Page 5 of Unending Joy
Joy’s heart softened with gratitude, though she still wrestled with an urge to retreat from London entirely. She hardly had the fortitude to face both her failing sight and the censure of gossipy debutantes. Biting back her frustration, she reminded herself that not everyone was so cruel. Maeve was proof of that, and so was Freddy—even if he did tend to treat life as one grand jest.
They soon arrived at the gates of the park, where a gentle breeze rustled the leaves, and the air carried a faint scent of cherry blossoms. Groups of fashionables sauntered along the paths, nodding politely or, in the case of those more given to chatter, stopping to exchange pleasantries.
The Dowager was already ahead, speaking animatedly to Lady Ingram. The older ladies beckoned for Maeve to join them. Joy escaped, but still within sight. As she made her way down the slightly sloping path, she clutched the Keats volume like a talisman. If only her eyes would allow her to savour each verse properly, she might lose herself in the poet’s lines and forget the clamour of her own mind. No, she would save her troubles for the privacy of her chambers.
Reaching the edge of the pond, she paused to admire the sunlight dancing upon the water’s surface—though ‘admire’ was perhaps too strong a word. The brilliance of the sun’s reflection hurt her eyes, and the shifting patterns soon blurred into indistinct shapes. Shielding her gaze with one hand, she inhaled, trying to quell the swirl of dismay in her stomach.
She yearned for the comfort of wide green fields where no one cared if she squinted or stumbled. She longed for the carefree rides with Freddy, who never chided her about propriety. Indeed, he was the one person whose presence felt like an escape from the constraints of Society.
Yet the recollection of his concerned gaze the previous evening made her cheeks burn. She had confided in him—spoken of her deteriorating sight—and though he had been nothing but kind, she felt horribly exposed. Even now, she wished she could retract her confession, return to a simpler day when her eyes were merely tired from reading too late at night, not failing her altogether.
A sudden swell of voices caught her attention. She turned, peering through the haze of sunlight, and discerned Maeve’s figure among a small coterie of ladies talking to the Dowager. The conversation grew merry, punctuated by dainty laughter. None of them beckoned to Joy, for which she was grateful. She had no desire to hear the newest gossip from theton.
Stepping onto the grass, she approached an ancient oak that spread its branches like a protective canopy. A wooden bench rested in its shade, unoccupied, and she gratefully sat down. Opening the Keats volume, she attempted to decipher the swirling letters, but they refused to come into focus. That old gnawing fear stirred in her belly, and she bit her lip to stave off tears.
How would she endure an entire Season when each day her vision wavered, threatening to expose her secret at any moment? If merely stepping into Hatchard’s had revealed that she squinted and frowned in an unladylike manner, how could she pass muster in ballrooms packed with onlookers? One misstep, and the rumour mill would churn with talk of the Whitford girl who could not see and yet dared to dance.
The breeze rustled the leaves overhead, and a single shaft of golden sunlight broke through, illuminating her page. She looked down again, willing her eyes to behave. She managed two lines:
Upon a time, before the faery broods
Drove Nymph and Satyr from the prosperous woods
—before the letters blurred again. With a frustrated sigh, she closed the book. How she longed to be able to read more than a few words again without struggle.
If only she could return to her guardian’s country estate, where the world was quiet, and her responsibilities did not include feigning perfect health for the benefit of prying eyes. Perhaps her family would grant her leave if she pleaded her case, though she dreaded their disappointment.
At length, she composed herself and rose. Gathering her courage, she made her way back along the path to rejoin Lady Maeve, who was still in conversation. The Dowager glanced at Joy’s face and gave a slight frown, but said nothing. Perhaps her expression betrayed her distress, or perhaps the older womansimply wished to reprimand them both for wandering. Either way, Joy resolved to endure with what grace she could muster.
“You look tired.” Lady Maeve cast a concerned glance at Joy. “Shall we return to the carriage?”
“Yes,” Joy said quietly. “I should like that.”
And so they moved on, the city’s bustling noise reasserting itself the moment they passed the park’s grand gates. Another day in London, another round of constraints and carefully composed smiles. Yet, pressed against Joy’s side, the book of poetry served as a small, comforting reminder of a world beyond the glare and hustle—a world of verse and longing, where perhaps she could escape. If only her eyes and her courage would hold out a little longer so the pleasure of the written word would not be lost to her.
Freddy reflectedthat he had been blessed indeed when it came to his family. His father, Viscount Gresham, was more of an amiable country squire than a London lord. He rarely fussed at anyone so long as they stayed out of trouble, preferring his kennel of hounds and his wide expanse of fields to the glitter of Society. His mother, Lady Gresham, was still considered a very handsome woman—so much so that, in her youth, she had been courted by dukes, marquesses, and earls. Yet she had fallen in love with the then Mr. Cunningham instead, and from all Freddy could see, she was perfectly content with her choice, embracing her role as wife, mother, and a leading figure in local church charities, though she did enjoy the Season in Town.
Freddy’s sister, Vivienne, had likewise enjoyed good fortune. She had made a good match with Lord Montford, the heir to an earldom and one of Freddy’s closest friends. Their marriage wasa happy one, despite Vivienne having been expected to marry Lord Rotham from birth. Freddy had often marvelled at how seamlessly that union had come about with little effort on his part.
He’d resumed his carefree life in London, albeit seeking out entertainments with those he had less acquaintance with since his friends had all wed.
With such idyll, Freddy had never anticipated any severe blow from his easy-going relations. Therefore, when the summons arrived before he had breakfasted, he was wholly unprepared for the conversation that would follow. It was only a single note, penned in his mother’s flowing script, but its brevity said much:Come to us at once at Gresham House. Your father and I would have a word.
His parents were in Town? What the devil?
He read it twice before he found himself dressing with care—whatever it was could wait until he was properly rigged—then made his way to the town house his mother inhabited only for the Season. He arrived to find his parents waiting in the drawing room, both wearing expressions he did not often see—the sort that signalled something truly significant was afoot.
“Has someone died?” he stopped at the threshold and asked before even greeting his beloved parents.
His mother, in a graceful gown of dove-grey silk, was seated upon a settee, hands folded primly in her lap. His father stood by the fireplace, a sheaf of news clippings in one hand. The lines of his usually genial face were set in an expression of stern resolve.
“What kind of greeting is that, son?” his father scolded. Freddy forbade to mention the curt summons he’d received less than an hour ago at an hour when he’d barely raised his head from the pillow. “The Season is set to begin and with it your mother’s annual garden party.”
Freddy supposed the Season had started last night. He closed the door behind him and dipped his head in respectful greeting. “Father, Mother,” he said. “You wished to see me?”
They bade him approach, and as soon as he drew near, his father fanned out the clippings on a nearby table. Freddy recognized the ink and column headings of certain London newspapers, though he could not read the details from where he stood. Still, the small glimpses he caught—words likerace, Melton, scandal, and opera dancer—were enough to make his stomach twist.
“Freddy,” his mother began, her voice formal, “your father and I have grown concerned about your…activities…of late.”
