© 2017 by Jaime Jo Wright
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4934-1198-6
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Jennifer Parker
Cover photography by Eva Van Oosten / Trevillion Images
Author is represented by Books & Such Literary Agency.
Praise for The House on Foster Hill
“A mystery from over a hundred years ago intertwines with one from the present in this spellbinding tale by Jaime Jo Wright. Rich characterization and intricate plotting combine to make this novel unputdownable. This one will fly off the shelves as readers discover the very talented Wright. Highly recommended!”
—Colleen Coble, USAToday bestselling author of the SUNSET COVE series
“With a fresh voice and steady pacing, Jaime Jo Wright claims a noteworthy spot on the favorites shelf with her time-split novel debut. At once haunting and romantic . . . The House on Foster Hill redefines historical mystery with a CSI-worthy story line, and in Ivy Thorpe introduces a heroine who anchors past to the present with an artful marriage of vocational skill, determination, and the underpinnings of faith. The suspense grips early, holds fast, and doesn’t let the reader go until the last satisfying page.”
—Kristy Cambron, bestselling author of The Lost Castle and the HIDDEN MASTERPIECE series
“Riveting! With its dual story lines connected by a single house and the women it touched, Jaime Jo Wright delivers double the suspense, double the romance, and double the reasons to keep turning the pages far into the night. The House on Foster Hill has it all: robust characters, twists I didn’t predict, sky-high stakes, and a strong thread of hope hemming it all together. An outstanding novel from an author to watch.”
—Jocelyn Green, award-winning author of The Mark of the King
“Looking for a historical suspense that will have you rooting for the dual heroines from first introduction? It’s all in The House on Foster Hill. Wright’s true-to-life characters get under your skin, and you can’t help but keep turning the pages to find out what happens. Perfect pacing with a tightly knit plot makes this a perfect read for any suspense lover’s heart. Highly recommend.”
—Robin Caroll, author of the critically acclaimed BAYOU series
“In a riveting collision of past and present, Jaime Jo Wright pens an unforgettable story of legacy and loss. Threads of time are intricately woven through The House on Foster Hill, luring readers into its haunting passages and daring them to escape a darkness that has long lingered in the world. Wright is an author to watch, and one who will quickly become formidable!”
—Ronie Kendig, bestselling author of Conspiracy of Silence
“In the tradition of Wilkie Collins and Daphne du Maurier, Wright keeps the Gothic pace strong in both past and present in this brilliantly interconnected time-slip novel. With surprising prose, not to mention an alluring romance, readers will shiver with suspense and delight. Two formidable heroines balance out twists and turns that will keep the reader guessing until the very end.”
—Rachel McMillan, author of The White Feather Murders
“With dual plot lines that collide in the spooky house on Foster Hill, Jaime Jo Wright has created a story that will delight historical and contemporary mystery readers. There are hints of romance, suspense, and intrigue that kept me engaged with a story that had characters I quickly cared about. I needed to know how Ivy’s and Kaine’s stories connected and how they would be resolved.”
—Cara Putman, award-winning author of Shadowed by Grace and Beyond Justice
“From the memorable opening line to the last scene, which gives me chills, Jaime Jo Wright’s debut is a well-crafted novel of suspense and romance, weaving through the past and present seamlessly. It’s the perfect book for rainy-day reading and it’s one I highly recommend.”
—Sarah Varland, romantic suspense author
“Jaime Jo Wright is an amazing storyteller who had me on the edge of my seat, turning pages and reading as fast as I could to get to the end of the book! The House on Foster Hill is a masterfully told story with layers and layers of mystery and intrigue, with a little romance thrown in for good measure. The adventure takes the reader back and forth through time weaving the content like a tapestry—revealing a little bit more of the design with each chapter until the story is complete. I’ll be excited to read more from this author.”
—Tracie Peterson, bestselling author of THE HEART OF THE FRONTIER series
“Eerily, hauntingly brilliant! The House on Foster Hill makes you want to keep your lights on, and turning pages, long into the night. An absolute must-read!”
—Elizabeth Ludwig, author of Tide and Tempest
To Nathan. My Cap’n Hook.
The pirate I despised, then tolerated, then finally loved.
I don’t need my heart back. You can keep it.
Pirates treasure those types of things.
And to Daddy. We did it.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Praise for The House on Foster Hill
Dedication
Epigraph
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
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Ivy
Questions for Discussion
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
I washed the weather and the journey from my face and hands, and went out to the memorable old house that it would have been so much the better for me never to have entered,
never to have seen. . . .
That was a memorable day to me, for it made great changes in me. But it is the same with any life. Imagine one selected day struck out of it, and think how different its course would have been. Pause you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day.
Charles Dickens, Great Expectations
Chapter 1
Jvy
OAKWOOD, WISCONSIN
MARCH 1906
Death had a way of creeping up on a soul, and Ivy Thorpe was determined that when it visited her, she would not be surprised. Her story would be recorded and remembered. There was nothing worse than seeing the casing of a soul that had drifted into eternity, knowing the body would return to dust while the life lived became a tin-plated photograph with a forgotten name. Lives lost in the passage of time. Unremembered. Like Andrew.
Ivy averted her eyes from the path leading to the pond where her brother had died. A different soul needed her attention today. Shedding tears over Andrew would only waste time and leave her dehydrated.
“Where did they find her?” She posed her question to her father, whose long strides were in rhythm with the medical bag swinging from his hand at his side.
He stepped over a tree root buried just under the surface of the dirt road. “In the hollowed oak tree.”
Ivy hoisted the hemline of her green wool skirt. She frowned. The tree was ancient, and the memories it had witnessed fascinated Ivy’s curiosity. Stories hidden in its leafless soul—if such a thing were possible.
“The oak that has no bark on its trunk?”
Her father gave a curt nod. He was as focused as she was but for different reasons. The mind of a doctor dubbing as medical examiner would be spinning with the questions about how the deceased died. Or what the method of death could tell them about her last moments? But for Ivy, separating the person from the science of her death was impossible. Who was she? Not just her name, or if she struck a familiar chord, or could be identified. But, what was her story? What memories did she leave behind, and what hearts were broken in the wake of her passing? Ivy blinked to shove away a surge of unwelcome sentiment. Grief was a high currency to pay for loving someone, and she paid her dues on a moment-by-moment basis.
Trees arched over the road, their scraggly arms outstretched. Spring was on its way, though ice was still trapped in tree crevices, with patches of snow in the shaded pockets of the root base. As they rounded the corner, Foster Hill came into view, so named for the town’s founding family. At the top, glaring down at them with empty eyes, was Foster Hill House. It had been abandoned before Ivy was born. The years had not been kind to the old house.
Ivy squinted into the sudden glare of sunlight as the bright orb escaped from behind gray clouds. Several men congregated at the bottom of Foster Hill, their backs to her and her father as they surrounded the base of the largest oak tree in Oakwood, Wisconsin. Three of the men she recognized: the sheriff, his deputy, and Mr. Foggerty, who liked to trap animals on the abandoned property—mostly raccoon and mink by the stream that ran into the pond, and . . .
“For all that’s holy.” Ivy froze, releasing her grip on her skirt and allowing the hemline to settle on the muddy earth.
“Ivy!” Her father should be used to her unorthodox exclamations by now.
“Joel.” She knew the lifeless expression in her voice did nothing to represent the pounding of her heart in her ears. Her vision grazed the broad back encased in a black wool coat. The fedora that tilted on his head hid the majority of the familiar dark brown hair, but Ivy still narrowed her eyes at the strong column of his neck.
“Who?” Her father resumed his long strides, unwilling to allow Ivy’s momentary shock to dissuade him from reaching the body discovered only an hour earlier.
Ivy matched his pace, yet this time she questioned whether uncovering the dead woman’s story was as critical as avoiding Joel. The orphan. The childhood miscreant. Her best friend, who had abandoned her when she’d needed him most so many years before.
“Joel. Cunningham.” She reminded her father. “Andrew’s Joel.” My Joel.
“Oh!” The name jolted her father’s memory and earned her a sideways glance.
Yes. Him. Ivy’s unspoken words to her father sparked a different light in his eyes. Would he defend her now, or did he still believe Joel had a reasonable explanation for his behavior that night? Her relationship with her father had never been quite the same since Andrew’s death and Joel’s subsequent actions.
The men turned as they neared. Joel’s hands were deep in his trouser pockets. He twisted just enough so she could see his squared jaw, furrowed brows in that old familiar look of concentration, and his blue eyes. Blue eyes with a hint of gray. A flicker of recognition lighted in them, then vanished, as if he’d snuffed it out along with their past. Their friendship merely a speck on the timeline of their lives. Ivy avoided his gaze, stiffening her shoulders. He wasn’t worth her consideration. She bit her bottom lip as a rush of memories threatened to overwhelm her. He really wasn’t, she convinced herself.
“How old is she?” Ivy’s father dispensed with formal greetings, and he brushed between the men to approach the tree.
“No idea.” Sheriff Dunst’s voice carried on a cold gust of March wind.
Ivy set her focus on the tree. It was long rumored that the Foster Hill oak tree was not only the largest but also the oldest tree in Oakwood. While its top rose to a marvelous height, it was still dead and its branches never blossomed. The trunk was very wide at the base and split open to reveal a hollow inside. Many a child had hidden there during a rambunctious game of hide-and-seek. They wouldn’t hide there anymore. Not after today.
The petite body was curled into the position of a babe, inside the tree’s womb. Blond hair hung free over her cold, bare shoulders and floated out on the wind. Her torso was covered in a paper-thin dress of gray calico. It was nowhere near enough to keep her warm, but it was more than the cold that tinted the young woman’s skin blue. It was death.
Ivy watched as her father fingered the wrist. It was clearly too late. As Ivy tilted her head to see around his shoulder, she sensed a presence beside her. Joel. Their eyes met, locked, and then broke. The next breath Ivy took shuddered, and she hated herself for it. Years had passed. Joel should no longer affect her with such magnitude.
“What done her in?” Mr. Foggerty begged the question they all wondered.
“It’s too soon to tell.” Joel’s answer for her father caused her to give him a questioning raise of her eyebrow. He had no right. No medical expertise.
But, one might argue, neither did she.
“No one knows who she is?” Joel’s voice sent vibrations through Ivy’s body. She edged away from him.
“None of us, anyway.” The sheriff shrugged. “I’ll start to investigate her. Maybe she’s from a surrounding farm or part of a gypsy group passing through, what with the circus down south and all.”
Dr. Thorpe grunted. Ivy saw what her father saw. The bruises on the body. Her wrists, her forearms, her neck. They told a frightening tale of abuse, whether long-term or suffered at the time of her death, they wouldn’t know until they moved the body to the clinic. Ivy wrapped her arms around her torso, not from cold and certainly not from being squeamish. This had not been an accident. The girl had suffered and it seemed she had suffered alone, with no one to hear her cries and no one to care that she had gone missing. Already, in the early spring chill and the gray mist that rolled from the forest to the base of the tree, the girl was a mystery at risk of being lost for eternity.
Ivy squeezed the cloth over the porcelain washbasin. The drips from the rag into the water were the only sounds in the room. She draped the damp cloth over the edge of the bowl. It was ready to minister to the poor young woman who appeared shy of twenty years of age.
“Now?” Ivy met her father’s eyes. He gave
a short nod.
She reached for the top button of the girl’s dress and paused. Fine cheekbones, pale in the pasty white of death, light blond brows, lips in the shape of a perfect rosebud minus color . . . she was beautiful. Even in death. It was moments like these that tugged at Ivy’s empathy, even though Oakwood thought she was half crazy. Had the girl’s last breaths been frantic, filled with terror and panic? Or had she passed in her sleep, and someone disposed of her body in a bewildered state of grief?
Ivy grimaced as she spread open the girl’s threadbare garment. Not with the bruising. There was nothing peaceful in this death. Distinct markings curled around the base of her throat, and Ivy touched them with her fingertips as she raised her eyes to meet her father’s.
“Strangulation?” Ivy murmured. The horror of suffocation stuck too close to another death that haunted her daily. An accidental one, but accidents never diminished trauma.
Her father pushed his spectacles up his nose and bent over to eye the markings. “Most likely.” He folded the dead girl’s dress off her shoulder to reveal more of her skin. “She’s also been manhandled. We definitely need further examination.”
Ivy ached for the girl in a way she couldn’t explain to anyone. It wasn’t sadness, it wasn’t even grief. It was a throbbing fury for what this young woman endured. This was why Ivy wrote the stories of the dead in her journal. Oakwood residents called her the “memory keeper” and referred to her book as her “death journal.” They formed the assumption that Ivy had developed a morbid fascination with death since Andrew. What the citizens of Oakwood didn’t understand was that no one, ever, deserved to be forgotten, and Ivy would do everything possible to preserve their stories beyond a factual obituary in the newspaper.
She smoothed away a lock of hair that lay across the girl’s forehead. Ivy’s eyes narrowed in focused determination. No one should die nameless.
“Ivy.”
Dr. Thorpe’s mouth was hidden by his full, white mustache. The wrinkles around his eyes were gentle, but her father’s stern expression told her she needed to continue. Ivy was thankful he didn’t have pity in his eyes. He understood what many didn’t. She saw Andrew in every person who struggled and passed away in spite of her father’s meticulous and caring practice. She saw Andrew in the face of the unremembered girl in front of her. Ivy fingered the empty locket that dangled around her own neck. Andrew had given it to her, and one day she would fill it with something precious. Something that promised life had a beginning, instead of an unending line of passages into eternity.
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