Crawford, of course, flashed about in his impeccably cut scarlet weaselbelly. His properly scarlet hat cord, a devil to find these days, hung from his top hat, the crown of which was about a half inch higher than that worn by a lady. Both top hats slightly and gracefully curved into the brim. Like a red hat cord for a man, a lady’s proper top hat was a deuce to find. Given the difficulty in finding the real thing—it could take years—many women gave up, donning dressage top hats. No one was critical, and although they didn’t look quite as lovely, they still looked good.
Leather gloves were soft canary or butter. Along with leather gloves, a pair of string gloves were under the horse’s girth. These warm gloves helped riders keep the reins from slipping through their fingers if it rained or snowed. Then, if necessary, riders would tuck their leather gloves in their pocket or under their girth and pull out the string gloves, which were brilliant white or cream.
Men with colors wore boots with a tan top. The ladies with colors wore boots with a patent leather black top. Everyone else wore butcher boots, usually with the Spanish cut—meaning the outside part of the boot covering the calf was longer than the inside portion. Butcher boots had no tops. All boots were polished to such a feverish degree that one could see one’s reflection.
The spurs, hammerheads or Prince of Wales, also sparkled, even with cloud cover.
Fabulous as people looked—some wearing hunt caps, a few others in derbies, which were proper with frock coats—the horses trumped them all. Chestnuts gleamed like flame, and bays glowed with a rich patina. Seal brown horses and blood bays, not often seen, caught everyone’s eye. A blood bay is a deep red with black mane and tail. It’s a beautiful color, as is a flea-bitten gray or a dappled gray. A few of these were present, as well as some of those dark brown horses that appear black to the human eye.
Henry Xavier had mounted his paint, Picasso—a large warmblood—to account for his increasing weight. Dr. Walter Lungrun was so resplendent in his tails, black rather than scarlet, that women swooned when they beheld the blond doctor. He was on a new horse he’d purchased in the summer, Rocketman, a big-boned, old-fashioned thoroughbred bay with a zigzag streak down his nose. Clemson, Walter’s tried and true, went out with him on informal days.
The horses were bursting with excitement, for the morning was cool and they liked that. In many ways, they reflected their owners’ skill, status in the hunt field, and, in some cases, dreams. Hunt fields always have those members who are overmounted, members who want desperately to be dashing on a gorgeous horse. Usually they’re dashed to the ground. Sooner or later, such folks realize what kind of horse they truly need. Pretty is as pretty does. If not, they stalk away from foxhunting with grumbles about how dangerous it is and how stupid their horse is. It’s not the horse that’s stupid.
Hunting is dangerous. However, the adrenaline rush, the challenge, the overwhelming majesty of the sport, the sheer beauty of it get in a rider’s blood. Those who foxhunt can’t imagine living without it; even the danger adds spice.
Life itself is dangerous, but millions of Americans in the twenty-first century are so fearful of it that they retreat into cocoons of imagined safety. Small wonder obesity is a problem and psychologists are thriving.
Humans need some danger, need to get their blood up.
It was up at eleven. The field was large even with the cold. Seventy-one riders faced the master.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the hounds and I wish you a Happy New Year. We wish you health, prosperity, and laughter. May you take all your fences in style, may your foxes be straight-necked, and may your horse be one of your best friends.
“Shaker, Betty, Sybil, and I are grateful that so many of you have turned out, looking as though you’ve stepped out of a Snaffles’ drawing, on this cold day. The footing will be dicey, but you’ve ridden through worse.
“Tedi and Edward invite us all to breakfast at the main house after the hunt. Do remember to thank them for continuing the wonderful tradition of New Year’s Hunt here at After All Farm.
“Let’s see what the fox has in store for us.” She looked to Shaker, cap in hand. “Hounds, please.”
He clapped his cap on his head, tails down (for he was staff). Whistling to the pack, he turned along Snake Creek, which flowed under the covered bridge.
Huntsman and hounds rode up the rise, passed the gravesite of Nola Bancroft, Tedi and Edward’s daughter, who had perished in her twenties. She was buried alongside her favorite mount, Peppermint, who, by contrast, lived to thirty-four. This peaceful setting, bound by a stonewall, seemed especially poignant covered in the snow.
Betty, first whipper-in, rode on the left at ten o’clock. Sybil, second whipper-in, rode at two o’clock. The side on which they rode did not reflect their status so much as it reflected where Shaker wanted them on that particular day at the particular fixture. He usually put Betty on the left though.
Sam Lorillard and Gray also rode out today. How exciting to have Gray back in the field. Crawford had requested Sam to ride as a groom, and Sister had given permission.
The edges of Snake Creek were encrusted with ice, offering scant scent unless a fox had just trotted over. Shaker moved along the low ridge parallel to the creek. An eastern meadow about a quarter of a mile down the bridle path held promise of scent. The sun, despite being hidden behind the clouds, might have warmed the eastern meadows and slopes.
Once into the meadow, a large expanse of white beckoned.
Delia advised her friends,“Take care, especially on themeadow’s edge. Our best chance is there because the rabbits will have come out on the edge of the wood and meadows. All foxes like rabbits. Our other chance for scenttoday is if we get into a cutover cornfield. Fox will come infor the gleanings.”
Asa, also wise in his years, agreed.“Indeed, and foxeswill be hungry. I think we’ll have a pretty good day.”
Trudy, in the middle of the pack and still learning the ropes in her second year, inquired,“But Shaker’s beencomplaining about the temperature and the snow. He sayssnow doesn’t hold scent.”
“Shaker is a human, honey. His nose is only good toperch spectacles on. If there’s even a whiff of fox, we’ll find it.”Asa’s voice resonated with such confidence that Trudy put her nose down and went to work.
The hounds diligently worked the meadow for twenty minutes, moving forward, ever forward, but to no avail.
Trudy’s, Trident’s, Tinsel’s, and Trinity’s brows all furrowed.
Delia encouraged them.“Nobody said it would be easytoday, but be patient. I promise you: the foxes have beenout and about.”She said“out and about” with the Tidewater region’s long “o.”
“Yes, ma’am,”the T’s responded.
Cora, as strike hound, moved ten yards ahead. Her mind raced. She’d picked up an old trail, but discarded it. No point yapping about a fading line. Her knowledge and nose were so good Cora could tell when a line would pay off, when it would heat up. She never opened unless she had a good line. Some hounds blabbed if they evenimaginedfox scent. Those hounds were not found in the Jefferson Hunt pack. Cora couldn’t abide a hound that boohooed every time it caught a little scent.
“Mmm.”She wagged her stern.
Dragon noticed. He hurried right over, but dared not push Cora. She’d lay him out right there in front of everybody, and then she’d get him again on the way home in the party wagon. He tempered his aggressiveness. Now he, too, felt his nostrils fill with the faint but intensifying scent of gray dog fox.
Diana trotted up, swinging the pack with her as she intently watched Cora. She could bank on Cora, her mentor.
The hounds, excited but still mute, moved faster, their sterns moving faster as well.
Sister checked her girth.
“Ah, ha, I knew it!”Cora triumphantly said.“A suitor.”