The Glory Game (13 page)

After he had welcomed Mary, he turned to Luz. “This feels like old times. I still expect to see Jake coming along somewhere behind you. You know this is the season the two of you always used to come to the farm.”

“Yes.” She had loved her father, liked him, but never really respected him as a man. Still, she missed him. “We had some good times.”

“It's a sad reason that's brought you here this time. I'm not going to like seeing that grand old house shut up. It needs living in.”

“Maybe someday.” But Luz didn't expect it to come for a long while.

“We'd better be going to the baggage claim before somebody slips off with your luggage. I've got the station wagon parked right out front. It's a chilly one today, it is.” Stan Marshall was a talker—to people, horses, anything that listened. “I had the telephone reconnected in the house and a couple of ladies in to tidy the place. The pantry is all stocked. If there's anything else you need, just tell me.”

The Virginia countryside lay barren under bleak gray skies. Barren hardwood trees stood silently along the roadsides and in the brown fields, their exposed branches making a random pattern of dark lace against the low clouds. The white board fences looked out of place in the winter-drab landscape, and the horses grazing beyond them were shaggy-coated and dull. The sleek, shining steeds wouldn't emerge for another two months.

Yet the sights evoked warm memories for Luz, nostalgia for carefree times. She gazed at the foal-heavy mares in the pasture, penned separately from the frisky yearlings and the older horses in training. In the distance, she could see scattered burnished red splotches against the land, part of the farm's Hereford cattle herd. Mainly the beef were raised so that the handful of polo prospects Jake had always had in training could become used to working with animals. These horses spent roughly a year doing stock work before graduating to more advanced stages of training.

When the station wagon swung onto the lane, entering the property of Hopeworth Farm for the first time, Luz glanced ahead to the right, seeking and finding the cupolaed roofs of the stables and barns. A half-mile track, a jumper's course, work arenas, and the manager's quarters were located there. Off by itself to the left sat the main residence.

“There it is.” Mary pointed over Stan Marshall's shoulder at the Greek Revival mansion. The shutters were closed on all but a few first-floor windows, protection against summer's heat and winter's chill. The house looked as if it were sleeping.

Stan parked the station wagon in the graveled cul-de-sac in front of the antebellum home. “It's unlocked,” he said. “I'll bring your luggage in directly.”

Inside her childhood home, Luz paused and glanced about while Mary wandered into the foyer that ran the depth of the house. An Oriental rug, softly colored in rich cream and sea-foam green, covered most of the hardwood floor, stopping short of the curved freestanding staircase, which was wide enough so the hooped skirt of the Southern belle wouldn't touch either side. The fourteen-foot-high ceiling was outlined with frieze-work, and an ornate medallion anchored a crystal-and-bronze chandelier.

“It's different somehow, isn't it?” Mary's glance roamed the walls as if seeking what she sensed. “Maybe it's because no one is waiting.”

“Only the house itself.” It was completely furnished, lacking only vases filled with flowers to give it that finished touch—like an orphaned child dressed in its best clothes waiting for someone to love it.

Her sister crossed the foyer and paused in front of the long antique bureau. Its mirrored back reflected the Oriental urns and porcelain figurines on the polished wood top. “Would you look at all this?” Mary touched the fragile china model of a pair of goldfinches. “We have ourselves quite a project. Everything will have to be catalogued before we pack it away.”

“How many rooms are there?” Luz couldn't remember, but all were like this, ready to live in.

“Fifteen. Or is it sixteen? Either way, that's not counting the bathrooms.” Mary looked at her. “Or the attic.”

“Two weeks, eh?” Luz smiled wryly.

The front door opened and Stan Marshall trudged in, a suitcase under each arm and one in each hand. He looked as broad as he was tall. “Where shall I put these?” He paused in the foyer, puffing and trying not to show it.

“Shall we sleep in our old room, Luz?” A gleam appeared in Mary's eyes.

“Why not?”

“The top of the stairs, the last room on the right.” Mary directed him to the bedroom they had once shared.

“Last room.” He shifted the heavy baggage for a better hold and set out to climb the stairs.

“Let's look around.” Luz didn't wait to see if Mary agreed as she crossed to the cypress doors leading into the formal dining room.

Their tour of the house was a combination of reminiscences and discussions about where and how they would begin their task. When it was over, they were back at their starting point in the foyer. Stan Marshall came out of the study.

“All your luggage is upstairs, and I've got a fire burning in the study fireplace. Any time you decide you want to go riding, Luz, just call the stables and I'll have Sequoia saddled and ready for you. And I've got some other nice hunters for you, Mary. You're welcome to take your pick,” he said. “Mrs. Osgood and her daughter will be here in the morning to help you. When you need some men for the heavy lifting and crating, the stablehands are at your disposal.”

“You've covered just about everything, Stan,” Luz declared.

“I hope so. Welcome home, ladies.” He tipped his hat to them and left by the front door.

Late in the evening, Luz sat in front of the fireplace, sipping a superb aged brandy from Jake Kincaid's private stock. A cranberry wool sweater and charcoal slacks replaced the traveling suit she'd worn earlier, and she was curled comfortably in the oversized leather armchair, her feet tucked under her. Mary was on the floor, leaning against an ottoman and gazing into the yellow flames, her dress changed as well to slacks and sweater.

“This is my favorite room.” Luz let her gaze wander over the cypress-paneled study, its walls adorned with paintings by Brown, Snaffles, and Golinkin that captured the color, action, and excitement of polo in a single moment in time. Silver trophies were interspersed with the leather-bound books on the shelves, and gold-framed photographs of people and horses—polo ponies, racers, hunters—were displayed in front of the books.

“Not mine,” Mary said. “I like the music room best.”

Luz absently shook her head. “Every time I think of that room, I remember the look on Audra's face when I asked her what ‘assignation' meant and why Daddy was keeping one … and who was Sylvia Shepler. I was eleven.”

Mary turned sideways, frowning curiously. “What did she say?”

“She said that Sylvia Shepler was a friend of my father's and he was meeting her. That was what ‘assignation' meant.”
Luz paused and swirled the brandy in her glass. “And she ordered me never to speak of it again.”

“He was a philanderer.”

“I wonder if we'll ever know why she put up with it.” She stared into the dancing flames.

“Who knows?” Mary settled back into her former slumped position.

“Let's leave this room till last,” Luz said.

“It doesn't matter to me.”

O
n Saturday, Trisha arrived to spend the weekend. The day was sharp and clear, the air brisk and the sun bright. After being cooped in the house all week sorting and packing, Luz welcomed her daughter's visit as an excuse to go riding. Together they tried to talk Mary into coming with them, but she was adamant in her refusal.

“My idea of a horseback ride is a gentle canter across the meadow. I know you, Luz. You plan on tearing across the countryside, jumping fences and leaping ditches. Thanks, but no thanks. I'll stay here and fix some of my special spaghetti sauce instead.”

“There goes my diet,” Trisha moaned, but with a telltale gleam in her dark eyes that more than approved of the choice.

Stan Marshall had two hunters saddled and waiting when they reached the stables. Luz climbed onto her favorite mount, a golden chestnut Thoroughbred called Sequoia, and waited for Trisha while she swung onto the saddle of her horse, a rangy pinto of a mixed breed, brown with white spots.

“You two look more like sisters than mother and daughter,” the stud-farm manager declared.

“That's a compliment, Luz.” Trisha's laughing breath vaporized when it hit the nippy air. “It means neither one of us looks her age. You appear younger and I older.”

Luz was aware that when you're seventeen, you can hardly wait to be twenty, but when you're twenty, you discover no magical change has occurred. You don't feel twenty or thirty or forty. Age has nothing to do with the way you feel, think, or act. Luz had yet to learn how being old was supposed to
feel, but she had a strong hunch that you never
feel
age. All you
ever feel
is yourself.

“Such flattery is likely to turn a girl's head, Stan,” Luz said, smiling absently. “Ready, Trish?” She glanced at her daughter to be sure she was settled in the saddle, the stirrup length properly adjusted.

“Whenever you are.” She nodded.

“Enjoy yourselves!” Stan backed away and lifted his hand.

“We'll try to make it back in one piece,” Luz promised with a wave as she reined her chestnut hunter toward the pasture beyond the stable barns and paddocks.

Fresh and eager, the two horses broke into a rocking canter with little urging from their riders. Luz breathed in the invigorating crispness of the air. Her heavy Irish sweater of hand-knitted wool kept her from feeling any of its chill. The colts in the paddocks raced close to the fence, gamboling and frisking as they rode by. An older group of horses in the adjoining paddock took little interest in their passing, barely lifting their heads to look.

Luz slowed her horse to a dancing walk to look over the bunch. “Stan mentioned there were two four-year-olds in that group that he felt were ready to go into training. A roan with a blaze face and a sorrel with four white stockings,” she explained to Trisha while she tried to locate the animals in the small herd. Their dull, heavy winter coats didn't make the task easy. “Rob could use some younger horses on his polo string. Of course, it will take a year or more to train them. Still, it might be worth the time and trouble.”

“Rob doesn't have the patience to work with a green horse. He wants everything now. That's his problem.” Trisha stated an observation more than a criticism.

“I can do the preliminary training and let Rob take over when the pony is ready for slow practice games.” She voiced the alternative that occurred to her.

“You have the patience for it, that's for sure.”

“I should.” A smile broke across her face. “I raised you two.”

“Ah, but can you keep up with us?” Trisha challenged and kicked her horse into a gallop.

With a touch of the heel, Luz gave chase on Sequoia. Both riders angled away from the pasture gate and took aim on the
low rail fence. Two lengths in front of the fence, Luz collected the chestnut, preparing it for the jump. As its hindquarters bunched to catapult it into the air, she leaned over its neck, rising slightly in the stirrups. Then they were airborne, arcing over the fence with a free-floating sensation. Luz shifted her weight back to aid the horse's balance as they came down on the other side a stride behind Trisha's pinto, but not for long.

Neck and neck, they raced across the pasture, scattering surprised cows. The whip of the wind in her hair and the thunder of galloping hooves in her ears, Luz exulted in the wild and free sensations. When they neared the wooded end of the pasture, Trisha let her take the lead. Upon entering the trees, the horses slowed to a fast canter to follow the trail wending through the woods. Well familiar with the hunt course, Luz dodged the bare branches of low-hanging limbs and jumped the Thoroughbred over the fallen logs across the trail.

A low stone wall cut across the clearing in front of them. Beyond it lay open fields, winter-brown and gently rolling. The chestnut hunter cleared the wall easily and set out on the cross-country run at a steady gallop. The pinto came up to range alongside, Trisha's face showing the same eagerness Luz felt. All that was missing was the bay of the hounds following the false fox scent laid down for them, and the summoning call of the huntsman's horn to signal the chase was on.

On top of a grassy knoll, Luz slowed her mount to a walk and let it blow, and Trisha followed suit. This spot was roughly the halfway point on the hunt course, and a favorite of hers. The exhilaration of the run left her puffing slightly, her blood heated and racing fast. She stroked the chestnut's arched neck while she gazed at the rolling Virginia countryside, dotted with the dark skeletons of winter-bare trees and patched with plowed fields.

“This is a beautiful view in the autumn,” she told Trisha. “All the fields are golden and the trees are brilliant reds and oranges. It looks all afire.”

“I'll bet it does, but right now it only looks like so much kindling,” Trisha remarked wryly. “We were never here much in the fall. Rob and I were always in school when you came.”

“I wish I'd brought you both with me to experience the thrill and the tradition of the hunt. It always seemed there was plenty of time.” She sighed ruefully. “The annual blessing of the
hounds was always done at Hopeworth. Then after a bracing toddy to warm the blood we'd all start out in search of the fox. It's quite a sight with everyone gathered on the front lawn, dressed in proper attire—white ascots, black hunt jacket and hat, and white breeches—except, of course, for the huntmaster and the master of the hounds, who wear scarlet jackets. And off we'd go on a harum-scarum ride through cornfields and over fences and ditches … after the fox.”