Fox River (28 page)

Christian saw Clover but wisely said nothing. To his surprise, Clover joined the fray, wiggling as if she knew she’d been paged. It might be the only time in her life she’d listened to a command.

“Clover!” Even in a sea of tricolored foxhounds, Callie recognized the puppy. She dove for her and lifted her high, not an easy feat, since the puppy, like all foxhounds, was destined to be a good-size dog. “There you are. Do you want to come out and play?”

The other puppies demanded attention, but Callie only had eyes for this one. Clover licked her face. “Oh, she likes me!” Callie said.

“I think she likes you enough to go home with you. What do you think?”

Callie looked up at him. “I can take her home?”

“She’s yours. Mr. Claymore is giving her to you. Your mommy and grandma said you could have her.”

“I can have her? Forever?”

“She’s all yours.”

Callie zoomed toward him, the puppy sagging under one arm. She threw her free arm around his hips and hugged him hard. “You did this, didn’t you? It wasn’t Mr. Claymore. It was you.”

He smoothed her hair. The ice around his heart was melting faster than he could clean up the mess.

“Don’t take her, Mommy. I’ll make sure she doesn’t chew anything or pee on the floor. I promise!” The good news: Clover seemed to be housebroken. The bad news: Callie refused to be parted from her for the night.

Julia knew how hard those rules would be to enforce, but Maisy had already promised she and Jake wouldn’t be upset if Callie had the puppy in bed with her.

“I can guarantee that compared with who she’ll want in her bed later in life, this is a big fat nothing,” Maisy said wryly.

Now Julia tucked them both in. Clover gave her a sloppy good-night kiss, along with Callie. Julia left the bedroom smiling.

The smile didn’t stay in place long. She found her mother in the kitchen. “I think she’s happy, don’t you?”

“Thrilled’s more like it.”

“And you won’t mind keeping Clover here if we go back to Millcreek?”

“No. I’ll see more of Callie that way.”

Julia found a chair. “You left me alone with Christian at Claymore Park.”

“More like Callie dragged me off.”

“Were you hoping I’d tell him?” Julia knew she didn’t have to spell out what she meant.

“I hope you’ll tell him, yes. I’m sure that wasn’t the time or place for it.”

Julia drummed her fingers on the table. “Maisy, I have another favor. It’s a big one.”

“I’m not telling him for you, if that’s what you want.”

“I want to go to the hunter’s pace tomorrow. I’m going to let Callie enter with Tiffany.”

“Are you sure?” Maisy sounded worried.

“Samantha promised to ride along with them, and the jumps are optional for everybody. The children have a shorter course. They’ll have the time of their lives.”

“It sounds like fun, I guess. But you want to be there?”

“I do.”

Maisy was silent. Julia knew why. Until now, Julia had played along with Bard’s desire to keep her “condition” a closely guarded secret. Now she would be exposing it to everyone.

“I don’t care what people think,” Julia said. “I’m not ashamed of what’s happened to me. I’m blind, and as far as I know, it’s not contagious.”

Maisy snorted. “You’ll need help.”

“Will you stay with me? Make sure I don’t walk into trees and stumble down hills?”

“Do you know how long it’s been since I went to a Mosby Hunt activity?”

“Since my father died. If you don’t want to do it, I can ask Karen to work an extra day.”

“No. It’s time I showed up for something. But I will not wear denim or tweed, not for you or anyone.”

“You can wear whatever you want. Feathers and sequins. I don’t care.”

“Bard will.”

“Bard is making trouble for Christian. He’s circulating a petition to keep Christian from becoming huntsman.”

“Pushing paper is a lawyer’s greatest pleasure.”

“I’m going tomorrow to make sure that people know I don’t support him.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“About nine years ago I sat on the witness stand and let a jury think I had doubts about the man I loved. If I don’t stand up for Christian now, it’s almost as bad. Maybe I’m blind, but I’m not so worn down by it that I can’t stand up for what’s right and for someone I care about.”

“I’m proud of you.”

Julia got to her feet. “I guess I’d better get a good night’s sleep. It’s going to be an exhausting day.”

“Do you want to hear another chapter?”

“Sure. Compared to what poor Louisa is dealing with, my life is a bowl of cherries. Even if Ian does have a mysterious resemblance to Lombard Warwick the third.”

“It’s a story, Julia.”

“Only a story. But maybe it will give me some backbone to face tomorrow.”

W
hat makes a man expect perfection of a woman when he is far from perfect himself? I tried to be a good wife, but my efforts, which would have pleased any reasonable person, didn’t please Ian, and he made sure I knew. Had he known how deeply rooted was my flightiness, my poor judgment, he would have chosen another woman to wed. But since our marriage had to continue, I would learn the things I needed. He would make certain of it.

He mellowed, of course. After several days he graciously excused me for my mistakes, admitting that I was young, after all, and couldn’t be expected to know everything quite so soon. Perhaps he’d even had a hand in my failures. Had he supervised me more closely, I might have measured up.

I was torn by this new concession to my youth. After experiencing the dark clouds of his wrath, I was so overcome with gratitude that I tried to forget the injustice of it. But at odd moments I still found myself growing angry.

The anger dwindled as Ian and I settled into new roles. He instructed me at length on every aspect of being a good wife, and I, anxious to avoid strife, took his lessons to heart. After several hunts when I stayed at the back of the field on Jubilee, a gentle bay that Annie and her parents had given me for a wedding present, Ian determined that I needed a more spirited Thoroughbred and some advanced riding lessons. I demurred, but when it was clear Ian would not let this go without another scene, I agreed to learn to ride the four-year-old Crossfire.

I was frightened of Crossfire from the beginning. A stunning white gelding, Crossfire was larger and longer of leg than any horse I’d ridden, nearly seventeen hands. His sire was Cuban Sunset, the renowned hunter who had also sired Ian’s stallion, Equator. Ian had intended Crossfire for himself, but the horse had been too predictable to keep his interest. Equator, a horse for only the most courageous rider, was more to his taste.

I found Crossfire to be predictably challenging, a horse with a mind of his own and the will to follow it. He knew I was half Ian’s size and not even half as strong. He sensed my fear and exploited every one of my inconsistencies.

At first Ian was in his element instructing me. He was surprisingly patient, only growing restless with my struggles as the Thanksgiving meet approached. Thanksgiving was a special occasion for the Fox River Hunt, to be followed by a feast at the clubhouse. The field would be one of the largest of the season, and Ian was determined I would make my debut on Crossfire. Some part of this was because we would look handsome as we rode together, Ian with his black hair and black stallion, I with my blond hair and white gelding. I knew that Ian wanted to plant a new image in the minds of his cohorts. Stunning Louisa on her powerful horse. Perhaps then I would be the wife he deserved.

I rode Crossfire every day, jumping and taking the expected falls. But I persevered, and eventually Ian’s dream became mine.

That’s the problem with dreams. They are rarely one’s own. They seep from one soul to another, and if two people share a bed and the hours between dusk and dawn, then their dreams become one. Or at least the dream of the stronger becomes the dream of the weaker.

Ian was the stronger, of course. Older, physically superior, assured that he always knew best. I believed him when he said I could master Crossfire, and I did improve. If Crossfire didn’t always take me seriously, he did listen when it suited him. In exchange I became more accustomed to the way his huge body bunched as we approached a jump, the fierce speed at which he thundered through a field, his uncompromising desire to be first.

Thanksgiving Day arrived, and we arose before dawn to ride to the clubhouse, where the meet was to begin and end. The hounds were to be transported by our huntsman and stable staff, and Ian and I had that final hour to go over everything he’d taught me.

“We’ll cast the hounds down by Soldier’s Bluff,” he told me. “We’re sure to scare up a fox or two in the first hour. The day’s nearly perfect.”

I knew what a perfect day entailed. Clear weather and cool. Since a fox’s scent hovered near the ground and rose as the ground heated, the warmer our weather, the earlier our meets. Late November had been crisp and cool, however, and today was no exception. A light frost still clung to the ground guaranteeing that the scent would not float above the foxhounds’ heads.

“The fences are well-maintained. John Higby has erected a new fence line, but carefully, so we’ll have a new in and out to conquer. I’ve ridden it, and none of our riders should have any trouble. Certainly not you on Crossfire.”

I wanted to share his confidence, but I was already tired from holding Crossfire to a reasonable pace. He sensed the day’s excitement and seemed ready to create his own at a moment’s notice.

“I’m going to do my best,” I promised, “but if Crossfire and I don’t get along, I may have to drop back with the hilltoppers. You’ll understand?”

“I’ll understand that you’ve given up, not something I expect from you, Louisa. I married you because of your gumption.”

I don’t know what came over me, but I couldn’t let that pass. “Is that so? Because sometimes, darling, it seems as if you’re trying to bleed it out of me, one drop at a time.”

No sooner were the words out of my mouth than I knew I’d ruined the day. Ian didn’t take well to criticism. I waited for his explosion, but when it came, it was surprisingly mild. “Perhaps it seems that way at times, but I only want you to be the best you can be. Isn’t that a husband’s task?”

I had braved enough and knew his limitations. “I’m sorry. Of course you’re only trying to help me.”

“I suspect you don’t think that at all.”

“I’m only scared about today, Ian. Crossfire is just so much for me to handle….”

“Well, perhaps someone’s little girl will bring a nice gentle pony for you to ride instead.” He kicked Equator into a trot, then a canter, and before long Crossfire and I had been left in their dust.

I considered it a victory of sorts that I kept Crossfire from following at Equator’s heels, but by the time we arrived at the clubhouse, I was already exhausted from trying to hold him in check. He wanted to run, and the sight of the hounds made his ears spring forward in anticipation.

I was greeted cordially. Annie and Paul were on their honeymoon after a wedding at a local church. The Joneses were unhappy that she and Paul were moving away, but they had adjusted. There was talk of their going to Chicago, too, and every time I heard it, I felt more alone.

The clubhouse was decorated with pumpkins and Indian corn, and inside, the fragrance of roasting turkeys was just beginning to scent the air. I chatted with some of the ladies as we waited for everyone to arrive. Mrs. Jones joined us, and after we’d asked what she’d heard from Annie, we began to talk about our mounts.

“That gelding of yours seems like a handful,” Mrs. Jones said. “He’s a bit large for a small woman, wouldn’t you say?”

“Ian’s determined I can ride him.” I smiled but she must have seen the truth.

“Louisa, dear, if you’re not comfortable with the horse, perhaps you shouldn’t try him in a hunt quite so soon…”

“Ian would be very disappointed if I didn’t.”

Another woman, a Mrs. Rutherford from a farm close to Middleburg, chimed in. “He’s a stern taskmaster, isn’t he? Just the man to be our Master of Foxhounds…” She didn’t finish her sentence, but the rest was clear from her tone.
“But not necessarily as good for a husband.”

The other women wandered off to see to their horses, but Mrs. Jones held me back. “You are getting on all right with Ian, aren’t you?”

I’d thought her too frivolous to notice anything more than six feet from view. “Ian can be difficult.” I was grateful to say the words out loud.

“I married Mr. Jones with the notion we would live in the city. I was particularly fond of the theater and missed it so terribly when we moved to Sweetwater. Now it seems we’ll have the city for our declining years.”

She was telling me things would improve with time. I had been telling myself the same thing for so many months that the platitude was almost a relief.

“I’ll miss you if you move,” I said. “You are the only family I have in Virginia.”

She patted my hand. “Sometimes it’s best not to have anyone to run to. You must make your own way with Ian, without interference.”

Outside again, I found our groom and Crossfire, and mounted with his assistance. I knew immediately that we were in for trouble. He danced under me in expectation. He had hunted during cubbing season, but apparently it hadn’t settled him. He knew what was coming and planned to be in the forefront.

The field was larger than usual. We gathered around Ian, who explained his plan. There were several places to be particularly careful. A newly plowed cornfield that we were to avoid, a section of forest where timber was being harvested, a portion of Fox River downstream from a beaver dam that had swollen with unusual rainfall and would be more difficult than usual to cross.

He ignored me, and I knew he was still angry. Our huntsman blew several notes on his horn and, with his twenty or more couple of hounds, started away from the clubhouse. The whippers-in, with whips that only seldom touched a hound, flanked them, their job to keep members of the pack from straying.

Ian followed well behind, and we rode behind him, as the field was supposed to do. It was the worst possible etiquette to pass the master, and nearly as bad to crowd him.

I hadn’t taken to foxhunting with enthusiasm, particularly not after Ian had presented me with the fox’s mask. The shock had stayed with me, and riding at the back of the field had been a way to cushion myself against witnessing the occasional fox’s death. Clearly, though, if I was to make a success of my marriage, I had to develop the sporting spirit. Now I vowed to do my best, to make Ian proud, to relish the hunt as much as he did.

We reached the rough road below Soldier’s Bluff after a nearly perfect ride through meadow and forest. Later we would need to be silent so not to disturb the hounds. For now, riders chatted and caught up on local gossip.

When the field had assembled, the huntsman, using staccato signals on his horn, cast his hounds. Nothing happened for minutes as we sat quietly and waited for the hounds to pick up a scent. Then the pack’s bitch strike hound opened, and in moments the entire pack was in full cry.

There was little to remember at the beginning of our chase. I struggled with Crossfire, but managed to hold him back as we took the first jump. Since it was a narrow path leading over the fence, we had to wait our turns, and I was elated when I was able to hold Crossfire in line before we had our chance to clear it. I kept my eyes up, my heels and hands low, and we sailed over the rails as if we were bound for heaven.

With my confidence growing, I concentrated on staying a safe distance from Ian. We were too close to the front for comfort, but I vowed not to retreat. I wanted Ian to see I was attempting to please him. If I rode well enough, he might forgive me.

The line of scent was strong and the hounds were enthusiastic. We rode hard for nearly an hour, checking twice to let the hounds reestablish the line. When we started up after the second rest, I realized immediately how sore my arms were from holding Crossfire and how exhausted I was. I admitted this just as a man and woman in their final years sailed merrily past me, and suddenly I was ashamed.

I struck out with hope that Crossfire might be tiring, too. But that was foolish. My horse was only warming up, and the battle to keep him firmly in the field continued. We took two more jumps, picked our way through the forest and crossed Fox River at a shallow spot away from the dam. The hounds were far ahead of us, and the field was straggling behind me now. The fieldmaster, whose job was to keep us together, rode far behind, helping those at the rear find their way across the river.

What happened next will live in my memory always. The hounds had grown silent, and I only knew which direction to go by glimpses of scarlet through the forest ahead of me. I turned Crossfire to follow, and we slowed our pace. I loosened my grip on the reins to conserve my strength, and at that same moment a sleek red fox with a brush—or tail—as thick as a tree limb streaked past us. The hounds were on him immediately, and before I could gather my strength to hold Crossfire back, he took the bit and started after them.

I fought my horse with no success. I was no more annoying to Crossfire than an ant, and he stretched out his great legs and ran like a racehorse. Ian was somewhere behind me, our huntsman well behind him. I heard Ian yell for me to hold hard, but he might as well have asked me to stand on my hands in the saddle. Crossfire continued his flight.

I heard Ian coming up behind me, but the pounding of Equator’s hoofs spurred Crossfire forward.

“Hold hard, damn it!”

I sawed at the reins, forgetting everything I’d learned, but nothing would stop Crossfire. Ian gained on us only because of Equator’s superior strength. In horror I saw the hounds leaping a fallen tree just ahead of us, flanked on two sides by forest and only wide enough for one horse to clear. I couldn’t see the other side, indicating a drop, always a difficult jump, and even in my panic, I knew that Ian and I could not clear the jump together.

“Hold hard!” he shouted again.

“I can’t!”

“You’d damned well better!”

I knew he saw the danger. He was in control of his horse. I was sure he would pull up at the last moment and let me take it first, even though it was a horrid breach of protocol to jump before the master. I readied myself to sail over it, trying desperately to get myself into proper position. Then Ian and Equator were beside us, and he was striking Crossfire with his crop.