Page 58 of Unending Joy
“Your voice and presence soothe me far more than laudanum,” Joy answered, settling deeper into her cushions. She dozed, lulled by the steady cadence of his voice, and woke to find him recounting plans for the small estate his father had bequeathed him—Heartsfield Grange, a comfortable greystone house in Kent which was bordered by orchards.
“It is no grand seat,” he told her, “but the stables are sound, the south meadow ideal for a modest course, and the dovecote could be coaxed into a library if one bribed the birds elsewhere.”
“A library in a dovecote?” Joy laughed softly at the absurdity. “You tempt me with visions of reading beneath fluttering wings.”
“And racing Nightingale and Banbury along the hawthorn hedge,” he added, the warmth in his tone painting scenes she could almost see.
But though he described orchards in blossom and a river ready for summer picnics, there were no more mentions of permanence. Each time the future hovered close, he redirected the conversation—asking whether her pillows were comfortable, whether the doctor had truly forbidden her from rising from the bed, whether Camilla’s friskiness disturbed her head. Joy noticed the evasions and felt a tremor of impatience. When her sight cleared and her strength returned, the moment must come when neither of them could pretend the future was a neutral country waiting to be discovered. Joy dared not ask the one question that kept burning in her mind. Would he still want her if she was permanently blind? And then, she countered, could she thrust herself onto someone, knowing she was blind?
“Has anything more occurred with Miss Partridge?” she asked instead.
“Letty’s happiness is no longer my affair,” he added quietly, lowering the paper. “I have made clear that matter to her mama. All else seems trifling when—” His words fell away, but the meaning hovered, warming the air.
Joy, cheeks tingling, whispered, “I do not wish you to feel beholden to me, Freddy.”
“I shall not be,” he answered. “Nothing matters now but your recovery.”
“What if I do not recover this time, Freddy?”
He leaned forward and took her hand. “You are perfect however you are, Joy.”
She could not quite see him, only a pale shape at the bedside, yet she felt the conviction pulse between them like sunlight pressing the curtains. Her heart took courage.
On the fourth morning, when Dr. Harvey pronounced the swelling somewhat diminished, and allowed that Joy might be able to sit in a chair for a while, provided it caused her no dizziness or pain.
Faith then informed her that St. John had called and was below. “He has called and enquired after you every morning,” Faith told her. “Do you wish to see him?”
Did she? Joy was not certain. But the unease she now felt must be for naught. If they had found anything against him, surely he would not be allowed into Westwood House.
“Perhaps it would ease his anxieties to see you are well,” Faith suggested.
“A few minutes perhaps.”
“I will be right over there and ensure the visit is short,” Faith assured her, then helped her to sit up with pillows supporting her. She was now able to discern shapes and some colours with her left eye if she did not blink too rapidly.
St. John entered and advanced to the bed and bowed—Joy thought she detected stiffness in the gesture. Polite enquiries followed: her pain, her appetite, the doctor’s predictions. She answered and thanked him for the violets he had sent, but she sensed that his thoughts darted elsewhere.
At length, he cleared his throat. “Miss Whitford, I have come—” He halted, his breathing shallow. Then, with evident effort: “I have come to renew my addresses, which must have been too faintly conveyed in our previous encounters. The accident has made me see that time is not to be taken for granted. Your fortitude, your good humour…these qualities command my esteem.” He paused again, fingers tightening on his hat. “I wish to lay before you, therefore, the earnest hope that you will—when recovered—do me the honour of becoming my wife.”
Joy’s pulse leapt, yet not with the astonishment she had once imagined. Instead she felt a gentle sadness. The words, though honourable, lacked the living warmth she had grown to cherish in Freddy’s presence. Moreover, courtesy demanded truth. She would not relinquish her freedom at the price of mere esteem.
“Colonel,” she said softly, “your regard does me more honour than I can express but I cannot, in fairness, accept it.”
St. John’s shoulders sagged, whether with relief or disappointment, she could not tell. “I confess,” he murmured, “I feared as much. Circumstances—” he broke off, straightened, then seemed to want to persist. “I spoke too soon. I beg you will forget this intrusion until you are stronger.”
“There is no need for you to feel obligation for what happened, but my sentiment shall not change.” Joy managed a small, earnest smile. “I do thank you for your offer.”
He bowed again, still distracted, and withdrew without further protest. When the door closed, Joy pressed trembling fingertips to her eyelids—and felt as though she’d made a close escape.
He certainly had not displayed the ardour to be expected of a man making an offer of marriage, although to be fair, she could hardly see any nuances of expression.
Joy heard the house stir at his departure. Faith came closer, her tread betraying eagerness for news. “I could not hear all.”
Joy relayed the essentials, and Faith’s sigh expressed both relief and sisterly concern. “I feared he would press you,” Faith said, smoothing the coverlet. “And that you might feel forced into agreement.”
“Not in the least—but I do feel the need to get out of this bed.”
Faith sighed heavily, but did not object when Joy’s feet slipped over the side of the bed to stand up.
