The Lorillards’ tidy and tight farmhouse had fallen down about Sam’s ears. Until four months ago, one often found him down at the old train station, sitting on the baggage carts knocking back Thunderbird with the other drunks.
It pained Sister to see those men. One, Anthony Tolliver, had been the first boy she ever danced with and loved. They remained friends until he lost the battle with the bottle. Anthony, well born, lost everything. On those times when she did see him, he would smile, happy for her presence. The fumes from him made her eyes water. She alternated among disgust, anger, and pity. Bad as he was, Anthony could bring back wonderful childhood memories. She couldn’t understand why he couldn’t get control of his drinking.
Sister had lived long enough to know you couldn’t save someone from himself. You can open a door, but he still must walk through it. It sounded as though Sam had at long last walked through the door his brother opened for him.
At the kennels, she unloaded the corn oil. Shaker walked in. As he took off his cap, snow fell to the floor in white clumps.
“Thanks for plowing the road.”
“I’ll give it another sweep before the sun goes down.”
“Four-thirty. We’re just on the other side of the solstice. I miss the light.” Sister stacked the Espilac on the shelf.
“Me, too.” He shook the remaining snow from his cap as he stamped his boots.
“Ran into Gray Lorillard. Said he’s retired and just moved back.”
“Ah, that will be a good thing. Maybe he’ll start hunting again.”
“Hope so. I think he went out with Middleburg Hunt when he worked in D.C. Anyway, we’re having lunch once the storm is over. I’ll get the scoop.”
“Where’s my girlfriend?”
She snapped her fingers.“I knew I forgot something. Next trip.”
CHAPTER 3
Early Sunday morning, the snow continued to fall. With a six-inch base of snow remaining on the ground from the week before, its depth now measured nearly two feet. Branches of walnuts, black gums, and the gnarled apple trees, coated with snow, took on a soft appearance. The younger pine boughs were bent low with its weight. The older pines appeared wrapped in shawls.
The silence pleased Inky, snuggled in her den at the edge of the old cornfield. This, the easternmost part of Sister Jane’s big farm, provided a safe haven for the two-year-old gray fox in her prime. Some grays are quite dark, but not many. Inky was black and uncommonly intelligent. Of course, being a fox meant she was extraordinarily intelligent compared to other mammals.
Even red foxes, haughty about the grays, conceded that Inky was special. She could connect with most mammals, even humans, and had a rare understanding of their emotions. The other foxes readily outsmarted hounds, humans, horses, even bobcats—trickier and tougher than the three “H’s,” as the foxes thought of the foxhunting crew. Foxes, reds and grays, thanks to their sense of smell, could pick up fear, sickness, even sexual attraction among other species. But Inky delved deeper. Young though she was, even reds listened when she spoke.
Her den, disguised under the ancient walnut tree, was also hidden by rocky outcroppings, some of the rocks as big as boulders. On high ground with many entrances and exits, not far from Broad Creek—which divided Roughneck Farm from After All Farm—this location offered quick access to fresh running water and all the leftover corn bits Inky could glean. Even better, the field mice haunted the cornfield. There was nothing like a fresh field mouse for a hot, tasty meal.
Inky’s littermate, Comet, had stupidly taken over a gopher den on Foxglove Farm across Soldier Road, about three and a half miles from Inky’s. Set smack in the middle of a wildflower field, at first this looked like a good thing. However, last fall Cindy Chandler, the owner of Foxglove, had decided to plow under the stalks, fertilize and then re-seed with more wildflowers, as well as plant one side of the field with three rows of Italian sunflowers to bring in the birds. Comet, appalled that his den had been exposed, moved to the woods. He should have listened to his sister, who told him not to nest in an open field.
At fourteen inches high, thirty inches long, and weighing a sleek ten pounds, Inky was the picture of health. Her tail, a source of pride, was especially luxurious now that she was enrobed in her rich dense winter coat.
A low rumble alerted her to a human visitor. She stuck her black nose out of the den, a snowflake falling on it. Sister Jane, on her four-wheel drive all-terrain vehicle, pulled up the low farm road, following Shaker’s plowing.
The ATV negotiated the snow and most anything else. Sister cut the motor and flipped up one bungee cord, which held a flake of straw. Putting that under her left arm, with her right hand she unhooked a second bungee cord, which held down a small plastic container of dog food.
She trudged up the rise to the walnut tree. The cold and snow stung her rosy cheeks.
An old cowboy hat kept the snow out of her eyes. As she approached Inky’s den, she whistled. She didn’t want to frighten the fox, who, if asleep, might not have heard her.
Inky, who had popped back into her den, stuck her head out.
“Good morning, Inky.” Sister dearly loved her foxes, but none so much as this one.
“Morning.”Inky chortled, a low sound in her throat.
“Here’s some straw in case you need to sweeten your bedding. I’m going to put the kibble right by your main entrance here. It’s in this plastic canister, which will keep some of the snow away, and Inky, I liberally drenched it in corn oil. You love that.”
A round hole, paw sized, had been cut from the bottom of the canister so Inky could pull out food.
“Thank you.”
Sometimes when Sister walked alone, no hounds, no house dogs, Inky would walk with her, ten or fifteen yards to the side. They’d reached an accord, these two females, one born of affection and solitude.
Inky didn’t much mind the Doberman, Raleigh, but that damned Rooster, the harrier, felt compelled to put his nose to the ground and follow her scent, talking all the while. As a hound, Rooster couldn’t help but show off. Much as he irritated Inky, she knew old Rooster had suffered sadness in his life. His master, Peter Wheeler, a handsome, vital man in his eighties, had died two years ago, bequeathing Rooster to Jane—once his lover—and his entire estate to the Jefferson Hunt Club. Sister lavished care on Rooster, but he still missed his “Pappy,” as he thought of Peter.
The one Inky really detested was Golliwog, the calico cat, whose airs plucked Inky’s last nerve. As a rule, felines feel they are the crown of creation. Golly took this hauteur to extremes. Sometimes when Inky would visit the kennels to chat with Diana, a particular favorite, Golliwog would saunter by, nose in the air, always no hello. Then she’d buzz around the corner toward Shaker’s dependency and emit an earsplitting shriek,“Fox at the kennels!”This would rouse the entire pack, who would then rouse Shaker. Inky would skedaddle out of there. Golly was a royal pain.
Sister breathed in, the air heavy, the sky darkest pewter. Inky put her entire head out of her den. Corn oil smelled wonderful. She wasn’t going to emerge totally though.
“You know, New Year’s Hunt is Thursday.” Wanting to reach down and pet the glossy head, Sister restrained herself. “Oh, what a hunt that always is. It’s the last of the High Holy Days, so everyone will be decked out in their finest, regardless of the temperature. The horses will be braided. Some of the field will be so hung over they’ll glow green.” She laughed. “But if they don’t make it, they are tormented until the next New Year’s Hunt by everyone else who pulled themselves together to brave all. Inky, I don’t know why people drink like they do. A glass of champagne or a good single malt scotch now and then, just one, mind you, but anything more,” she shook her head, “damned foolishness. Course, if people want to destroy their bodies, that’s their business, so long as they don’t destroy mine. I look at you and Athena,” she mentioned the huge horned owl who showed little fear of humans because she inspired fear in them, “and our other friends, and you all don’t wreck your bodies. I can’t decide if the human is genetically flawed or has created a society where the pressures are so fierce many folks can’t endure them without a little chemical help. Or maybe it’s both.”