Emilie Richards - Fox River

“[A] heartfelt paean to love and loyalty…”

—Publishers Weekly on The Parting Glass

“An engrossing novel…Richards’s writing is unpretentious and effective…and her characters burst with vitality and authenticity.”

—Publishers Weekly on Prospect Street

“Well-written, intricately plotted novel…”

—Library Journal on Whiskey Island

“Emilie Richards presents us with a powerfully told story that will linger in the heart long after the final page.”

—BookPage on The Parting Glass

“A romance in the best sense, appealing to the reader’s craving for exotic landscapes, treacherous villains and family secrets.”

—Cleveland Plain Dealer on Beautiful Lies

“A multi-layered plot, vivid descriptions and a keen sense of place and time.”

—Library Journal on Rising Tides

“A fascinating tale of the tangled race relations and complex history of Louisiana…this is a page-turner.”

—New Orleans Times-Picayune on Iron Lace

Dear Reader,

I’ve been fortunate to live in wonderful places I can share in my novels. I started my writing career in New Orleans, the setting for Iron Lace and Rising Tides. I made two extended trips to Australia, the setting for Beautiful Lies, and I spent many years in bustling Cleveland, the home of Whiskey Island.

When it came time to move again, I was as interested in a unique and colorful setting for my next novel as I was in school systems and health care facilities. When northern Virginia appeared on my family’s horizon, I knew I’d found another home rich in history, culture and natural beauty.

From my front door I can easily drive to mountains and beaches. Or I can take a shorter drive to some of the most beautiful rural scenery imaginable: Virginia horse country, where farms and million-dollar estates rise from rolling hills and Thoroughbreds graze inside miles of winding stone fences.

It took only one visit to Loudoun County to know I’d found the setting for my next book.

So this time come with me to the world of foxhunting and steeplechasing, and a society that values the way a man sits a horse as much as it values his family name. I hope you’ll find it as fascinating as I have.

I always enjoy hearing from my readers. Please write me at P.O. Box 7052, Arlington, Virginia 22207.

Today, when I think of Fox River and all that happened here so many years ago, I am unwillingly wrapped in shades of green. The fresh, sweet green of pasture deepening toward the horizon, the evergreen of forest shading inevitably to the blue-green of Virginia hills until, at last, mountains merge with a misty sky.

It is the same sky, more or less, that others see. The sky that stretches over California and China and the farthest regions of Antarctica. It is the sky under which I was born, under which I lived the events told in this story. The same sky that sends sun and rain to make the grassy hills of Fox River as verdant, as lush, as any in the world.

But I, Louisa Sebastian, am the only person who sees the proud man silhouetted against this Fox River sky, the man erect on a stallion that no one else will mount, a man so wedded to the horse beneath him that I am reminded of the mythical centaur, and my breath, despite everything I know of him, catches in my chest.

Today, when I am forced to think of the events that happened at Fox River, I am swallowed by shades of green and by the blood that so long ago stained blades of grass a bright and terrible red. In the many years since, the grass has grown and the rain has washed away visible traces of blood, but I know the earth beneath has yet to recover, that if I were to dig in that very place, the dirt beneath my fingernails would be rusty and tainted still.

Had I only known what awaited me as I rode to Fox River that first afternoon, I would have galloped back to my cousin’s estate to seclude myself. I would have pleaded illness or injury and asked that my trunks be packed immediately for my return to New York.

But, of course, the future is never ours to know. Only the past is ours to contemplate and mourn forever.

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

The citizens of Ridge’s Race, Virginia, claimed that Maisy Fletcher lived her life like a pack of foxhounds torn between two lines of scent. She had worn many disguises in her fifty years, each of them clearly revealing the flighty, distractible woman beneath. Jake Fletcher, her husband for twenty years, disagreed. Jake claimed that his wife had no trouble making up her mind.

Over and over and over again.

Today, those who knew Maisy would have been shocked to see the purpose in her stride and the lack of attention she paid to everything and everyone that stood between her and the front door of the Gandy Willson Clinic, just outside historic Leesburg. She ignored the horsehead mounting posts flanking the herringbone brick sidewalk, the magnolias flanking the portico. She paid little attention to the young couple sitting stiffly on a green bench under the magnolia to her left. More tellingly, she brushed right past the young security guard who asked for her identification.

“Ma’am, you can’t go in there without my seeing some ID,” the young man said, following close at her heels.

Maisy paused just long enough to survey him. He looked like an escapee from the Virginia Military Institute, hair shaved nearly to the scalp, acne scars still faintly visible. He had the same hostile stare she associated with new cadets, a product of exhaustion and harassment.

Normally she might have winked or stopped to question him about his upbringing, his opinion of the Washington Redskins’ chances this season, his take on the presidential election. Today she turned her back. “Don’t try to stop me, son. I’m as harmless as a butterfly in a hailstorm. Just go on about your business.”

“Ma’am, I have to—”

“My daughter’s a patient here.”

“I’m going to have to call—”

She reached for the door handle and let herself in.

She had never been inside the Gandy Willson Clinic. Through the years, acquaintances had disappeared into its confines for periods of “rest.” Some of them boasted of time spent here, adding “G.W.S.” after their names like an academic achievement. “G.W.S.” or Gandy Willson Survivor, was a local code, meaning “Don’t offer me a drink,” or “Give me the strongest drink in the house,” depending on the length of time out of treatment.

Maisy wasn’t surprised by what she saw. Gandy Willson catered to the wealthy elite. The chandelier gracing a cathedral ceiling was glittering crystal, the carpet stretching before her had probably robbed a dozen third world children of a normal adolescence.