Page 18 of Unending Joy
Joy pulled a face. “Eligible young gentlemen.”
“I cannot think of more damning words.”
“Except perhaps, ‘suitable match.’”
“Or ‘decorous behaviour.’”
“Or ‘Fancy a stroll in the garden, Miss Joy?’”
He winced. “That happened to you?”
“At the ball.”
“Who is the blackguard? I shall call him out.”
Joy smiled and patted his arm. “You are a good friend.”
“We are castaways on the same remote island.”
They exchanged a grin, united in their mutual despair. They sat quietly a moment longer. The party carried on around them—laughter rising and falling, the splash of the fountain punctuating the hum of conversation.
Then he asked, “Do you think we will ever find the right person?”
Joy didn’t answer right away. She looked around, at her sisters laughing with their husbands, at the flowering garden filled with people all seeming to enjoy the gathering. Then she turned to Freddy.
“I do not know. The prospects are not promising.”
He smiled. “Why must we marry? Why is it criminal to remain a bachelor?”
“The succession, m’dear,” she mocked in a parental tone.
“But you do not have to produce an heir,” he replied accusingly.
“I do not, do I?” She laughed, and it made him feel, for just a moment, that everything might turn out well in the end.
“Come on,” he said, standing and offering her his hand. “Let’s walk. I wish to avoid Miss Plumb and her views on curtain tassels.”
Joy took it and rose with a smile. “Lead on, Frederick. To freedom and pastries.”
“A fine battle cry,” Freddy said, guiding Joy down a side path flanked by espaliered pears—cool shade, fewer inquisitive matrons.
“We should have it engraved on our coat of arms—two crossed forks rampant.”
He barked a laugh, bending a branch so she would not brush it.
She tipped her head towards the farther end of the garden, where a low stone wall marked the beginning of the orchard proper. Beyond, neat rows of blossoming pear trees met the skyline.
Petals drifted like confetti, catching in her dark curls and in the folds of his coat. They let silence reign for a dozen paces, both of them savouring the reprieve.
“About prospects,” Joy said, interrupting his reverie. “Perhaps we should reconsider our approach. If you must wedsomeone vapid, take one with a hunting-mad brother. At least you would get decent sport out of the bargain.”
“Only if she comes with a string in training,” Freddy countered. “Otherwise the bargain is dashed poor.”
They exchanged wicked grins, allies again. It was time to return before they were missed. As they re-entered the main garden, Freddy spotted his mother assembling a little knot of gentlemen beneath the large cedar tree—Lord Tinmouth, Sir Gregory Pember, and young Denbigh, all of whom fancied themselves connoisseurs of bloodstock.
Joy followed his gaze. “Shall we run the gauntlet?”
“If we must,” he murmured, escorting her back.
