital to Custis Hall.

  Sister was now in her fortieth year on the board of trustees, for she kept getting re-elected. She valued Crawford’s contribution even as she disdained him personally. While lacking his degree of business sense, she had a bit. Moreover, she was one hundred percent committed to a strong humanities curriculum, which meant foreign languages, structured classes, knowing your country’s history along with world history. As a former professor of geology at Mary Baldwin College, the huntmaster was passionate about the natural sciences.

  The board had wisely corralled a bank president, head of one of the best local law firms, and one music star—who worked very hard, to everyone’s surprise, as they thought she’d more or less show up for one meeting a year. Turned out that Mary Sewell Wainwright was as enthusiastic about all the arts as Sister was about the natural sciences.

  The two women clicked, despite a thirty-year age gap.

  Elected just last year and still finding their way were Phil Chetwynd and Mercer Laprade. The Chetwynds served on many boards but this was Phil’s first turn at Custis Hall, where his oldest daughter was a sophomore. Mercer was determined to create scholarships for young women of color, a much cherished goal.

  Nancy Hightower, also African American, addressed the gathering. “My fear is that this interference will create a backlash.”

  She referred to the S.O.L.’s, the Standard of Learning rules laid down by the federal government and then enforced by the state government.

  “Not for us.” Phil put his pencil down. “Custis Hall exceeds all the criteria.”

  “Let me be more clear, the backlash I fear is accusations about elitism. We outperform most every state school and we are right up there against St. Catherine’s and St. Christopher’s, Collegiate, St. Gertrude’s, Foxcroft, Madeira. We hold our own and better.”

  “Private schools can’t be compared to state schools,” said Phil. “We can be far more demanding than the state.”

  “Yes, we can and we should be,” Mercer agreed, his light voice clear, pleasant. “But the bulk of our students come from homes that are stable, value education, and strongly support same. We need more scholarship students.”

  “Mercer, forty percent of our students receive some form of student aid,” said Isadore Rosen, head of personnel.

  Now in his midfifties, Isadore had taken his job decades ago, thinking it would be temporary. But he had found his calling and stayed, to the benefit of all.

  The six o’clock news anchor at a network station in Richmond and a Custis Hall alumna, Frances Newcombe agreed. “Mercer has a point. Private schools are seen as elitist and there is resentment about children not getting in because they can’t afford it. We all at this table know it takes more than money, what it really takes is aptitude, a willingness to wo
rk hard and frankly, there’s not enough of that as I would wish. This is a generation that expects to have everything given to them.”

  Sister weighed in. “With all due respect, Frances, there are plenty of young people out there who would make good use of an education here if they could swing it. Custis Hall is expensive as are all the prep schools. It’s not just the expansion of scholarship funding, it’s also the housing, the food. You all see our budget statements. Lord, just keeping the physical plant and the grounds up to form costs us thousands upon thousands. And then if we could increase enrollment of scholarship students, could we raise the money to pay for it? Where would we build a new dorm without risking the historical character of this place? Custis Hall is one of the most beautiful secondary schools in the United States.”

  In his commanding voice, Crawford said, “There is another way.”

  The eleven other trustees stared at him as did the headmistress, Isadore, and the two other school administrators present.

  “How?” Charlotte asked.

  Never averse to being the center of attention, Crawford paused for a moment, then launched in. “We can’t create scholarships without creating more infrastructures as has been noted.” He couldn’t bring himself to credit Sister but she enjoyed that he had to acknowledge her concerns. “Custis Hall can create outreach programs. There’s no reason why we can’t rent space for early evening classes, weekend classes in Charlottesville, Waynesboro. Bringing in students who don’t live on campus is cheaper than construction. Yes, it takes planning and we would need to augment salaries for those on the faculty willing to do this. But even if we had to hire some new people, it’s more cost-effective than housing twenty or thirty new students on campus.”

  A long silence followed this, then everyone talked at once, sparked by Crawford’s vision.

  Sister, who always made a point of sitting next to him on the principle that you keep your enemies close, touched his forearm. “Brilliant, Crawford. Thank you.”