“But it’s over the joint-mastership!” Crawford exploded.
“No.” Her voice was firm. “The joint-mastership allows you two to compete openly. You’re like oil and water. And kindly remember, I do not have to appoint a joint-master.”
“You can’t appoint one. You have to ask the board’s approval.” With that statement Crawford betrayed the fact that he would use the bylaws of the club not only to dislodge Fontaine but to try and force himself on Sister if he gained enough board support. If he could remove Sister he would, but he knew that was impossible. Crawford hadn’t a clue as to what Sister did as master other than she was responsible for hiring and firing staff and maintaining territory. He wanted a position of power and respect in this community. It took him a while but he learned that money wasn’t enough in Virginia. It helped but it wasn’t enough. He wanted to lord it over people. What better position than joint-master? And when Sister went to her reward he had enough money to bribe everyone. He’d be sole master.
Crawford had half learned his lesson about money. The other half would come back to haunt him, namely that even poor people can’t always be bribed. Many Virginians still believed in honor, quaint as that concept might be in the twenty-first century.
“You are exactly right. But I don’t have to recommend anyone.”
“The board can suggest you take a joint-master.”
“They can but they won’t,” she replied with the confidence of a person who knows how things get done.
“You’ve got to end this impasse. What if you died during opening hunt?”
“I’d die happy.”
“But the club would be thrown into chaos. You need an understudy—an understudy with a fat checkbook. I can supply this club with a great many things, including building a separate kennel for the half-grown hounds. I know you don’t like to turn them out with the big boys and the puppy kennel gets overcrowded.”
Her patience wearing thin, Sister stood up, putting her hands in the small of her back. “Crawford. If you are that rich, if you love hunting as much as you say you do, if you love Jefferson Hunt as much as you say you do, you know what—you’d spend the money for the love of the sport. We’d name the goddamn kennel after you.”
As Sister rarely swore to someone not close to her, Doug’s eyes widened, his shoulders stiffened. He knew that Crawford didn’t know she was really, truly pissed off.
He snarled. “Only a fool spends money without getting something out of it.”
“Which proves my point. You don’t love foxhunting as much as you love being important. You want joint-M.F.H. behind your name. It’s a bargain for you, Crawford. To be a master, to be a huntsman, to be a whipper-in, you have to love it. You have to eat, sleep, and breathe hunting, knowing all the while that most people don’t understand what you’re doing or why you’re doing it. People outside of Virginia, I mean.”
“Maryland,” Doug laconically added.
“Well, yes. And parts of Pennsylvania.” Sister was loath to credit anyone north of the Mason-Dixon line.
“Red Rock, Nevada.” Doug, his green eyes alight, smiled.
“Doug, I know that. Anyway, Crawford, Americans live in cities now. The old ways are lost to them. They think we ride about shooting fox with guns. They think we’re all rich snobs. They haven’t a clue. So you have to love it because you aren’t going to get respect outside of Virginia.” She glanced at Doug. “And a few other important spots.”
“I know that. I don’t need a lecture on the reality of foxhunting.”
Doug stood up. “You need one on manners, Mr. Howard. It won’t do to worrit Sister.” He used the old form of “worry.”
Crawford cut him off. “If you want to mix with white people, then you ought to learn how to use the King’s English. Don’t say birfday. Birthday. Ask not ax. You people can’t learn to talk.”
“Crawford. That’s quite enough.” Sister, enraged, choked out the words.
Doug, who cared little what a wimp thought of him, growled like one of the hounds. “Mr. Howard, if you trouble Sister anymore, I’ll decorate the other side of your jaw and for the record, if you become joint-master I will resign as first whipper-in.”
“I wouldn’t have you anyway.” Crawford looked to Sister. “Damned half-breed doesn’t know his place. You dote on him. You dote on him as though he were your son. It’s understandable but he’s not your son.”
“Crawford”—her tone deepened, her speech slowed—“I will overlook your desire to be master in any way you can manage. Ambition is a curious thing. I cannot overlook your attitude and insult to Doug. And you’re absolutely right, he is like a son to me. Now I suggest you leave us. I also suggest you take the opportunity to review this conversation. Furthermore, however you feel about Fontaine, Doug, and myself, I expect you to behave like a gentleman at opening hunt. Good day, sir.”
“Get your ass outta here.” Raleigh, an imposing presence, stood next to Sister, his mouth slightly ajar.
Crawford snatched his expensive rain gear off the coat-rack, slamming the door on his way out.
“Really.” Golly fluffed her fur, then stood up, stretched, turned in a circle, and lay down again.
As Crawford started his motor, Sister sat back down, then stood up again, tossing the bucket of wash water down the industrial sink, filling it again.
“Money and the demons it incubates,” was all she said as she and Doug returned to their task.
CHAPTER 30
Along with the steady rain, charcoal clouds obscured the mountains, pressing down into the dark green pastures. The tops of ancient oaks, walnuts, and hickories were tangled in the low clouds. Overtop the rivers and creeks the mists hung thick but there the color was bright silver. Occasionally a patch of clearness would appear and the flash of red maple or orange oak was startling.
As Fontaine turned back toward town, his silver Jaguar, swallowed in the rain and mist, was almost invisible save for his headlights. He laughed to himself as he passed Crawford Howard on his way to Sister Jane’s. Crawford’s Mercedes, a metallic deep red, would be hard to miss even in the thickest fog. Crawford, hands gripping the wheel, eyes intent on his side of the road, neither waved nor acknowledged Fontaine, a breach of manners in the country.
Fontaine laughed to himself as he pulled over to the one-story white store at the crossroads. Low-pressure systems made him sleepy. If he ate chocolate or something loaded with sugar, he could usually keep from nodding out.
ROGER’S CORNER, a long rectangular sign proclaimed on top of the roof. Two lights aimed at the sign illuminated the rain and clouds more than the sign.
Fontaine liked Roger’s Corner, especially the worn wooden floors, the ornate black-and-gold cash register.
“Hey, bro,” Roger, amiable, called out from behind the counter. “Cuts to the bone, don’t it?”
“Makes me tired.” Fontaine scooped up Moon Pies, Yankee Doodles, and a small round coffee cake. “Your coffee potable today or do I need a sledgehammer to break it up?”
“Ha ha,” Roger dryly replied as he poured him a cup of strong, good coffee, not café au lait or anything fancy, just wake-you-up coffee.
Roger had inherited the store from Roger Senior. Both were attractive men, lean and long-jawed.
Fontaine drank the coffee as he leaned against the counter. The cellophane wrapper on the coffee cake crinkled as Fontaine opened it. “Every time I go to New York City I buy these coffee cakes made by Drake’s. Can’t get them down here. I mean these are okay but those little Drake’s things are the best. I love the crumbs on top.”
“Never been there.”
“Gotta go, buddy, gotta go.”
“If Yankees will stay on their side of the Mason-Dixon line, I’ll stay on mine,” Roger joked.
“There is that. Hey, Cody been by here?”
“No. Thought she was in rehab. Betty stopped by last week. Told me. Both kids.” He shook his head, for it was too confusing.