Fox River Read Online Free

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
    L ike 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 lived on, holding its breath, she thought, for Harry’s daughter Julia to reclaim it and restore it to its former glory.
    The main house at Ashbourne was a gracefully wrought Greek Revival dwelling of antique cherry-colored brick and Doric columns. Symmetrical wings—two-story where the main house was three—gently embraced the wide rear veranda and flagstone terrace. In Harry’s day the gardens of hollies and mountain laurels, Persian lilacs and wisteria, had been perfectly manicured, never elaborate, but as classic and tasteful as the house itself.
    Over the years the gardens had weathered. Ancient maples, mimosas and hickories had fallen to lightning or drought; the boxwood maze that Harry had planted during Maisy’s pregnancy had grown into an impenetrable hedge obstructing movement and sight until a landscaper had removed it. Over the years the meticulous borders of bulbs and perennials had naturalized into a raucous meadow that ate away at grass and shrubs, spreading farther out of bounds each season.
    Maisy preferred the garden that way. The house was empty now, and the black-eyed Susans, corn poppies and spikes of chicory and Virginia bluebells warmed and softened its aging exterior. Neither the house nor the gardens had fallen to rack and ruin. She made certain all the necessary maintenance was done. Jake did much of it, a man as handy as he was good-natured. But the property was simply biding its time until Harry’s daughter decided what should be done about