Full Cry by Rita Mae Brown Page B

their arrival.
    Crawford, of course, flashed about in his impeccably cut scarlet weaselbelly. His properly scarlet hat cord, a devil to find these days, hung from his top hat, the crown of which was about a half inch higher than that worn by a lady. Both top hats slightly and gracefully curved into the brim. Like a red hat cord for a man, a lady’s proper top hat was a deuce to find. Given the difficulty in finding the real thing—it could take years—many women gave up, donning dressage top hats. No one was critical, and although they didn’t look quite as lovely, they still looked good.
    Leather gloves were soft canary or butter. Along with leather gloves, a pair of string gloves were under the horse’s girth. These warm gloves helped riders keep the reins from slipping through their fingers if it rained or snowed. Then, if necessary, riders would tuck their leather gloves in their pocket or under their girth and pull out the string gloves, which were brilliant white or cream.
    Men with colors wore boots with a tan top. The ladies with colors wore boots with a patent leather black top. Everyone else wore butcher boots, usually with the Spanish cut—meaning the outside part of the boot covering the calf was longer than the inside portion. Butcher boots had no tops. All boots were polished to such a feverish degree that one could see one’s reflection.
    The spurs, hammerheads or Prince of Wales, also sparkled, even with cloud cover.
    Fabulous as people looked—some wearing hunt caps, a few others in derbies, which were proper with frock coats—the horses trumped them all. Chestnuts gleamed like flame, and bays glowed with a rich patina. Seal brown horses and blood bays, not often seen, caught everyone’s eye. A blood bay is a deep red with black mane and tail. It’s a beautiful color, as is a flea-bitten gray or a dappled gray. A few of these were present, as well as some of those dark brown horses that appear black to the human eye.
    Henry Xavier had mounted his paint, Picasso—a large warmblood—to account for his increasing weight. Dr. Walter Lungrun was so resplendent in his tails, black rather than scarlet, that women swooned when they beheld the blond doctor. He was on a new horse he’d purchased in the summer, Rocketman, a big-boned, old-fashioned thoroughbred bay with a zigzag streak down his nose. Clemson, Walter’s tried and true, went out with him on informal days.
    The horses were bursting with excitement, for the morning was cool and they liked that. In many ways, they reflected their owners’ skill, status in the hunt field, and, in some cases, dreams. Hunt fields always have those members who are overmounted, members who want desperately to be dashing on a gorgeous horse. Usually they’re dashed to the ground. Sooner or later, such folks realize what kind of horse they truly need. Pretty is as pretty does. If not, they stalk away from foxhunting with grumbles about how dangerous it is and how stupid their horse is. It’s not the horse that’s stupid.
    Hunting is dangerous. However, the adrenaline rush, the challenge, the overwhelming majesty of the sport, the sheer beauty of it get in a rider’s blood. Those who foxhunt can’t imagine living without it; even the danger adds spice.
    Life itself is dangerous, but millions of Americans in the twenty-first century are so fearful of it that they retreat into cocoons of imagined safety. Small wonder obesity is a problem and psychologists are thriving.
    Humans need some danger, need to get their blood up.
    It was up at eleven. The field was large even with the cold. Seventy-one riders faced the master.
    â€œLadies and gentlemen, the hounds and I wish you a Happy New Year. We wish you health, prosperity, and laughter. May you take all your fences in style, may your foxes be straight-necked, and may your horse be one of your best friends.
    â€œShaker, Betty, Sybil, and I are grateful