Page 68 of Unending Joy
The Dowager’s eyebrows ascended to the border of impropriety but before she could issue a rebuke, Evelina vaulted onto the pew and—decided to paw at the floral and fruit display atop Aunt Flora’s bonnet.
Freddy bit the inside of his cheek. Joy’s shoulders shook. Rotham and Carew’s guffaws echoed off the plaster ceiling.
Outside, sunshine had conquered drizzle for the moment, gilding the gravel sweep where the wedding breakfast awaited. Two grooms held a brace of white doves meant for release from their repurposed dovecote; the birds, unnerved by kittens skirmishing round their boots, burst free prematurely and shot heavenward, brushing Freddy’s hat and leaving a decidedly unceremonious token on Thornhill’s immaculate sleeve.
“An omen of prosperity,” Thornhill insisted gamely, flicking the mark with a lace kerchief while Lady Maeve tried—unsuccessfully—not to wheeze with mirth.
The newly wedded pair progressed towards the house, Joy pausing when she heard a frantic squawk. Camilla, bored with ribbons, had discovered the cook’s pet bantam—who had somehow wandered over—and decided to herd it like a sheep. The flustered fowl zigzagged between ankles, which delighted the toddler boys.
Freddy dropped Frederica, intercepted the chicken a pace from catastrophe, tucked it under one arm, and breathed a sigh of relief. “Cook would have my head if I let anything happen to her precious boy.”
Joy was now doubled over with laughter. “I could not think of a more fitting scene for our wedding.”
Freddy’s answering grin promised pandemonium—and lifelong partnership in every antic yet to come.
EPILOGUE
Five years later…
Joy Cunningham woke to the unmistakable sound of a harried husband. That was how it felt when Freddy came pelting in half-dressed and announced, with exaggerated gravity, that “Your goat is eating the refreshment tent.”
“My goat?” Joy retorted, dragging her spectacles from the bedside table. “Since when do I hold that title?”
“Since Sylvester christened her Lady Nibbleton and claimed she answers only to your voice.”
That explained everything and nothing.
Somewhere down the passage, two shrill voices—a piping “Papa, goat!” and a toddling echo of “Go!”—announced that their own children were awake. Three-year-old Frederick George (Georgie to all) came charging in, nightshirt flapping, while chubby Amelia toddled behind pulling a wooden kitten on wheels. Freddy scooped both under one arm, accepted a gummy kiss from Amelia, and deputized Georgie temporary Goat Constable.
“They have escaped Nurse,” Freddy remarked as though it was not a daily occurrence.
Joy laughed, kissed the tip of Freddy’s chin—the closest available target—and quickly dressed in a day gown. Outside, early sun striped the lawn and cast Heartsfield Grange in gilt. Trestles, half-erected, and tablecloths lay in piles awaiting hands willing to assemble. Near the orchard gate, Lady Nibbleton was indeed sampling the tent skirt while a footman ineffectually waved his arms at her.
“Shoo, Madam,” Joy commanded. The goat looked affronted but trotted off and transferred her attentions to an innocent hedgerow.
Quincy, their wedding pup from Lord Gresham, padded up, ears pricked.
“All livestock accounted for, save Lord Orville, who is presumably inspecting the neighbour’s queen,” Freddy announced. It was quite the task, keeping track of their menagerie.
Joy’s left eye caught colours bright and sure; the right, a stubborn blur, filled in nothing but soft hues.Even so,she thought,I see enough. And today she meant not to miss a single absurdity.
By noon, sisters and families descended like a cheerful invasion. Faith arrived first, the ever-capable Westwood and Lydia at her side. Benjamin sprinted past, waving a wooden sword and enquiring whether goats could be pirates. Trailing them came Faith’s youngest treasure—fourteen-month-old Edmund, gurgling approval at every goat bleat.
Hope’s carriage followed, Rotham disembarking looking decidedly dishevelled, as Sylvester leapt out to join Benjamin in the quest as a pirate. Their twin girls, Beatrix and Briony, slept undisturbed through the commotion.
Patience and Colonel Stuart brought five-year-old Robert and four-year-old Rose, each clutching a tiny felt pennant bearing crudely drawn kittens. “Flags,” Patience explained. “So they may cheer whichever creature actually stays on the course.”
Grace’s party made the grandest entry. Lord Carew helped her down, brandishing two familiar felines. Grace whispered to Joy, eyes twinkling. “I am afraid Theo and Evalina are too fat to race.” Three more little Carews tumbled out after their parents: serious-eyed Augustine, now four, exuberant Charlotte, now three, and solemn Nicholas—a one-year-old who clung to Grace’s skirts with his thumb securely in his mouth.
Soon after, a ducal landau rolled up the drive, bearing a radiant Maeve, Thornhill proudly holding aloft a wicker basket. Inside lurked two more of Frederica’s offspring, Mortimer and Cecilia, whom they had rescued whence Lady Marchmont passed on. They were groomed to celestial perfection and radiated disdain for the rustic venue. “Observe the opposition,” Thornhill said, as though introducing prized bloodstock. A pair of rosy-cheeked Thornhill heirs were handed down next—James (aged two, brandishing a toy horse) and baby Eliza in Maeve’s arms, wide-eyed at the scene around her.
Joy curtsied. “Welcome to Heartsfield.”
A cry of “Aunt Joy!” burst out as soon as the last landau door clicked shut. Sylvester and Benjamin, wooden cutlasses aloft, charged across the gravel in full piratical array—scarves tied crooked, one eye circled with charcoal to suggest villainy. Joy braced herself for impact. They hugged her knees with such enthusiasm that Frederica, lying regally at her feet, had to whirl aside.
Behind the buccaneers came Robert and Rose at a more measured trot, their kitten pennants fluttering. Augustine followed, clasping what appeared to be a pocket stud book. Charlotte skipped in his wake, attempting twirls that endedin grassy somersaults, while Nicholas clung to Grace’s hand and blinked owlishly at the commotion. Lydia made straight for Quincy, and he fell at her feet and rolled onto his back without shame. James, Thornhill’s eldest, marched to pet Lady Nibbleton, who eyed the miniature person with wary interest. Eliza nestled on Maeve’s hip, thumb in mouth, wide eyes reflecting everything with caution.
Joy spread her arms. “Goodness, I hoped all my favourite people would appear, and here they all are at once! Pirates, flag-bearers, breeders—what a company.”
