“It’s been a grisly time, hasn’t it?” agreed Sister, now sitting comfortably on the sofa.
“Don’t jiggle the sofa,” Golly complained.
Sister reached back to pet her.
“You ought to smack her,” Rooster advised.
“I’d smack back. In fact, why don’t you stick your wet nose here? I’ll smack you, too,” Golly threatened.
“Chatty, isn’t she?” Tedi thought the long-haired calico an exceptionally beautiful cat. “Do you know I have had the most curious experience. These last three days I’ve noticed a little screech owl, she’s no bigger than a minute, either in the barn or in the tree. She winks at me. I swear it. And I see her around. I feel as if this owl is following me. Sybil says, ‘Mom, you’re out there.’ ”
“She probably likes you. Just because an animal is undomesticated doesn’t mean it can’t take an interest in you.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Sure, look at Inky or Aunt Netty.” The two foxes were both well-known to hunt club members.
“I hope we don’t hop Aunt Netty until it cools down. She’ll run the legs right off of the hounds and us.”
“That she will. You know, Inky will sit at a distance when I’m in the hound graveyard or when I’m gardening up here around the house. She’ll sit and stare. She’s a dear little thing.”
“The black fox legend doesn’t scare you?” Tedi brought up the legend that the appearance of a black fox presages upheaval.
“No, not really. It’s not that uncommon a color variation. On the other end of it, look at that cub over at Wheeler’s Mill. So blond, he looks like a golden retriever and just as leggy. He’s going to be an odd-looking creation.”
“Let’s go out to dinner, my treat.” Tedi smiled. “In fact, let’s take Shaker. Come on, you can finish your draw list later.” She checked her watch. “You call Shaker. I’ll call Keswick Hall.”
“Oh, we’ll have to get all dressed up.”
“I mean the Sport Club. We can go in Bermuda shorts and sit at the little table by the bar. I don’t want to get dressed up, either.”
Within forty-five minutes all three of them were awaiting their appetizers. Sister sipped hot tea, Shaker drank iced tea, while Tedi indulged in a martini, the tiny corkscrew of lemon peel dancing around in the gin and vermouth. She said she wanted a twist instead of an olive because olives were for cool weather, lemons were for hot.
The three had also made a pact to not discuss Nola or Guy. One, it was too depressing. Two, they felt they were going around in circles about it. Three, Tedi especially needed to be distracted, which is exactly why she had left her daughter and husband at Farmington Country Club while she repaired to Keswick. Both country clubs also had hunt clubs bearing their names.
By the time the main courses arrived, all were in much more relaxed moods. Sister ordered sesame-crusted salmon; Tedi tried the pan-seared tuna, which she found delicious. Shaker stuck to chicken.
By the time they’d ordered their desserts they were telling old hunting stories and laughing.
Nancy Holt, the club tennis pro, came in and was hailed over to the table. She hunted with Keswick Hunt Club during the season on her day off, Wednesday.
“And what are you doing at work?” Tedi asked the tall, attractive woman.
“Just finished a kids’ tournament. Hey, I didn’t know Crawford Howard paid an extra five thousand dollars so Doug would come over to Shenandoah.”
“What?” All three stopped, forks filled with rich dessert poised in midair.
“Yes. Doakie Sproul was in the tournament. His mother told me they were surprised but grateful.” Mrs. Georgianna Sproul, wife of the master of the Shenandoah Hunt, was Doakie’s mother.
“That son of a bitch.” Shaker put his fork down.
“Uh-oh. Did I say something wrong?” Nancy put her hand to her mouth.
“No, you did not. Sit here. Would you like dinner?” Tedi patted the seat.
“No, thank you, but I’ll take a drink.”
As the drink was ordered, Shaker’s face grew redder. “That asshole. That total shit.” He drank a sip of tea. “I’m sorry, ladies.”
“I guess you didn’t know.” Nancy had no great love for Crawford since he kept running into her during joint meets. He’d use her for a bumper when he couldn’t hold Czapaka.
“Who did?” Tedi wondered. “And how come Wyatt Sproul didn’t tell you?” Wyatt was Shenandoah’s master.
“Wy is a good man. He must have thought I already knew.” Sister was putting two and two together.
“Doug would have told you. Means he doesn’t know,” Shaker said, his color returning to its normal ruddy shade. “Sister, do I have your permission to strangle Crawford?”
“No, dear, he’s not worth going to jail over.”
“We have to get even.” Tedi, too, was disturbed at this underhanded ploy.
“Oh, Tedi, we will.” Sister returned to her impossibly rich chocolate ice cream.
All four people realized Crawford had secretly paid to bump up Doug’s salary. Not only would this make the huntsman’s job more attractive but it would help Sister Jane accept that Doug should be at Shenandoah Hunt, not a particularly well-heeled club. Much as she wanted him to carry the horn, she didn’t want him to starve doing it.
Sister realized Crawford wasn’t motivated by a desire to help Doug, but rather one to weaken Jefferson Hunt. Doug was an inspired first whipper-in, and one reason for the club’s success in the field. Crawford was betting on his substitute, like any rookie, making mistakes. If the season wasn’t as good as it might be, if other clubs boasted better seasons, a certain amount of unrest would bubble up in the club. The hardened hunters knew better, but the fair-weather hunters and newcomers to the sport could be easily discouraged by a lackluster season. Especially if other clubs were having a good one.
Then he’d move in, and fan the unrest. As he was fanning, he would make certain everyone would become aware of the many fine things he could do if he were master, but you can’t expect a man to spend his hard-earned cash in lavish amounts if he isn’t going to carry the title of joint-master.
Tedi leaned back. “He’ll stop at nothing.”
“That idiot will be joint-master over my dead body.” Shaker’s eyes blazed.
“Don’t say that—not under the circumstances,” Sister gently corrected him.
CHAPTER 23
Spotty scent kept the hounds picking on the morning of September 10. They’d find a thread of enticement in the woods at Foxglove Farm, tease it toward the hayfields, then lose it in the middle of the hay, bent low under a steady wind slicing down off the Blue Ridge Mountains.
Days like this tested hounds, huntsman, and staff. During formal hunting, if the field was running and jumping, they usually paid little mind to the hard work of hounds, the conditions of soil and wind. But most of the souls who roused themselves to be at the fixture at seven-thirty in the morning knew hunting and were respectful of hound work. Cubbing brought out the best.
The tails, down, on Sister’s old brown hunt cap flapped as she reined in one hundred yards from the huge chestnut in the middle of the hayfield. Two jumps beckoned enticingly in the fence line, but there was no telling if the hounds would head in that direction.
Walter took off work to hunt Thursday mornings, but as this was Tuesday, she found she missed him. Most wise employers in Virginia Horse Country will allow their employees one morning off, especially if the employee will work late another day. Beneficent as this sounds, it’s a little bit like the schoolteacher who wishes everyone well on the first day of deer season and suspends classes. They’re going to go, so you might as well make the best of it. City people frothed at the mouth over this when they moved to these parts to start a business. They often left declaring the eternal backwardness of Southerners.