Page 54 of Unending Joy
Montford’s dun loomed at his elbow with a snort and a cloud of steam. “Cunningham!” Monty called, his grin broad. “You have become the veriest Don Juan—three fair companions in one afternoon!”
Freddy forced a chuckle, eyes still on Joy’s graceful seat. “If diversity aids harmony, Monty, I shall compose symphonies till dusk.”
“Varied melodies, indeed, though I collect Miss Partridge’s mama is tuning her instrument for a different finale.” Montford’s gaze followed Freddy’s. “Ah—but St. John conducts another performance.”
Freddy’s answering grin was tight. “Let us trust he keeps the tempo.”
Suddenly an unseen blow snapped Joy’s head back. Nightingale bucked upright, and Joy catapulted from the saddle.
Freddy’s blood froze, and in an instant the day’s calculated parade of partners was swept from his thoughts. He flung the ribbons to his tiger, vaulted down, and raced across to the only lady who mattered, all too conscious of how thin a veil his performance of indifference had truly been.
CHAPTER 17
Joy had spent the hours preceding her five o’clock engagement with Colonel St. John in a state of determined cheerfulness, outwardly calm yet inwardly reckoning every tick of the mantel clock. If she allowed herself the briefest pause, Freddy’s wry grin from the Thornhill ball would rise before her mind’s eye, followed quickly by the warm weight of his hand at her waist and the half-serious, half-desperate murmur.Why not?She had quelled that memory all morning, reminding herself that Freddy was, even now, engaged in disentangling himself from Letty Partridge’s expectations. And reminding herself equally that, until such disentanglement was complete, she must do Colonel St. John the courtesy of treating his attentions in good faith. By no means would she accept him when she had hopes of Freddy. She was not certain if she could wed anyone when her heart belonged to another.
Of one thing she was quite sure: London’s fever of gossip made no allowances for hesitation. Within a single day of Maeve’s ball the news-sheets had blossomed with hints—some only a line, others whole paragraphs—that ‘Colonel S——’s admiration of Miss J. W——d continues to be marked.’ Joy, who had once calculated that plain spectacles would serve as armour,now discovered they offered no shelter at all against public conjecture. One half of her mind rehearsed the Colonel’s merits—handsome, dutiful, a seat better than her own—while the other half kept slipping back to Freddy’s crooked smile and the gleam in his eyes.
When the hour at last arrived, she met Colonel St. John at the entrance, vowing to bear herself with calmness. His bow was irreproachably gallant, and the chestnut he rode stood his equal in bearing. Nightingale, by contrast, seemed to catch her mistress’s uncertainty and pranced sideways until the groom steadied her head.
“Miss Whitford,” the Colonel said, bowing, “the Park will envy my happy advantage.”
“Advantage is precarious where so many phaetons prowl,” Joy returned, suppressing the urge to flee back into the house.
Joy gathered her skirts, accepted St. John’s assistance, and settled into the saddle with a determined composure. He laughed, then mounted his chestnut with effortless grace.
Curzon Street, Park Lane, then Hyde Park Corner—each turning admitted new equipages: curricles rimmed in yellow, driven by modish whips, barouches lined with matrons and their nodding ostrich plumes, and mounted riders dressed in the peak of fashion.
“Behold,” St. John said, guiding his steed to pace beside Joy’s mare, “the Parliament of Vanity convened in open session.”
“Then I trust you have prepared your speech,” Joy replied. “This is a most particular and discerning crowd.”
“My speech, Madam, is to prove I ride better than Lord Petersfield, and admire one lady to the exclusion of every other.”
Joy felt her cheeks warm. Would she ever feel comfortable with such empty flattery? “You tempt the gallery to censure your partiality, sir.”
“Let them,” he murmured, yet the twinkle in his eye leavened the sentiment with humour rather than presumption. They drove on, conversing on the previous week’s racing triumphs. Joy recounted Banquet’s breath-stealing finish, while St. John recalled a time in Portugal akin to a steeplechase, where a French battery provided both obstacle and incentive. His descriptions brimmed with dry wit.
“Nothing clarifies a horse’s courage like a cannonball ploughing the turf three yards away. One need not even apply the spur.”
Joy did not know whether to laugh or decry such morbid humour. They reached the Park’s broadest sweep, where riders three abreast paraded for Society’s inspection.
As Nightingale carried her at an easy canter beside Colonel St. John’s disciplined chestnut, Joy’s gaze strayed across the tan to a curricle painted dark green, its grey pair stepping smartly while Freddy, hat atilt, conversed first with Miss Livingston and then—barely a furlong farther on—assisted Miss Fairfax into the very seat the brunette had just vacated. A swift, unreasonable pang stirred beneath Joy’s habit, only to be rebuked a moment later by sober recollection: Freddy’s elaborate parade was no flirt’s frolic but a calculated campaign to demonstrate impartial civility and thus free himself, gently, from Letty Partridge’s expectancy. Resolutely, she schooled her features to pleasant interest as the Colonel recounted some Peninsula skirmish, yet the small tightening in her chest confessed that even strategic gallantry could kindle a spark of jealousy in a heart already leaning towards its oldest friend. Joy took pleasure in the rhythm of the greys’ strides before they turned away towards the other side of the Park.
Then a curious incident occurred near Queen Caroline’s Temple. They passed the same solitary gentleman loitering by the rail, wearing the shabby coat and hat brim pulled low. Joymight not otherwise have noted the connection but the Colonel’s posture altered—and Joy knew it was no coincidence. Joy felt Nightingale catch the tension in the air. The mare’s ears flicked, her stride shortened. She followed his gaze and caught the stranger’s upward glance—an intent smirk—somehow familiar to St. John.
“An acquaintance?” Joy ventured, hoping to find a simple answer to the mystery.
“An importunate fellow,” he answered too swiftly, too casually. “Pay him no heed.”
But she could not dismiss the matter so lightly, for that stranger—shabby coat, narrow stance—resembled the very man who had lurked near the modiste’s window a fortnight earlier, beside the rail at Ascot, and again in Berkeley Square. Her pulse quivered, the spectacles slipped faintly down her nose, and she forced a smile. The Colonel guided his chestnut past the loiterer, who lowered his head in apparent deference.
Then an object flew near them, and Nightingale took objection. “What was that?”
The Colonel’s horse, used to war, steadied on. “I did not see what it was.”
“Easy, girl!” she commanded, seat deep, hands firm. But something flew through the air again, and Nightingale, already afire with alarm, reared. Joy clung, balancing, aware only dimly of St. John wheeling beside her. Then another object flew straight at Joy and she was unable to dodge it whilst trying to manage Nightingale. It struck her in the head, her spectacles flew and her vision doubled. She felt the saddle slip, her right foot failed to clear the pommel, and daylight tumbled into a blur of mane and spinning sky. Her shoulder first, and then her head, bounced off the ground and sharp bursts of pain assaulted her. She fought to recover, but the world pitched and turned black.
“Miss Whitford! Joy!” St. John’s voice, tight with alarm, penetrated the ringing in her ears. She felt hands steadying her shoulders, and smoothing hair back from her brow. The groom arrived, others with him, and a crowd formed, chattering.
