Page 22

T hrough her spectacles, Joy watched Freddy over the rim of the glass as she sipped some wine. Her head was beginning to throb, and despite her spectacles, her vision in her right eye was waning.

Across the table, Miss Letty Partridge leaned towards Freddy.

The movement required a perilous tilt of her chair, and more than once Joy expected to see the feathered confection of Letty’s headpiece swept ignominiously into the sauceboat.

Freddy, ever good-natured, inclined his head to catch the lady’s softly uttered witticisms, smiling with attentive courtesy.

Letty Partridge was shamelessly flirting with Freddy and Joy felt a pain of irritation in her chest at the sight.

Perhaps the sensation was jealousy, but surely that was only because Freddy was her best friend?

Joy observed it all with a queer tightening in her chest, so foreign a sensation she pressed a palm against her ribcage as though her stays had suddenly shrunk.

She tried to look at the situation objectively, knowing she was not a typical female and capable of such behaviour herself.

St. John had been paying Joy marked attention, that was obvious even to her, but she did not think he was seriously courting her. Men never thought of her in a romantic fashion, hoyden that she was.

She had never planned to be a spinster, though neither had she given serious thought to marriage.

Oh, she adored a delicious Gothic romance, but she knew it was just fiction and not reality for her…

unless perhaps she made some marriage of convenience where there were no expectations of her.

Romantic love was not in her future. However, she wanted more for her best friend.

Truly, she did. That meant Joy would have to swallow her spleen when other ladies flirted with Freddy.

But could he not pick somebody less insipid than Letty Partridge?

Surely he could see how bored he’d be with someone who could not even sit a horse properly!

Freddy deserved a clever, lively partner, not a beauty who squeaked when her horse did more than amble.

The notion that Freddy might, in fact, prefer a delicate bloom of femininity over a hoyden well-versed in saddle sores pricked her conscience, and she sipped again to drown the thought.

The wine went down the wrong way, eliciting a cough she muffled in her napkin.

Letty Partridge tittered at something Freddy said; Joy stiffened. How could she be so foolish?

Colonel St. John bent nearer. “Are you unwell, Miss Whitford? I fear wine can be a sly devil.”

“I thank you, sir, it is nothing,” Joy murmured, arranging her spectacles and finding him somewhat doubled before her eyes. “Merely an errant swallow.”

To her mortification he studied her pale brow. “You are in pain. A headache?”

“Not worth remarking,” she insisted. “Pray, do not trouble yourself.”

He settled back with a look that was half-smile, half-frown.

St. John’s attention in recent weeks had been—how had Faith phrased it?

—marked. How could she help but be flattered?

Yet Joy could not discern whether the Colonel’s notice tended towards gallantry or simple camaraderie born of shared relish for brisk exercise and unpaved roads.

Men never wooed a lady who carried a whip more readily than a fan.

Still, the Colonel’s hazel eyes held kindness, and when he spoke, his voice possessed that mellow timbre which suggested interest. It was pleasant, undeniably.

At last the courses ended, the gentlemen agreed to forego the ponderous ritual of lingering over port, and the party adjourned to the great saloon, where frivolities suitable to a country house party were already being arranged.

Charades was proclaimed by acclamation; The Frolics of the Sphynx book of charades was produced.

Joy, who loved any amusement, cursed her aching head to perdition, and volunteered at once.

Letty Partridge declared herself needing a clever partner and fluttered onto a sofa, summoning Freddy beside her with an arch of perfectly shaped brows.

Freddy hesitated, his gaze skating to Joy, who barely suppressed a snort.

She offered him a brisk nod— go on, rescue your cornered self . He bowed his mocking thanks and was promptly netted by Letty’s shrill laughter.

The teams were drawn, and fortune—or misfortune—placed Joy and Colonel St. John upon the same team.

Freddy’s lot fell to the opposition, securing him for the evening at Miss Partridge’s right hand.

Joy, determined to demonstrate how little that circumstance signified, threw herself into the game with unladylike zeal.

“We shall crush them, Colonel,” Joy whispered. “Though Mr. Cunningham is quite adroit at these.”

“I am all astonishment.” Joy ignored his sardonic tone.

The first riddle was Joy’s. She drew a number, then read her riddle, voice sparkling:

“My First is eaten with apple or beef;

If you’re my Second I pity your grief;

My Third owns no colour that stays the same hue.”

Freddy, across the table, murmured encouragement to Letty, who looked mystified. Freddy furrowed his brow in concentration, then brightened. “Pie—bald! Pie, because of fruit or meat; bawled for the grief; and a pie-bald horse is mottled.”

Letty applauded. “Oh, how clever you are, Mr. Cunningham!”

Letty then chose her number, and read her selection with solemn drama:

“Though to youth oft my first you may safely apply,

On my next you may rarely it venture to try,

If you suffer my whole you must fairly admit,

’Twas your own want of skill, arrangement, and wit.”

“Check mate!” Joy shouted without consulting her partner.

“How? It makes no sense. It is unfair that anyone could think so quickly,” Letty declared. Joy only smiled, considering the score nicely even—and the entertainment just begun.

Freddy and Joy, whose penchant for charades kept the more knowing away, proceeded to give little chance to their partners to shine.

When, at length, the game was declared concluded, the company dispersed to card tables or to the long windows overlooking moonlit lawns.

Joy, her temples throbbing, slipped into an antechamber hung with sombre portraits and attempted to remove her spectacles for a moment’s respite.

The instant they left her nose, the world tilted: candles became comets, carpet patterns swam. She caught hold of the door-case.

“Steady.” Colonel St. John materialized, easing the spectacles from her trembling fingers and replacing them. Vision cleared slightly; pain did not.

“I am a nuisance,” she murmured, ashamed. “No, do not contradict me. A lady who cannot bear a trifling headache without drama is precisely that.”

“It is not trifling,” he said. “Your eyes are unequal.” He produced a handkerchief lightly scented with bergamot and pressed the cool linen to her brow. “You ought to lie down.”

“Impossible. My sisters would think me overset by a parlour game.”

He smiled. “Nonsense.” Then, in a tone half teasing, half coaxing: “Will you permit me to tell your chaperone?”

Joy hesitated. St. John’s solicitousness was very pleasant. Yet accepting would be to acknowledge weakness, and she had lived her whole life determined not to be thought fragile. She opened her mouth?—

“Joy?” Freddy stepped from the larger room, concern plain upon his handsome, slightly flushed features. “Are you unwell?”

“I am perfectly well,” she said, too hastily.

Colonel St. John released her hand and straightened. “Miss Whitford may benefit from quieter surroundings. I was about to find her chaperone.”

Freddy’s eyes flicked to their joined hands and away again. “I will see to it.”

St. John’s smile held no warmth. “As you wish.”

Joy wished the carpet might swallow them all. “I am sure either of you would do, but since Mr Cunningham feels responsible?—”

“Thank you,” Freddy said, offering his arm with exaggerated gallantry. “Shall we?”

She accepted, aware of St. John’s disappointment, though he bowed with impeccable grace. Freddy steered her through the dim corridor, his pace leisurely so that she need not jolt her aching head. When they had gained the foot of the staircase, he paused beneath a lantern and studied her face.

“You are truly in pain.” It was not a question.

“Merely fatigued. My right eye rebels, that is all.”

“Why did you not tell me at dinner?”

“Because you were occupied with Miss Partridge.” The words emerged sharper than intended. She sighed. “Forgive me. I am out of sorts and therefore unjust. Besides, I can never refuse charades.”

“Occupied,” he repeated, as though testing the taste of it. “Joy, Letty Partridge is a feather-brained flirt. I would sooner marry my bay gelding.”

“That is unkind to Letty.” And a relief I ought not to acknowledge. “Besides, your gelding cannot play the pianoforte, and you have no other candidates.”

“My horse has other merits.” Freddy’s smile became crooked. Then, more seriously, he said, “I saw St. John take your hand. Did that distress you?”

“I—” She faltered. “No, only surprised me. He…looks at me as though I were not merely an amusing companion but—” Her voice dwindled.

“A woman,” Freddy supplied quietly.

“Yes.” Silence pressed. “It is—sufficiently odd that I scarcely know how to respond.”

Freddy’s gaze grew intent. “You need respond only as you feel. If his attention troubles you, I shall speak with him.”

“Absolutely not,” she cried, then winced at the echo in her skull. Moderating her tone, she added, “I can manage my own affairs.”

A flicker of something—hurt, maybe—crossed his face, gone almost before she registered it.

“Joy,” he said, taking her hand, his voice rougher than usual, “you are—not merely adequate, or capable, or my dearest friend. You are extraordinary and need not settle where your heart is not affected.” He released her as though daring her to dispute him.