Fox River (27 page)

Until the moment Ian took me aside, eyes blazing and hands clenching his riding crop.

“Do you know what you’ve done?”

He was so obviously furious that quiet speech was something of a miracle.

I tried to defuse him. “Have I forgotten something?”

“You little idiot. You don’t know anything, do you? You’ve chosen flowers in the colors of the Piedmont and Orange County Hunts!”

I might be a newcomer, but I did know that the two nearby hunts were our rivals. And the rivalry wasn’t particularly friendly, since both funds and land were limited. “I didn’t know.” I was genuinely dismayed. “Nobody ever told me their colors.”

“Piedmont is old gold. Orange County is white. You should have known! I thought this was too much for you to manage. You’ve humiliated me, Louisa.”

“How can you think I did it on purpose? It was an honest mistake.”

“You should have asked.”

“How could I ask if I never thought about the question?”

He stared at me as if I’d grown a new head, but I lifted the only one I had and narrowed my eyes. “There’s only one way to salvage an error,” I said. “Pretend it isn’t an error at all. Ignore it completely. It’s all you can do.”

“Tell me, does that go for our marriage, too?” His voice was thick with recrimination. “Do I ignore the fact I’ve married a thoughtless ninny?”

I blinked back tears. “I only wanted to please you.”

“You have failed miserably.” He was clenching the riding crop so hard that his knuckles paled.

As Ian strolled off to mount his horse for the rum punch toast, I thought of Frances, and Lettie’s reminiscences in the kitchen that morning.

I swallowed hard, then again, following far behind him to see the ceremonial send off. Annie, who was riding with Paul and both sets of parents, stopped me. She was mounted on a chestnut mare named Lulabelle that I had ridden happily in my carefree days at Sweetwater. She spoke loudly enough that it was clear she wanted others to overhear.

“Louisa, you are such a brilliant girl. Who else would have thought to combine the colors of the neighboring hunts in her flower arrangements along with our Fox River green? It’s a splendid tribute to the comradeship of Virginia foxhunting. Just exactly the kind of reminder we all need at our first hunt of the season.”

“We’ve set the right example, haven’t we?” I said as loudly, holding my chin high in the air.

Someone applauded gaily; then the moment was over. Annie, the soul of diplomacy, had done her best. I wondered if she had overheard anything of my exchange with Ian, or if she had simply heard criticism of me and come up with this solution on her own. Whatever the answer, I was profoundly grateful.

The toast was appropriately jovial. Fifteen couple of hounds had been brought out by the huntsman, and all the riders had finished their last-minute preparations. The horn was lifted and the opening notes sounded. In a flurry of dust and the flicking of equine tails, the Fox River Hunt was off to find a fox.

I stood rooted until the last rider was out of sight. I knew Ian intended to have the hounds cast on the west bank of Fox River, in a valley known simply as “The Dip.” He had spotted foxes there during cubbing season, and it seemed the natural place to begin. I hoped they would be successful, but I also hoped they would give me time to make doubly certain nothing else went wrong.

For a moment the injustice of it incensed me. Wasn’t it a husband’s duty to protect his wife? To smooth over difficulties? To cherish her even if she made an error? Was this the way our marriage would proceed? He would watch and wait, then pounce when my judgment lapsed?

“I hope the poor fox stays in his den,” I murmured. Then I went to ask Seth to find more flowers of different colors to add to the table arrangements.

As expected, the hunt began to straggle in about one. The field, made up of all the riders with the exception of the Master of Foxhounds and his staff, invariably consisted of “first flight,” the gamest and best riders, and hilltoppers, those who were new to the sport or too old or awkward to excel at it. Additionally, there were foot followers. All had been invited to the breakfast, along with landowners whose property would be used during the season.

Riders arrived according to their skill, the best starting to filter in about four. Annie and Paul arrived and made excuses for the Joneses, who had gone straight to Sweetwater. Mr. Jones had injured a leg on one jump, and Mrs. Jones had insisted they go home before removing his boot. In the meantime, I had fed dozens of people, some who remained and others who started home after a little rest and camaraderie. I heard tales of the fox they had chased, a big red, always thought to be more exciting than the native gray foxes. This fox was much admired for his wily prowess and his ability to stay just ahead of the pack.

I heard the hunting horn sometime later and the hounds “giving tongue” as they made their way back home. I was feeling more charitable toward Ian by then, since I had heard nothing except the most glowing reports about him that day. I was certain that when he’d rested and the field was gone at last, he would be contrite.

I had not expected what awaited me.

I heard the hounds enter the yard and the clatter of horses following close behind. I turned from helping an older neighbor to a more comfortable chair and saw Ian wheel into the yard on Equator, the same black stallion he had ridden the day we met.

I lifted my hand in greeting until he dismounted, then pressed it to my chest in horror. Ian strode toward me, the bloody mask of a large red fox hanging from his right hand. He held it out to me and spoke for all to hear. “For my wife and gracious hostess, who wasn’t able to attend the first hunt because of her consideration for the rest of us. We’ve brought the hunt to you, Louisa, with our gratitude.”

I looked at what was left of an accommodating, clever animal, then up at the man I had married. The satisfaction in Ian’s eyes was the last thing I saw before I collapsed in a faint.

S
ince the Mosby hounds belonged to the club, members were expected to participate in their care and given the opportunity to “walk hounds” twice a week. Before hunting season, this was usually done on foot, tramping miles through fields and along country roads. The huntsman and kennel staff always went along, watching out for the hounds and helping members identify and get to know each hound’s personality.

The first morning he exercised the hounds with members of the club, Christian steeled himself for trouble. He knew Peter’s decision to make him huntsman was unpopular. Peter had been frank about some of the conversations making the rounds and the protest being organized by Bard Warwick. But Peter had held firm, and Christian hadn’t experienced anything more than a certain curt civility.

The first big event of the fall, however, was the hunter’s pace, and Christian knew if there was going to be trouble, this would be the place for it. He wasn’t afraid what people might say or do, but he wasn’t looking forward to the experience. He supposed he’d had his fill of being an outcast.

The hunter’s pace was a fund-raiser and icebreaker for the season, as well as a chance to introduce the public to the sport of foxhunting. A course was mapped out that was similar to one that might be used during a real hunt. Entrants, riding in teams, rode the course as if they were following hounds. Teams were released every three minutes, and at day’s end, the teams who had finished closest to the ideal time agreed on by the judges were the winners. No team consulted a watch nor knew the deadline they were supposed to meet.

The afternoon before the hunter’s pace, Christian and Peter mapped out the course, which meandered over Claymore Park, South Land and a corner of Millcreek Farm. “Damn shame Maisy Fletcher closed off Ashbourne,” Peter grumbled as they made elaborate detours to avoid Ashbourne’s boundaries. “Harry Ashbourne is spinning in his grave.”

Christian had always thought it gutsy of Maisy to resist her neighbors. He thought he understood her loathing of the sport. Personally he sympathized with the fox. He knew what it was like to have all the hounds of hell running after you. As huntsman, he planned to make sure no fox died on his watch.

After he and Peter had mapped the course, they carefully calculated the distance with a rolling measure and found it to be just a fraction over ten miles. They had assigned speeds of eight miles per hour for the hunters and six miles per hour for the hilltoppers—children and beginners. This allowed time for several breaks, just as there might be in a real hunt when the hounds “checked” or lost the fox’s scent. Volunteers would man tables at those points and offer drinks to the riders, who had to hold on to their cups as proof they’d followed the course.

They spent the rest of the afternoon and evening preparing, until it was time for Peter to go into town for a meeting. Christian checked with Rosalita to see if anyone from Ashbourne had called about Clover, but there were no messages.

He had spent two weary nights thinking about his conversation with Julia and his out-of-bounds reaction to the feel of her tear-dampened skin. He had been celibate for almost nine years. It made sense that touching a woman, any part of a woman, would make him want to crawl out of his own skin with desire. But touching Julia had been like going home.

He wasn’t sure he had forgiven her. Forgiveness was a concept left over from a different life. People who’d never lost anything could forgive easily.

What mattered was whether he understood, whether he could put himself in her shoes and believe that, under the same circumstances, he might have had doubts, as well. And in the early hours of that morning, after waking in a cold sweat with no memory of what he’d been dreaming, he knew that he did understand. He could put it behind him at last.

But it would be harder to put Julia behind him. He knew this when Rosalita shook her head and said that no one had called. Loneliness, a companion he’d thought he’d tamed for good, had its icy hands at his throat.

He shook his head and went to heat up the supper Rosalita had left him. The big house seemed unbearably empty, and he hoped the house that workmen were painstakingly renovating for him would be ready sometime that century.

He was halfway through chicken enchiladas when Rosalita popped her head into the kitchen. She was a supremely competent Texan without a drop of Hispanic blood. In his youth her daddy had been in love with a gorgeous
señorita
and had named his baby daughter for her—although he had never told the baby’s mother why. Rosalita was white-haired and withered, but she had the stamina of a ten-year-old.

“The neighbors are here to see you.”

He wondered if a lynch mob had gathered. “Neighbors?”

“From Ashbourne. Maisy Fletcher, her daughter and granddaughter.”

“Julia’s here?” He was glad to see Julia venturing away from Ashbourne. He was just glad he was going to see her, period.

“They wanted to wait outside. It’s a pretty night.”

“Would you mind—”

“Go ahead. I’ll wrap and save it for you.”

“You’re the best.”

“Oh, I know,” she drawled.

He strode to the front door, but no one was in sight. Then, from the porch, he saw Maisy and Callie examining a water garden that had been installed in the spring. “We’re over here,” Maisy called.

He saw Julia then. Standing to the side, straight and slender and sightless. He went to her first. “Julia?”

“Oh, Christian.” Her face lit up. “I’m glad you were home.”

She was married. She had a child. But suddenly he felt like a kid himself. “I’m glad, too,” he said gruffly. “You must have decided something.”

“We’d love to have the puppy. You’re sure it’s okay with Peter?”

“One hundred percent.”

“May we pay the club for her?”

“It would be impossible to set a price. We might end up having to pay you. Consider her a gift.”

“Then we will, with thanks.”

“Does Callie know?”

Julia was silent for a moment. “I thought
you
ought to tell her. I think you two are going to be friends.”

As if Callie was taking cues, she scrambled off her knees and launched herself in his direction. “Christian! You’ve got fish! As big as Jake’s trout!”

“Jake’s trout were the size of koi?” he asked Julia.

“Not much bigger by the time he cleaned them.”

Callie skidded to a stop in front of him. “Can I see Ranger? Can I see that puppy? Mommy used to ride here when she was little. Can I ride here someday?”

“Your mommy wasn’t all that little,” Christian said, ruffling Callie’s hair until he remembered this was Bard Warwick’s daughter, Bard who had threatened Christian if he went anywhere near his wife or child. He dropped his hand, reining in his enthusiasm. “Come back when you’re grown and we’ll see.”

Her face fell. “Tiffany rides here sometimes.”

“We’ll think about it, okay?”

“People always say that and never do. I wish I could make people think when they’re supposed to.”

He grinned. He remembered Julia as a child, and she had been nothing like her daughter. She’d been quiet, sensitive, thoughtful. Callie, who didn’t look like her mother, either, was fresh air in a crowded room. Oddly, she reminded him of Fidelity.

“I
will
think,” he promised. “Long and hard. Besides, I know something better than riding. You know what it is?”

“What?”

“A trip to see the foxhounds. Want to come?”

“Can I see Clover?”

“First stop.” He suspected it would be the last stop, as well.

“I’ve been here. I know where the kennel is!”

Maisy, who had been unusually quiet, grabbed Callie’s hand before she could run off. “You show me. Let Christian help your mother.”

“Mommy, could you just not be blind right now?” Callie said. “Could you just see so we can get there quicker?”

Christian thought Julia might be hurt, but she laughed. “From your mouth to God’s ear, sweetums.”

“What does that mean?”

Maisy tucked Callie’s hand under her arm. “I’ll tell you. Let’s go.”

Even with Maisy as an anchor, they were out of earshot quickly. Christian took Julia’s hand and placed it on his arm. “Can you walk this way? Will you feel comfortable?”

“Uh-huh.”

They started off, and he was surprised she moved with such confidence. He was so busy looking for obstacles, bumps in the path, tree roots or loose stones, that he didn’t speak until she did.

“She likes you.”

He knew she meant Callie. “I like her, too. She reminded me of someone, but I didn’t put my finger on it until a moment ago.”

“Who?” She sounded breathless, and he slowed his pace.

“Fidelity.”

“Really?”

“She has the same energy, the same charming honesty. And she’s going to be every bit as beautiful, I’m afraid.”

“I hope she has all Fidelity’s good qualities and none of her bad.”

“Even the best people get careless when nobody tells them no. You’ll tell Callie no, I’m sure. She’ll learn to set boundaries.”

“I don’t need to. Her father tells her no all the time.” Julia paused. “I’m sorry. That was out of line and not your business, was it?”

“Bard made Callie my business when he told me to stay away from her. And you, for that matter.”

“Bard has said a lot of things to a lot of people. Christian, a couple of friends called me today. They tracked me down at Ashbourne. They wanted to know if I’d be at the hunter’s pace tomorrow. They wanted to know if I agreed with Bard.”

“About what?”

“He started a petition. He wants the board to veto your selection as huntsman.”

Christian was only surprised that Bard’s wife was the one who was telling him. “I knew it might be unpleasant tomorrow. I’m prepared.”

“What will you do if Bard gets his way?”

“I’ll train horses. Peter’s the real problem. This is important to him. He’ll withdraw as master and have the kennel moved. I think he might even close off Claymore Park.”

“Bard’s attitude actually has very little to do with you and everything to do with me. I’m sorry.” She hesitated. “I keep saying that, don’t I?”

“Well, the reasons vary.”

They walked on in silence until she spoke again. “Do you know why I named her Callie?” She went on, since it was obviously a rhetorical question. “It’s short for Callinda.”

“That’s an unusual name.”

“When Fidelity and I were little, she told me she was going to name her daughter Callinda. I don’t know where she got it, or why. But she was adamant. She had her whole life planned. First she would compete in the Olympics and win a gold medal, then she’d graduate from college and move to Kentucky and work for a racing stable for a while doing promotion and publicity, until she met the right billionaire.”

“Never a small thinker, our Fidelity.”

“They would have a daughter—only one, because she didn’t want to ruin her figure—and she would name her Callinda Julia.”

“So is Julia Callie’s middle name?”

“No. It’s Fidelity.”

He shouldn’t have been surprised, but this revelation moved him. He put his hand over hers and pressed it tightly against his arm. Only for a moment, but he knew his message had been received.

“I couldn’t call her Callinda, though. It was so, oh, I don’t know, flirty? Sassy? It seemed a lot to saddle her with, so I settled on Callie.”

He heard all the “I’s” and none of the “we’s” he might have expected. But he didn’t ask her what Bard had said. He didn’t give a hoot.

“Fidelity would be pleased,” he said.

“Maybe she’s watching over Callie. It would be like her, wouldn’t it? She never learned the meaning of no. Why would death stop her from doing anything she wanted?”

“Do you really believe that?”

“I used to want to. I was so lonely for her…for you.”

He knew better than to take that at more than simple face value. “Robby must have been lonely, too. Did you spend much time with him? Before he died?”

“Robby closed himself off. After you went to prison, he disappeared into his books and research. I tried to stay in contact, but it was painful for both of us. He drank too much, I think. I know he’d been drinking when his car smashed into the tree. Robby was never one who could ask for help.”

“We’re almost there. There’s a gate into the yard, but it’s open. I’ll go through. Take my hand and I’ll guide you.” She did and got through without mishap.

Callie and Maisy were waiting in the yard, and together they strolled to the puppy quarters. “All of you can come, or you can wait out here and we’ll bring Clover out to play,” Christian said.

“Oh, I think we’ll stay here,” Maisy said. “You two run on.”

Christian opened the door and ushered Callie through, flipping on the light. Their entrance was greeted by a dozen wiggling bodies, thrilled with this interruption of the routine.

“So many puppies!” Callie’s eyes were as big as Frisbees. Some children might feel overwhelmed, but not this one. She obviously adored animals. She threw herself into the midst of them, petting, scolding, squatting so they could lick her face. “Clover, where are you?”