Page 34 of Unending Joy
She had never planned to be a spinster, though neither had she given serious thought to marriage. Oh, she adored a delicious Gothic romance, but she knew it was just fiction and not reality for her…unless perhaps she made some marriage of convenience where there were no expectations of her. Romantic love was not in her future. However, she wanted more for her best friend. Truly, she did. That meant Joy would have to swallow her spleen when other ladies flirted with Freddy. But could he not pick somebody less insipid than Letty Partridge? Surely he could see how bored he’d be with someone who could not even sit a horse properly!
Freddy deserved a clever, lively partner, not a beauty who squeaked when her horse did more than amble. The notion that Freddy might, in fact, prefer a delicate bloom of femininity over a hoyden well-versed in saddle sores pricked her conscience, and she sipped again to drown the thought. The wine went down the wrong way, eliciting a cough she muffled in her napkin. Letty Partridge tittered at something Freddy said; Joy stiffened. How could she be so foolish?
Colonel St. John bent nearer. “Are you unwell, Miss Whitford? I fear wine can be a sly devil.”
“I thank you, sir, it is nothing,” Joy murmured, arranging her spectacles and finding him somewhat doubled before her eyes. “Merely an errant swallow.”
To her mortification he studied her pale brow. “You are in pain. A headache?”
“Not worth remarking,” she insisted. “Pray, do not trouble yourself.”
He settled back with a look that was half-smile, half-frown. St. John’s attention in recent weeks had been—how had Faith phrased it?—marked. How could she help but be flattered?Yet Joy could not discern whether the Colonel’s notice tended towards gallantry or simple camaraderie born of shared relish for brisk exercise and unpaved roads. Men never wooed a lady who carried a whip more readily than a fan. Still, the Colonel’s hazel eyes held kindness, and when he spoke, his voice possessed that mellow timbre which suggested interest. It was pleasant, undeniably.
At last the courses ended, the gentlemen agreed to forego the ponderous ritual of lingering over port, and the party adjourned to the great saloon, where frivolities suitable to a country house party were already being arranged. Charades was proclaimed by acclamation;The Frolics of the Sphynxbook of charades was produced. Joy, who loved any amusement, cursed her aching head to perdition, and volunteered at once. Letty Partridge declared herself needing a clever partner and fluttered onto a sofa, summoning Freddy beside her with an arch of perfectly shaped brows. Freddy hesitated, his gaze skating to Joy, who barely suppressed a snort.
She offered him a brisk nod—go on, rescue your cornered self. He bowed his mocking thanks and was promptly netted by Letty’s shrill laughter.
The teams were drawn, and fortune—or misfortune—placed Joy and Colonel St. John upon the same team. Freddy’s lot fell to the opposition, securing him for the evening at Miss Partridge’s right hand. Joy, determined to demonstrate how little that circumstance signified, threw herself into the game with unladylike zeal.
“We shall crush them, Colonel,” Joy whispered. “Though Mr. Cunningham is quite adroit at these.”
“I am all astonishment.” Joy ignored his sardonic tone.
The first riddle was Joy’s. She drew a number, then read her riddle, voice sparkling:
“My First is eatenwith apple or beef;
If you’re my Second I pity your grief;
My Third owns no colour that stays the same hue.”
Freddy,across the table, murmured encouragement to Letty, who looked mystified. Freddy furrowed his brow in concentration, then brightened. “Pie—bald! Pie, because of fruit or meat; bawled for the grief; and a pie-bald horse is mottled.”
Letty applauded. “Oh, how clever you are, Mr. Cunningham!”
Letty then chose her number, and read her selection with solemn drama:
“Though to youthoft my first you may safely apply,
On my next you may rarely it venture to try,
If you suffer my whole you must fairly admit,
’Twas your own want of skill, arrangement, and wit.”
“Check mate!”Joy shouted without consulting her partner.
“How? It makes no sense. It is unfair that anyone could think so quickly,” Letty declared. Joy only smiled, considering the score nicely even—and the entertainment just begun.
Freddy and Joy, whose penchant for charades kept the more knowing away, proceeded to give little chance to their partners to shine.
When, at length, the game was declared concluded, the company dispersed to card tables or to the long windows overlooking moonlit lawns. Joy, her temples throbbing, slipped into an antechamber hung with sombre portraits and attempted to remove her spectacles for a moment’s respite. The instant they left her nose, the world tilted: candles became comets, carpet patterns swam. She caught hold of the door-case.
“Steady.” Colonel St. John materialized, easing the spectacles from her trembling fingers and replacing them. Vision cleared slightly; pain did not.
“I am a nuisance,” she murmured, ashamed. “No, do not contradict me. A lady who cannot bear a trifling headache without drama is precisely that.”
“It is not trifling,” he said. “Your eyes are unequal.” He produced a handkerchief lightly scented with bergamot and pressed the cool linen to her brow. “You ought to lie down.”
