Fox River (17 page)

The last phrase was unspoken, and Julia had never been more grateful for silence.

She had followed the sound of his voice, turning as he moved in front of her. “That doesn’t leave us much room for a conversation, does it?”

“I came to talk to your mother.” He paused. “My timing’s always been bad, hasn’t it? Take the day I found Fidelity lying in a pool of blood. Half an hour later, and no one would have accused me of murdering her. I wouldn’t have been found holding my own knife. Somebody else would have found her necklace on the stairs….”

“Christian—” Her voice broke.

“Julia, good God, you can’t even look at me, can you? Have I changed that much, or are you really afraid of me?”

“I—”

“Mommy!”

Julia stiffened. Callie’s summons had come from the house, but Julia knew that in a moment her daughter would be coming to find her.

Their
daughter.

He had heard the summons, too. “Is that your little girl?”

She ignored him, hoping to stave off Callie’s arrival. “I’ll be inside in a minute, sweetheart!” she called. “Stay there.”

Christian was just in front of her now. She could hear leaves crunching under his feet, a heel scraping stone. “Don’t worry. I’m leaving. You don’t have to protect her from me. I’ll see Maisy another time.”

She couldn’t let him leave this way. No matter how afraid she was for Callie or how humiliated she was that her own eyesight had betrayed her—a fact he obviously hadn’t discovered because of the darkness. She had loved this man. They had created a child together. In a million ways he had lived in her heart ever since.

“You’re always welcome here, Christian,” she said, although her voice was no louder than a whisper. “Whether I’m here or not. And as bitter as you are, I still hope someday you’ll forgive us all.”

“So do I.”

She thought she heard a trace of the young man she had loved. He had always been the most honest person she knew, the one who found it impossible to lie.

And yet when he had needed her to believe in him most, she had doubted him.

Her voice was so soft she could hardly hear her own words. “I know you don’t want to hear this. But I am so terribly sorry…”

“You’re right. I don’t want to hear it.”

She heard the crunching of leaves again, but this time farther away. Bushes rustled behind her. Then silence fell, and he was gone.

Callie was not about to give up. “Mommy, are you coming?”

Julia rose and stumbled forward, toward the house and what were becoming the normal rituals of bedtime. But she knew that when Callie was in bed, when Maisy’s chapter was finished and the house was silent at last, she would still hear Christian’s words.

Over and over again.

A
month into my stay at Sweetwater, it was obvious that Ian Sebastian was courting me. He was almost twenty years my senior, a widower since the age of twenty-three, and the man Virginia mothers had been training daughters to charm for more than a decade.

“I never expected Ian to marry again,” Annie told me. “Some men seem beyond it, as if a woman is no competition for horses and hunting.”

“Ian seems to find me at least as attractive as a horse,” I said.

Annie’s laughter was never feigned. It started at her toes and swept away everything in its path. I laughed, too, just at her exuberance. I laughed a great deal that month.

I had never been so happy. At home I had been admired by strangers but never cherished by anyone. I felt cherished in Ian’s presence. He treated me like a porcelain doll, but never the sort that was displayed on a shelf. I was that most beloved of playthings, the doll who went on all adventures, who was introduced to all friends, who was petted and cosseted and only relinquished at bedtime.

“Do you suppose he’ll wait until summer’s end to ask your brothers for your hand in marriage?” Annie asked.

If Ian waited that long, it would only be because he’d taken his time making up his mind. I told Annie this, and she agreed. “Then do you think he might ask for it soon? For instance tonight, at the ball?”

The first truly formal party of the summer was that night. Fox River Hunt was holding a starlight dance in the clubhouse to raise funds for the upcoming season.

“I have no idea what Ian Sebastian will do,” I told her. “We spend more time riding together than we do anything else. He’s always tutoring me on my posture, my hands, the placement of my heels. Perhaps he wants to show me, like one of his prized mares.”

“Being tutored by the greatest horseman of the countryside is hardly a chore, Weezy.”

As a matter of fact, I found it a bit of one. As thrilled as I was to be the focus of Ian’s considerable attention, I was not as thrilled to have my entire world centered on how to distribute my weight when taking a jump or whether I should wear a bowler or a cork-lined velvet cap.

“I always thought there was something primitive about Ian Sebastian,” Annie said. “Something elemental that all his money and success have never touched.”

“Have you fancied him for yourself?” I asked bluntly.

“Me? Not at all,” she answered just as bluntly. “He frightens me a little.”

“Ian?” I couldn’t imagine it.

“He’s a passionate man, a powerful man who’s used to getting his way. I’ve never been quite sure what he might do if someone refused to give it to him.”

Since I’d seen no signs of that, I discounted what Annie had said. I wanted a man who lived his life on a broad canvas. A man who swept through life and left a whirlwind in his wake.

We dressed carefully that evening, Annie in a deep gold that set off the tan her mother called a disgrace. I dressed in pale green, a dress my mother had chosen for its lace overlay. Since neither of us had yet made the decision to bob our hair, we swept it over “rats,” and I wore pearl and emerald earrings that had been a gift to Mama from my father. I hoped they might bring me good luck.

On the trip to the Fox River clubhouse, Mrs. Jones lectured us about proper behavior. Things might be more informal out here in the country, but we were not to walk the grounds with any man unless we were chaperoned. We were to divide our attentions and not allow anyone to monopolize us.

I wondered if Mrs. Jones had spent the past month with her head in the sand. Surely someone had pointed out Ian’s interest in her young houseguest.

When we stepped out of the carriage, the party was already under way. Although a fair percentage of the membership lived in the north and only came south for the foxhunting season, the club had spared no expense. They had hired a small orchestra all the way from Richmond, and the soaring of violins filled the summer air. Servants took our wraps, and members of the board of governors escorted us inside as Mr. and Mrs. Jones trailed behind.

The clubhouse, a lovely converted farmhouse, was the center of social activities. The country for miles around us was in flux, moving from a bucolic culture into one that was much more fast-paced. The wealthy from places like New York and Detroit had discovered the nearly perfect terrain for foxhunting and had begun an invasion destined to change the old ways forever. From the beginning of my stay I had recognized the names of some of the nation’s wealthiest and most influential families.

Ian’s family had been landowners in Virginia since the War for Independence. After the War Between the States, the Sebastians held on to their property by making compromises more principled men refused. Fox River Farm was nearly sold at auction before an ancestor of Ian’s discovered letters from Thomas Jefferson in the attic and hawked them to pay the property’s back taxes. Years later the letters were declared forgeries, but by then, Fox River Farm was no longer in jeopardy.

Once inside I looked for Ian, making certain my search wasn’t obvious. As a friend of Annie’s father came to claim her for the next dance, I joined a group of young women gossiping in a corner. I knew them all and liked some of them. We exclaimed over each other’s dresses and jewelry until, one by one, they were claimed for the dance. I turned down a man I didn’t know, explaining that I had just arrived, and chatted with a man much too old to lead me around the floor. We were in the midst of a conversation about the merits of growing winter rye or soy—a subject as foreign to me as the table etiquette of New Guinea cannibals—when Ian appeared.

I have rarely seen a man as handsome as Ian was that night. He wore a black morning coat, and his white shirt set off his bronzed features.

“You’re not dancing,” he said, by way of introduction.

I looked down. “I seem to be standing absolutely still.”

“You were made to dance, Louisa. It seems almost criminal for the music to be playing.”

“Rather than take action against the orchestra, I could dance. If a certain gentleman decided to ask me.”

He considered. “Have you been lectured on proper behavior tonight?”

“Lectured?”

“By Mrs. Jones? She seems to be the sort for lectures.”

“Don’t tell me she’s gone after you, as well?”

He laughed, flashing even white teeth. “No chance of that. But she has passed a severe look or two in my direction.”

“I think she’s secretly afraid of Annie, and Annie will back us up.”

“Where is the perennial cousin?”

“Dancing.”

He held out his arm. “Then, by all means, you must join her.”

I had imagined how it might feel to be in Ian Sebastian’s arms. As we had ridden to his house that first day, the feel of his muscular body against my breasts had taken my breath away as seriously as my encounter with the bears. Since that day, though, he had kept his distance as he pursued me. Mrs. Jones, for all her stabs at propriety, had nothing whatsoever to worry about.

Now I was entranced by the feel of him. Not that he took liberties and held me too close. But the narrow space between our bodies was as tantalizing as the whisper of his breath against my cheek. He danced as well as he rode.

“Plan to take a walk with me after supper,” he said, just before we parted.

“We’ll have to sneak away.”

“I’ll meet you under the sycamores at the north of the building just after the music starts again.”

Before the meal was served I danced with others, then had one more glorious turn around the floor with Ian. I was escorted to the buffet, then to our table, by Mr. Jones, where I encountered Annie for the first time since our arrival.

“I’m having a marvelous time,” she said in a low voice, when her mother turned away to speak to a matron at the next table.

I had noticed the way her eyes sparkled and the unusual blush on her cheeks. She looked almost pretty. “Have you met someone?”

“Not exactly. I’ve known him forever. His family lives here part of each year, but he’s been in Europe, then he finished out his military service in Boston, and he’s only just come home.”

“Who? Where?”

“Paul Symington.” She inclined her head toward the left without looking in the same direction. “He’s sitting with Lillian Albright and her family.”

I looked to her left and saw a portly young man with rounded shoulders. He seemed nothing special until he smiled at Mrs. Albright, and suddenly I saw why Annie was so entranced. I guessed that he could be that rarest of all creatures, a man with whom a woman could be friends.

“He looks like someone who might just possibly be good enough for you,” I told her.

“I’ve loved him since I was ten and he found me crying over a trapped rabbit. He set the poor thing free.”

“You never told me.”

“I’d put him out of my mind. I thought he was going to marry Helen Faraday once he came home, but he says no, that the war showed him what was really important.”

“And what’s that?”

“The pleasures of a woman’s soul.”

I thought quite possibly I was going to fall in love with Paul Symington.

For the rest of the meal I wasn’t sure whether I should be happier for Annie or myself. Ian caught my eye twice. He was seated with the other governors and their families at the head table, the youngest and by far the handsomest of the men. As the meal ended, he was called on to give a speech, which he did with no reluctance. Since only a portion of the club was in attendance that night, he kept it short and funny. He was greeted with loud applause, and my heart swelled with pride until I remembered I had no reason to be proud. Ian Sebastian hadn’t yet declared any intentions toward me. One day I might awaken and find his interest had been transferred to another.

I realized how disappointed I would be if that transpired. In my imagination I had installed myself at Fox River Farm, borne Ian’s children and settled into a life of casual wealth and great respect. I had little desire to return to Fifth Avenue society with its pretensions and limitations. I was enchanted by the freedom I experienced here.

In those moments of panic it never once occurred to me that marriage to Ian might curtail my freedom in unexpected ways.

The meal ended, and the orchestra, now well fed and rested, began to play again.

I took my cue and excused myself. As I was leaving, Annie caught my arm and introduced me to Paul Symington. I stopped for a few moments to chat, then, as Paul led a starry-eyed Annie to the dance floor, I made my way outside, making certain that Mrs. Jones missed my exit.

Outside, I skirted the clubhouse, avoiding several gentlemen smoking near the front, and slipped around to the north side of the building to look for Ian. It was dark outside, with only a wispy crescent moon, and although light spilled from the windows, the sycamores were farther than I remembered. Horses whinnied to each other in the darkness, and somewhere a nightbird trilled a nocturne. I felt my way for the last twenty yards, tiptoeing carefully so I didn’t sprawl at Ian’s feet.

“There you are.” Ian stepped out from behind the largest tree and held out his arms.

I was well-bred. I knew what a lady did and didn’t do, but I threw myself into his embrace with all the fervor of youth. And when he kissed me, my last shred of reserve disappeared.

We parted at last, my lips bruised from the force of his, the taste of local corn liquor on my tongue.

“This can’t go on, you know.” Ian settled his hands on my hips as if to keep me from running away, although that was the last thing on my mind. “I had a wife and confess to not liking it very well. I never planned to take another.”

Although I wanted to ask him about the woman who’d died bearing his child—for I’d learned that much from Annie—I knew there were more important things to settle. “And now?”

“And now I find myself thinking of taking another anyway.”

“Really? And have you someone in mind?”

“A wily young vixen who might very well serve the purpose.”

I supposed that for a foxhunter, comparing a woman to a vixen was the rarest of compliments.

I rested my fingertips on his shoulders. “Suppose you asked your young vixen. What do you think she might say?”

“I think she might well throw herself into my arms.”

“What a foolish, foolish girl. Everyone knows a man should be kept guessing until the moment he proposes.”

He laughed. “I want more than her hand. I want her warm body in my bed. I want her womb filled with my sons.”

“Sons only?”

His expression darkened, but only for an instant. “I lost a son before he could take his first breath. I want another.”

I had never wanted anything as much as I wanted, at that moment, to give Ian a son. And I knew that I could. I was young and healthy, filled with vitality. I was sure I could give him everything he yearned for.

The sadness—for that’s what I thought it was—disappeared, and he smiled down at me. “Will you marry me, Louisa Elsabeth Schumacher? Will you become the mistress of Fox River Farm and the mother of my children?”

I thought briefly of the other men I’d known. They were all paler imitations of this one, doomed to suffer in his shadow. I was eighteen, and Ian was a man of thirty-seven, but at that moment we were only two people, equal in every way, considering our future.