Page 66 of Unending Joy
She blew him a mock-solemn kiss and turned her attention to the water. Sun spangles danced across the surface, willow leaves drifted like small ships. Once or twice she strained to see a shape flash beneath—a salmon testing the shallows. When the bite came, it yanked her arm nearly to the socket. She set her heels, angled the rod, and let the fish run. Freddy hovered, ready, but she needed only for the fish to tire a little to bring it to a glittering arc above the water. “Do not dare try to assist,” she snapped.
Minutes later the fish lay in wet grass, still flexing powerful tails, and Westwood pressed a sovereign into Joy’s palm as she gloated.
Westwood then landed the next—nothing to boast of but large enough to eat as well as make Sylvester cheer. Montford lost two flies to overzealous flicks and finally captured a salmon so small even Vivienne refused to praise his catch. Rotham hooked a submerged tree branch and spent ten minutes extracting his line with muttered curses. Stuart, leaning against a willow and observing Patience’s glowing face, never noticed the gentle tug on his rod until the salmon shook free, leapt once in triumph, and vanished.
Joy’s catch therefore remained the victor, and she brandished her sovereign like a medal pinned to a general. Westwood bowed, conceding defeat with good grace. “Joy, I should never have doubted you.”
Lunch tasted better for the victory. The cook had packed cold roast fowl, pickled quails’ eggs, fresh bread, and strawberries so sweet they needed no sugar. Conversation rippled like the river itself as they sipped on sweet elderflower wine.
The afternoon drifted towards lazy perfection: salmon safely packed for supper, children dozing in the shade, adults scattered in agreeable fellowship. Freddy guided Joy a little upstream where they walked hand in hand.
Here the current slowed, permitting reflections almost mirror clear. Joy sat upon a fallen tree, removed her spectacles to polish the lenses and studied him through the softened haze of near-sight.
“You look thoughtful, Mr. Cunningham,” she said, as he guided Lord Orville away from the bank.
“I was just thinking…hoping that we will be friends as good as this when we are eighty.”
“It seems a strange concern. Why would we not be? We were friends from the very first.”
“I suppose so. It will take some getting used to, this notion of you as a wife.”
“I think we are very lucky to have each other forever. That is what concerned me the most about having a Season. It meant I would lose you forever.”
“Now you will have me forever.”
She polished the spectacles, slid them on and blinked until the world steadied. “I have a worry, too.”
“And what is that?”
“That I will trip when walking down the aisle at my own wedding. Would it not be appalling if you were forced to carry me?”
He laughed. “If necessary, I shall do so. We shall set our own style.”
“No, no. I shall practise so I will not make a fool of myself,” she promised, then added softly, “Freddy, are you absolutely content? You do not regret choosing convenience?”
He sat beside her on the trunk, their shoulders brushing. “Convenience?” He considered the word. “There is nothingresembling that word in what is between us. I belong to you, heart and soul.”
“Oh, Freddy.” She snuggled next to him and leaned her head on his shoulder. “Why did it take us so long to open our eyes to each other? I mean, I always thought that any lady would be lucky to have you, and then I wanted to claw Letty Partridge’s eyes out when she would fawn all over you.”
He chuckled. “I wanted to pop St. John’s cork more than once just for making you laugh,” he admitted.
“Was that love? I suppose it was,” she said thoughtfully. “Thankfully, we are not now married to the wrong people.”
“I shudder to think what almost was not. I will tell you one thing: I will never take for granted the gift you are to me. I love you, Joy Whitford.”
She felt colour warm her cheeks. She turned slightly so that his face blurred into gentle shapes of light and shadow. “Then you ought to know,” she murmured, “that I love you, too, Freddy.”
His arm slid round her waist, her head nestled against his shoulder. “I do know. I think I have always known.”
Freddy had often heard curatesdeclare that nothing on earth could fluster an English bridegroom once the banns were called, the licence signed, and the bride safely at hand. He now discovered that curates, like poets and prospective connexions, trafficked in half-truths. For although Joy was indeed ‘safely at hand’—somewhere in the east wing with four sisters, two maids, and several felines—everything else about the blessed morning contrived to rattle his composure.
First, the weather: a July day that threatened to imitate April, scattering sun, drizzle, and mischievous gusts in hourly rotation. And—kittens. Six of them (and one dog, Patience’s Xander) now toddled about, making war on wedding ribbons and lace. Cecilia and Mortimer remained with their new lady, but the remaining feline fraternity—Lord Orville, Camilla, Frederica, Theo, Evelina, and the house’s current mouser, Mouser, had joined the fray.
Still, Freddy reminded himself as he paced the panelled passage outside the chapel, he had survived worse. London dowagers. Letty Partridge’s mother. A few animals and capricious clouds could not sink him.
“Deep breaths, lad,” came Westwood’s rumble from the open vestry door. The Viscount, impeccably arrayed in navy superfine, leaned against the lintel as if he had personally invented matrimony. “She will not gallop away.”
“I never doubted that,” Freddy answered. “It is still an unnerving process.”
