Page 63 of Unending Joy
Freddy stood and held out his hand. “Come. I have kept you out much longer than would please Dr. Harvey.”
Freddy arrivedat Heartsfield Grange a few hours before the caravan of barouches and luggage carts. He had felt like a boy waiting for a new pony. He’d inspected every inch of the house, but would wait for Joy’s arrival to inspect the grounds together, for he knew she would enjoy it. His mother had already sent an army of servants to prepare everything. The grass was shorn, the house was freshly aired and polished, and smelled of beeswax and fresh pies. He’d warned the household to remove any obvious obstacles that Joy might miss and stumble upon.
By the time the party rolled up the drive, he was fair to bursting with excitement. Who would have ever thought Freddy would be thankful at the prospect of becoming settled?
Lord and Lady Gresham arrived first, his father having left his beloved country seat to join them.
“Well, Frederick, your mother tells me you have found your match. I am quite pleased.”
“Joy does not wish to announce anything yet.” Seeing his father’s concerned face, Freddy hastened to add, “owing to her recent injury, you understand.”
“We may not even speak of it amongst family?”
“I will ask her.”
“And how do you find your new home?” his mother asked, by way of intervention.
“It will do very well,” he pronounced, which met with pleased smiles.
The carriages began to arrive one after the other.
From the first, Joy emerged on Westwood’s arm, straw bonnet shadowing her fragile vision but cheeks flushed with the prospect of open country about her. Frederica jumped down from the coach, followed by Camilla and Lord Orville, the latter two quickly scampering off to explore.
“Welcome to Heartsfield Grange,” Freddy said, executing a bow.
Vivienne clasped her hands and spun around. “It is just how I remembered it. Do you remember the swing over the river, Freddy?”
“It is still there, Viv,” he assured her.
Within the hour they were shown to their chambers: Westwood and Faith in the east wing overlooking the river, Stuart and Patience over the library, Montford and Vivienne in her old chambers nearest the orchard, and Rotham and Hope with a view over the valley.
Joy, at Lady Gresham’s insistence, occupied a south-facing chamber with French doors onto a balcony. Freddy lodged opposite, separated by a passage, ‘for propriety’s sake,’ according to his mother, and “for strategy,” according to Westwood, who winked.
When everyone came down for tea on the large terrace, there were steaming scones with fresh cream, honey, and fresh cherry preserves. Joy tilted her head to listen as guinea fowl chattered outside the open casement.
“Music,” she said dreamily. “Though I grant their rhythm is irregular.”
“Guinea fowl make no noise I would ever call music,” Patience said. “They screech and cackle.”
Stuart remarked, “Any bird capable of sounding the alarm at French trespassers deserves indulgence.”
“Surely we need not worry over the French any longer?” Hope asked.
“We are safe, my dear,” Rotham reassured her with a scathing look at Stuart.
Freddy, half-amused, half-entranced by Joy’s quiet absorption, laid out the day’s design. “I thought to walk about the orchard, if you feel up to mild exertion?”
“Any movement is welcome after sitting idle in the carriage for so long. I do not need to be coddled.”
Freddy guided Joy down the path that led from the south lawn into the old orchard, every step accompanied by the faint hiss of meadow grass brushing their boots. Ahead, low boughs arched in profusion: pear and plum and apple, some already set with pale marbled fruit, others still sheathed only in leaves. The air, scented by a thousand petals fallen and crushed beneath last night’s shower, was half-honey, half-cider—intoxicating in the lazy heat of late afternoon. Fat bees dawdled from blossom to blossom, their humming a contented buzz beneath the shriller tunes of chaffinches overhead.
Freddy guided her where the ground dipped. Where it rose again, the grass grew sparse and sun browned, exposing the roots like gnarled fingers clutching earth. To the west, glimpsed here and there through branches, the Medway flashed silveryblue as it uncurled towards the estuary. Freddy had ridden that crooked mile of water since he first sat astride a pony—yet, walking now with Joy on his arm, he felt as though he viewed the place through freshly scraped glass, every colour heightened because she named it beautiful.
He noted her cautious tread—still slightly unsteady from the lingering strain on her vision—and slowed when the path slanted unevenly, tilting his body between her and the rougher ground. He found himself wishing every orchard in Kent had a furrow long enough to keep her hand on his sleeve forever.
“I can walk on my own now, Freddy,” Joy remarked, but her tone was laced with amusement.
“I rather like holding you near, Joy. Do you mind?”
