Fox River. Emilie Richards

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      “I…” Julia tried to decide how to phrase the next part. “My work was suffering.”

      “Your painting?”

      Julia nodded. “I had a commission for a family portrait of the Trents. You remember them? They have that pretty little farm down toward Middleburg, just past the Gradys’ place? Two very blond children who show their ponies with Callie? A boy and a girl?”

      “I think so.”

      “We had three sittings. I never got things right.”

      She wasn’t sure how to explain the next part. She’d had no success with Bard or Dr. Jeffers. Bard told her she was simply overwrought and making her problems worse. Dr. Jeffers scribbled notes, and the scratching of his pen had nearly driven her crazy.

      She tried again. “It was worse than that, actually. I did preliminary sketches. The Trents wanted something informal, something with their horses and pets out in the countryside. The sketches were fine. I had some good ideas of what I wanted to do. But when I tried to paint…”

      “Go on.”

      “I couldn’t paint what I saw. I would begin to work, and the painting seemed to progress without me. Mr. Trent is a stiff, formal man who’s strict with the children. That’s all I was able to capture on canvas. He looked like a storm trooper after I’d roughed him out. At one point I even found myself painting a swastika on his sleeve.”

      “Maybe you weren’t painting what you saw but what you felt. Isn’t that part of being an artist?”

      “But I had no control over it.” Julia heard her voice rising and took a moment to breathe. “And it was true of everything I painted in the month before the accident. I would try hunting scenes, and they weren’t lovely autumn days among good friends anymore. We chase foxes for the fun of it, not to destroy them. But every painting I attempted seemed to center on the hounds tearing a fox to bits. They were…disturbing, and when I was finished with a session, I’d feel so shaken I was afraid to start another.”

      “Maybe it was simply fatigue. Maybe you needed a break.”

      “Well, I got one, didn’t I?”

      Maisy was silent, and Julia didn’t blame her. What could she say? If Julia’s sight was not restored, she would never paint again.

      “When you were a little girl,” Maisy said at last, “and something bothered you, you would go to your room and draw. It was the way you expressed yourself.”

      “It still is. But what am I expressing? Or what was I? Because I won’t be able to do it again unless something changes radically.”

      “Come home with me, Julia. If Bard doesn’t want you at Millcreek, come back to Ashbourne. You know there’s room for you and Callie. We can find a therapist you trust. Jake wants you to stay with us, too. You know he does.”

      Julia loved her stepfather, who had brought balance to Maisy’s life and gentle affection to her own. He was a kind, quiet man who never ceased to marvel at his wife’s eccentricities, and Julia knew he would welcome her with open arms.

      For a moment she was tempted to say yes, to return to her childhood home and bring her daughter to live there, too. Until her sight was restored or she’d learned to live with her impairment. Then reality got in the way.

      She shook her head decisively. “I can’t do that. My God, Bard would be furious. He had to pull strings to get me admitted here. He’s convinced I need to be away from everything and everyone before I’ll get better.”

      “And what do you think?”

      “I hope he’s right. Because I don’t think I can stand being here very long. I feel like I’m in prison. I know how Christian—” She stopped, appalled at what she’d nearly said.

      “You know how Christian feels,” Maisy finished for her. “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard you speak his name.”

      Julia stiffened. “I haven’t been thinking about Christian. I don’t know where that came from.”

      “You’ve lost your sight, he lost his freedom. Both of you are living in places you didn’t choose. The connection is there.”

      “I don’t want to talk about Christian.”

      “You never have.”

      There was a rustling noise at the doorway. With something close to gratitude, Julia turned her head in that direction.

      “A nurse is here,” Maisy said.

      “Mrs. Warwick?” Karen, the nurse who had made the telephone call for Julia, entered the room, making enough noise as she did to help Julia know where she was. “Dr. Jeffers thinks you need to rest now.”

      For once Julia had to agree with her psychiatrist. She was suddenly weary to the bone. She felt the mattress lift as Maisy stood.

      “You do look tired. I’ll be back tomorrow,” Maisy said. “Is there anything you’d like me to tell Callie?”

      “Tell her I love her and I’ll be home soon. Tell her I can see her in my dreams.”

      “You’ll think about what I said?”

      Julia nodded, then realized her mother might not be looking at her. It was just another of those small things the sighted took for granted.

      “I’ll think about it.” Her throat was clogged with words she hadn’t said. A part of her wanted to beg Maisy to take her home to Ashbourne, to the quaint stone cottage where she had lived until her marriage. Another part insisted that she stay and suffer here at Gandy Willson, that if she suffered hard enough, she might find a cure.

      Karen spoke. She had a soft, husky voice and warm hands. Odd observations, but the only ones Julia was equipped to make. “I guess you know Mrs. Warwick isn’t supposed to have any visitors except her husband, but unfortunately, Dr. Jeffers has a meeting tomorrow afternoon at three, so he’ll be away and unable to monitor things closely. Anyone could slip right in.”

      “I see,” Maisy said.

      “Thank you.” Julia understood what Karen was trying to do.

      “Goodbye, sweetheart.” Julia felt her mother’s hand on her shoulder, then Maisy’s lips against her cheek. When Karen and Maisy were gone, the room was as empty as Julia’s heart.

      2

      Like their counterparts in Great Britain, the great farms and estates of Virginia were often given names. Ashbourne was one such, a large, distinctive house and three hundred acres made up of serpentine hills and rock-strewn creeks. The Blue Ridge Mountains were more than shadows touching the land; they were a presence that anchored it and coaxed the hills into craggier peaks and wider hollows. Maisy never ceased to be amazed at Ashbourne’s natural beauty or the twist of fate that had brought her here as the young bride of Harry Ashbourne, master of the Mosby Hunt.

      Harry was gone now, dead for nearly twenty-five years. Ashbourne СКАЧАТЬ