Page 39

“We may not even speak of it amongst family?”

“I will ask her.”

“And how do you find your new home?” his mother asked, by way of intervention.

“It will do very well,” he pronounced, which met with pleased smiles.

The carriages began to arrive one after the other.

From the first, Joy emerged on Westwood’s arm, straw bonnet shadowing her fragile vision but cheeks flushed with the prospect of open country about her. Frederica jumped down from the coach, followed by Camilla and Lord Orville, the latter two quickly scampering off to explore.

“Welcome to Heartsfield Grange,” Freddy said, executing a bow.

Vivienne clasped her hands and spun around. “It is just how I remembered it. Do you remember the swing over the river, Freddy?”

“It is still there, Viv,” he assured her.

Within the hour they were shown to their chambers: Westwood and Faith in the east wing overlooking the river, Stuart and Patience over the library, Montford and Vivienne in her old chambers nearest the orchard, and Rotham and Hope with a view over the valley.

Joy, at Lady Gresham’s insistence, occupied a south-facing chamber with French doors onto a balcony. Freddy lodged opposite, separated by a passage, ‘for propriety’s sake,’ according to his mother, and “for strategy,” according to Westwood, who winked.

When everyone came down for tea on the large terrace, there were steaming scones with fresh cream, honey, and fresh cherry preserves. Joy tilted her head to listen as guinea fowl chattered outside the open casement.

“Music,” she said dreamily. “Though I grant their rhythm is irregular.”

“Guinea fowl make no noise I would ever call music,” Patience said. “They screech and cackle.”

Stuart remarked, “Any bird capable of sounding the alarm at French trespassers deserves indulgence.”

“Surely we need not worry over the French any longer?” Hope asked.

“We are safe, my dear,” Rotham reassured her with a scathing look at Stuart.

Freddy, half-amused, half-entranced by Joy’s quiet absorption, laid out the day’s design. “I thought to walk about the orchard, if you feel up to mild exertion?”

“Any movement is welcome after sitting idle in the carriage for so long. I do not need to be coddled.”

Freddy guided Joy down the path that led from the south lawn into the old orchard, every step accompanied by the faint hiss of meadow grass brushing their boots.

Ahead, low boughs arched in profusion: pear and plum and apple, some already set with pale marbled fruit, others still sheathed only in leaves.

The air, scented by a thousand petals fallen and crushed beneath last night’s shower, was half-honey, half-cider—intoxicating in the lazy heat of late afternoon.

Fat bees dawdled from blossom to blossom, their humming a contented buzz beneath the shriller tunes of chaffinches overhead.

Freddy guided her where the ground dipped.

Where it rose again, the grass grew sparse and sun browned, exposing the roots like gnarled fingers clutching earth.

To the west, glimpsed here and there through branches, the Medway flashed silvery blue as it uncurled towards the estuary.

Freddy had ridden that crooked mile of water since he first sat astride a pony—yet, walking now with Joy on his arm, he felt as though he viewed the place through freshly scraped glass, every colour heightened because she named it beautiful.

He noted her cautious tread—still slightly unsteady from the lingering strain on her vision—and slowed when the path slanted unevenly, tilting his body between her and the rougher ground. He found himself wishing every orchard in Kent had a furrow long enough to keep her hand on his sleeve forever.

“I can walk on my own now, Freddy,” Joy remarked, but her tone was laced with amusement.

“I rather like holding you near, Joy. Do you mind?”

She wrinkled her face—an adorable mannerism she had when she was thinking. “I do not. Rather, I would not have thought I would like it.”

“It is rather a marked change, is it not? You and me.”

“But it does make sense for both of us. That way we will always be together. You do not mind that I will not be an overly feminine sort of wife?”

“To spare me from feminine hysterics?” he mocked. “But in all seriousness, I did not think about it overmuch before, but when I was courting Letty, I always found her wanting and compared her to you.”

“What a nice thing to say, Freddy!”

“Honestly, I hope being married will not change either our friendship or your hoydenish behaviour—at least in private.”

Joy gurgled with laughter. “You will have to help me with that. You always encourage me when I always mean to behave.”

“I suppose I do.”

Joy tilted her head, half-smiling beneath her shady brim.

They reached the edge of the apple trees and stepped into an open glade. A roped swing, fashioned long ago for children now grown, hung from the stout limb of a sycamore beside the river’s edge. Its wooden seat swayed lazily in the breeze like a pendulum waiting to be claimed.

They strolled on towards the river, the dialogue still echoing in cheerful counterpoint to the buzz of insects. When the swing came fully into view, Joy’s step quickened, and she released his arm long enough to knot her skirt above sturdy kid boots.

“Do you think you would enjoy being a squire, Freddy?”

“I do, but I also enjoy Town. Would you mind if we went to enjoy some of the Season each year? Perhaps as Mrs. Cunningham you can cut a dash without censure.”

“You mean I can be myself but it would be acceptable as long as I am married?”

“Something of that nature.”

With an irrepressible grin she seized the swing’s ropes. “Push me.”

He planted his heels. “Are you certain you should be doing that?”

“Not at all, but what harm could there be in a gentle swinging?”

He would give her the moon if she asked—a measured push seemed harmless enough. Yet his caution proved laughable—Joy needed only the faintest impulse before she was pumping her legs with the vigour of an experienced circus belle, bonnet ribbons fluttering behind her like pennants.

“Was there ever anything better, Freddy?” she cried, soaring high. However, then—“But it also makes me very dizzy—oh!”

The “oh” lengthened to a squeal as momentum betrayed her. The seat tilted sideways, she lost her grip, tumbled, and with a spectacular splash vanished into the water’s cool embrace.

Freddy’s heart slammed once, hard, then instinct took command.

Boots, coat, and dignity flew in three separate arcs as he hurled himself after her.

The river, no deeper than his waist here, still closed over his head before he found the bottom.

Sunlight fractured above; silt billowed.

He reached, caught fabric—her skirt—and hauled upward.

They surfaced together, Joy sputtering, hair plastered to cheeks, spectacles dangling by one temple-piece. “Well,” she managed as she wiped her hair from her eyes, “that was bracing.”

“That took ten years off my life, Joy!”

“I am no simpering miss, Freddy. I must insist you do not coddle me!”

Freddy didn’t think he could love her more in that exact dishevelled moment. He slipped an arm beneath her knees and waded towards the grassy bank, water sluicing from his waistcoat. She weighed little more than a bundle of drenched muslin.

Depositing her on the bank’s turf, he eased the crooked spectacles from her nose, blotted them with his linen handkerchief, and set them back with ceremonial care. Her lashes were spiky, her cheeks glowed, and river weeds clung to her hat like absurd cockades.

“I am going to kiss you now, Joy.”

He leaned forward, and their lips met. She tasted of river water and something fierce and new.

The kiss possessed very little polish—their mouths met at an angle that bumped teeth and fumbled fingers at the same time—but passion answered in joyful disorder, steaming her spectacles until the world vanished behind fogged lenses.

When they parted she blinked, breathless.

“Well? Does that give you a disgust of me?”

“Oh, no, Freddy. Quite the opposite.”

“Then I am going to kiss you again. And then we are going to go and announce our betrothal to the family.”

“If you insist, Freddy.”

A second kiss—surprisingly surer—followed, punctuated by the delighted yowls of Lord Orville as he pounced on their feet. Joy laughed into Freddy’s mouth. He laughed back, and their mirth dissolved into the ripple of the water.

Ten minutes later, they trudged towards the house, dripping like newly landed fish, boots in hand, fingers locked.

Freddy thought of Westwood’s raised brow, and his mother’s faintly scandalized gasp, but this proposal suited them to the ground.

Joy squeezed his hand, as if divining each thought, and murmured, “Prepare yourself: Faith will prescribe warm baths, Hope will demand broth, and Patience will laugh.”

“Let them fuss. Nothing will dull my happiness,” he proclaimed.

“I never took you for a romantic, Freddy,” she said, leaning her head on his shoulder.

“See, I did pay attention when I read you all those novels!”