Page 24 of Unending Joy
“High praise, indeed,” Joy replied, cheeks rosy.
Freddy forced a smile. “Perhaps next time, Colonel, you will demonstrate your own expertise.”
St. John chuckled warmly. “Gladly. But I fear I may pale beside Miss Whitford’s superior skill.”
Freddy’s heart sank again, realizing that St. John might be the very one to tempt Joy. Should he not be happy that there was someone else to make her laugh?
CHAPTER 8
Joy was still catching her breath when the great door of Westwood House shut behind her. The sound echoed through the front hall like a sentence passed, but she paid it no heed. Her cheeks remained flushed from the wind, her gloves smelled faintly of leather and spring air, and her heart beat with the proud thrum of victory. She had, after all, outrun Freddy—and not by a little.
It would not last. Of that, she was certain. There would be reproaches, raised eyebrows, perhaps even a letter sent to her guardian, Westwood, who had retreated to the country with Faith. But in this bright, reckless moment, she would not surrender her triumph.
She slipped out of view before the butler could announce her return, her slippers whispering along the carpeted stairs. No one stopped her ascent, and soon she had reached her bedroom, flinging open the door as though storming a castle. The kittens—Freddy the cat and her four remaining offspring—lifted their small heads, blinking sleepily from their nap on the window seat.
“Well, at least someone welcomes me home,” Joy declared, dropping to her knees to bury her face into the warm fur.Frederica, the mama cat, rewarded her with a lofty purr as if she had known all along Joy would triumph over that cheeky Freddy Cunningham.
“Tell me, my loves,” she murmured, scratching Cecilia beneath the chin, “what is so very wrong with me that I should prefer speed to slippers, wind to waltzes, and freedom to flirtation?”
Cecilia answered with a mewl that sounded suspiciously like concurrence.
Joy kicked off her boots and collapsed onto the window seat, curling her legs beneath her like an overgrown child and tucking Cecilia under her chin. The others arranged themselves along her limbs and lap with a decided air of possession.
She spotted the slim volume of Keats she had purchased but not read, and beside it—those confounded spectacles. They looked innocuous enough now, sitting quietly on her little table, but how she had resisted them! As though a bit of clear glass might proclaim her unfit for Society.
“No one shall see me here,” she muttered, slipping them on. The room came into focus so suddenly it was almost alarming. Even the lettering on the page was sharp, no longer prone to wandering into watery confusion. She stared out of the window and across the garden, surprised by how crisp the hedges were, how defined the crocuses peeking out along the walk.
Keats, when she opened the book, made perfect sense. Line after line tumbled out, unmarred by squinting or floating words.
She stood and turned towards the looking glass.
The girl staring back was not ugly, but she was certainly not the delicate ideal her sisters had mastered so effortlessly. Her nose turned up, her mouth never seemed still, and her hair refused to lie obediently under pins. The spectacles made her eyes appear a touch too large.
Still, she tilted her head, studying her reflection this way and that. It was not beauty, perhaps, but it was something.
It was hers. She traced a finger over the scar that was a daily reminder of her grand mistake.
Apparently she would never learn, even though racing a curricle was hardly the same as attempting tricks on the back of a horse.
No, now was not the time to don spectacles in public. Her reputation was in shatters as it was, and the good Lord only knew what would be said of her were she suddenly to wear them. How would she bear the stares and the pity?
That tentative self-assessment was interrupted by the unceremonious entry of Maeve, who swept into the room like a breeze carrying judgement.
“Joy!” she cried, the name stretched out like a reprimand. “Tell me—my eyes must have deceived me—was that truly you racing Mr. Cunningham through the park?”
Joy winced and snatched the spectacles off her face, thrusting them into the pocket of her gown before she turned.
“I cannot deny it,” she said, attempting an air of insouciance.
Maeve sank onto the chaise longue with the air of one overcome. “Great heavens, I wasafraidit was you. Thornhill and I were out walking—he had just shown me the primroses blooming by the Serpentine—and there you were, flying past in a curricle like a highwayman on the run!”
Joy rubbed at her temple. The dull ache had returned, no doubt from the shrieking she’d done during the race.
“It is all anyone is speaking of!” Maeve continued, in a voice tinged with both horror and fascination. “Two matrons nearly swooned. Lady Bexley called youthat girlwith a curl of the lip I have only ever seen used for actresses and Americans.”
“I do not think before I do things,” Joy said simply.
Maeve fixed her with a knowing look. “Even I know it is not done, Joy.”
