Page 16 of Unending Joy
Then there was Miss Beatrice Plumb—very pretty, but discussed French silks with religious fervour. Freddy—and Joy—would be bored silly.
Miss Eugenia Franks was bookish, which Joy generally appreciated, but not when the lady in question believed novels to be frivolous nonsense.
Lady Lucinda Biddleton had sneezed precisely three times in succession every time she was within ten feet of the kitten Joy had had with her in the park one day.
One by one, Joy mentally eliminated them all. Things were looking grimmer by the moment.
The way matters were proceeding, she might need to throw in her lot with Freddy, and they could simply become a pair of eccentric, lifelong companions surrounded by a menagerie of horses, hounds, and cats. Joy dismissed the ridiculous notion.
Across the fountain, Patience waved, trying to entice Joy into a group that included Lord Montford and a pair of earnest clergymen. She shook her head. The last thing she desired was a conversation of sermons and moralizing. Instead she edged towards a marble bench half-hidden by lilac branches, grateful for the spicy scent that drifted from each lavender cone. When she sat down, her eyes adjusted to a fresh perspective: she could see the sweep of the lawns without being seen, a hodge-podge of parasols, hats, and swirling ribbons. She began sorting them mentally—potential allies (Rotham, who seemed stern but wasn’t really), certain foes (Lady Partridge, who was a terrifying meddler), and the undecided middle faction.
Ten yards away, Miss Henley had cornered poor Lord Worth and was waving a parasol like a deadly weapon. The man stood as stiff as a ramrod, nodding in terror each time the pointed edge came too close. Joy’s lips curved. Worth gambled too much and had quite the reputation, but he did not deserve evisceration by a parasol.
She lifted a pastry from the plate beside her, broke it neatly in half, and flung a crumb in the direction of a nearby pigeon. The bird fluttered in and landed squarely upon Miss Henley’s volant-trimmed shoulder. Chaos ensued—gasps, fluttered fans, Lord Worth retreating as though from artillery fire. Joy, satisfied with her work, munched the other half of her pastry and considered the intervention successful.
The commotion drew Letty Partridge, who minced up carrying a lace-edged handkerchief. “I saw what you did.”
Joy stared at the girl.
“You have a penchant for trouble, Miss Whitford,” she said, though her smile held the faintest suspicion.
“I prefer to think of it as enlivening things,” Joy answered, blinking innocently.
Letty’s brows climbed. “You will never keep a suitor if you make a spectacle of yourself.”
“Perhaps I do not wish to keep one—like a pet in a cage,” Joy retorted. “’Tis better to let them fly free and see whether they return of their own accord.”
Letty’s lips pressed thin. “Some of us have serious expectations.”
Joy caught a faint reflection in the fountain’s surface—Letty’s proud profile intermixed with her own blurred outline. There was something sad in Letty’s desperation, but she could not conjure pity for her.
“I wish you luck in your hunt,” Joy murmured.
Before Letty could shape an answer, the Dowager’s laugh rippled from behind a statue—the unmistakable sound of triumph. Joy knew that note—it usually preceded the unveiling of a Plot Too Grand to Refuse. The Dowager appeared a moment later, cheeks pink, escorting none other than General Archibald Armstrong—hero of Talavera, and, frankly, far too old for any girl just out.
“My dear,” the Dowager said, guiding the General forward, “I was just telling General Armstrong that you are the mostaccomplished horsewoman in Town. He insists he meet such a paragon.”
Joy blinked, caught between horror and hilarity. General Armstrong bowed, a spark of amusement in his eyes—he knew exactly what the Dowager was attempting and did not seem to mind one whit.
“May I present Miss Whitford, General? She is one of Westwood’s wards.”
Joy curtsied.
The General made a gallant bow for someone of his age. “The pleasure is all mine.”
Thankfully he was called away before Joy was committed to anything, and she went back to watching the throng.
She sipped her punch and muttered under her breath, “Whatwouldit be like to marry Freddy?” Again she dismissed the ridiculous idea as a last resort.
“Did you say something, dear?” asked the Dowager, sweeping past in a cloud of lavender silk.
“I was just admiring the roses,” Joy said brightly, though the roses in question were now a blur of indeterminate colour.
“Well, try not to admire yourself into a rosebush,” she replied with a laugh, patting Joy’s arm. “Twice have you nearly toppled into the flowerbeds already.”
Joy smiled sweetly. It was not her fault the flowerbeds had leapt into her path.
Somewhere, she heard Freddy laugh. She looked over to see Maeve whisper something to him while the Duke bent closer. They made a picturesque trio. Joy sighed again, heavily. This matchmaking business was trickier than anticipated.
