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T he next morning, Joy and Lady Maeve were off to visit Hatchard’s in search of something new to read.

Joy had been awaiting Keats’s new book of poetry, and Maeve simply liked any outing.

Joy had been grateful that she had taken to Lord Carew’s sister so she had someone to experience the Season with, even if Lady Maeve was much more suited to Society.

She was beautiful in an elegant, graceful way befitting a lady.

She loved the newness of London and everything to be found in a city.

They entered the shop, and Joy stopped to inhale the beautiful smell of leather and paper. She looked around, but it was difficult to make out any detail.

“Do you realize you close one eye when you’re looking far away?” Maeve asked quietly beside her.

“No. Do I?” She had never noticed such a habit. Perhaps she truly did need spectacles.

“You should not frown like that,” her friend then scolded.

Joy did not wish to discuss her problems. It had been bad enough that she had confessed to Freddy last night. Hopefully, he had forgotten after a night’s repose—he tended not to dwell on serious matters overmuch, which was part of what she liked in him.

“I will go and see if my book is available,” Joy remarked rather than retort something unkind.

“I see Lady Edith. I will be over there.” Maeve pointed in the general direction across the room, where people had gathered on sofas.

Joy was not sure how she felt about Lady Edith, but Maeve seemed to enjoy her company.

“Good morning, Miss Whitford,” the clerk greeted her. “I have something for you.”

He knew her well. He searched on a counter behind him and produced a lovely burgundy leather-bound volume of Keats’s latest poems. The letters swam before her, so she did not try too hard to read them, lest someone else discover her disability.

Either it was getting worse, or rather was her ability to disguise it.

She accepted the book and thanked the clerk. When she turned and walked in the general direction Maeve had indicated, she found her friend with not only Lady Edith, but also several other young ladies who were making their debut. They were giggling and whispering behind their gloved hands.

When Joy was close enough to make out their faces, Maeve’s cheeks were pink and she looked upset. She knew at once they had been gossiping about her. Joy did not trouble to greet any of them but diverted her steps and made her way to the door.

Maeve soon found her on a bench outside.

“Joy,” Maeve said apologetically.

Joy did not particularly wish to have this discussion. “You do not need to say anything. I can surmise quite well what happened. It is human nature to gossip. I would expect no less from those girls.”

“But you assume I was participating.”

Joy lifted an unladylike shoulder to feign indifference. “I will send the carriage back for you if you wish to stay with them.”

“That will never do, Joy. We will go take our walk through the park as we intended, and you will hold your head high. The Dowager would be appalled to find her charges had lost all sense of propriety and abandoned her.”

Joy wanted to shout what she really thought about propriety, but she suppressed the urge. She knew very well what would happen if she took the carriage and went anywhere alone.

She stood up and followed, not yet trusting herself to speak. They found the Dowager, who had stopped at the modiste’s around the corner to request a change to an order.

“I was just about to come and find you,” the Dowager said. “This saves me the trouble. Do you still wish to stroll through the park? I believe I saw Lady Ingram going that way, and I wish to speak with her.”

“Indeed, a walk would be just the thing,” Lady Maeve replied.

Joy was still brooding. She had to discover a way to convince Faith to let her return to the country. She was not suited to this.

As they walked towards the park, Joy clutched her new volume of Keats against her side.

She would have liked nothing better than to return home at once and hide away in her chamber, reading lines of verse until the words danced into her heart.

Yet Lady Maeve had a determined set to her mouth—one that brooked no argument—and so Joy found herself stepping into the bright midday sunshine, her eyes instantly watering from the glare.

Across the street, an elegant barouche passed by, its occupants bedecked in the very height of fashion.

Joy recognized one of the ladies—tall and stately, with a plume in her bonnet that bobbed precariously—though the details grew hazy after a moment’s glance.

Feeling a pang of frustration, Joy blinked and looked down at the pavement instead.

They set out along the bustling street. Flower sellers called out their wares, and the occasional horse-drawn cart clattered by.

Joy tried to keep her mind from the vexations of the morning, but her thoughts strayed, unbidden, to the whispers that had greeted her.

It was one thing to bear gossip about oneself—quite another to see one’s friend caught in the middle.

She stole a glance at Maeve. “Was it about me?” she asked softly, scarcely wanting to hear the answer. “You need not spare my feelings.”

With a sigh, Maeve nodded. “They were discussing your…mishaps on the ballroom floor.” A rueful smile crossed her face. “They mentioned your fondness for animals, which is not a bad thing.”

A sharp pang twisted in Joy’s chest. She looked down at her reticule, twisting the strings with nervous fingers. She did not care if people called her unrefined—indeed, her own sisters implied as much, albeit more gently—but she despised the idea that Maeve should be tainted by association.

“I am sorry,” Joy murmured, voice tight.

Maeve’s eyes flashed. “Do not apologize. I am quite capable of deciding what company I keep. And if they disapprove, that is their affair.”

Joy’s heart softened with gratitude, though she still wrestled with an urge to retreat from London entirely.

She hardly had the fortitude to face both her failing sight and the censure of gossipy debutantes.

Biting back her frustration, she reminded herself that not everyone was so cruel.

Maeve was proof of that, and so was Freddy—even if he did tend to treat life as one grand jest.

They soon arrived at the gates of the park, where a gentle breeze rustled the leaves, and the air carried a faint scent of cherry blossoms. Groups of fashionables sauntered along the paths, nodding politely or, in the case of those more given to chatter, stopping to exchange pleasantries.

The Dowager was already ahead, speaking animatedly to Lady Ingram.

The older ladies beckoned for Maeve to join them.

Joy escaped, but still within sight. As she made her way down the slightly sloping path, she clutched the Keats volume like a talisman.

If only her eyes would allow her to savour each verse properly, she might lose herself in the poet’s lines and forget the clamour of her own mind.

No, she would save her troubles for the privacy of her chambers.

Reaching the edge of the pond, she paused to admire the sunlight dancing upon the water’s surface—though ‘admire’ was perhaps too strong a word.

The brilliance of the sun’s reflection hurt her eyes, and the shifting patterns soon blurred into indistinct shapes.

Shielding her gaze with one hand, she inhaled, trying to quell the swirl of dismay in her stomach.

She yearned for the comfort of wide green fields where no one cared if she squinted or stumbled. She longed for the carefree rides with Freddy, who never chided her about propriety. Indeed, he was the one person whose presence felt like an escape from the constraints of Society.

Yet the recollection of his concerned gaze the previous evening made her cheeks burn.

She had confided in him—spoken of her deteriorating sight—and though he had been nothing but kind, she felt horribly exposed.

Even now, she wished she could retract her confession, return to a simpler day when her eyes were merely tired from reading too late at night, not failing her altogether.

A sudden swell of voices caught her attention.

She turned, peering through the haze of sunlight, and discerned Maeve’s figure among a small coterie of ladies talking to the Dowager.

The conversation grew merry, punctuated by dainty laughter.

None of them beckoned to Joy, for which she was grateful.

She had no desire to hear the newest gossip from the ton .

Stepping onto the grass, she approached an ancient oak that spread its branches like a protective canopy.

A wooden bench rested in its shade, unoccupied, and she gratefully sat down.

Opening the Keats volume, she attempted to decipher the swirling letters, but they refused to come into focus.

That old gnawing fear stirred in her belly, and she bit her lip to stave off tears.

How would she endure an entire Season when each day her vision wavered, threatening to expose her secret at any moment?

If merely stepping into Hatchard’s had revealed that she squinted and frowned in an unladylike manner, how could she pass muster in ballrooms packed with onlookers?

One misstep, and the rumour mill would churn with talk of the Whitford girl who could not see and yet dared to dance.

The breeze rustled the leaves overhead, and a single shaft of golden sunlight broke through, illuminating her page. She looked down again, willing her eyes to behave. She managed two lines:

Upon a time, before the faery broods

Drove Nymph and Satyr from the prosperous woods

—before the letters blurred again. With a frustrated sigh, she closed the book. How she longed to be able to read more than a few words again without struggle.