Page 59 of Unending Joy
Freddy met St.John on the landing outside Joy’s chamber. The officer drew up short, offered a stiff bow, then descended without a word. Freddy watched the straight back disappeararound the curve of the staircase and felt a tightness unknot inside his chest. At least St. John had not lingered to play the devoted suitor. One ordeal at a time was quite enough for Joy.
He tapped once on her door and slipped inside. The room lay mellow with filtered sunshine, the curtains half-drawn to spare her sore eyes. Dr. Harvey’s bandage had been exchanged for a neat strip of linen at her temple, beneath which the right eye remained covered. Joy reclined against the chair while Faith sorted vials on the escritoire.
“Ah, good morning, Freddy. Dr. Harvey has permitted Joy to get out of bed and sit in a chair for brief periods. Do not let her talk you into more.”
Joy’s irritated smile followed her sister out. “You are late, Mr. Cunningham,” she chided when the door clicked shut. “My daily novel arrives with you, and I have been quite starved for entertainment. Did something dire detain you?”
“No, nothing dire,” Freddy said, perching on the chair beside her bed. “My mother demanded a full accounting. She had it on excellent authority that someone attempted to shoot you out of the saddle.”
Joy made a face. “You reassured her that I am well?” She tapped her bandage. “Save for this refractory eye.”
He sobered. “Harvey still hopes the sight may creep back once the swelling fades.”
“So he says.” Her left eye studied him. “What did Lady Gresham decide? I do not wish her to postpone her house party on my account.”
“That was her first suggestion,” Freddy admitted. “She asked whether we ought to delay the gathering at Gresham Park. I told her I would seek your preference.” He hesitated. “The country air might do more good than darkened rooms in Town.”
Joy’s brows lifted. “I will not be the cause of overturning half a dozen invitations. Besides, Westwood speaks of Taywards in Surrey—close enough for others to visit.”
“My mother proposed Heartsfield Grange as a compromise,” Freddy said slowly. “It is in Kent—nearer than Derbyshire—and we could repair there in two short stages.” He managed a crooked grin. “And you could advise me on the dovecote-to-library scheme.”
Her lashes cast shadows on the bruised cheekbone.
“Unless you prefer pigeons to books.”
“A difficult choice,” she murmured, then grew thoughtful. “Kent would spare Westwood any objections. You are sure Lady Gresham would not object to an invalid among her guests?”
“Mother’s precise words were: ‘If Miss Whitford consents, I shall consider her presence a blessing.”
Joy laughed—just a breathy catch of sound, but bright. “I would like to see Heartsfield above all things. Now to convince Dr. Harvey and Westwood.”
He reached to cover her hand where it lay atop the coverlet. She did not draw away. “I will speak to Westwood this afternoon. If he agrees, we could travel down early next week—slow stages, plenty of cushions.” He paused before lowering his voice. “Joy, you will not be pushed if your strength fails. One word, and the plan changes.”
Her fingers curled around his in silent answer. For a moment neither spoke. The ticking bracket clock served as a heartbeat for them both.
Presently she said, softer still, “St. John was here five minutes ago. He asked for my hand.”
Freddy schooled his features. “And how did you answer?”
“I declined his offer.” She turned her head towards the muted window. “I still wish I knew if he even liked me or only my dowry.”
Freddy’s pulse drummed. “Must one be separate from the other?”
She smiled at that, releasing his hand.
“Shall I readEvalinaorCeciliatoday?”
“CeciliaI think,” she decided, closing her good eye.
Freddy opened the book, his voice steady, his heart anything but. If fortune favoured him, Kent would offer more than orchards and fresh air.
Once Joy was resting, Patience relieved him, and Freddy slipped downstairs. Westwood saw him walk past and hailed him into his study.
Mr. Hamble, the Bow Street Runner had called.
Freddy had not hoped for much from Mr. Hamble after his last report, but he and two additional Bow Street men had ventured back into the fetid lanes of St. Giles. Already, four days had slipped past when the butler announced the Runner once more, and Westwood had sent for all of them to attend. Hamble, cap in hand, began without preface.
“We have the fellow, sir—name of Silva. Took him at the Cock and Bull in High Holborn, late last night.”
