Page 64 of Unending Joy
She wrinkled her face—an adorable mannerism she had when she was thinking. “I do not. Rather, I would not have thought I would like it.”
“It is rather a marked change, is it not? You and me.”
“But it does make sense for both of us. That way we will always be together. You do not mind that I will not be an overly feminine sort of wife?”
“To spare me from feminine hysterics?” he mocked. “But in all seriousness, I did not think about it overmuch before, but when I was courting Letty, I always found her wanting and compared her to you.”
“What a nice thing to say, Freddy!”
“Honestly, I hope being married will not change either our friendship or your hoydenish behaviour—at least in private.”
Joy gurgled with laughter. “You will have to help me with that. You always encourage me when I always mean to behave.”
“I suppose I do.”
Joy tilted her head, half-smiling beneath her shady brim.
They reached the edge of the apple trees and stepped into an open glade. A roped swing, fashioned long ago for childrennow grown, hung from the stout limb of a sycamore beside the river’s edge. Its wooden seat swayed lazily in the breeze like a pendulum waiting to be claimed.
They strolled on towards the river, the dialogue still echoing in cheerful counterpoint to the buzz of insects. When the swing came fully into view, Joy’s step quickened, and she released his arm long enough to knot her skirt above sturdy kid boots.
“Do you think you would enjoy being a squire, Freddy?”
“I do, but I also enjoy Town. Would you mind if we went to enjoy some of the Season each year? Perhaps as Mrs. Cunningham you can cut a dash without censure.”
“You mean I can be myself but it would be acceptable as long as I am married?”
“Something of that nature.”
With an irrepressible grin she seized the swing’s ropes. “Push me.”
He planted his heels. “Are you certain you should be doing that?”
“Not at all, but what harm could there be in a gentle swinging?”
He would give her the moon if she asked—a measured push seemed harmless enough. Yet his caution proved laughable—Joy needed only the faintest impulse before she was pumping her legs with the vigour of an experienced circus belle, bonnet ribbons fluttering behind her like pennants.
“Was there ever anything better, Freddy?” she cried, soaring high. However, then—“But it also makes me very dizzy—oh!”
The “oh” lengthened to a squeal as momentum betrayed her. The seat tilted sideways, she lost her grip, tumbled, and with a spectacular splash vanished into the water’s cool embrace.
Freddy’s heart slammed once, hard, then instinct took command. Boots, coat, and dignity flew in three separate arcs as he hurled himself after her. The river, no deeper than hiswaist here, still closed over his head before he found the bottom. Sunlight fractured above; silt billowed. He reached, caught fabric—her skirt—and hauled upward.
They surfaced together, Joy sputtering, hair plastered to cheeks, spectacles dangling by one temple-piece. “Well,” she managed as she wiped her hair from her eyes, “that was bracing.”
“That took ten years off my life, Joy!”
“I am no simpering miss, Freddy. I must insist you do not coddle me!”
Freddy didn’t think he could love her more in that exact dishevelled moment. He slipped an arm beneath her knees and waded towards the grassy bank, water sluicing from his waistcoat. She weighed little more than a bundle of drenched muslin.
Depositing her on the bank’s turf, he eased the crooked spectacles from her nose, blotted them with his linen handkerchief, and set them back with ceremonial care. Her lashes were spiky, her cheeks glowed, and river weeds clung to her hat like absurd cockades.
“I am going to kiss you now, Joy.”
He leaned forward, and their lips met. She tasted of river water and something fierce and new. The kiss possessed very little polish—their mouths met at an angle that bumped teeth and fumbled fingers at the same time—but passion answered in joyful disorder, steaming her spectacles until the world vanished behind fogged lenses.
When they parted she blinked, breathless.
