“Good thinking.” He reached up to grasp Czpaka’s mane with his left hand, resting his right on the pommel of his Hermès saddle with knee roll. He bent his left leg as Val cupped her hands under it, lifting him as he pushed off with his right leg.
The tall blonde was grateful he pushed off. Some people, like sacks of potatoes, just stand there and you have to lift all of them up. Hernia time.
Tootie held the right stirrup iron to steady the saddle, releasing her hand and the reins once Crawford was secure.
Both young women gracefully mounted up, except that water spilled from Tootie’s right boot when she swung her leg high and over.
Hounds, screaming, were moving on at speed.
“Let’s put the pedal to the metal.” He clapped his leg on Czpaka, who shot off like a cannonball.
Moneybags, Iota, and Parson gleefully followed.
Within a few minutes they came up behind the field of twenty-five. As it was a Thursday hunt, the number of riders was smaller than on a Saturday. The mists kept lifting like a slippery veil.
Marty, Crawford’s wife, turned to see her wet husband as they galloped along. She said nothing because hounds were speaking, but then, even if at a check, she would have remained silent.
In some ways, the checks separated the sheep from the goats for foxhunters. It was a far better test of one’s foxhunting etiquette than taking a whopping big fence in style. Though one had to admit, the latter is far more exciting.
They thundered on. Water spritzed off Crawford’s coat, his cap, and Czpaka’s sleek coat.
They checked hard. Hounds bolted up toward a thick overgrown hillock. By now the riders could see, as the mists hung above their heads.
Sister waited for a moment. She didn’t want to crowd hounds or her huntsman, Shaker Crown. As field master she kept the riders together, tried to keep hounds in sight yet stay out of the way.
Shaker hopped off Showboat as Dr. Walter Lungrun, the joint master, trotted up to hold the horse’s reins.
Down low in the hayfield they’d just ridden across stood Betty Franklin, longtime honorary whipper-in. An old apple orchard was on the left by the deeply sunken farm road leading up to Hangman’s Ridge.
Although she couldn’t be seen, Sybil Bancroft, waiting in there, caught her breath after the hard run.
She, too, was an honorary whipper-in, which meant she wasn’t paid for the tremendous time and effort she put into Jefferson Hunt.
Both paid and unpaid staff routinely perform heroic duties. Even if paid for it, no one enters hunt service without a grand passion for the game. You can’t handle it otherwise. It’s much too tough for modern people accustomed to the cocoon of physical comfort.
Comet had a den on the other side of Soldier Road, a two-lane paved ribbon, east-west, two and a half miles from this spot as the crow flies. As it was, St. Just, the king of the crows, was circling. He hated foxes and wanted to make sure he knew where Comet was.
Shaker took a few steps upward but couldn’t get through the pricker bushes and old still-blooming pink tea roses. The remains of a stone foundation could be glimpsed through the overgrowth.
Comet dashed into an old den there that had been vacant for four years. The original tenant, a large red dog fox, had been shot and killed.
No foxhunter can abide anyone who kills a fox in such a manner.
Few American foxhunters want to kill a fox. Even if they were vulpicides, they wouldn’t murder too many. The land, the crops planted, and the ethos of American foxhunting mitigated against the kill.
Once in the old den, Comet immediately saw room for improvement and decided he’d abandon his den at Foxglove farm for this one. He’d be hunting in his sister’s territory, but he was sure he and Inky could accommodate each other.
Like all fox dens, this one was cleverly placed, drainage good, fresh water close by. The original tenants had created many entrances and exits, strategically placed.
“Dig him out!” Trident’s paws flew in the soft earth.
Hearing the frenzy, Comet laughed. “You can dig all the way to China, you nitwit. You’ll never get me.”
“Did you hear that?” Little Diddy couldn’t believe her ears.
“Blowhard.” Dragon dug harder than Trident.
“Not as bad as Target. That’s the most conceited fox that’s ever lived.” Diana mentioned a red dog fox who lived over at the Bancrofts.
“Good hounds, good hounds.” Shaker blew “gone to ground,” praised his hounds a bit more, then took the reins from Walter, lightly lifted himself into the saddle, and blew hounds away from the den. “Boss?” He looked to Sister Jane even though Walter had been joint-master for a year now.
Walter took no offense because Sister was in charge of breeding the hounds, training them with Shaker. His responsibility revolved around taking territory duties off her shoulders. They both handled landowners, usually a pleasure.
Walter, however, studied bloodlines, preparing for that distant day when the weight of this would fall on him. He prayed the day would be very distant because she knew so much, and also because Jane Arnold was beloved by most, hated by few.
Walter believed you can judge a person by her enemies as well as her friends.
“Let’s go in, Shaker. No point in getting the hounds footsore, and we’ve been going hard for most of two hours.”
“All right then.” He blew a note evenly then lifted it with a lilt so his hounds knew they were walking in, as did his two whippers-in sweating although it was forty-nine degrees out.
The horses blew out of their large nostrils. Everyone was glad to be turning back toward the trailers and toward an impromptu tailgate.
Bunny, riding with Mrs. Norton, her boss and dear friend, pulled off to the side then fell in with Crawford, Marty, and the three girls, whom she called “The Three Amuses.”
“Where were you?” She stared accusingly at Tootie, wet from the knees down. Her eyes passed to a very silent Valentina and Felicity.
Crawford quickly answered. “I fell behind and the girls stayed with me and then I had the bad luck to slip in Broad Creek. If it weren’t for Tootie, Czpaka would have run off. You’ve trained your girls well, Bunny, I’m certainly grateful.”
She beamed at the praise. Bunny’s ego rested close to the surface. “I’m so glad they could be of service to you, Crawford.”
“Yes, thank you, girls.” Marty smiled broadly at the three kids, each pretty in her own way, although Tootie’s green eyes just jumped out at one.
As Bunny turned to ride up to Charlotte Norton, Crawford winked.
“Mr. Howard, she would have torn us a new one,” Valentina sighed. “Thank you.”
“Yes, I owe you one, sir. It’s our fault Czpaka spooked.” Tootie truly was contrite.
“This is foxhunting,” he said and winked. “All for one and one for all.”
Each Custis Hall student made note that she’d heard that earlier. They would find out soon enough how critical and testing that philosophy was: simple, true, and to the bone.
Praise for Rita Mae Brown
OUTFOXED
“Compelling . . . engaging . . . [a] sly whodunit . . . a surprise finish . . . [Brown] succeeds in conjuring a world in which prey are meant to survive the chase and foxes are knowing collaborators (with hunters and hounds) in the rarefied rituals that define the sport.” —People
“A rich, atmospheric murder mystery steeped in the world of Virginia foxhunting . . . rife with love, scandal, anger, transgression, redemption, greed and nobility, all of which make good reading.” —San Jose Mercury News
“A snappy mystery . . . [Brown] does a masterly job of putting you in the saddle.” —Baltimore Sun
“Original, funny, poignant, irresistible: Brown’s best work in years. . . . Not since Anthony Trollope has foxhunting been so vividly novelized.” —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)