Page 12

A bout the only thing worse than a ball was a garden party to draw attention to one’s incompetence at being a lady.

Balls, at least, involved movement. One could dance, or make a well-timed escape behind a potted palm.

But garden parties? The main entertainment was idle chit-chat and the ever popular game of who-was-wearing-what and who was matching with whom.

Tête-à-têtes with strangers Joy had no desire to know, forced smiles and compliments on hats—it was too much to be borne.

If only someone would seat her with the gentlemen and let her debate bloodlines of horses or the merits of different harnesses, she’d be much obliged.

But no. Ladies must speak of fabric swatches, and how scandalously low the line of Lady Findley’s neck had plunged at the opera.

Still, the Cunningham garden was one of the finest in London. If one must be miserable, it helped that one could do so under a clear sky and surrounded by lilacs. Everything was in bloom. Even Joy could make out the brightness of the roses across the lawn.

Tables were placed about the central fountain, each set with frothy lace cloths and small towers of pastries, tarts, and lemon cakes—her main reason for not fleeing. The punch glittered in the sunlight like rubies. There was a silver lining, after all.

Her sisters were scattered amongst the guests, all fluttering fans and silken skirts—all except Grace, who was still off with Lord Carew, no doubt enjoying some wondrous ruin or windswept cliff on their wedding trip to Greece.

The thought made something small and wistful stir inside Joy.

Grace had always been her closest companion, her co-conspirator in all things—though Grace was more often the silent partner.

Without her, Joy felt a bit like a puzzle missing a vital piece.

She looked over the crowd and sighed. Everyone else looked so polished, so perfectly content. Joy smoothed her skirt and tried not to fidget.

“How are things, Joy?” Hope asked, appearing beside her like an apparition of maternal concern. “I have scarcely seen you since the ball.”

Joy resisted the urge to shrug. “Well enough, I suppose. Freddy and I went with Lady Maeve and the Duke of Thornhill to Richmond.”

“If you wish to find a beau, Joy,” Hope said pointedly, “you might need to stop sitting in Freddy’s pocket and vice versa.”

“Everyone knows they are as brother and sister.” Patience waved a hand, coming upon them from nowhere. “They do not think of each other in that way.”

“Be that as it may,” Faith added, joining them. “Suitors can certainly gather the wrong impression.”

“That is partially on purpose,” Joy muttered into her punch.

Three sets of sisterly eyes fastened on her like bees to honey.

“Pray tell,” Patience demanded.

Joy took a bite of tart for fortification. “We thought to find spouses together, Freddy and I. Ones who were friends of ours so we might all still be friends.”

“Oh, dear,” Hope murmured, as though Joy had confessed to running off with a circus.

“I have heard about the edict from Mr. Cunningham’s parents,” Faith said. “Have you discovered any prospects yet?”

Joy craned her neck, locating Maeve, currently laughing at something the Duke had said. The man looked positively enchanted. Freddy stood nearby, being talked at by some young miss, looking rather like a man who had brought his best hound to a fair only to watch it run off with the prized pheasant.

“Freddy thought perhaps Maeve,” Joy admitted, “but he may have been too slow.”

All eyes shifted to the laughing couple.

“I hope there is an alternative plan,” Patience murmured. “Surely you were not thinking about the Duke for yourself?”

“Can you imagine me as a duchess?” Joy scoffed.

Mercifully, they refrained from comment.

“Freddy is going to introduce me to some of his friends, and I shall make mine known to him,” Joy continued. “Though Maeve was my only candidate thus far.”

A footman appeared with punch, and Joy gratefully seized a glass as if it might ward off further discussion.

As Faith and Hope launched into stories of teething and nap times, Joy allowed her gaze to wander, sweeping across the other débutantes gathered. If she was to help Freddy find a bride, she’d best begin sorting the likely from the hopeless. She attempted a casual assessment.

Miss Marigold Henley laughed just then, a high, tinkling sound like a tea kettle on the verge of scalding. Joy winced. Imagine listening to that across the breakfast table every morning.

Then there was Miss Beatrice Plumb—very pretty, but discussed French silks with religious fervour. Freddy—and Joy—would be bored silly.

Miss Eugenia Franks was bookish, which Joy generally appreciated, but not when the lady in question believed novels to be frivolous nonsense.

Lady Lucinda Biddleton had sneezed precisely three times in succession every time she was within ten feet of the kitten Joy had had with her in the park one day.

One by one, Joy mentally eliminated them all. Things were looking grimmer by the moment.

The way matters were proceeding, she might need to throw in her lot with Freddy, and they could simply become a pair of eccentric, lifelong companions surrounded by a menagerie of horses, hounds, and cats. Joy dismissed the ridiculous notion.

Across the fountain, Patience waved, trying to entice Joy into a group that included Lord Montford and a pair of earnest clergymen.

She shook her head. The last thing she desired was a conversation of sermons and moralizing.

Instead she edged towards a marble bench half-hidden by lilac branches, grateful for the spicy scent that drifted from each lavender cone.

When she sat down, her eyes adjusted to a fresh perspective: she could see the sweep of the lawns without being seen, a hodge-podge of parasols, hats, and swirling ribbons.

She began sorting them mentally—potential allies (Rotham, who seemed stern but wasn’t really), certain foes (Lady Partridge, who was a terrifying meddler), and the undecided middle faction.

Ten yards away, Miss Henley had cornered poor Lord Worth and was waving a parasol like a deadly weapon.

The man stood as stiff as a ramrod, nodding in terror each time the pointed edge came too close.

Joy’s lips curved. Worth gambled too much and had quite the reputation, but he did not deserve evisceration by a parasol.

She lifted a pastry from the plate beside her, broke it neatly in half, and flung a crumb in the direction of a nearby pigeon.

The bird fluttered in and landed squarely upon Miss Henley’s volant- trimmed shoulder.

Chaos ensued—gasps, fluttered fans, Lord Worth retreating as though from artillery fire.

Joy, satisfied with her work, munched the other half of her pastry and considered the intervention successful.

The commotion drew Letty Partridge, who minced up carrying a lace-edged handkerchief. “I saw what you did.”

Joy stared at the girl.

“You have a penchant for trouble, Miss Whitford,” she said, though her smile held the faintest suspicion.

“I prefer to think of it as enlivening things,” Joy answered, blinking innocently.

Letty’s brows climbed. “You will never keep a suitor if you make a spectacle of yourself.”

“Perhaps I do not wish to keep one—like a pet in a cage,” Joy retorted. “’Tis better to let them fly free and see whether they return of their own accord.”

Letty’s lips pressed thin. “Some of us have serious expectations.”

Joy caught a faint reflection in the fountain’s surface—Letty’s proud profile intermixed with her own blurred outline. There was something sad in Letty’s desperation, but she could not conjure pity for her.

“I wish you luck in your hunt,” Joy murmured.

Before Letty could shape an answer, the Dowager’s laugh rippled from behind a statue—the unmistakable sound of triumph.

Joy knew that note—it usually preceded the unveiling of a Plot Too Grand to Refuse.

The Dowager appeared a moment later, cheeks pink, escorting none other than General Archibald Armstrong—hero of Talavera, and, frankly, far too old for any girl just out.

“My dear,” the Dowager said, guiding the General forward, “I was just telling General Armstrong that you are the most accomplished horsewoman in Town. He insists he meet such a paragon.”

Joy blinked, caught between horror and hilarity. General Armstrong bowed, a spark of amusement in his eyes—he knew exactly what the Dowager was attempting and did not seem to mind one whit.

“May I present Miss Whitford, General? She is one of Westwood’s wards.”

Joy curtsied.

The General made a gallant bow for someone of his age. “The pleasure is all mine.”

Thankfully he was called away before Joy was committed to anything, and she went back to watching the throng.

She sipped her punch and muttered under her breath, “What would it be like to marry Freddy?” Again she dismissed the ridiculous idea as a last resort.

“Did you say something, dear?” asked the Dowager, sweeping past in a cloud of lavender silk.

“I was just admiring the roses,” Joy said brightly, though the roses in question were now a blur of indeterminate colour.

“Well, try not to admire yourself into a rosebush,” she replied with a laugh, patting Joy’s arm. “Twice have you nearly toppled into the flowerbeds already.”

Joy smiled sweetly. It was not her fault the flowerbeds had leapt into her path.

Somewhere, she heard Freddy laugh. She looked over to see Maeve whisper something to him while the Duke bent closer. They made a picturesque trio. Joy sighed again, heavily. This matchmaking business was trickier than anticipated.

As she turned back to the pastries, Joy came to one conclusion: it was going to be a very long Season indeed. But she would be dashed if Freddy settled for someone who couldn’t even abide a kitten.