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J oy’s first clear memory after the tumble that had tilted her orderly world into murky half-shadow, was the scent of lavender and the faint purr of a feline kneading its paws upon her coverlet.

She could not, at first, decide whether it was night or day.

The room lay muffled in drab greys, its familiar contours melted, but someone—a sister—sat in a chair near the shuttered window, murmuring soft assurances that Dr. Harvey would come presently with laudanum and that no one, most particularly Joy, was to stir so much as a finger.

When next consciousness claimed her, the physician himself stood by the bed, spectacles glinting as he lifted the bandage at her brow.

“A concussion, yes. Bruising of the optic nerve, temporary, I hope. The left eye retains parts of its faculty. The right—well, we must bid it rest until the swelling abates. No strong light, no reading, only rest.”

“For how long?” she murmured, bristling at his brusque sentences.

“Miss Whitford, you must cultivate patience.”

Joy could have sworn Patience snorted at that instruction. The curtains remained half-drawn thereafter and Joy submitted to her unaccustomed blindness with as much grace as could be summoned from aching limbs and a headache that pulsed like a drum.

Her sisters divided the first night’s vigil.

Grace brought barley water and bathed her neck with cool cloths.

Faith read in a voice so gentle it lulled her to sleep.

Hope silently re-plaited Joy’s unruly curls, and Patience smuggled in an orange and laughed when Camilla swatted at the peel.

Only Maeve could not sit long, but she darted in and promised country air at Thornhill Place once Joy might travel.

Yet it was Freddy who lifted her spirits most. He arrived in the morning with uncharacteristic punctuality, armed with Joy’s favourite novels—including The Mysteries of Udolpho —Byron’s poems, and a stack of daily papers.

Lord Orville invariably abandoned the bedpost to sprawl across Freddy’s lap as if claiming precedence.

“You must tell me the instant this tires you or vexes your head,” he cautioned, opening The Morning Chronicle. Notably, he did not read to her what was said about her incident, though she knew it had been remarked upon.

“Your voice and presence soothe me far more than laudanum,” Joy answered, settling deeper into her cushions.

She dozed, lulled by the steady cadence of his voice, and woke to find him recounting plans for the small estate his father had bequeathed him—Heartsfield Grange, a comfortable greystone house in Kent which was bordered by orchards.

“It is no grand seat,” he told her, “but the stables are sound, the south meadow ideal for a modest course, and the dovecote could be coaxed into a library if one bribed the birds elsewhere.”

“A library in a dovecote?” Joy laughed softly at the absurdity. “You tempt me with visions of reading beneath fluttering wings.”

“And racing Nightingale and Banbury along the hawthorn hedge,” he added, the warmth in his tone painting scenes she could almost see.

But though he described orchards in blossom and a river ready for summer picnics, there were no more mentions of permanence.

Each time the future hovered close, he redirected the conversation—asking whether her pillows were comfortable, whether the doctor had truly forbidden her from rising from the bed, whether Camilla’s friskiness disturbed her head.

Joy noticed the evasions and felt a tremor of impatience.

When her sight cleared and her strength returned, the moment must come when neither of them could pretend the future was a neutral country waiting to be discovered.

Joy dared not ask the one question that kept burning in her mind.

Would he still want her if she was permanently blind?

And then, she countered, could she thrust herself onto someone, knowing she was blind?

“Has anything more occurred with Miss Partridge?” she asked instead.

“Letty’s happiness is no longer my affair,” he added quietly, lowering the paper. “I have made clear that matter to her mama. All else seems trifling when—” His words fell away, but the meaning hovered, warming the air.

Joy, cheeks tingling, whispered, “I do not wish you to feel beholden to me, Freddy.”

“I shall not be,” he answered. “Nothing matters now but your recovery.”

“What if I do not recover this time, Freddy?”

He leaned forward and took her hand. “You are perfect however you are, Joy.”

She could not quite see him, only a pale shape at the bedside, yet she felt the conviction pulse between them like sunlight pressing the curtains. Her heart took courage.

On the fourth morning, when Dr. Harvey pronounced the swelling somewhat diminished, and allowed that Joy might be able to sit in a chair for a while, provided it caused her no dizziness or pain.

Faith then informed her that St. John had called and was below. “He has called and enquired after you every morning,” Faith told her. “Do you wish to see him?”

Did she? Joy was not certain. But the unease she now felt must be for naught. If they had found anything against him, surely he would not be allowed into Westwood House.

“Perhaps it would ease his anxieties to see you are well,” Faith suggested.

“A few minutes perhaps.”

“I will be right over there and ensure the visit is short,” Faith assured her, then helped her to sit up with pillows supporting her. She was now able to discern shapes and some colours with her left eye if she did not blink too rapidly.

St. John entered and advanced to the bed and bowed—Joy thought she detected stiffness in the gesture. Polite enquiries followed: her pain, her appetite, the doctor’s predictions. She answered and thanked him for the violets he had sent, but she sensed that his thoughts darted elsewhere.

At length, he cleared his throat. “Miss Whitford, I have come—” He halted, his breathing shallow.

Then, with evident effort: “I have come to renew my addresses, which must have been too faintly conveyed in our previous encounters. The accident has made me see that time is not to be taken for granted. Your fortitude, your good humour…these qualities command my esteem.” He paused again, fingers tightening on his hat.

“I wish to lay before you, therefore, the earnest hope that you will—when recovered—do me the honour of becoming my wife.”

Joy’s pulse leapt, yet not with the astonishment she had once imagined.

Instead she felt a gentle sadness. The words, though honourable, lacked the living warmth she had grown to cherish in Freddy’s presence.

Moreover, courtesy demanded truth. She would not relinquish her freedom at the price of mere esteem.

“Colonel,” she said softly, “your regard does me more honour than I can express but I cannot, in fairness, accept it.”

St. John’s shoulders sagged, whether with relief or disappointment, she could not tell. “I confess,” he murmured, “I feared as much. Circumstances—” he broke off, straightened, then seemed to want to persist. “I spoke too soon. I beg you will forget this intrusion until you are stronger.”

“There is no need for you to feel obligation for what happened, but my sentiment shall not change.” Joy managed a small, earnest smile. “I do thank you for your offer.”

He bowed again, still distracted, and withdrew without further protest. When the door closed, Joy pressed trembling fingertips to her eyelids—and felt as though she’d made a close escape.

He certainly had not displayed the ardour to be expected of a man making an offer of marriage, although to be fair, she could hardly see any nuances of expression.

Joy heard the house stir at his departure. Faith came closer, her tread betraying eagerness for news. “I could not hear all.”

Joy relayed the essentials, and Faith’s sigh expressed both relief and sisterly concern. “I feared he would press you,” Faith said, smoothing the coverlet. “And that you might feel forced into agreement.”

“Not in the least—but I do feel the need to get out of this bed.”

Faith sighed heavily, but did not object when Joy’s feet slipped over the side of the bed to stand up.

Freddy met St. John on the landing outside Joy’s chamber.

The officer drew up short, offered a stiff bow, then descended without a word.

Freddy watched the straight back disappear around the curve of the staircase and felt a tightness unknot inside his chest. At least St. John had not lingered to play the devoted suitor.

One ordeal at a time was quite enough for Joy.

He tapped once on her door and slipped inside.

The room lay mellow with filtered sunshine, the curtains half-drawn to spare her sore eyes.

Dr. Harvey’s bandage had been exchanged for a neat strip of linen at her temple, beneath which the right eye remained covered.

Joy reclined against the chair while Faith sorted vials on the escritoire.

“Ah, good morning, Freddy. Dr. Harvey has permitted Joy to get out of bed and sit in a chair for brief periods. Do not let her talk you into more.”

Joy’s irritated smile followed her sister out. “You are late, Mr. Cunningham,” she chided when the door clicked shut. “My daily novel arrives with you, and I have been quite starved for entertainment. Did something dire detain you?”

“No, nothing dire,” Freddy said, perching on the chair beside her bed. “My mother demanded a full accounting. She had it on excellent authority that someone attempted to shoot you out of the saddle.”

Joy made a face. “You reassured her that I am well?” She tapped her bandage. “Save for this refractory eye.”

He sobered. “Harvey still hopes the sight may creep back once the swelling fades.”

“So he says.” Her left eye studied him. “What did Lady Gresham decide? I do not wish her to postpone her house party on my account.”