Let Sleeping Dogs Lie (5 page)

“Before and after. The Laprades had and still have a great eye for a horse. The Chetwynds were smart enough to use it.”

“As long as they stand Guns and Roses and Loopy Lou, people will haul mares to Virginia. They’ve also got St. Boniface, young, his first year crop looks good.”

“O.J., you remember your horses.”

“So do you. So much of what’s good in Virginia goes back to Mr. Mellon’s stud, the Chenerys, of course. But tell me about the Laprades.” O.J. leaned in closer.

“Related to Gray. Gray’s mother, Graziella Lorillard, and Daniella Laprade were sisters. I add, they weren’t close but they more or less got along. The Laprades made a lot of money with the Chetwynds. Not so much in salary but in betting at the track, or so I’m told. Mercer”—she indicated a well-dressed man in his fifties—“still advises Phil Chetwynd as well as others. Gray says he makes money at the track as well.”

“Well, he doesn’t look poor,” said O.J. “Anyone riding in a Hermès saddle isn’t poor.”

“Drives Gray nuts.” Sister shook her head. “Gray does not believe in flash.”

“You might remind Gray that a Hermès saddle will last at least three generations and if it fits you and your horse, it’s worth the price.” O.J. grinned. “The Chetwynd money isn’t all from horses, right? I thought their fortune started with coal in West Virginia.”

“Did. They still own the mines. Phil”—she nodded at the Chetwynd standing nearby next to Gray, towering over him actually—“doesn’t run the mines. His brother does. Phil is in charge of the breeding and racing operation, Broad Creek Stables. Phil works closely with Mercer. There’s always been the thought that they are related back through Phil’s grandfather and Mercer’s grandmother. No one says this outright but Gray told me and he wondered if it ended there. He’s good about so-called sexual sins but prior generations lied through their teeth. Phil comes to Kentucky regularly for the big races but he does most of his business in the mid-Atlantic.”

“Dear Lord, Sister, the way things are going, racing might shift to the mid-Atlantic.”

“Kentucky will always be first in Thoroughbreds,” Sister predicted.

“Sister, each year over five hundred million dollars shoots out of this state into Indiana casinos. And we can’t get slots in the racetracks. It’s crazy.”

“It’s kind of like killing the goose that laid the golden egg.” Sister had no idea how immense was the financial drain Kentucky was experiencing.

Both their heads turned when they noticed their host Alan Leavitt opening the front door to the two men, Fred and Arnie, who had been at the graveyard. After a quick conversation, Alan hastily threw on his overcoat and left with them, shutting the door behind him.

He returned within fifteen minutes, said something to Meg.

Meg’s expression changed from calm to disbelief. “Alan, that can’t be,” Sister heard her say.

“Well, come see.”

As others overheard this exchange, curiosity rose.

Alan looked over his shoulder as he stepped outside the door. “Come on. Might as well see this, but put on a coat. Sun has set and it’s getting cold again.”

Sister, Gray, O.J., Betty, Phil Chetwynd, Mercer Laprade, who was in the front hall, Tootie, Kasmir, and a group of the Woodford members dutifully put on their overcoats and went outside to trod upon the sodden ground squishing beneath their feet.

For the ladies in heels, this was not a good idea.

At the Walnut Farms burial grave site, Fred and Arnie pointed down. Fred held a strong flashlight while Arnie knelt down, slinging away mud.

“Who was Benny Glitters?” Tootie asked, then quickly shut up.

“What’s that?” Meg exclaimed, for a smashed gold pocket watch and chain caught the gleam from Fred’s flashlight.

Arnie scraped around a bit more and a dog skull appeared, possibly that of a small terrier, then a thumb and human forefinger also appeared not far from the watch. The forefinger was bent toward the unseen palm.

Sister inhaled sharply, then whispered. “Death beckons.”

Tuesday, February 4, some clouds and some sun hinted that the weather might turn in the foxhunter’s favor. Sister Jane knew better than to be too hopeful. She’d lived through whopping snowstorms as late as mid-April in central Virginia. As a rule of thumb, though, the last frost was around April 15 and she fervently hoped this year would run true to form. However, it was now February, a notoriously difficult month.

Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays were The Jefferson Hunt days. Back from Kentucky, Sister, her hounds, her huntsmen, and two whippers-in prepared for what they hoped would be a good day. As so many people worked, Tuesdays and Thursdays drew smaller numbers. When the season passed New Year’s Day, the diehards slipped away from work as they knew the last half of hunt season always flew by faster than the first half.

As Field Master, the seventy-three-year-old Sister led the riders in First Flight, those who took the jumps. Bobby Franklin, Betty’s husband, a man of prudent judgment, led Second Flight. Mostly they didn’t jump, although they might pop over a log.

The pasture—dull brown, patches of old snow here and there—lay below them. Within two months it would shine bright green.

Another reason people came out on this particular Tuesday was that they were hunting a new fixture, Oakside. It takes a season to learn a fixture, sometimes more, both for hounds and staff.

Led by Cora, an older, wiser hound, the pack fanned out over the lower pasture. They’d lost the line, easy to do in even the best of conditions, for the fox is every bit as smart as the old myths and stories tell us.

Noses down, concentration intense, the Jefferson pack made Sister proud. Shaker Crown, her huntsman of many years, knew when to urge them on and when to sit tight and shut up. This was a sit-tight-and-shut-up situation.

Pookah, young, a trifle silly, was momentarily distracted by the pungent odor of a bobcat.
“Hey, this smells kind of interesting.”

Diana, an outstanding hound in her prime, walked over, checked it out.
“Pook, that’s a bobcat. You know that’s a bobcat. Why waste your time?”

“Well, if we can’t pick up the fox again this could be fun. I want to have fun.”

“Shut up. Forget it and go to work.”
Cora growled convincingly.

Pookah immediately did as she was told. You didn’t cross Cora.

Most members of the field want to gallop along. The more they gallop, the better they think the hunting. Granted, moving along at pace is always a thrill, but for Sister, staff, and those foxhunters who loved hounds, they marveled at the work below. This pack performed beautifully.

Dreamboat was one of the D line, for foxhounds take the first initial of their name from their mother’s name. He stopped, sniffed, sniffed more, his tail started to flip like a windshield wiper. Now Dreamboat was not a particularly brilliant hound. He was the good
foot-soldier type. He had always been overshadowed by his littermates, Diana, Dragon, and Dasher. He did his job, was always in the middle of the pack but today was his day.

“Here he is!”
he sang out in his resonant voice.

As Dreamboat was a reliable fellow none of the lead hounds bothered to check the line. Within seconds, Dreamboat up front, the pack spoke in unison.

Shaker, on Hojo, the perfect huntsman’s horse, bold, fast, and handy, fell in behind the pack. Way out on the right of the pack rode Betty Franklin, whipping in. On the left, just now dipping down into a swale, rode Sybil Fawkes, also whipping in.

Sister waited for a moment before trotting down the hill, riding behind Shaker by about thirty yards. Just behind her rode Maria and Nate Johnson, owners of Oakside. Out of the corners of their eyes they caught sight of their daughter, Sonia, behind Sybil by about a football field in length, riding tail. Sister wanted to train young people for staff positions and as Sonia was in her early twenties and could ride, this was working out.

The Johnsons rode up to direct Sister, who did not yet know the territory that well. Good thing, too, because the fox crossed a shallow creek, headed into a woods, and burst out again. Of course he didn’t run in a straight line, so everyone looped in the woods a bit. When they emerged, an old fence line dividing the Johnsons’ property from their neighbors’ appeared and so did the fox. The crafty fellow paused for one moment, looked back at the approaching hounds, then scooted under the fence and put on the afterburners to create havoc.

Knowing that the neighboring farm wasn’t available for hunting, Shaker had to halt his pack. Taking hounds off a hotline is miserable work because, in a sense, you are punishing them for doing their job. Hounds have little sense of human boundaries and if they did, they wouldn’t care.

To make matters worse, the entire field could view this beautiful red while watching the whippers-in jump the three-board fence to bring back the hounds.

Shaker pulled up to blow them in. Had he gone on, the hounds would have taken that as a signal they could continue. If the huntsman was right behind them, they were right. Like any huntsman, Shaker, frustrated, blew his horn three long notes in succession, and prayed his whippers-in could do their job. Not an easy one.

Betty rode right up on the pack’s shoulder, looking down at Thimble and Twist. “Leave it.”

“It’s red-hot!”
Thimble protested.

On a blindingly fast Thoroughbred, Sybil called out the same order on the left side where Giorgio, a hound of stunning beauty, obeyed.

Sonia, without being told, rode past Sybil, got in front of the pack, slightly turned toward them and cracked her whip. That sounded like rifle fire and scared the hounds. They slowed down.

Then Betty and Sybil, who had worked with the pack for decades, knew everyone and vice versa, called again.
“Leave it!”

Diana stopped so the others did, too, as Diana and Cora had the respect of all the hounds. Hounds, like humans, are pack animals. Some have natural authority and often they build on this, earning trust by their work.

“Not fair! Not fair!”
Trident howled.

“How could they do this to us?”
Dasher cried.

“Good hounds. Good hounds.” Betty praised them, which offered some salve.

“Come on. Come along,” Sybil pleasantly ordered, turning her horse back toward the fence.

“Why do they do this? Why?”
Trident, who had been right behind Dreamboat, spoke in misery.

“Humans are perverse,”
Trooper replied.

“True, but you have to admit, they rarely break us off a line,”
Cora counseled.

Back at the fence, the hounds wiggled back under it while Betty, not under pressure, looked for a place with a top board off to jump. Yes, she could and just did jump a three-board fence, but it wasn’t her preference. She rode Outlaw, her tough Quarter Horse, who had that odd little engine push when he jumped.

Thoroughbreds’ jumps were usually smooth, often seemingly effortless; they spoiled their riders. Quarter Horses could jump without a doubt, but they always felt—to Betty, at least—as if there was a little extra wiggle there in the rear.

Sybil didn’t think anything about the fence being three boards. She leapt back over, as did Sonia.

The hounds gathered around Shaker, who lavishly praised them.

The medium-built, muscular huntsman leaned over, citing Dreamboat directly for all to hear; hounds, horses, and humans.

“Dreamboat, you were a star.”

“Me?”
The good fellow gazed up, then realized
“Me!”

Dreamboat stood on his hind legs as Shaker leaned over, reaching down, and took the offered paw.

The happy hound rejoined the pack. Shaker paused for a moment, looking to his master.

Sister asked Maria, “If we follow the creek south then turn back toward your farm, think we’ll be okay?”

“Sure.”

“If we find another fox that runs out of the fixture, we’ll just deal with it,” the elegant Master said.

A narrow path followed the creek. Resuming the search, hounds headed south, a few floated into the woods.

As Sister rode along, she memorized suitable crossings on the
new fixture’s creek. As the waters were clear she could see the bottom, a big help. Nothing like getting into water only to sink in nasty silt.

Fifteen minutes passed, then twenty. Betty, on the other side of the water, picked her way through, as there wasn’t a path on that side. The problem was always those tendrils hanging from trees, Virginia creepers, and little bushes with loathsome thorns. It was a good horse that willingly plunged into the stuff, which Outlaw did. Not that he didn’t complain about it.

Twenty minutes. Twenty-five. The temperature, midforties, felt warm, especially if one had put on extra layers, since it was below freezing at ten o’clock when hounds were first cast.

Thirty minutes.

“Hey, gray,”
Dreamboat called out, having picked up a scent.
“Fading,”
he cautioned.

He moved along a bit faster, hooked into the woods on the path side, then opened in earnest, his resonant hound baritone sounding beautiful.

Another run, maybe ten minutes followed, but it seemed longer as there were many obstacles to dodge. Finally the scent pooped out.

By now it was twelve-thirty. Two and a half hours seemed sufficient, given conditions and the newness of the fixture. Sister didn’t want to risk heading into forbidden territory should they get another line.

So many times a decision a Master must make isn’t good for hunting but necessary for landowner relations. She hoped, in time, the neighbor would learn that the club did no harm and was happy to do some good if you needed a gate fixed or perhaps useful information. She would call upon the neighboring farm after this first season down here and hope for the best.

Oakside’s neighbors, new people, were not country people. Like most new people, especially those moving from cities or suburbs,
their property lines seemed inviolate to them. This is deeply unrealistic but it was best folks learn this lesson in a gentle manner. That didn’t necessarily mean Sister would someday be able to hunt that land but it did mean that hounds can’t read. You can post all the
NO TRESPASSING
signs you want, won’t do a bit of good to four-legged hounds with a snoutful of scent.