Page 49 of Unending Joy
“True,” Joy murmured, “but candle flame suffices only if one does not recall what it is to stand in sunlight. With St. John I feel a gentle light, but—” She broke off, colour rising.
Grace’s hands stilled. “You compare him, perhaps, to another?”
Joy busied herself with the silver brush. “I compare him to…the idea of being wholly myself, and wholly at ease, in another’s company. With Colonel St. John I am conscious of my words, my step, the tilt of my spectacles. I do not wish to feel like a schoolgirl.”
Grace tied the last ribbon and met her sister’s gaze in the mirror. “Is there anyone in whose company you do not feel so?”
The image of Freddy flashed across her mind’s eye—mud-splashed curricles, reckless laughter, the steady warmth of his hand in hers when vision faltered. Joy’s pulse stumbled. “Freddy, of course,” she hedged, “but he is not seeking to marry me. We have the ease of old friends.”
Grace’s brows arched, but before she could speak the maid returned with the requested warm water. Once Joy was readied and had stepped into the gown, the maid withdrew again. Grace fastened the seed-pearl clasp and spoke in a low tone. “If your heart does not desire the match, Joy, you must heed it—for your sake and for the gentleman’s.”
Joy managed a sardonic smile. “Tonight, my heart shall whisper only not to stumble or tear a flounce.”
Grace bestowed a mocking smile on her as Joy had known she would.
Maeve swept in from her adjoining chamber, her cheeks vivid with happiness.
“The carriage waits—oh! Joy, you are the very breath of spring.” She clasped her own hands beneath her chin, then pirouetted so the peach-rose skirts of her new gown billowed like dawn clouds. “Do I look well enough to announce a betrothal?”
“You look sufficiently celestial,” Grace assured her, laughing.
The journey to Thornhill Place gleamed with lantern-light, the carriage wheels crunching gravel as stars settled into a velvet dusk. Joy rode with Carew, Grace, and Maeve; the last vibrated with excitement, a single coral rose pinned in her dark hair. Thornhill’s great house blazed ahead, windows golden, music already swelling as if the walls themselves breathed a minuet.
Inside, the hum of anticipation trembled through every corridor. The Duke and Dowager Duchess greeted them in thedrawing room and then led them into the dining room, where fifty of their closest acquaintances were to dine before the ball.
Dinner was a primer in elegance. The footmen seemed to move with composed precision, the fragrant steam of white soup curling into candlelit air—but an undercurrent of expectancy fluttered round them. Joy, seated between Freddy and Lord Rotham, watched as Maeve’s gaze constantly strayed towards the head of the table, where His Grace toyed with a glass of wine more than he drank it.
When the covers were drawn, Thornhill rose. A hush rippled outward; even the footmen seemed to suspend their silent glide. The Duke inclined his dark head towards the Dowager Duchess, then let his eyes rest on Maeve, who sat very straight, looking nervous.
“My friends,” he began, his baritone carrying with effortless command, “it is both my honour and pleasure to inform you that Lady Maeve has done me the incomparable honour of consenting to become my wife.”
Delight burst forth in a clatter of cutlery and a murmur of congratulation. Joy’s own heart gave a little leap—it was one thing to anticipate the announcement and another to hear it spoken, shining and irrevocable. She turned to Maeve, whose cheeks flamed coral-pink beneath the jet of raven hair, and leaned across Freddy to press her friend’s gloved hand.
Freddy also murmured felicitations; Thornhill, catching his glance, offered a small bow of thanks. Around them, champagne glasses appeared.
When it was time to move on to the ballroom, Joy’s breath caught at the mirrored vista. Couples were already mingling in the ballroom’s reflection, flowers scented the air, and a chandelier scattered light like dewdrops. Thornhill’s butler announced Colonel St. John, who stepped forward to greet herimmediately after greeting the hosts. He bowed deeply. “Miss Whitford—may I say how enchanting you look?”
Joy, never one to appreciate flattery or think it true, merely curtsied. “Thank you, Colonel.”
“May I claim your opening dance?”
Joy inclined her head, her pulse hammering. He had come! She felt Grace’s gentle push of encouragement as St. John led her to the floor. They waited as Thornhill and Lady Maeve began the first measures together, then his hand, warm through her glove, guided with polished sureness to commence an unusual opening waltz.
St. John’s hand guided her waist; they turned. Joy counted beats and let her blue skirts billow like a morning sky. Around them, couples floated; chandeliers glittered; laughter chimed. The Colonel’s conversation flowed—touching upon harmless trifles—how Lady Marchmont’s kittens fared, the most pleasing weather of late. Joy answered with equal lightness, but somewhere below the exchange her uncertainty coiled tightly. Yet he made no mention of his absence of late, and Joy sensed tension beneath his smooth manner.
The waltz ended. St. John, still breathing evenly, escorted her to Faith. “Miss Whitford,” he began, then paused, knuckles tightening on his gloves, “may I secure your assent for supper as well?”
“If you wish it, Colonel.”
Relief, unexpected and baffling, washed over her. He was not proposing. He was merely solicitous.
He bowed, evidently satisfied, and withdrew. Joy sank back, her pulse echoing like drums. Why did she feel both spared and disappointed? Because Grace’s question still dangled unanswered, or because Freddy—standing across the room now, laughing with Rotham—had looked her way precisely as the Colonel released her hand?
In that moment, Joy discovered clarity: the warmth she wished to feel for a suitor was blazing visibly before her, in Freddy’s shining countenance. But was it sufficient, and before it was too late? And could Freddy feel the same?
Freddy had scarcely enteredthe doors of Thornhill’s ballroom when Lady Partridge marshalled her way to him like a brigade of well-drilled soldiers. She executed a glide that placed her daughter in his path with military precision. Freddy swallowed the sigh that rose in his throat—there was no avoiding the encounter without visible rudeness—and offered his best bow.
“Mr. Cunningham, what felicity!” the lady sang.
