“Mmm, this is wonderful.” He took a sip of coffee. “You and I both like good coffee, too. Well, I guess you’ve heard about Shenandoah Valley Hounds. I suspect it was one of those ‘You’re fired.’ ‘I quit!’ things.” Crawford was fishing. He could have asked Sister directly. “The huntsman leaving, I mean.”
“If a master is discharging a hunt servant or a hunt servant is leaving, notice must be given by January first. After that it’s considered bad form. You leave either party hanging,” Sister evenly replied.
“Shenandoah would have endured him for another year?”
“Of course. David is actually a good huntsman. He’s an erratic person. That’s the problem.”
“Booze.”
“With huntsmen it generally is booze or women. One often leads to the other.” She laughed.
He drained his cup and she refilled it. Both drank their coffee black, which Sister called “barefoot.”
“I’ll get right to the point. Shaker will be our huntsman for many more years, barring injury. Am I correct?”
“You are.”
“Doug’s a young man, talented. He could carry the horn for Shenandoah.” He held up his hand, even though she’d made no sign of protest. “Now give me a minute. I’ve thought about this. Five years with Shenandoah and he’d be ready to move up to a fancier, richer hunt or come back here should Shaker retire or become injured.
“Now I know that being left without your first whipper-in this late in the day might cause a ripple of discontent, but it can’t be as bad as being without a huntsman.”
“You’re right about that.” She listened intently, knowing other cards were stuffed up his sleeve.
“Do you think Shenandoah would hire him?”
“In a heartbeat.”
“Do you think he would go?”
“This has been his home for years, but it would be a good opportunity, a step up. I don’t think he would leave without my blessing.”
“And would you give him that blessing?”
“I would, as would Shaker.”
“I would be happy to pay the salary of the next professional whipper-in.”
Her eyebrows raised. “Crawford, that’s very generous. You must be in a giving mood today, because Ronnie Haslip told me what you just pledged to the Nola Bancroft Trophy.”
“Ah.” He wondered if Ronnie was calling to make him, Crawford, look good or if Ronnie had called to make Ronnie look good, boasting about what he’d managed to pry out of him. He wasn’t sure about Ronnie. No matter. He was sure about himself. “You know I like the Bancrofts. And while I never knew their younger daughter, I’m happy to do this. Mostly, I enjoy supporting the club.”
“And we are all grateful to you.” Her smile was genuine.
When she smiled like that, Crawford could see her as a young woman. Odd.
“I’m sure there’s a pool of people who might qualify for the job,” Crawford said.
“I’d ask the Masters of Foxhounds Association director, Lieutenant Colonel Dennis Foster, if he knows anyone who is suitable. There are always people out there who might have the skills you need for the job, but the chemistry is wrong where they are.” She wondered if he had a candidate who would then be his mole. She respected Crawford’s intelligence but wished he didn’t continue to think a hunt club could be run as a business. It was something quite different, halfway between a church and a charity perhaps. She was never sure.
“I’d be happy to help in the search.”
She breathed a sigh of inner relief. He wasn’t going to foist someone on her. “Crawford, would you still consider making the salary contribution if for this year I utilized an honorary whipper-in? I think Shaker and I can handle the kennels.”
“Yes, but I thought the first whipper-in was responsible for keeping the hunt horses fit.”
“True. But the hunt club could use that money. Desperately. Our truck is on its last legs. It’s twelve years old and has 180,000 miles on it. These one-ton Duallys are so expensive now. Forty thousand dollars.”
“Who will take care of the horses?”
“If I had part-time help, Jennifer Franklin after school, perhaps, I think we could do it. You don’t have to give me an answer now. Maybe this feels like a bait and switch.”
“No, I held out the bait. The workload is overwhelming. Can you really do it with one less pair of hands?”
“Like I said, I think we can.”
“What would you do with the cottage?”
“Rent it out as a hunting box or convert it into an office. We don’t have an office. Papers are stuffed in Shaker’s house and mine. I’m not sure yet. I’ll have to think this through.”
But the fact that she had ready answers for the whipper-in position told Crawford she’d already considered encouraging Doug to apply for the huntsman’s job.
“Let me buy the truck. GM is making the best right now.”
A pause followed; Raleigh put his head on Sister’s knee. Her hand rested on his shiny black head.
Golliwog, sitting in the kitchen window over the sink, remarked, “Rain coming. Be here in fifteen minutes. It’s on top of the mountain.” As no one responded, she raised the decibel level. “Isn’t anyone listening to me?”
“Golly, hush,” Sister chided her.
“It must be raindrops, so many raindrops.” The cat warbled the song she’d heard on the golden oldie radio station.
Sister didn’t listen to oldies, but Shaker did.
As Golly’s singing filled the room, Sister stood up and walked over to the window.
“You’re just awful.” Then she glanced out the window. “Crawford, rain’s sliding down the mountain. Are your car windows closed?”
“They are. This has been a wet summer.”
“Compared to last one. I love the weather. Let me amend that. I love observing the weather. For instance, you’d think when raindrops are hanging from a branch, you know, hanging not dropping, that scent would be fabulous. My experience is that you can’t find a damn thing.”
Not schooled in the refinements of hunting or country life, Crawford was nonetheless interested. “Doesn’t compute, does it?”
“No, but there it is.” She sat back down as the cat preened in the window. “I am overwhelmed by your willingness to share your resources. And I’m not unmindful that you want to be my joint-master.” She smiled. “I would hate for you to give us all this money and be disappointed down the road.”
“If you told people you wanted me, I’d be joint-master,” he bluntly replied, but in good humor.
“Don’t feel that I don’t value you. I do. But Crawford, you are not a hunting man. You’re still new to it.”
“Ten years.” This came out in a puff of wind.
“For the first two or three years, you, like every other beginner, were just trying to hang on. It takes a long time to learn about foxhunting, and the truth is most people are out there to run and jump. Real hunting is an art, and I don’t pretend to be Rembrandt, but I know it takes study, then more study, and the recognition that these animals are often far wiser than we are. I guess I’m saying it takes humility.”
Crawford could not believe that any animal was superior to the human animal, but he did know her assessment of his early years was accurate. “I’m willing to learn.”
“And I respect that. You must also realize, surely you know, that if you are elected joint-master there will be one whopping fight.”
He looked up from his cup. “I know. I’ve stepped on toes.”
“Let me throw this out to you. I don’t expect you to be a hunting master, Crawford, but you can certainly learn what it takes to run a club. Money is a big part of it, but the medley of breeding, of seeing to the health of your foxes, of landowner relations, of relations with the Board of Governors, of opening new territory and maintaining the old, it’s a great deal of work. One must treat people with a light touch.”