Page 2 of Unending Joy
Joy glared at him, but the fight drained out of her as quickly as it had risen. “What do you suggest I do? Call off the entire Season? Let everyone know how useless I am?”
“You are the least useless person I know,” he said, his tone softening, “but you cannot face this alone. Let me help.”
“The doctor said there is nothing to be done. I might be permanently blind soon.”
As she looked up at him, his sincerity reflected in his steady gaze, something in Joy’s heart shifted. Perhaps confiding in someone wasn’t such a terrible idea.
Joy blinked furiously and glanced away while holding her hand to her head where it throbbed. The semi-circular scar left on her temple was a daily reminder of one of her restless escapades. A part of her mind scolded her for making a scene—an entirely new experience for her, for seldom did she care what onlookers thought—but this was different. This was not a trifling matter, such as wearing an unfashionable gown or forgetting a dance step. This was her sight, which seemed to be slipping through her fingers. Freddy reached out, but she drew back an inch, uncertain whether she wanted comfort or the preservation of her pride. Still, the concern radiating from his eyes struck a chord deep within. She did not want to be pitied, and she did not want to air all of this at a Society ball.
Yet Freddy was her dearest friend of the past few years. He had understood her from the first and had never made her feel insignificant or treated her like a silly young girl. He had always been her champion, in jest or in earnest. And here he was again, championing her.
“Joy,” he said gently, “why would you suffer through this alone?”
“Please do not pity me,” she managed, though her voice trembled. “I cannot abide pity, Freddy.”
He shook his head. “Pity is not what I offer. I offer help—or, at the very least, an ear to listen. If you cannot see well, has it occurred to you that spectacles might help?”
Joy gave a bark of disbelieving laughter, quickly muffled by her gloved hand. She had never heard him speak so plainly and so…practically. Spectacles. The very word conjured up the image of a stern governess or an elderly scholar in a dusty library. It was not the sort of thing worn in London’s fashionableballrooms, certainly not by young ladies making their debut. “Do you think I should become an object of ridicule?” she asked, managing a wry smile. “It is hardly the thing for a debutante to sport spectacles.”
Freddy’s eyebrows arched in gentle amusement. “Perhaps not, but I would argue it is better to see clearly than to fret over Society’s silly notions. You have always scorned them, have you not?”
“Yes, but one learns that there are certain…boundaries,” she whispered, glancing about to ensure no curious ear lurked nearby. “I do not mind being thought outrageous, but—” She paused, turning to face him fully. “Should I suddenly appear with spectacles, heads would surely turn, tongues would wag. I suppose they already do. I do mind being pitied and coddled. I mind even more losing what little independence I have.”
Freddy took a step closer, his voice lowered in confidence. “Let them wag. When have you ever cared about trifling gossip? Were you not the one who climbed a tree in full view of half theton? You braved that with a laugh, I recall.”
Joy felt a gentle flush warm her cheeks. She did recall that mortifying moment, though at the time she had laughed it off, unprepared for why strangers of thetonwould care what a country girl did. Her eldest sister Faith had only smiled in that resigned way she had, while her other sisters had said nothing. And Joy had continued on as she always did.
Yet losing one’s sight was not a trifling tree-climbing escapade. It changed everything. “I wish,” she said slowly, “it were as simple as a pair of spectacles. But the physician said that it may worsen. Even if a lens aids me for a time, what happens when—when it grows worse?”
Freddy’s hand found hers, and she let him gently cradle her fingers, surprised at the comfort it brought. “We shall cross that bridge together when it comes,” he said. “But if you do nothingnow—if you hide and suffer through these balls and soirées, half-blind and in pain—what will that solve? It will only make you miserable…and very likely more conspicuous than even spectacles themselves.”
Her mouth curved into a rueful line. “It is not a thing I wished to share. I suppose I thought that if I did not speak it aloud, it might resolve itself.” She sighed. “It has been happening for some months. Some days are better—I can read, or ride astride, or dance without much difficulty. Then, on other days, the world blurs, and every shape merges into an indistinct haze. If I exert myself—ride too hard or dance too long—my sight worsens.”
Freddy lifted her hand to his lips in a rare gesture of tenderness. “If—if the worst should happen and your sight fails entirely, I promise I shall remain by your side, whether Society scorns or not. Your friendship has always been precious to me. Nothing shall change that.”
She looked away, though she felt a flush heating her cheeks. “That is kind of you,” she said softly, unused to tender emotions from her friend.
She glanced down at her slippers, noticing with some irony how much more clearly she saw them than the swirling shapes of people in the ballroom. The floor was an elaborate mosaic in muted greys and gold, though to her eyes it was starting to blur at the edges. “I do not even know where to procure spectacles,” she murmured.
With a rueful smile, Freddy nodded. “We can discover that together.”
A soft rustle interrupted them. Joy glanced up—or tried to—and discerned, from the drifting perfume and the swirl of pale blue skirts, that her sister Faith had ventured into the alcove. “Am I interrupting something?” Faith asked, her tone somewhere between teasing and concern.
Joy pulled her hand from Freddy’s, though she did so gently. “Not in the least,” she managed. “You recall, of course, that I wanted to flee this dreadful ball. Freddy only enquires if I have gone mad enough to do so by means of some scandalous route—perhaps scaling the terrace walls.”
Faith’s lips curved, but her gaze flickered from Joy’s face to Freddy’s in that shrewd way she had. “Yes,” she said dryly, “I can see how that might be a route you would choose. Joy, my dear, I realize this night has not gone as smoothly as one would hope, but truly, there is no need to skulk in corners unless you feel unwell.” She stepped closer, then touched Joy’s arm gently. “Is your head paining you again?”
Joy swallowed, aware that her sister could tell. Faith was not so easily deceived. “A trifle,” she admitted, “though I shall manage. I merely needed some air.”
Faith’s gaze was all sympathy, though in her measured, elder sister way. “Perhaps a brief walk on the terrace would do. The music and chatter in here grows deafening. Do not be overlong.”
Freddy offered an arm to Joy. “Shall we?”
She hesitated, uncertain whether to remain hidden in the shadows or brave the watchful gazes of the assembled guests. But she reminded herself that retreating forever was not an option. So she looped her arm through Freddy’s and ventured onto the terrace.
Freddy was morethan a little bothered by the thought of Joy losing her sight. The notion of sprightly and fearless Joy no longer able to see the world around her—no longer able to engage in all those spirited pursuits that had endeared her to him—was almost unbearable. Joy was lively, forthright, andpossessed of an unladylike fondness for galloping across the countryside or tending to horses as though she had been born in the stable yard. She was so full of zest for life that Freddy sometimes wished she had been born a male. Then they might have hunted together or ventured into clubs that were far from proper for a genteel young lady.
But now, everything felt turned upside down. If Joy was indeed afflicted with a malady of the eyes that threatened her vision, why had she not confided in him sooner? Had she believed him too frivolous to be entrusted with such a burden? Had she feared his pity or his judgement? The thought nettled him, though he reminded himself that Joy had always guarded her vulnerabilities as fiercely as she embraced her freedoms. It was not in her nature to lament her own troubles for fear that her family would coddle and shelter her. Surely her sisters did not know, but he could not betray Joy’s confidence.
