Page 48 of Unending Joy
She thought for a moment and opened her mouth, then closed it as if she decided against whatever she was going to say. “Very well. But if I am to endure more spectacles-induced headaches, I shall require reading aloud—Edgeworth today. Will you oblige?” She plucked the book up off the bench.
“Any time you ask.” He took it from her hands.
A warm silence settled as he began to read. Camilla swatted at the tassels on his Hessians whilst Lord Orville settled at Joy’s feet for a nap. Freddy watched Joy’s smile tilt towards contentment and swore, quietly, that no question of worthiness would reach her ears again—at least, not while he had breath to answer it.
CHAPTER 15
It was a leisurely afternoon—Faith and Hope’s children had been brought down from the nursery to play, and the men were in the corner, discussing something or other Joy could not discern. Grace arrived with Carew, as they were all to dress and go to the Thornhill ball together.
Joy could not suppress a groan.
“What happened to the little imp who wanted to convert my ballroom into the Tower of London or the menagerie at the Exchange?” Westwood asked.
“She was knocked in the head and was naïve enough to think she could dance. No one will dance with me willingly now.” Joy sounded perilously close to self-pitying.
“You have four brothers-in-law, Freddy, and surely St. John will ask?”
“I dare say he will,” she said wearily.
“You do not favour his court?” Westwood now sounded concerned. What had she done?
“I believe you exaggerate if you think he courts me. I have not seen or heard from him since Ascot.” And Joy could not but help wonder if she had done something to turn him away.
The gentlemen exchanged glances even Joy did not miss. What were they about?
“Well, you can see now, so once all of the fine gentlemen comprehend you are not truly clumsy, they will be begging for a set. Come now, let us go and dress.” Grace prodded Joy from the settee where she’d been most comfortably situated.
“Was that supposed to make me feel better?”
“Where is Maeve?” Grace looked around.
“She wanted to rest before tonight’s celebration.”
The maids were already in the chambers preparing, and to Joy, it looked like a milliner’s stall had taken possession of the apartment. Gowns, gloves, stockings, ribbons, and hair fripperies were everywhere.
She walked over to her gown. It was a creation in blue crêpe, trimmed at the hem with scrolls of white satin appliqué. Tiny seed pearls winked along the empire waist, while a fall of the faintest spider gauze drifted from the short puff sleeves, giving the whole the look of dew sparkling on a fresh web. Joy, regarding it on the counterpane, had confessed herself half afraid to wear the thing for fear of destroying it. Now, as Grace whisked back the curtains to admit the afternoon light, its lustre seemed to grow still more daring. Even Joy was in awe.
Grace would go clad in a silver silk embroidered in silver threads. She turned to Joy with an arch look. “Now, let us have a conversation.”
Joy perched at the dressing table while the maid attempted to coil her hair. “Conversation?” she echoed, feigning innocence.
“Do not be provoking, Joy. I refer, as I am sure you are aware, to St. John.” Grace dismissed the maid to fetch warm water and closed the door herself. “Tell me truly: if he were to offer for you this very night, would you accept?”
Joy felt the familiar quickening at the Colonel’s name—part flattery, part foreboding. She smoothed a fold of gauze to gaina moment’s composure. “I am uncertain whether he will offer,” she said at last, “so the question may be idle.”
Grace waited for her to continue.
Joy traced a pattern on the polished wood. “I like him very well, Grace. He is amiable, handsome, an excellent horseman?—”
“And possesses shoulders to make a uniform sigh with gratitude,” Grace supplied, twinkling. “Yet something in your tone suggests doubt.”
Joy breathed out. “But,” she admitted, “I cannot determine if what I feel is admiration or mere relief at being considered worthy. When he speaks, my mind listens; when he rides, my eyes are pleased; and yet when I imagine a life shared—parlours, tours of duty, nursery tales—there is a space where…warmth ought to be.”
Grace rested a hand on her shoulder. “You have ever feared being trapped where you could not breathe. Does the prospect of belonging to a gentleman alarm you?”
Joy considered. “Losing my freedom is, of course, worrying, but so is pretending to be what I am not.”
While the maid worked pearls into Joy’s curls, Grace spoke softly. “Love need not strike like thunder, Joy. Some matches kindle slowly.” Much like her own.
