Excerpt
Fox and Furious
Chapter 1October 13, 2024SundayThe cerulean blue sky, lavish, emphasized how beautiful was this fall day. A blur of red and a splash of orange interspersed with radiant yellow announced the true beginning of fall, late this year.
Leaves crunched underfoot as Jane Arnold, “Sister,” walked briskly to keep up behind Marianne Casey, the Master of the Nantucket-Treweryn Beagles. The joint meet, blessed with long and fast runs, had worn out everyone but the beagles. Walking back was one of the few times Sister hoped hounds did not hit again. Accustomed to four legs, thanks to foxhunting, she felt the pace. The hunting had been so exciting she could have followed on horseback and not have been bored. Then again one was rarely bored with NTB.
The foot followers, a healthy forty-five in number this Sunday, showed signs of running hard. The group encompassed many ages, most being middle aged. The number was also fairly divided between men and women, women having a slight edge. There wasn’t a woman out there who didn’t want to hunt with men, for the simple reason that if you were stuck in a jam it was usually a man who pulled you up and out. It was amazing what could go wrong out there. The irritating thing about any quarry is they proved so much smarter than the humans.
For beagles, the quarry was rabbits. Anyone who ever said “dumb bunny” hadn’t hunted them.
Sister made walking and running appear effortless thanks to her long legs, as she had been six-two since her youth. Now in her mid-seventies, she had shrunk maybe an inch. It didn’t stop her, but she had to admit Marianne Casey could outdo any of them.
A good field master, Marianne kept a sharp eye on the hounds as well as the people. She had people in the field who could take care of those who were flagging. Today that was Susan Watkins. Good thing Susan was on duty. She was shepherding a number of red-faced followers, some surprisingly young. They had no idea that one needed to be fit to beagle or follow bassets, the other type of hound hunting rabbits. If you weren’t fit at the beginning of the season, you sure were at the end of it.
Russell Wagner hunted the NTB pack while Winston Bradford, MB, hunted the Bradford pack. The two packs combined nicely. One could never take that for granted, but since the style of hunting proved similar it turned out to be a fabulous joint meet.
Peter Cook, the third MB for NTB and a tall, imposing man, followed with the field. Having a master mixed with the commons, to speak, is always a good idea. With him walked Andrew Bradford, Winston’s brother and joint master.
On the right of the beagles Bill Getchell whipped-in. Knowing how tired most of the people were, Bill was particularly vigilant. If hounds found a line again, the masters would probably have to call up trucks and throw the people in to drive them back to the hunt breakfast, where all were heading.
As they crested a low ridge, the distinctive Georgian estate came into view. The late-afternoon sun intensified the contrast between the red brick and the white trim around the windows as it deepened to the color of the turning leaves.
Sister paused a moment to take it all in. Beautiful.
Andrew usually whipped-in but today he felt like being social. He sometimes hunted Bradford Beagles, not evidencing a hunter’s flair. When people knew Andrew was carrying the horn they stayed home.
His second wife, the curvaceous, much younger Solange, dutifully supported him.
Andrew’s first wife, still good-looking at forty-three, refused to shy away from hunting, at which she excelled. Georgia, ever polite to Solange and always admired by the followers, was even more admired now.
Solange also acted decently. The same could not be said for Andrew. If any man paid too much attention to his new wife he got in their face. He ignored his first wife unless it was to criticize some misdemeanor in the field. People began to like him less and less.
His mother, Olivia, forced “the boys” to keep the peace. She was bored with them, but as matriarch of the Bradfords, a lifetime of work had gone into Bradford Beagles. She had no intention of it failing now because of jealousy, sibling rivalry, who knows what. She had cooked, organized the breakfasts. Hunts at Bradford Hall drew a big crowd thanks to Olivia’s warmth, as well as her cooking.
Others paused, too. The view, harmonious, carried one’s thoughts to the people who had lived here, built it, passed it down. How many feet trod those green pastures, human, horse, hound? Some of the humans had been free, others not, but the beauty was there for anyone who had the proclivity to enjoy it.
Walking down the ridge with the hounds packing in, they turned left on an old farm road, winding their way to the Georgian estate, Bradford Hall.
Russ and Winston, along with the whippers-in, walked the hounds back to the wagons. As the field walked toward the house, the two masters secured the hounds in makeshift fencing, giving them water and plush beds for comfort. Once the breakfast was over each pack would be driven to their inviting kennels.
The food, so welcome, covered a long old walnut table. Betty, Sister’s best friend and the whipper-in for the foxhounds, was chatting with Susan Watkins, comparing the difference in how you hunt rabbits versus foxes. Everyone was talking, laughing, happy to sit with their plate wherever there was room. You don’t realize how glorious sitting is until you’ve run your butt off.
“Seeing as how you’ve inhaled your food, take a brownie,” Susan teased Betty, who had disposed of her plate with unusual speed.
Taking a brownie in her hand, Betty blinked. “Susan, this thing has shot in it, the heaviest brownie I have ever felt.”
“Olivia’s,” Susan mentioned, as Olivia had cooked most everything on the table, or supervised its creation. “Maybe she’s found a new use for .28 shotgun shells.”
They both laughed.
Betty scanned the room. “Good turnout. How often do you go out with NTB?”
“I try to make every meet. The season flies by so fast. Granted, on the days when the mercury hangs below freezing I question myself.”
“Me too. And I find as I get older I mind the cold more.”
Susan bit into a brownie. “What do you mind more, heat or cold?”
“Cold. Although summers have gotten so much hotter. It’s the humidity that gets me. At least when it’s cold I can throw on another sweater. There’s no help in the heat.”
“Climate change,” Susan simply stated. “Although, do we really know how much we contribute to it as individuals and corporations?” Susan was ever suspicious of easy explanations.
“You know, it doesn’t matter. We have to do something.” Betty then spotted Beryl. “Beryl looks sleek. She and Winston had their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, right? It’s been that long.”
“Actually, they celebrated their twenty-ninth this June. Still in love.” Susan grinned. “Me too. I got a goody.”
“We both did. My husband is home. We received a last-minute Thanksgiving order. A specially printed dinner invitation, so he’s home with the press.” Betty’s eyes shifted toward a beautiful woman. “I can understand how Andrew lost his composure. Had to have her.”
“Yes.” Susan murmured, voice low. “I’ll give Solange credit. She doesn’t rub people’s noses in it.”
Betty knew that Andrew divorced only to remarry in haste. The picture was quite clear.
“And who are those two wonderful-looking young people?”
“Andrew and Solange’s gardener and wife, Scott and Ann Howlett. They were all at college together. The girls were on the girls’ volleyball team. Scott was on the men’s. He fell for Ann. That’s about all I know.”
Betty replied, “Andrew has surrounded himself with younger people.”
“He has.” Susan added, “It surprised me when Andrew hired the Howletts to work for him. I thought he’d be jealous of their friendship. Turns out they keep Solange steady. Apparently she can be emotional and demanding.”
“No one wants hunting spoiled with human drama. Olivia has never said a bad word about Andrew’s midlife crisis. Then again she hasn’t said a good word either.”
Betty laughed, which made Susan laugh.
From across the way, Sister, corn bread in hand, noticed her friends’ laughter. She leaned toward Olivia, as they were sitting together, old friends. “People are having a grand old time. Great hunt and then you spoil us with this repast. All these years I have enjoyed your hospitality. You never do anything halfway.”
“Thank you. Neither do you. But we were trained how to entertain by our mothers. Does that happen anymore? Not only did our mothers train us, they tolerated no complaining.”
“Indeed.” Sister remembered her mother, strict but fair.
