Page 39 of Unending Joy
Joy gazed out at the gardens where shadows danced across clipped yew hedges. “I do not know,” she admitted softly. “When he looks at me, my stomach performs inconvenient somersaults, but I cannot decide whether those belong to affection—or alarm.”
Hope’s grin was wicked. “The line is exasperatingly fine.”
Grace reached to squeeze Joy’s hand. “Trust your instincts. Like riding a horse.”
Joy recalled the race that had set so many whispers afloat, and her face heated.
The door creaked. Hartley entered, bearing an envelope upon a salver. “A note for Miss Whitford,” he announced.
Four pairs of sisterly eyes converged upon Joy. She accepted the letter, breaking the seal with a tremor she hoped escaped notice. Colonel St. John’s hand was bold, confident, slanting.
Dear Miss Whitford,
Will you honour me with a ride tomorrow at ten? The tulips are in full bloom along the Long Walk, and I would show them to you before they fade.
Your servant, St. John
Silence thickened while Joy read,folded, and tucked the sheet into her pocket. She met Grace’s questioning glance.
“He asks to ride in the Park.” Her voice sounded inadequately steady.
“Well, will you?” Hope breathed.
Joy’s thoughts scattered—morning sun through new leaves, the sure rhythm of hooves, a gentleman’s smile as warm as June—she might as well see where things led. She cleared her throat. “I…believe I shall.”
Approval, relief, and excitement mingled in her sisters’ expressions. Faith clapped once; Hope smiled in relief; Patience nodded as though tallying favourable odds. Only Grace remained pensive.
“Joy,” she began, her tone pitched solely for younger-sister ears, “remember you need never accept someone you cannot abide. A ride is not an engagement. Admiration is not possession.”
“I know.” Joy’s answering smile felt wobbly. “But I must also remember fear is not wisdom.”
Grace squeezed her hand. “Well said.”
Tea resumed—plates of seed cake passed about; kittens indulged with judicious saucers of milk. Talk flowed to lighter topics: new gowns, Greek cuisine, and teething babies. Yet beneath the chatter, Joy sensed a quiet shift, like the tide turning.
Joy had declared indifference to husbands, but perhaps the greater truth was uncertainty.
Should Colonel St. John’s admiration prove shallow, if any fortune-hunting glint surfaced in his fine hazel eyes, Freddy would be the first to sense her heartbreak. And she would not, must not, break. Whether spinster or bride, Joy Whitford would step forward with head high, spectacles shining, unashamed.
Freddy submittedwith outward docility to the careful strokes of Dobson’s razor. In his mind, he rode again yesterday’s hack with Joy, reliving every jolt of the quarrel that had followed. Westwood, hoping to silence London’s whisperers, had insisted Joy take a groom to ride ten paces behind for propriety’s sake, which made her bristle from the start. Immediately she began interrogating him.
How progressed his search for a bride? Had he settled his mind at last? Freddy, nettled by the implication that he dithered, answered that Miss Letty Partridge would do as well as any. “Do?” Joy had repeated, blue eyes sparking behind the hated spectacles. Did he mean to be bored to tears for an entire lifetime? The accusation stung—worse, it lodged. He retaliated with a jibe of his own. Would she like to be abandoned while Colonel St. John gallivanted with the army?
“That would suit me perfectly,” she had snapped. Then, with exasperating calm, she had dispensed advice. Introduce MissPartridge to the pursuits he himself loved—Ascot, Henley, any field where a pulse might rise—and observe her response. A sober suggestion, delivered with military precision. But the sting lingered. A man did not relish being characterized as a fellow who settled.
Now, Freddy admitted a flaw in the scheme. Ascot lay weeks away, Henley more distant, and he had little time to spare. In the meantime, he must contrive some demonstration of gallantry. And there, Fortune (in the form of Joy) had placed an opportunity squarely in his path. Lord Orville, the kitten destined for his future ownership. “Does not everyone love kittens?” Joy had remarked, handing the creature into his arms the evening she had proclaimed its custody.
It seemed a plan of simplicity for Freddy’s simple mind. A gentleman presents his adorable feline; the lady’s affections soften; admiration for the gentleman blooms. Certainly this would enable original conversation with the pretty Letty. With this agreeable prospect, Freddy submitted to Dobson’s ministrations, chose a waistcoat unexceptionable in pattern, and set out for Westwood House to collect the ambassador of his courtship.
Westwood’s butler ushered him into the smaller morning room where the kittens loved to bask in the sun. Hartley informed Freddy that Joy and the ladies were out on morning calls, but he knew Joy wouldn’t mind if he took the little fellow. Within, Lord Orville reposed like a sultan upon a chaise longue, pale eyes narrowing in suspicion as his tail whisked slowly.
“Come along, your lordship,” Freddy coaxed, gathering the kitten. “You must help me woo.” The kitten offered a plaintive mewl as Freddy lowered him into a wicker basket, but no claws yet pierced the wicker. Encouraged, Freddy tucked the basket beneath his arm, thanked the butler, and descended the steps.
The curricle awaited. The tiger—an imp of twelve years and infinite curiosity—secured the basket by a strap in the seat next to him. Not two furlongs along Brook Street the first hint of rebellion emerged. A faint scrabbling, then the distinct pop of loosened wicker. Freddy spared a glance, and four white paws protruded through the lattice.
“None of that!” he urged with a tap. The paws withdrew. Peace lasted until the corner of Bond Street, whereupon Lord Orville executed an escape worthy of a seasoned picklock. He erupted onto Freddy’s lap, tail lashing, and fixed luminous orbs upon the passing thoroughfare as though debating a launch.
The curricle swerved. Shoppers scattered. “Confound it, sir,” Freddy muttered, wresting the reins with one hand while the other tried to cradle a wriggling bundle intent on scaling his perfectly tied Mathematical. By prodigious luck they arrived without collision at the Partridge town house in Grosvenor Square, though more than one jarvey shook a fist at the reckless driving.
