“Hello, Sorrel, how are you?”
“Fine, and yourself?”
“Cold.”
“Sit down, honey, I’ll make you a hot chocolate.” Marty rose as Crawford removed his coat.
“Oh, hey.” He reached into the pocket as he hung it up. “Here. Put that in the auction since I see you’ve got out your lists.” He dropped a ring into Sorrel’s hands.
“That’s pretty.”
“Might get a hundred dollars.”
Marty walked over to inspect it.“Good gold. The onyx is lovely. Where’d you buy that? I thought you were out with Sister today fixing jumps. X crashed into that timber jump,” she hastened to add. “Wasn’t his fault. By the time he reached it the footing was horrendous.”
“We fixed that first and then you know Sister. She always kills two birds with one stone. She had buckets of feed on the back of the pickup. I mean she had the entire bed filled with fifty-pound bags. We used them. Anyway, this was outside a den at Tedi and Edward’s. Sister said it was Target’s den. She remembers every fox. Don’t know how she does it. They look red or gray to me.” He was in a good mood.
“Isn’t that odd?” Marty poured the milk onto the cocoa.
“She said some foxes are pack rats. They can’t resist shiny things, toys. I peeked into his den and there was a baseball in there. She said he’ll take any toy the dogs leave out and so will Uncle Yancy, another of her foxes. But she said Uncle Yancy prefers clothing more than toys. He’ll steal hats, T-shirts, barn rags.” He shook his head. “She loves these animals. I think she loves them almost as much as her hounds.”
“Hey, why don’t we put, ‘donated by Target, red fox living at After All.’ ” Sorrel sat up straight, eyes bright.
Crawford shrugged.“Might bring another hundred dollars.”
C H A P T E R 3 1
Mill Ruins, so named because of the massive stone gristmill, and the huge waterwheel still turning the gears inside, had been the estate of Peter Wheeler. Given Peter’s penchant for losing money, the word “estate” was used loosely. To the now-deceased Peter’s credit, he hung on, never selling one acre of land. He thought the mill would be a tourist attraction and he ground grain there. This provided enough cash to feed his horses, though not himself. Peter finally hired himself out as a lawyer, a profession he hated despite his training at the University of Virginia.
Christmas Hunt had been held at the Wheeler place—Peter was the seventh-generation Wheeler to live at the mill—since 1887. The hunt was usually held on the Saturday before Christmas unless that Saturday happened to be Christmas Eve. This year Saturday was December 24, so Christmas Hunt was December 17. Many clubs did go out on Christmas Eve, but long ago prior masters at the Jefferson Hunt determined it was too busy a day for most people to braid horses and spend four hours, more or less, in the saddle.
The“ruins” referred to the rest of the place as it began to fall into rack and ruin. Although he made a decent living at the prestigious law firm eager to have the Wheeler name attached to it, he spent only on his mill, his horses, his fencing, and his feed. At the end of his life, he lived mostlyin the kitchen, with its fierce wood-burning stove, and a bed he put in the large pantry off the kitchen. He drove his 454 Chevy pickup proudly down to the office. His turnout, at work and in the hunt field, was always correct—he just didn’t care about the rest of it.
He fought daily with his neighbor, Alice Ramy. He knew foxhunting and he loved true foxhunters, which meant he loved Jane Arnold best of all. Their affair lasted for close to twenty-five years. A big, booming, rugged man with refined manners, Peter kept his looks way into his seventies. He loved Sister because she was strong, smart, and thought like a fox. Each was the other’s grand passion as far as people were concerned. Their true grand passion was foxhunting.
When Peter died peacefully sitting in his kitchen chair, he had willed Mill Ruins to Jefferson Hunt as well as the Chevy 454. Rooster, his young harrier, he personally willed to Sister.
As she sat atop Aztec gazing over the large field on this nippy Saturday morning, she thought of how fortunate she’d been with the men in her life. They were real men, accustomed to physical exertion; no task was too dirty or too difficult. Sister never could warm to soft men. Then again, she scared the bejesus out of them, so it worked out just fine.
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 smellof 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.