Page 24

J oy had never regarded a drawing room with such mixed emotions as she did that mild spring afternoon when Grace—newly Lady Carew, glowing with Greecian sunshine and wedded bliss—returned to Westwood House.

The doors stood open upon the terrace, letting in a breeze.

Yet the air inside teemed not with serenity but with the whirl of sisters.

Faith, Hope, and Patience already occupied the chairs about the low mahogany table.

Kittens—two of the original six—prowled between skirts, intent upon crumbs of seed cake.

Grace burst through the door in a dove-grey pelisse, carrying a basket which she deposited on the floor.

“My dears!” she cried, and was immediately engulfed by embraces, exclamations, and the inevitable pleasant chaos of family reunited.

Joy received a hug smelling faintly of lemons, and, for a moment, forgot every recent perplexity—St. John’s unfathomable attentions, the still-stinging tattles of the Post , even the spectacles that had refused to stay perched upon her nose that morning.

No sooner had Grace deposited the wicker basket upon the Axminster than its lid gave a most determined wobble.

In the next instant Theo’s nose appeared, followed smartly by Evalina’s mewl.

They scrabbled over the rim, tumbled in a flurry of paws to the carpet, and scampered, pell-mell, across the drawing room towards the others.

Frederica lifted her head from the hearthrug, uttered a low, welcoming chirrup, and in a trice both truants were nuzzling beneath her whiskered chin.

Lord Orville arched his back in pleasure and bestowed upon his sister Camilla a conspiratorial swat, whereupon the pair bounded forward to join the reunion.

In that harmonious circle of purrs and gentle head-butts, the five felines formed a tableau of domestic felicity.

“Where are the others?” Grace asked, looking around.

“Lady Marchmont has adopted Mortimer and Cecilia,” Patience answered.

“Ah, I suppose it would be impossible to keep so many.” Grace’s face evidenced the sadness Joy felt as well.

“We miss Mortimer’s antics dreadfully,” Patience said, handing out cups of tea.

“Lady Marchmont sent a note this morning—he mastered Sir Percival’s trick of begging within an hour and is the darling of her Thursday salons,” Joy felt compelled to tell them as well as reminding herself.

“And she says that Cecilia,” Joy added with a soft sigh, “has taken to the Marchmont nursery as though born to sovereignty. I dare say the children are her grateful subjects.”

Grace’s smile held both pride and a hint of melancholy. “Then the little ruffians will want for nothing.” She stroked Freddy behind the ears.

Joy, whose lap was presently occupied, managed a rueful grin. “We were never destined to keep a whole litter. Seven cats in Town would have overturned even Westwood’s benevolence. Still, the house feels empty without all of them.”

A sympathetic murmur circled the table. Then Hope leaned forward. “You must tell us every particular of Greece, Grace!”

Grace’s cheeks coloured prettily and a spark of mischief glimmered in her eyes. “It was quite romantic: a volcano, Mediterranean sunsets, swimming in the warm ocean?—”

“’Tis the stuff of novels,” Joy snorted.

“Or catastrophes,” Patience remarked with practical serenity. “I trust no lava was involved?”

“Sadly, no. Only in tales of antiquity. We confined ourselves to ruins and excellent ices in Athens.” Grace lifted her teacup but paused, blue eyes sharpening upon Joy.

“Speaking of ices, what is this I hear about Gunter’s?” Hope asked.

Every neck turned towards Joy. She felt Camilla knead her skirt as though applauding the change of topic. “Colonel St. John encountered me whilst I was purchasing raspberry ices,” she said, affecting nonchalance she did not entirely feel. “It was a happy accident, nothing more.”

Grace, however, was not so easily diverted. “Accidents seldom prompt gossip columns to speculate upon dowries and courtships,” she observed, her tone gently concerned.

“You saw that, did you?”

“Carew did. Tell me, sister—are you tempted to follow the drum?”

Joy opened her mouth, found no sufficient answer, and closed it again.

The mere thought of a soldier’s itinerant life—camp chests, foreign billets, the ceaseless rumble of movement—thrilled and terrified her by equal measure.

She had no doubt she could ride with the baggage train, mend tackle, harness, or saddlery, and brew coffee over a campfire; but she could less easily picture herself as the dignified officer’s lady who charmed provincial governors’ wives at parade dinners.

And beyond all: was St. John even serious?

Patience, recognizing Joy’s fluster, interposed. “Grace, let her breathe for a moment. She has endured interrogations enough these past weeks.”

But Hope bristled on Joy’s behalf. “If the Colonel dangles without intention, he deserves a set-down. Our sister is not a pastime.”

Joy mustered a small laugh. “He cannot toy with me if my affections are not engaged, can he? It is nothing more than the flirtations people discuss so drearily in drawing rooms.”

Faith’s eyes, always sternest where decorum was endangered, flashed. “Young ladies do not engage in flirtations, Joy. They accept addresses.” She pronounced the verbs as though reciting gospel.

“Why will none of you believe that, in my case, marriage is no imperious duty?” Joy asked, exasperation pricking like pins beneath her stays.

She pressed a hand to her chest. “You wish me a different creature—docile, soft-voiced, content to stitch chemises and practise quadrilles—but I am not so formed.”

Her declaration cast a hush over the room. Even Camilla froze mid-purr, tail curling about her feet in feline sympathy. Grace set down her cup with a click. “Joy, dearest goose, no one wishes you remade—merely content.”

“You wish me to be content,” Joy echoed, “but you define contentment as wedded life because it suits you all.” She gestured, one sweep of her arm encompassing Faith and Hope’s new motherhood, Patience and Grace’s newly wedded glow, before continuing: “Whereas my imagination shrivels at the notion of housekeeping lists and social obligations.”

Hope bit her lip, searching for diplomacy. “We do not ask you to pretend, only to remain open if a worthy gentleman appears.”

“And if he does,” Joy allowed, a dimple smothered beneath earnestness, “he must value me precisely as I am—spectacles, curricle races, Gothic novels, and an unladylike aptitude for fouling a hem.”

Laughter rippled, easing the tension. Faith leaned forward and kissed her sister’s brow. “We love every outré inch of you, even when you alarm us half to death.”

Patience, ever the mediator, tapped the cooling teapot. “Perhaps we may agree upon a truce. Joy will not disclaim the Season altogether. We will cease besieging her with schemes to allure suitors.”

“Perhaps,” Grace added, slyly arching a brow, “she has found what she seeks in Colonel St. John.”

Joy swallowed a retort. “I will not retreat. That would be churlish.”

Grace’s smile softened. “Tell me, then. What do you admire in him?”

The enquiry, though gently put, required consideration.

Joy folded her hands around Camilla. “He treats me as though I were—interesting,” she began, feeling heat rise within.

“He listens when I speak of stallions’ bloodlines.

He does not flinch if I misstep a quadrille; he only steadies me.

And though he has a soldier’s polish, he does not feign superiority. ”

“A promising catalogue,” Patience conceded. “Yet does friendship bloom into something warmer?”

Joy gazed out at the gardens where shadows danced across clipped yew hedges. “I do not know,” she admitted softly. “When he looks at me, my stomach performs inconvenient somersaults, but I cannot decide whether those belong to affection—or alarm.”

Hope’s grin was wicked. “The line is exasperatingly fine.”

Grace reached to squeeze Joy’s hand. “Trust your instincts. Like riding a horse.”

Joy recalled the race that had set so many whispers afloat, and her face heated.

The door creaked. Hartley entered, bearing an envelope upon a salver. “A note for Miss Whitford,” he announced.

Four pairs of sisterly eyes converged upon Joy. She accepted the letter, breaking the seal with a tremor she hoped escaped notice. Colonel St. John’s hand was bold, confident, slanting.

Dear Miss Whitford,

Will you honour me with a ride tomorrow at ten? The tulips are in full bloom along the Long Walk, and I would show them to you before they fade.

Your servant, St. John

Silence thickened while Joy read, folded, and tucked the sheet into her pocket. She met Grace’s questioning glance.

“He asks to ride in the Park.” Her voice sounded inadequately steady.

“Well, will you?” Hope breathed.

Joy’s thoughts scattered—morning sun through new leaves, the sure rhythm of hooves, a gentleman’s smile as warm as June—she might as well see where things led. She cleared her throat. “I…believe I shall.”

Approval, relief, and excitement mingled in her sisters’ expressions. Faith clapped once; Hope smiled in relief; Patience nodded as though tallying favourable odds. Only Grace remained pensive.

“Joy,” she began, her tone pitched solely for younger-sister ears, “remember you need never accept someone you cannot abide. A ride is not an engagement. Admiration is not possession.”

“I know.” Joy’s answering smile felt wobbly. “But I must also remember fear is not wisdom.”

Grace squeezed her hand. “Well said.”

Tea resumed—plates of seed cake passed about; kittens indulged with judicious saucers of milk. Talk flowed to lighter topics: new gowns, Greek cuisine, and teething babies. Yet beneath the chatter, Joy sensed a quiet shift, like the tide turning.

Joy had declared indifference to husbands, but perhaps the greater truth was uncertainty.