Fox River (29 page)

The rest passed in a blur. Crossfire stumbled and veered into the brush, and I sailed over his head to land in the bushes. Later I was told that Ian made the jump effortlessly without impediment and continued on, leaving me to the care of the fieldmaster, who arrived in a few minutes.

“It’s a good thing Ian stopped you!” the fieldmaster, a young man named Calvin, exclaimed, after he’d asked whether I was injured. “That horse of yours was completely out of control! He’s too much for you, Louisa. I’d think you might have realized that by now. I’m surprised Ian allows it. He certainly must be in love with you.”

I was scratched and bruised, but not seriously hurt. In utter humiliation, I was forced to walk out to the nearest road and wait until my horse was returned to me or someone going back to the clubhouse stopped to give me a ride.

I waited only a few minutes before a farmer passed in a hay wagon drawn by two mules, and I rode with him. Since he was going nearly as far as Fox River Farm, I continued home on foot instead of going to the clubhouse, too sore and upset to enjoy Thanksgiving with the others. I telephoned when I arrived so that no one would go out to comb the woods for me. Then I waited for Ian.

He was later than I expected. Our staff had already returned, leading a subdued Crossfire. The hounds were in their kennel, checked for injury, well fed and sleeping off the hunt when Ian finally arrived on Equator. I had spent the remainder of the day trying to anticipate what he would do and say.

Ian wouldn’t admit that Crossfire was too much horse for me after all, because then he would have to admit that he had been wrong. Nor could I expect him to be sorry that he’d risked my safety simply to get across a jump before me. By now Ian might even believe he had whipped Crossfire simply to stop the horse’s unimpeded dash after the foxhounds and prevent greater harm.

I, of course, knew differently. And although I’d grown adept at rearranging facts in my head, I couldn’t change this one. I remembered clearly the fury on Ian’s face as he raised his whip. In that moment, if Ian could have gotten away with whipping me instead of my horse, he would have gladly done so.

I was upstairs in my suite when Ian finally found me. It was too early to go to bed, but I had changed for the night anyway. Despite a warm bath and Lettie’s chamomile tea, I was exhausted and aching. I wanted only to read a while and fall asleep. Ian would never issue an apology, but perhaps in the morning he might accept mine. In my rebellious heart I knew I owed him nothing, but in my head I’d realized an apology was the only path back into his good graces.

“So you made it home.” He came into my bedroom and closed the door behind him.

I had hoped to avoid a conversation until tomorrow, certain he would simply sleep in his own room as he often did when he came in late. I put down my novel. “I phoned when I arrived. I hope you got the message?”

“It was delivered in front of three of the other governors. My wife in a farmer’s hay cart. Quite a joke for the rest of the day.”

“I’m sorry. I did ask them to tell you privately.”

“I was chastised for allowing you to be so headstrong, Louisa. For allowing you to ride Crossfire today when clearly you aren’t experienced enough.”

I knew better than to appear angry, although inside I was seething. “I’m sorry about that, too. It must have been difficult to explain.”

“Difficult?” Until that moment he had stood beside the door. Now he strode to the bedside. “I am the master. If they don’t respect me, what will happen? How long will they allow me to serve, do you suppose?”

“You’re the best master in Virginia, Ian. They’ll—”

“If I can’t control my own wife, how can I control the hunt?” Before I realized what he was about to do, he stripped off the spread covering me. “Tell me that, will you?”

Apprehension, which had become a subtle part of every day, expanded into something more threatening. “Ian, I tried as hard as I could. I really did. But Crossfire is too much for me. The others are right. I wish it were different—”

He hauled me to my feet, his hands like iron bands on my bruised arms. “What made you think you could ride him?”

As afraid as I was, I was still astounded. “But I told you, over and over again—”

He slapped me. Hard. “You told me? You told me? You whined a little, that’s all. Had you been honest…”

I was gasping. No one had ever slapped me. Not my parents, not my teachers, not even my older brothers during play as children. My head spun round to the side with the force of his palm. “Ian, stop it!”

“Stop what? Stop you from making a fool of me? Gladly!” He slapped me again, and my head careened in the opposite direction.

I struggled in his grip, trying to get away. He landed two more blows, this time with his fist to my neck and shoulders, another to my breastbone that was so hard it forced the breath from my lungs. Then he shoved me back to the bed.

“You are a disgrace,” he shouted. “And a menace in the field.”

I was horrified. My hands crept to my burning cheeks. I could still feel the impact of his palms.

“Stop looking at me like that. This was nothing—
nothing
—like what you really deserve!” He looked as if he was considering whether to continue his demonstration. I cowered back against the pillows.

“Tomorrow you’ll ride all afternoon and practice controlling your horse. You’ll do the same every single day, do you understand? You’re a worthless powderpuff, Louisa. But your work will begin tomorrow, and until you’ve reached the standards I set for you, you’ll stay at Fox River. You won’t go anywhere, you won’t do anything, you won’t see anyone, until I’m satisfied.”

He meant to keep me prisoner here until my bruises disappeared. I understood that, even in my terrified state.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” he demanded.

“I’m…I’m sorry.” I managed to get the words out, although they threatened to stick in my throat.

He debated whether to accept the apology. I could see his struggle in his eyes. Some part of him, a hideous, overwhelming beast that had risen inside him, wanted to hit me again, perhaps until I fainted from his abuse.

Another part of him, a somewhat better man, seemed to gain control. He shook his head, then he turned on his heel and left the room.

S
ince the hunter’s pace was open to the public and strictly for fun, Mosby Hunt members weren’t expected to dress in their traditional clothes. Today it didn’t matter what color coats or collars were. “Ratcatcher” or informal clothing was the order of the day for everyone. Except staff.

Christian tied and adjusted his stock and pinned it firmly in place with the plainest stockpin he’d found. He had been lucky enough to find clothes that fit without having to make a special order. Between Middleburg and Warrenton he had outfitted himself as huntsman—at Peter’s expense. Dark canary breeches, scarlet coat, white vest, shirt and stock, gloves and braided belt, black velvet cap. The extravagant custom-made boots were a pair that Peter had given him without ceremony. “Robby’s,” he had said. “Please, if they fit, wear them. He’d want you to.”

They had fit.

After swiping the boots one more time, he joined Peter in the stable. Peter gave him the once-over, then nodded his approval. “I’ve decided to bring Gorda and Fish for the morning, and some of the older hounds. People always want to see them. We’ll pen them near the front gate. You’ll be stationed there at first to give directions and check Coggins.”

There were few rules for entry in the hunter’s pace, but one was a negative Coggins, a blood test for equine infectious anemia.

Christian wondered if Peter had stationed him so prominently in his huntsman’s uniform to make a statement. He supposed it was better to get the unpleasantness over with right at the start.

“Are you taking Night Ranger?” Peter said.

“I’d planned to. I got up early and washed him within an inch of his life and painted his hoofs. It took me a few tries to braid his mane and tail. He was not amused.”

“Haven’t done that for a while, have you?”

“Rampaging Ralph and Murdering Marvin got a little ticked when I practiced on them.”

Peter laughed. “You’re settling in, aren’t you, son?”

“Well enough, thanks.”

“Whatever happens today, I’ll make this right. I promise.”

“Don’t jeopardize your own standing for me. I’d like to be huntsman, but it’s not worth a fight.”

“It’s worth one to me. Especially if it’s Bard Warwick I’m up against.”

Christian remembered the few things Julia had said about her husband. “You don’t like him, do you?”

“Never did.”

“Do you mind telling me why?”

“Because he’s a man with only one passion. Bard is like a champion racehorse bred to win and only win. Everything he does, everything he is, exists to accomplish that goal.”

“He’s already won, hasn’t he? He has Millcreek Farm, he has Julia and Callie. He’s respected in the community.”

“Yes, and he’s making money hand over fist, but it will never be enough. As soon as he wins one race, he enters another. I’m not even sure he makes a stop at the winner’s circle. He’s off and running again.”

“An interesting analogy.”

“The Warwick name is respected here, although, for the record, his father wasn’t the best example of it himself. I just hope Bard doesn’t do anything to sully it for his own children.”

Christian wondered why there weren’t more children. Julia was clearly a devoted mother, and Bard seemed like a man who might want a son to carry on his name—as archaic as that was by the standards of the day.

“He’s an upstanding member of the club,” Peter said. “He’s gotten close to stepping on toes, but never trod quite hard enough to wound anyone. I’m ready for the fight.”

Christian thought Peter was more than ready. He was looking forward to it.

“Okay, how do I look?” Julia held her arms open so her daughter could do an inspection. “Is my shirt buttoned evenly? Tucked in all the way around?” She twirled slowly. “Are my jeans stained or wrinkled?”

“You look pretty.”

Julia decided she’d better ask Maisy, just to be sure. She was wearing good jeans and a blue-and-green plaid shirt with a spruce-green cashmere pullover tied around her shoulders. She had fastened her hair with a silver clip. Small silver horse heads adorned her earlobes, a gift from Fidelity on the day Julia had proudly ridden through the South Land gates to show her friend she had conquered her fear of horses.

She heard Maisy coming downstairs, and she stationed herself at the bottom, repeating the twirl so Maisy could pronounce her dressed.

Maisy approved. “You look great.”

“How about Callie?”

Maisy checked her granddaughter, too. “Terrific. Callie, the pink elephant shirt’s a perfect match with the zebra print shorts.”

“Maisy!” Julia laughed. “Oh Lord, you’d better be kidding.”

“I’m wearing jeans!” Callie said. “And my Harry Potter sweatshirt!”

“And she washed behind her ears,” Maisy said. “She’s all ready. Time to go.”

“What’s Maisy wearing?” Julia asked her daughter.

“Grandmother clothes.”

“I’m wearing navy-blue pants and a matching shirt,” Maisy said. “I do look like a grandmother, at that. And before you say anything, I had my hair trimmed yesterday and most of the permanent’s gone now. I am presentable.”

“Maisy’s hair is brown,” Callie said.

“Maisy, what color is your hair? Really?”

“I’ll never tell.” Maisy took her arm. “Ready?”

Julia straightened her spine. The day was going to be a trial, but she was determined to get through it. “I can’t wait to ride in the new truck.”

The trip to Claymore Park only took a few minutes by road. Samantha had swung by with a horse trailer earlier in the morning to pick up Feather Foot. She and Tiffany planned to meet them at Claymore Park. They followed carefully made signs and parked in a meadow behind the house. As instructed, Callie hopped out and stood by the pickup while Maisy came around to help Julia down.

Some hunt clubs staged gala events with entrants who traveled hundreds of miles with champion horses, but Mosby’s goals were different. Peter wanted to introduce the locals to the sport. Keeping property open for foxhunting was always a concern, and the hunter’s pace was a chance to curry community goodwill. Local businesses sold food and crafts in a tent near the gate. At the end of the day there would be pony races and a costumed rider parade, as well as gag gifts for the worst riders in each division.

Julia slid sunglasses up her nose, then stepped down and put her fingertips on Maisy’s arm. “Will you be my eyes and tell me what you see? Callie can help.” Julia felt her daughter come up beside her, and she slung her arm over Callie’s shoulder.

“There are lots of cars,” Callie said.

Julia pictured brand-new sports utility wagons and trucks. “Horse trailers?”

“Boo-coo,” Maisy told her. “The gate’s about sixty yards ahead of us. And it looks like Christian is there with some other men talking to people and directing foot and horse traffic. He’s in hunting clothes.”

“How does Christian look? Older, obviously. But…”

“He looks a lot the same, as a matter of fact. Just tougher. Like he’s forgotten what it’s like to be young.”

“He has.” Julia could hear voices and birdsong. Somewhere to her left a dog was barking, and somewhere else a horse whinnied anxiously.

“He looks good in a pink coat. Your father did, too. Not every man does. Some look plain silly.”

“It’s not pink. It’s red,” Callie said.

“But that’s what they call it,” Maisy told her. “Just one of the silliest traditions in the world.”

“I like those traditions,” Julia said. “They hearken back to a more gracious time. When manners and chivalry meant something.”

“You mean the days when they were still locking people in dungeons and sewage flowed on public streets?”

“Ask Christian about dungeons,” Julia said. “And don’t be so uppity.” She patted her mother’s arm. “Flo Sutherland told me once that you used to be a great rider. Is that why you quit foxhunting? Because the traditions are silly?”

“No, because I knew I would never be able to ride again without looking for the master on his great gray horse.”

Julia was ashamed. “I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t understand.”

Maisy patted her hand. “I saw Christian the other day on Night Ranger. For a moment, just a moment…”

“He looks like my father?”

“Not up close. Not at all. But he sits that horse of his the way Harry sat his. Like they’re one organism.”

“I want to go ahead.” Callie pulled away from her mother. “Can I?”

“Maisy?” Julia couldn’t see to give permission.

“Callie, do you know enough to stay away from every single horse’s behind?” Maisy said.

Julia laughed.

“Of course I do! Pickles!”

“Tiffany’s favorite expletive,” Julia explained.

“Then go ahead,” Maisy said, “but be careful. And find Samantha right away. We’ll pay your fee at the table.”

They took the rest of the walk in silence.

“Christian’s coming,” Maisy said.

“Maisy, Julia.” Christian’s voice was strong and not too far away. “I didn’t know you planned to come.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Julia said, head held high. She put out her hand, and he took it for a moment, dropping it, she was sure, to take her mother’s.

“Getting a good registration?” Maisy asked.

“Higher than expected.”

“They’ve all come for the show.”

“It’s not the best one around. Most of the course is hidden from view.”

“That’s not the show I was referring to.”

Christian gave a short laugh.

“Christian, you know how glad I am to have you as our new huntsman,” Julia said loudly enough to be overheard, if anyone was nearby to listen.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Well, it’s a job you’re eminently qualified for,” Maisy said. “And you certainly look the part.”

Julia wished more than ever that she could see him.

“We’ll leave you to do your job,” Maisy said.

“I’ll be off riding the course. But I’ll keep an eye out for Callie, although if she’s with Samantha she’ll be fine.”

“She’s as comfortable on a horse as I was off one at that age.”

“Well, she’s got the genes for it.”

Julia swallowed a sudden lump in her throat. “Have a good day.”

“I plan to. Thanks.”

“He’s gone now,” Maisy said quietly. “But you are the center of attention. Watch it, they’re descending.”

Julia steeled herself to explain to the unseen horde why she was leaning on her mother’s arm, why she could no longer see, and why she was living at Ashbourne with her parents and Callie until she had recovered.

Bard Warwick, with his horse Moondrop Morning, was the forty-third entrant in the Mosby Hunt’s hunter’s pace. Christian stood at the gate, as he had for every other rider, and asked Bard for proof his horse had a negative Coggins.

“I shouldn’t have to show
you
anything, Carver,” Bard said in a low voice. Grudgingly he handed over the paper.

Christian scanned it and nodded. “Thank you. If you’d like to take your horse over there and write a check, they’ll issue you a packet of information and a starting time. If you preregistered, you’ll be among the first to go.”

“I hope you didn’t spend a lot on the clothes.”

Christian stared steadily at him. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Sure, it would be a big help if you’d simply quit as huntsman.”

Christian looked past him and saw Frank and Flo Sutherland approaching. Nine years had passed, but he easily recognized Fidelity’s parents, although they had both aged two years for every one since. He had been tense to start with; now his body felt like an iron rod. “We have other people waiting to get through the gate,” he said.

Bard glanced behind him. When he turned back to Christian, his expression was expectant. “I wasn’t sure they’d come. Under the circumstances.” He led his horse toward the table Christian had indicated, but Christian was sure he would turn, once he got there, to watch the fireworks.

“Mrs. Sutherland. Mr. Sutherland.” Christian nodded. He did not tell them it was good to see them. It wasn’t. They had been among the earliest to turn against him. He’d never really blamed them. Their grief was immeasurable. Whatever their faults as parents, they had worshiped their daughter, and he was sure that every day seemed impossible to face without her.

They were both stunned to see him. Their expressions were identical. Horrified. He wondered how Bard had missed the opportunity to let them know he would be here. Perhaps he’d thought the shock value would be worth more.

“Christian…” Flo spoke first. Fidelity had looked like her mother, although Flo’s features were coarser, and she was taller than her daughter had been.

“I wish we weren’t meeting like this,” Christian said. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew I’d be here.”

“No. No.” Flo shook her head. Then she lifted her chin. “How are you?”

He was so stunned, he couldn’t find the words to answer.