The Hunt Ball Read Online Free PDF Page B

presidents of smaller colleges. Her passion was secondary school.
    She noticed, as she coasted into her parking space, a van with the local TV station’s call letters and number on it. It was parked illegally alongside the main campus road and she had no idea where the campus police might be.
    The only vehicles allowed beyond the parking lot were service vehicles. The door to her new Volvo AWD VC70 station wagon closed with a comforting heavy thud. She heard chanting.
    Her boot heels clicked as she hurried along the stone path, worn from use, toward the back of Old Main Hall. She’d intended to dash into her office, change clothes, and get on with her day. She’d left her cell phone to charge on her desk and now regretted that decision. Usually she called Teresa Bourbon, her assistant, at least once before reaching her office.
    The chanting grew louder. She pulled open the back door to Old Main, the long polished wooden corridor before her.
    â€œPlantation! Plantation! The Custis Hall Plantation.”
    â€œWhat the hell?” she muttered to herself, noticing, as she raced to her office, that no one was in theirs.
    She skidded to her open door, Teresa commanding the anteroom.
    â€œMrs. Norton, we’ve got a situation.” Teresa met her boss’s gaze levelly as she used the old black expression.
    â€œJesus, what is going on?”
    â€œThere are fifty girls in the Main Hall, one TV reporter, and one print reporter. They have just discovered that Custis Hall was founded by a slave owner.” Teresa, African American, held up her hand, her silver rings shining. “And they are deeply upset by the artifacts displayed in Main Hall.”
    A long stream of air blew out of Charlotte’s delicately shaped nostrils, her nose slightly upturned. “I can’t go out there in riding habit.”
    â€œOh, why not?” Teresa wickedly smiled. “You’ll confirm their idea that you’re the Miss’us.”
    Charlotte loved Teresa. They’d worked cheek by jowl for nine years. The thirty-six-year-old woman knew exactly how to handle her. Charlotte flew into her paneled office, ran to the bathroom, shed her jacket, vest, and shirt, grunting as she pulled off her boots with the stand-up boot pull. She yanked a deep carmine cashmere turtleneck sweater over her head. This was followed by a pleated black skirt. She used her coveted staghandle boot pulls to pull up a pair of soft Italian leather boots. She took a very deep breath, then calmly walked out of her office as Teresa winked.
    â€œDon’t you want to witness this?”
    â€œNo. Gotta mind the store. If it gets really good, I’ll lock the door and come fetch you home.”
    â€œOh, Teresa,” Charlotte smiled softly, “I think I’m about to be called a racist pig.”
    â€œCould be worse.”
    â€œI suppose it could.” With that, Charlotte squared her shoulders, lifted her head, and strode to the great entry hall at the front of Old Main.
    At the sight of her, students renewed their vigor and volume. Dwayne Rickman, fiftyish, a local celebrity as a TV reporter, moved toward her with the microphone.
    She saw the two overwhelmed security fellows, men way past their prime but still wearing a uniform, swing toward him.
    Knute Nilsson, treasurer, looked relieved as she took over, as did Alfonso Perez, the director of alumnae affairs. They’d been holding the girls at bay, assisted by Amy Childers, the head of the science department, and her brother, a board member, Christopher Stoltenfuss. Knute, a natural leader, quick-thinking, told the other teachers to stay with their routine, don’t leave the classroom. Amy happened to be coming in for an appointment with Charlotte and simply got caught in the middle. Her brother had come for a meeting with Knute so they felt like deer in headlights.
    Al Perez had walked out of his office the minute he heard the chanting. He and Knute worked well