Fox River (42 page)

C
hristian was awakened by the telephone again, this time just minutes before his alarm was to go off. He considered ripping the damn thing out of the wall.

“Hi,” Julia said on the other end.

He changed his mind about the telephone. He sat up straight, combing his hair off his forehead with his fingers, and wondered if there was anything sexier than waking up to Julia’s soft voice. “Is anything wrong?”

“Nothing. I know I took a chance calling this early, but I was pretty sure you’d be getting ready for the opening meet. I just wanted to wish you luck. I’d give anything to be there watching you hunt the hounds.”

He settled back against the headboard, cradling the receiver against his ear like a beloved object. “I have a lot to learn. Peter will probably do most of the work.”

“Robby always said Peter was happiest when he was in charge.”

“That was part of the reason Robby and Peter never got along.”

Julia was silent a moment. “That’s odd. You know, that was one of the last things Robby said to me, and I haven’t thought about it for years. I told you I didn’t see much of him. He turned me down every time I tried to get together. He wouldn’t even come to Callie’s christening. But I ran into him in town just a week or maybe two before he died, and when I told him how much I missed him, he said something about the way Peter had taken over his life.”

“Well, you said Robby was depressed. If I know Peter, he was just trying to snap him out of it.”

“You’re probably right, but that day Robby seemed almost philosophical.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he told me he’d finally become the perfect son.” She paused. “I’m trying to think how he put the next part. It didn’t make sense, so it stuck with me. Something about how he’d only done two things in his life completely on his own, but that had given Peter enough to keep himself busy for the rest of his days.”

It didn’t make sense to Christian, either. “Did he explain?”

“No. It was such an odd thing to say, I asked him what he meant. But instead of answering, he asked if I still missed you and Fidelity. And when I said I did, he said maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing that Fidelity had died when she did.”

“I hope he explained.”

“He said Fidelity had died at the height of her powers.”

Christian tried to put the pieces of the conversation together.

Julia continued. “I don’t know. It’s the kind of thing people say to rationalize the death of someone they care about, isn’t it? She was spending a lot of time with him that summer, remember? In fact, I thought the flirting had gotten a little extreme, and I told her to ease up. When he lost both of you at the same time, I think he came unhinged a little. I’ve thought for a long time…”

“What?”

“That maybe his death wasn’t an accident.”

“Suicide?”

“Maybe. But if Robby was that disturbed, surely Peter knew and was getting him help.”

“Sometimes all of us are blind when it comes to the people we love most.” He heard his own words and realized where he’d heard some that were remarkably similar. From Bard Warwick.

I’ve known from the beginning who killed Fidelity, and it wasn’t Karl Zandoff. You never figured it out because you’re every bit as blind as my wife.

His hand tightened on the receiver as he realized exactly what Bard had meant.

Julia’s voice grew even softer. “I’m afraid that sounds like something my therapist might say.”

Christian’s mind was going in a million directions. “I’m sorry. Not the best expression to use, under the circumstances.”

“The right one. You’ll be careful today? Bard’s going to be at his worst.”

“Maybe not.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe he’s not quite the bastard I thought he was.”

“Christian?”

He was treading water, not sure which shore to swim toward. “I’d better go. There’s a lot to do before we head out.”

“Just take care.”

“I will.”

“Last night was wonderful. Thank you for the ride.”

He thought of all the changes in his life, the way the simplest things had been snatched from him and how little control he’d had. He thought of all the things he’d never said to those who weren’t alive now to hear them.

“Julia?”

“Uh-huh?”

“I didn’t just dream about riding. When I was in prison. I dreamed about you, too. Every night, until I was afraid to go to sleep. Every night for nine long years.”

He hung up softly and sat staring at the wall, trying to put the pieces of his life together once again.

Then he made his final phone call to Pinky Stewart.

Julia made the coffee before anyone else got up. Callie and Tiffany were spending the day and evening with a schoolmate’s family at their cabin in Shenandoah County, and Samantha was going to drop Tiffany off on her way to opening hunt. Jake would drive the girls to the cabin after breakfast.

It would be quiet without Callie’s sunny chatter, but for once Julia was looking forward to the silence. She knew what a big day this was going to be for Christian. She doubted she would be able to concentrate on anything else.

“You’re up early.”

Julia turned at Maisy’s words. “Well, so are you. This is historic.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Welcome to the club. I’ve made coffee. It should be ready in a few minutes.”

“Anybody watching you wouldn’t realize you were blind. You’ve mastered the place.”

“Which means as long as I stay at Ashbourne twenty-four hours a day, I can function.”

“You’re frustrated.”

“I’m becoming resigned. Have a seat and let me fix your breakfast.”

“I love being waited on.” A chair scraped.

Julia opened the cupboard and felt along the bottom shelf for bread. “Whole wheat or white?”

“How can you tell the difference?”

“The whole wheat comes with a twist tie. The white comes with a little…thingie. That little tab with the slot. You know.”

“Thingie is as good a word as any. But I’ll take whole wheat. No butter. I’m on a diet.”

Maisy’s diets were legendary. “What’s it this time? High protein, low protein, no protein?”

“Just good sensible eating habits and a decision not to hide behind these extra pounds anymore.”

Julia stopped fumbling with the tie. “Why, Maisy?”

“Do you remember when you stopped calling me Mommy?”

Julia didn’t remember that she ever had. “No. Weren’t you always Maisy?”

“Oh, no. You stopped when your father died. I was Maisy ever after.”

“You never complained.”

“There were many more things to think about.”

Julia forced herself to work on opening the bread bag again. “I can imagine.”

“Can you?”

Julia hesitated, then her hands were still again. “Yes,” she said softly. “I’m afraid I’m beginning to.”

Maisy was silent.

“Have you finished your novel, Maisy?”

“It’s finished.”

“I’d like to hear the rest.”

“Yes, I know. I’m glad.”

“Will you read to me when Jake takes the girls to the mountains?”

“I will.”

Julia faced her mother, the toast forgotten. “Has Jake read your book?”

“Jake only knows I’ve written it. He’s a patient man, your stepfather. He’s waited a long time for me to finally come into my own.”

S
everal weeks after the picnic, I took the shortest route to Sweetwater, where Alice was having a riding lesson. A groom rode with me, as one always seemed to now. I knew better than to resist his company. The grooms were under orders, and Ian would hear if I made a fuss. I was just grateful my husband hadn’t inquired as to why our daughter was spending so much time with the Carroltons. I hadn’t enlightened him. The less said about Alice, the better.

When I arrived, Etta beckoned me to the riding ring. “We have a surprise for you, Alice and I.”

I looked around for my daughter and saw her emerging from the stable into the ring, emerging on the back of Dick’s Shetland pony.

My Alice, riding at last.

I felt tears in my eyes. Despite everything, Alice had conquered her fear. I clapped softly. “Etta, you’ve made a miracle.”

“No, she’s a tough little thing under those pretty curls. When she decided she was ready, she just did it. She’s more her father’s child than he knows.”

Or ever
would
know, I thought. Because Ian would never see Alice for what she really was. She was, after all and before anything else, female.

“How can I thank you?” I asked.

“By taking good care of her.” Etta turned to look at me. “By keeping her safe. If there’s ever a doubt, send her here. We’ll teach her how to find the way.”

I waited to show Ian Alice’s accomplishment until she was more secure in the saddle. She was comfortable enough on Dick’s Cricket, but still refused even to be led on a larger horse or ride in front of me on Crossfire. Etta said that small children were often afraid of falling, a sensible fear, since for them the back of a horse was as high as a hayloft. That would change with time.

Time was always the healer.

At last, on a night when Ian seemed at his most mellow, we visited Sweetwater and Alice rode for her father.

Etta, whose enthusiasm for my husband had cooled perceptibly, stood with us as Alice and the pony walked around the ring. She turned to Ian. “As Aesop said, slow and steady wins the race.”

“It’s nice to see she’s not sniveling.” Ian watched Alice with a practiced eye. “I suppose we’ll have to buy her another pony now.”

Etta glanced at me. “Why not borrow Cricket until you find something that suits her better? We have no use for her. Then you can take your time, Ian.”

I knew what Etta was thinking. Cricket would be an appropriate mount for some time to come.

He shrugged. “That’s kind of you.”

I thanked Etta for everything. On the way home, Ian told Alice he was proud of her. It was the only time she ever heard those words.

In another month the hunting season was upon us, and with it Ian’s decision about which horse to ride at the opening hunt. He had purchased Shadow Dancer to stand at Fox River Farm, but before the splendid gray would attract the best mares, he needed to be seen in action by local horsemen. Bloodlines weren’t enough. Performance was the key.

Even had Ian been at the peak of health, training Shadow Dancer would have been a challenge. But with Ian’s health impaired, Shadow Dancer, with his lethal hoofs, his unnatural strength, his powerful will, was a potential calamity.

Despite this, Ian rode brilliantly in the opening hunt, impressing the field with Shadow Dancer’s extraordinary ability to sail over obstacles. We had one of the finest chases ever, ending when the fox considerately went to ground in time for a breakfast prepared and served by Lettie and her daughters. I had arranged the flowers ahead of time. They were scarlet roses and sprays of greenery, and the tables were clad in white linen with forest-green borders. Even Ian could find no fault.

By that evening, though, Ian was exhausted. He remained so for the rest of the week, and by the end, judging from his demeanor and temper, he was suffering several headaches a day. On the third hunt of the season he suffered one in the field. We had crossed from Sweetwater to Fox River Farm, and we were waiting for our huntsman’s signal. The field behind us was chatting amiably when I saw him stiffen as if he’d been hit. Ian was lucky the headache hadn’t come on during a run. With my heart pounding, I dismounted and went to his side.

“Darling,” I insisted loudly enough for several of the field to hear, “I’m afraid Crossfire’s picked up a stone. Will you come and see?”

He managed to dismount. We stood together, Ian leaning against the skittish Shadow Dancer while I held the horse’s head, until Ian was able to move again. Then, as I led Shadow Dancer, he followed me to Crossfire and pretended for long moments to examine the nonexistent stone.

“I’ve imagined it, haven’t I?” I shook my head. “I’m sorry.”

“Did you need an excuse…to stretch your legs, Louisa?”

He helped me mount. I could feel his arms tremble. I wondered if he would be able to mount Shadow Dancer and lead the chase when it began again. He did both, but the run was lackluster and his leadership confusing.

Ian was not at his best, and I knew the others sensed it as well.

The worst part of the day came at a particularly difficult jump not far from our house, one I had never taken, not even with Crossfire. Ian easily could have altered the jump, since it sat on our property, but it was the biggest and most discussed challenge of every season. The best riders insisted we keep it exactly the way it was, since it was something of a coming-of-age ritual to clear it.

A horse had to soar over a split-rail fence of four chestnut logs directly on to the slippery bank of Fox River, which sloped away sharply on the other side of the jump. Footing was precarious, and the jump was extraordinarily high. Balks were common, and even when a horse cleared the jump, riders often didn’t. There had been injuries and one near-death at the site.

Luckily, only a handful of riders felt equipped to try. The rest of us picked our way through the surrounding woods, taking a lesser jump over a modestly trickling branch of Fox River. Even Ian, the stern taskmaster, had never insisted I attempt it, although he always took it with ease.

I believed he would be cautious today, taking the safer jump while joking of the sacrifices he made for the field. But Ian’s crusade to pretend all was well continued. He headed straight for the jump while my heart lodged in my throat. Shadow Dancer was in his element. The jump was no more trouble for him than brushing flies with his tail. He sailed over the jump perfectly, but my exhausted, suffering husband looked like the rankest amateur, bouncing in the saddle and toppling backward as Shadow Dancer launched himself forward. Had the great horse not possessed so much heart, Ian’s poor horsemanship would have caused a grave accident.

I was not the only one who saw.

He slept most of the next day, but when he arose for supper, he denied anything was wrong. When I fussed over him, he became furious, and had Lettie and Seth not been in the room, he would have slapped me.

My position was becoming more precarious. I understood, as I hadn’t in the earliest years of our marriage, that Ian’s emotional life was a series of contradictions. At all times he was a man at war with himself, the man who “should have been” locked in combat with the man his father had made of him. In my own pathetic way, I served as the referee. And, like anyone so close to the fight, I was always in danger.

But never so much as now.

As the season progressed, Ian suffered more headaches in the saddle. Like other men before him, he turned his resentment toward the one person who could least resist it.

Alice had continued riding Cricket, growing in confidence and courage. She hadn’t, however, lost her fear of larger animals, including a pony, Duchess of York, that Ian found for her. I knew he planned to buy Duchess as a test. She was a pretty palomino, too large for Alice and too spirited. But as Ian had so often done with me, he was going to put his only child in a situation where she was destined to fail. If there was no target for the considerable anger he held inside himself, Ian created one.

So often in the past I had believed, foolishly, that I could prevent Ian’s fury. I’d been sure I had the key, if only I could find it. Now, sadly, I knew that no key had ever existed. At best I could delay him, and once again that was what I tried to do.

We were in bed together, and Ian, who had found a quick release in our lovemaking, was nearly asleep. I rubbed his back like a loving wife, although my thoughts were of survival, not affection. “Ian, Etta knows of a suitable pony for Alice. I think we should go look at him before we decide on anything.”

I could feel his muscles knotting under my fingertips. “I found a suitable pony for Alice. What does Etta Carrolton know that I don’t?”

“Of course she doesn’t know half what you know, darling. But this pony only just went up for sale. He’s much showier than old Cricket. She had only the highest praise for him. In fact, she was considering him for Dick.”

“Then let Dick have him.”

The pony was too small for Dick, which made him perfect for Alice. I just didn’t want to tell the story quite that way, since it would doom the outcome. “The Carroltons have a full stable. They had to decline. That’s when she thought of us.”

Ian rolled to his back and sat up. “What are you trying to do?”

“I’m trying to tell you about another pony Alice might like better than Duchess.” I realized I’d chosen my words poorly, but it was too late to call them back.

“Is that so? Etta knows our daughter better than her father does?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s damned close.”

“I was just presenting another option. I thought you’d be pleased I’ve become so interested in horse trading.”

“Duchess comes first thing in the morning. Alice rides her tomorrow, whether she wants to or not.”

I envisioned another terrible scene like the one that had sent me fleeing to New York. As Alice grew, how many of those would I witness? How many times would I fear for my daughter’s health, or even her life?

My horror must have shown in my face. “Don’t look at me like that!” Ian said. “Frances, goddamn her, used to look at me the same way.”

“Frances and I have more in common than I ever imagined!”

“What does that mean?”

“Frances left you because you beat her, didn’t she? Just like you beat me? Did you beat her when she was pregnant? Is that why your son died?”

He stared at me, and his face turned a sickly white. “How…dare…you?”

He lifted his hand to strike me, but I didn’t flinch. “I’ve
told
Etta about the beatings, Ian. I’ve told her that if I die, she’s to go straight to the sheriff and have Alice removed from this house. For all I know she’ll go to the sheriff if I show up at the next hunt bruised and battered. How long do you think you can keep this up without someone stepping in? For foxhunting’s sake, if not for mine?”

“You are expendable!”

“I could go to the board, you know. I could tell them the truth!”

“I will not be challenged in my own home. The ice is thin, Louisa. Be careful where you step.”

“You are heavier than I and far more likely to crash through it! And if you do, who will care enough to pull you out?”

He was silent. I wished I could read his mind, although I was certain I would hate what I found.

He surprised me by falling back to the bed. He stared at the ceiling. “Oh God, what have I become?”

I was stunned. He couldn’t fake the agony in his voice. No one was that good an actor. I didn’t know what to say. How could I answer? He had become a man like his father, dooming his marriages, destroying his wives, year by year, piece by piece. He had a monster living inside him.

He had a young boy living inside him, crying for his mother.

“I did hit Frances,” he said. “But I didn’t know she was pregnant. I swear I didn’t. She hid the pregnancy from me. She was planning to go home to her mother, and she didn’t want me to know. We fought one night, and she told me she was leaving. I shoved her, and she fell against the wardrobe and hit her head. I carried her to the bed and undressed her. That’s when I discovered she was carrying my child. She’d had no problems until the fight. After that, everything went wrong. She was sure it would all come right if she could just get away from me. In the end she did, and both of them died.”

I began to weep. He pulled me to his chest and stroked my hair. I don’t believe he apologized again. What was there to say that hadn’t already been said? He made no promises, told no lies. It was the finest, most honest moment of our marriage.

“I could have loved you,” I said at last. “At the beginning I was so very, very close, Ian. A hairbreadth away.”

“I do love you.” His voice trembled. “But, of course, you can’t believe it.”

“No, I do. Things might have been easier between us if you hadn’t. You might not have tried so hard to push me away.”

“I fell in love with you that first day. Your hair straggling, your riding habit torn. I thought of you facing that bear and I said to myself, ‘Perhaps she can face me, as well. Perhaps this is the woman who will set me free.’”

I wept harder, and at last, he wept, too. We fell asleep that way, holding each other with no illusions and no barriers.