Reaching her trailer, Betty and Tootie’s horses already inside, Sister steeled herself. Once her feet hit the ground they would sting like the devil. Swinging her right leg over, she slowly slid down Keepsake’s left side. Good boy that he was he didn’t mind this slow dismount. Accustomed to Sister’s ways he knew he’d soon be toasty in his heavy blanket, eating hay with his buddies.
“Dammit to hell,” Sister cursed under her breath.
Father Mancusco, at the next trailer, remarked, “I heard that.”
“Father, I apologize. But I will not do the stations of the cross.”
“Of course you won’t. You’re an Episcopalian. These things happen.” He teased her good-naturedly. “By the way, I do hope you realize that we were running Catholic fox. Popped right in at Bishop’s Court.”
“I did.” She adored the middle-aged priest, glad he was a hunting man, for he had been transferred to the area within the last six months.
Fewer and fewer men dedicated themselves to the priesthood, so Father Mancusco’s taking over of the church in Charlottesville was good for all. Sally Taliaferro, also a new member, had been assigned as the priest at St. Emmanuel’s Episcopal church in Greenwood, and the two hunting divines, which was how Sister thought of them, struck up a friendship. Both faced many of the same problems.
“Need a hand?” Weevil offered, his lips about blue.
“Almost done. Honey, go inside and warm up.”
“Forget her, Weevil. She’s a tough old bird,” Betty called as she opened the trailer door.
“Watch your mouth.” Sister led Keepsake into the trailer while Betty held the door.
“Hell of a run.” The mid-fiftyish Betty beamed.
“Was. It’s been an on-again, off-again season for everyone but those hunting coyote.”
“Right.” Betty closed the door as Sister emerged. “Come on, I can’t feel my feet.”
“I can’t either.”
The two hurried into the Tattenhall Station, each step a little stab of pain. Once inside it felt like heaven. Two fireplaces, the original heating system, blazed at either end of the large room, the original waiting room, while an enormous wood-burning stove commanded the center of the room. A fence had been placed around it, as sometimes hunters imbibed too much and might lurch into it. No danger of that with the cavernous fireplaces, simple brick with deep white mantles.
Kasmir and his lady friend, Alida Dalzell, had staff to prepare hot food, hot drinks, put out a full bar. He happily shared his wealth. Kasmir and Alida chattered with animation, as did everyone, concerning the hunt.
Carter Nicewonder, a private jeweler, a Jefferson Hunt member for a year, visited everyone, eagerly describing the estate “new” jewelry he purchased recently. He pulled out of his pocket an antique pin, Artemis’s visage thereon. Freddie Thomas, an accountant who often worked with Ronnie Haslip, club treasurer, passed on it but she would think about it.
Kasmir walked over to Carter. “How was your trip?”
“Cold, rainy, wonderful. England will always be England.”
“That it will. Any luck?”
“Yes. I bought a few good things. I always enjoy finding old jewelry wherever I go, but as England and America are so close in taste, or once we were, the pieces are lovely. The Saudis buy quite a bit, as many have been educated in England. I don’t have as many contacts there but yes, it was good.”
“Glad to hear it.” Kasmir clapped him on the back. Then he left to circulate.
“Notice how cold it was, piercing cold, by that huge rock outcropping?” Alida mentioned to Margaret DuCharme, M.D., who had hunted today.
“Cut you to the bone but wasn’t the blue ice gorgeous? Like Ginger Rogers’s dress in ‘Cheek to Cheek.’ ”
“Margaret, that movie was in black and white.” Alida, another movie buff, laughed.
“The pictures were of an ice blue dress. What an athlete she was, and she loved horses.”
As they chattered on, warming up with hot toddies, Aunt Daniella, ninety-four, although that was fudging, sat in the large wing chair in front of the eastern fireplace. “I was in the car and I got tired. You all must be exhausted and famished.”
“Yes, but I am happy to bring you a drink.” Weevil doted on the elderly lady, one of the great beauties of her day.
“A double bourbon would be most restorative.” She beamed at him and off he went to fetch her the drink.
Kathleen Sixt Dunbar sat next to Aunt Daniella, as the irrepressible African American lady, who could pass for white if she wanted to and she did not, knew everyone and would introduce her to people.
A clap of thunder cut the talk.
Sister walked with Weevil to Aunt Daniella. “It’s been years since we had a thundersnow but that sounds ominous. Better get hounds home.”
“Yes, Master.” He handed Aunt Daniella her drink.
Aunt Dan, in a deep purple cashmere turtleneck, thanked him then said to Sister, “What next?”
“Aunt Dan,” Sister said with a smile, “never say that.”
CHAPTER 2
February 6, 2020 Thursday 7:00 pm
February is rarely anyone’s favorite month. Social events, special fundraisers, are not scheduled, as they are starting in April. The variability of the weather, cold adding to that discomfort, discouraged people from leaving home.
They were bored. If the weather wasn’t horrid many would throw on winter clothes to get out.
Kathleen Sixt Dunbar, factoring in the February doldrums, thought a grand reopening for the 1780 might prove successful. Her husband’s death meant she inherited the store built in 1780, hence the name.
He had lived in Charlottesville, she had lived in Oklahoma City. They never divorced, remaining friends. His untimely passing brought her to Virginia.
Enough time had passed that she felt she could have a gala opening. One needed to respect manners in these things.
Wisely paying professionals to improve the lighting, to keep an open bar, and to have hors d’oeuvres served, she could follow the hunt without fretting.
Kathleen was determined to enjoy her own party. Another wise decision.
Manfredo Sabatini, his wife at his elbow, stared at a Lionel Edwards on the wall. Edwards worked in the early twentieth century, having been born November 9, 1878, in Bristol, England. Kathleen knew when it came to any equine art, the purchase was usually emotional.
Carter Nicewonder, smartly turned out in a tweed light brown jacket with a light lavender windowpane overlay also admired the painting. His lavender tie completed the outfit; he had an eye for color.
Speaking to the Sabatinis, whom he knew from various fundraisers, Carter remarked, “He was very good. Lived to be eighty-seven. And, as you may know, he remains affordable.”
“I know so little about art.” Elise Sabatini smiled. “Fortunes today are made with paintings that look like someone did it with their feet.”
Carter smiled. “Give it time. Someone will do so and the art dealers, hoping to clean up, will declare this a comment on a peripatetic, rootless society.”
“At least I can see the workmanship in Lyne’s work.” Elise nodded at his comments. “I have a lot to learn.”
“You are too modest. Any woman who selects understated, stunning ruby and diamond earrings has a sense of proportion and color. I always think of color as paprika thrown on the roast.”