Fox River (26 page)

“I won’t get close. I promise. Oh, I see him!” She dashed down the steps.

“Christian, what a nice surprise.” Maisy stood in the doorway wiping her hands on a dish towel. Today she was dressed in a Hawaiian muumuu. Bare toes with fuchsia toenails peeked out from under the hem.

He couldn’t believe his luck. “I came to talk to you about something.”

“We’re about to sit down to dinner. Have you eaten?”

He had assumed they would eat earlier. He didn’t know much about children, but he knew they hated to wait. “I ate already, thanks.”

“That’s too bad. We have fresh trout. You always liked the way I cooked them. I remember.”

He remembered family meals when he and Julia played footsie under the Fletchers’ table, exchanged torrid glances—and kisses when everyone else left the room. He remembered one meal, just before he was sent to prison, when he and Julia went upstairs after her parents left for the evening and made sad, desperate love. Their last time together.

“It’s about Callie,” he said. “That’s why I came.”

Maisy seemed to stiffen. “You really ought to be having this conversation with Julia, honey.”

“Well, I probably should. But I’d rather talk to you.”

Maisy stepped down so they were level. “Where’s Callie?”

“I sent her off to talk to Night Ranger. She promised to stay back. Will she?”

“She’s a good child, but horses are a temptation.”

“He’s big enough to intimidate her a little.”

“Christian, I really think you should be having this conversation with my daughter.”

“Julia told you what happened yesterday?”

“I heard all about it. I’m so glad you came along when you did.”

“I didn’t want to say anything then…”

Maisy looked upset. “Christian, I—”

He cut her off. “I had to talk to Peter first, anyway. But he’s in agreement. Callie was taken with the puppy. And we can’t keep her. Will you talk to Julia and see if she’d let Callie have Clover? I think she’ll be a good pet, just not any good with the pack.” He grinned wryly. “She’s not the brightest bulb in the chandelier.”

“That’s what you came for? You want to give Callie a puppy?”

Christian frowned. From the surprised expression on Maisy’s face, he could only guess she thought that was inappropriate.

And perhaps it was, considering their history. Perhaps it sounded like he was trying to wiggle back into the life he’d been torn from. Perhaps she thought he was trying to make another man’s child love him. After all, he had once loved the child’s mother.

He stepped backward. “Look, I’m sorry. I guess it was a stupid idea. Forget it. Don’t even bother Julia with—”

“Bother me with what?”

He looked up and saw Julia standing on the porch. He felt as trapped as he had the first day a cell door had closed behind him.

“It doesn’t matter.” He turned to go.

“Christian has a wonderful idea,” Maisy said quickly. “He wants to give Callie the puppy who caused all the problems yesterday. He said the two of them got along so well, it just seemed natural.”

Christian turned around to see that Julia looked surprised. “That’s why you’re here?” she said.

“We can’t keep the pup. She’s the worst excuse for a foxhound I’ve ever seen. But she’ll make a great little pet. I just thought Callie might like to have her.”

“I’ll let you two decide.” Maisy hitched up her muumuu and scurried back up the stairs. “You can do it inside, if you’d rather,” she called over her shoulder.

“No,” Julia and Christian said together. Julia felt for the porch rail and descended. “For somebody who told me you never want to see me again, you sure are showing up a lot.”

He examined her before he spoke. She was a woman who would age well. Good bones, classic features. She had never depended on clothes or makeup to cover up who she was. She was too thin, a little haggard, and the blank stare disconcerted him.

But to him, sadly, she was still beautiful.

“This was a mistake,” he said. “I just thought…”

“You thought what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Christian…” She shook her head. “Do you know how often I’ve wished the past nine years never happened?”

He had not expected this conversation. He had not expected Julia to dive straight into his heart. “Not as often as I did, I bet.”

“You were my whole world.”

“Some part of that whole world thought I’d murdered Fidelity.”

“You’ll never forgive me for that, will you?”

“How important could I have been to you? You married another man before we could even talk about it.”

“You were too hurt to talk about it. You wouldn’t call and I couldn’t call you. You told me you wouldn’t read any letter I sent.”

“Tell me now. How could you have believed I’d cut your best friend’s throat?”

“I didn’t believe it. But that whole world I was talking about came tumbling down around me. Can’t you understand that? Of course it was worse for you, but it was terrible for me, too. Fidelity was gone, they were trying to take you away. And they caught you with the knife that killed her. Your knife.”

He could feel some of his bitterness seeping away. Julia had hardly slept after Fidelity’s death. He remembered that now. During the trial she had told him that every time she closed her eyes she saw Fidelity in a pool of blood. She’d hardly eaten. He remembered the last time they’d made love, and how frighteningly thin she had been. Thin enough to take his mind off his own growing fear that the truth would not be discovered in time to save him.

She spoke softly. “On the witness stand I remember feeling like I was completely alone. That you were a million miles away and I couldn’t reach you. That I was alone with a million lights and cameras focused on me, and people shouting at me to see reason.”

“That’s not the way it was, Julia.”

“That’s how it felt. Like I was a bug under a microscope, that all those people knew something I didn’t. Just for a moment. The worst moment.” Tears filled her eyes. “I have relived it every single day. I tried to forget, but I couldn’t. I felt like I’d put you in prison, Christian. One moment of doubt had turned the final key.”

He wanted to be glad that all the years he’d suffered, she had suffered, too. Perhaps he could have gloated if the woman he had demonized for nine years had ever really existed. But he saw now that she hadn’t. This was the woman he had loved. Older, sadder and racked with guilt over one moment’s betrayal. Too thin, still. Probably not sleeping well. Still. Blind now, because her body had turned against her.

He touched her cheek. She jumped, obviously not expecting it. He rubbed his thumb along the trail of a tear. Her skin was as soft as rose petals. A woman’s skin. Rose petals. Both had been in such short supply in his life.

He dropped his hand. “Why did you marry Bard Warwick?”

“I fell apart. He put me back together.”

“Are you happy? Were you happy? Before…”

“Before I stopped seeing the world around me?” She shook her head. “No.”

“I’m sorry.” He wasn’t. He supposed his selfishness was to be expected. He had spent so many nights imagining her happy in Warwick’s arms. He was glad she hadn’t been, even though he thought less of himself for his own reaction.

“I had Callie,” she said. “That seemed like enough.”

He remembered why he had come. Not to settle the past, but simply to give this woman’s child a gift. “Will you think about the puppy? Not because it comes from me. If you think it would make her happy. If it’s not too much trouble right now to have a pet.”

“I’ll ask Maisy and Jake. If I go back to Millcreek—”

“If?”

“Bard doesn’t really like dogs. We’d have to leave the puppy here. But Callie could come every day and visit.”

“Then you’ll think about it?” he said.

“I’ll think about a lot of things, Christian. I can’t stop thinking.”

He closed his eyes, and the world was dark. He wondered how she stood it. Did she will herself to see again, failing every moment? But he understood what it meant to be blind. Hadn’t he been blind for years where this woman was concerned? She had loved him, and he had let a moment of indecision kindle the worst kind of hatred.

Wasn’t hating the person you loved most the greatest of sins?

“Call me when you decide,” he said.

“Christian, thank you. It’s a wonderful offer.”

“She seems like a wonderful little girl.”

“You have no idea.” She stretched out her hand. He hesitated. “Squeeze it,” she whispered.

He couldn’t refuse.

“Maisy?” Jake came up behind Maisy in the kitchen and put his arms around her waist. “What’s wrong?”

Maisy wiped her eyes. “Do you remember just before Fidelity was killed? I woke up every night for a week feeling like the breath was being squeezed from my lungs. And it got worse afterward.”

“Premonitions?”

“I don’t see the future. But I feel other people’s distress. I can feel things happening around me, things pushing in all around us. I learned to do that when I was young.”

“And you feel it now?”

“Don’t you?”

“Julia has to live her own life.”

“I’m her mother. I needed to warn her to be careful. Instead I tried to keep her safe. Now she can’t see.”

“You were a good mother. The best.”

She faced him. “Things will get worse before they get better, Jake.”

“They often do.”

Maisy heard a noise in the front hall and knew her daughter and granddaughter were coming. She would eat Jake’s trout, perhaps help put Callie to bed, then she would read another chapter to Julia. Afterward, with Jake sleeping beside her, she would lie awake and fight for every breath.

“Just don’t leave us, no matter what happens around here,” she said. “Stand by us, Jake.”

He smiled gently. “Haven’t I always?”

O
ur welcome home after our wedding trip was enthusiastic. Annie and her parents had a party in our honor, and Ian slipped effortlessly back into his roles as respected community member, Master of Foxhounds and owner of Fox River Farm.

I had more trouble finding my footing. The house had run well without me, and few changes needed to be made now that I was in residence. With the exception of Annie, none of our neighbors, who were few and far between to begin with, were close to my age. Ian, almost twenty years my senior, was the youngest landowner for miles. The children of our neighbors had married and scattered to the four winds. Although the local dowagers were welcoming, there was no one besides Annie with whom I could be friends. Then, one afternoon in September, while we were off on a ride together, Annie gave me unwelcome news.

“I have a secret.” We had stopped to rest under century-old maples, our habits pulled above our knees and fanned out around us. “I haven’t told Mother and Father yet.”

“I love secrets.” So far I had kept my own, too embarrassed to share stories of Ian’s behavior on our wedding trip. Venice, sinking, decaying monument to a visionary people, had only disgusted my new husband. The scene at our hotel had been one of many. I comforted myself with the hope that Ian was a man happiest and best behaved in his own domain.

“Paul has taken a job as a stockbroker in Chicago. We’ll move right after the wedding.”

The wedding was in October, and Annie’s news was unwelcome. I had hoped, even expected, Paul and Annie to settle near their parents. Land was still cheap enough, and someday they would inherit their parents’ property.

“You’ll hate the city,” I said. “Where will you ride?”

“We’ve already found a house and a nice piece of land not too far away. Large enough to keep a few horses. I’ll be the farmer, and Paul will travel into the city every morning to earn our bread and butter.”

“What will your parents do without you?”

Annie looked sad. “My father is thinking of selling Sweetwater. So many people are looking for property in the Fox River Hunt, and he could get a fair price. He claims he has little enthusiasm left for the hard work of raising horses.”

“And your mother?”

“She complains of the day-to-day isolation here. They have friends in Chicago and would find more quickly. I hope they’ll consider moving there. If Paul and I give them grandchildren, they’ll want to be nearby.”

Although the Joneses were only distant cousins, they were family—the only family I had outside of New York. Annie’s leaving would be devastating enough, but if her parents left, I would be truly alone.

“I don’t know what to say.” And I didn’t. I was realizing for the first time how vital Annie’s friendship was to me.

“You and Ian will come and visit, of course. And we’ll come and visit you.”

“You’ll want to see Paul’s parents.” But she didn’t need to remind me that the Symingtons were only residents of Virginia for part of the year. At best we would see each other infrequently.

I resolved to find a way to fit myself more firmly into place here. That evening at supper I approached Ian about having the opening hunt breakfast at Fox River Farm. I knew the governors were in the process of making up fixture cards for the season that announced the date and place for every hunt. The schedule would soon be set.

“Annie tells me it’s traditional for the master to give the first hunt breakfast. I wondered if you would like me to see to it?”

He studied me, as he often did. At those times I had no idea what he was thinking, and I’d grown to be wary of them. I was never sure what he might say when he was finished.

“You’re young, and you’ve never organized an event like this one. What makes you think you could pull it off, Louisa?”

“I spent years training to be a proper hostess. It was Mama’s life mission.”

“And you think study did the trick?”

“You’ve assembled a good staff here. Lettie is the finest cook for a hundred miles, and she promises she’ll turn out a memorable feast. It’s just that I want to do something to make you proud of me.”

He studied me some more. “And why else?”

I was beginning to fear he might read every passing thought and accuse me again. “I want people to see that I’m more than just a pretty girl who caught your eye.”

He smiled warmly, and I relaxed under the unexpected rays.

“Are you feeling lonely?” he said.

“I have you.” I returned his smile. “But you have a farm to run, and your duties with the club. This is something I can do to help and still get to know people better at the same time. Unless you’d rather I didn’t try.”

“Will you be able to give the breakfast and ride the same day?”

“I don’t see how. I’ll want to be here to make certain everything’s perfect. But people will understand, won’t they? They’ll forgive me this one lapse?”

He considered. “There’ll be other hunts.”

In truth, there would be far too many for my taste, but I didn’t dare spoil his good mood. “Then I’ll go ahead with it?”

“I’m glad I have a wife who thinks about what’s best for everyone.”

The unexpected compliment made my spirits blossom extravagantly. If I could please Ian Sebastian, a stern taskmaster indeed, then I would surely find my place.

I spent the bulk of the next month making preparations. I called on members who had given breakfasts in the past and sought their advice. The women, who were without exception excellent riders and hostesses, were happy to oblige me. Since people would drift in as they finished their day’s ride, I needed hearty, simple fare. I settled on a menu that included Brunswick stew, ham with Lettie’s buttermilk biscuits, icy bowls of ambrosia, spicy baked beans and, for dessert, apple and pecan pies. Despite Prohibition, the bar would be well stocked. Foxhunters worked up a terrific thirst.

The cubbing season, a training period for green hunters and puppy hounds, was already a success. Ian arose at dawn each morning a hunt was scheduled, and most of the time I went with him to learn what I could. When it was time for my first real hunt, I didn’t want to shame him.

In the intimacy of early morning, participating together in the sport that was Ian’s life, we seemed to grow closer. Ian was even tempered and considerate, and I began to believe the incidents I’d witnessed in Italy had been the reactions of a vital, active man who was simply out of his element. He cut a handsome figure, a brilliant rider taking all challenges, but never any so great he couldn’t defeat them. On horseback he was the man I had married, the powerful, passionate man in complete control of his environment.

I was determined that the breakfast would be a success. I saw to the preparation of bootlegged rum punch for the men while they waited for the hounds to be cast. I made arrangements for two of the stable boys to come to the house in the morning and relocate the dining-room hunt table that had come from England with Ian’s family. They were to place it just off our front veranda so that the punch could be served, as was the custom, without anyone needing to dismount. Once they were off, the real work of setting up for the breakfast would begin. I had decided to arrange the flowers for the tables myself, choosing gold and white spider chrysanthemums, cut from the lovingly maintained flower borders of Ian’s longtime gardener Seth.

Ian rose well before dawn. The cubbing season was a time for training and exercising horses and hounds. The dress was less formal, the pace less strenuous. But with the opening hunt of the season, formal attire and protocol were required. When I came downstairs, Ian was already in buff-colored breeches and the traditional scarlet coat—which I had learned to call pink, as tradition demanded. His stock was tied and anchored with the requisite pin, his boots polished and glowing. Men in good standing with the Fox River Hunt wore jackets with forest-green collars, our official color, and sterling buttons etched with a fox’s “mask” or head. I straightened Ian’s lapels and leaned in for a good morning kiss, but he hadn’t the patience nor time.

He moved past me. “I have to see to the horses.”

Our groom and the stableboys would do most of the work, but I knew that today, of all days, the horses, Ian’s own and those of the huntsman and the whippers-in, had to be perfectly groomed, their manes intricately braided, their coats gleaming. Ian would supervise every detail.

“Then I’ll see you when the others begin to arrive.” I planned to put out rolls, steaming coffee, fruit and, of course, the rum punch, just in case anyone needed a bite to sustain them before the fun began.

He gave me just a moment, his face unsmiling. “It’s an important day, Louisa.”

“Yes, of course it is, darling.” I knew his job wasn’t easy. It was up to Ian to make certain everyone had a good experience while adhering to stringent safety rules and etiquette. “But it’ll be a good day. You’ll see to it.”

“You see to it, as well.”

“Everything will come off. I promise. I’ll do you proud.”

He left without another word, and I went into the kitchen to find Lettie. She was a rail-thin woman in her fifties who had been born a Fox River slave but had been freed before she had memories of slavery. I had listened in fascination for many an afternoon as she described her childhood at Fox River. Occasionally, just to be certain she kept my interest, she would drop tidbits about Ian, but never if I asked for them.

As I expected, Lettie was just taking the first rolls from the oven. “You’ll have one yourself and don’t tell me no,” she said when I found her.

I obliged, although my stomach protested. I hadn’t wanted to eat the night before, either, a product, I was sure, of my high expectations for the day.

The rolls were light and flaky, and the butter, from a neighboring farm, was as rich as King Midas. I swallowed the last big bite without chewing. “Seth promised he’d cut flowers for me bright and early, so if there’s nothing I have to do here, I’d best go down to the gardener’s shed and make the arrangements.”

“You tell Seth I said to wash down the walkways,” Lettie said. Since she and Seth had been married for almost forty years, she never missed a chance to tell him what to do.

“Anything else, Lettie?”

“You getting scared, Miss Louisa?”

“That’s probably silly, isn’t it?”

She shook her head. “Mr. Ian can be hard, and you want to please him. I know you do.”

“He’s my husband.”

“Miss Frances tried so hard it wore her out. Just about wore me out, too, watching her.”

Her words made me uneasy. “She went home to her family a lot, didn’t she?”

“Easy enough to do, they living just over the mountain.”

“I imagine that didn’t please Ian.”

She seemed to think better of the subject. “You run on now. Mary comes in, she and I’ll start on the ham biscuits. You just do those flowers and make them pretty as you can.”

I put Lettie’s words out of my head when I reached the gardener’s shed. Seth, older than his wife and fifty pounds heavier, had already cut armloads of gold and white chrysanthemums, black-eyed Susans and Queen Anne’s lace, and placed them in jugs of water, along with feathery greens and fern fronds. In a short time I had filled several containers, one to adorn the hunt table and several to grace the porch, where Lettie planned to set up the early-morning fare. When the foxhunters rode off in search of their prey, I intended to return to the shed and finish arrangements for the table.

Seth helped me carry them up to the house, and it wasn’t an instant too soon. Neighbors began to arrive, some from properties close by, some far enough away that they had been forced to rise well before the light to make their way. Some had left home yesterday and stayed overnight with families closer to Fox River Farm, or sent their grooms ahead so they could take the rutted roads this morning in their Mercedes or Packards without encumbrance.

I had known what to expect, but as the scene grew, my heart swelled with the drama of it. The men in their scarlet or black Melton coats and white jodhpurs, some with formal top hats, some with velvet hunting caps. The women in their dark habits, bowlers or caps perched jauntily on upswept hair, skirts draped evenly above their ankles. Then there were the horses, gleaming bays and polished chestnuts, all as perfect as if they had just stepped out of their stable doors. Some of the horses had bits of red ribbon woven into their tails to tactfully point out that they kicked and were best avoided. Some wore colorful blankets that were replaced with stark white saddle blankets by excited grooms brought along for the occasion.

I was greeted with gratitude and enthusiasm. The crowd was varied, as I had expected. The older, more established families were joined by newcomers. Annie and Paul had come, and with them some of the other local young people, back from school or jobs for the festivities. The exodus from the north had begun some weeks ago, and foxhunters had arrived for the season, settling into newly purchased farms or hunting “boxes” they had rented in the area.

I had been bred for this moment, and breeding will show. I took to playing hostess the way a Thoroughbred takes to jumping fences. I chatted, extolled and sympathized, all the while making certain that no one’s needs were ignored. I supervised the placement of food and the quantities of rum in the punch, and I glowed at the compliments I received over both.