Page 42

Five years later…

J oy Cunningham woke to the unmistakable sound of a harried husband. That was how it felt when Freddy came pelting in half-dressed and announced, with exaggerated gravity, that “Your goat is eating the refreshment tent.”

“My goat?” Joy retorted, dragging her spectacles from the bedside table. “Since when do I hold that title?”

“Since Sylvester christened her Lady Nibbleton and claimed she answers only to your voice.”

That explained everything and nothing.

Somewhere down the passage, two shrill voices—a piping “Papa, goat!” and a toddling echo of “Go!”—announced that their own children were awake.

Three-year-old Frederick George (Georgie to all) came charging in, nightshirt flapping, while chubby Amelia toddled behind pulling a wooden kitten on wheels.

Freddy scooped both under one arm, accepted a gummy kiss from Amelia, and deputized Georgie temporary Goat Constable.

“They have escaped Nurse,” Freddy remarked as though it was not a daily occurrence.

Joy laughed, kissed the tip of Freddy’s chin—the closest available target—and quickly dressed in a day gown.

Outside, early sun striped the lawn and cast Heartsfield Grange in gilt.

Trestles, half-erected, and tablecloths lay in piles awaiting hands willing to assemble.

Near the orchard gate, Lady Nibbleton was indeed sampling the tent skirt while a footman ineffectually waved his arms at her.

“Shoo, Madam,” Joy commanded. The goat looked affronted but trotted off and transferred her attentions to an innocent hedgerow.

Quincy, their wedding pup from Lord Gresham, padded up, ears pricked.

“All livestock accounted for, save Lord Orville, who is presumably inspecting the neighbour’s queen,” Freddy announced. It was quite the task, keeping track of their menagerie.

Joy’s left eye caught colours bright and sure; the right, a stubborn blur, filled in nothing but soft hues. Even so, she thought, I see enough . And today she meant not to miss a single absurdity.

By noon, sisters and families descended like a cheerful invasion.

Faith arrived first, the ever-capable Westwood and Lydia at her side.

Benjamin sprinted past, waving a wooden sword and enquiring whether goats could be pirates.

Trailing them came Faith’s youngest treasure—fourteen-month-old Edmund, gurgling approval at every goat bleat.

Hope’s carriage followed, Rotham disembarking looking decidedly dishevelled, as Sylvester leapt out to join Benjamin in the quest as a pirate. Their twin girls, Beatrix and Briony, slept undisturbed through the commotion.

Patience and Colonel Stuart brought five-year-old Robert and four-year-old Rose, each clutching a tiny felt pennant bearing crudely drawn kittens. “Flags,” Patience explained. “So they may cheer whichever creature actually stays on the course.”

Grace’s party made the grandest entry. Lord Carew helped her down, brandishing two familiar felines.

Grace whispered to Joy, eyes twinkling. “I am afraid Theo and Evalina are too fat to race.” Three more little Carews tumbled out after their parents: serious-eyed Augustine, now four, exuberant Charlotte, now three, and solemn Nicholas—a one-year-old who clung to Grace’s skirts with his thumb securely in his mouth.

Soon after, a ducal landau rolled up the drive, bearing a radiant Maeve, Thornhill proudly holding aloft a wicker basket.

Inside lurked two more of Frederica’s offspring, Mortimer and Cecilia, whom they had rescued whence Lady Marchmont passed on.

They were groomed to celestial perfection and radiated disdain for the rustic venue.

“Observe the opposition,” Thornhill said, as though introducing prized bloodstock.

A pair of rosy-cheeked Thornhill heirs were handed down next—James (aged two, brandishing a toy horse) and baby Eliza in Maeve’s arms, wide-eyed at the scene around her.

Joy curtsied. “Welcome to Heartsfield.”

A cry of “Aunt Joy!” burst out as soon as the last landau door clicked shut.

Sylvester and Benjamin, wooden cutlasses aloft, charged across the gravel in full piratical array—scarves tied crooked, one eye circled with charcoal to suggest villainy.

Joy braced herself for impact. They hugged her knees with such enthusiasm that Frederica, lying regally at her feet, had to whirl aside.

Behind the buccaneers came Robert and Rose at a more measured trot, their kitten pennants fluttering.

Augustine followed, clasping what appeared to be a pocket stud book.

Charlotte skipped in his wake, attempting twirls that ended in grassy somersaults, while Nicholas clung to Grace’s hand and blinked owlishly at the commotion.

Lydia made straight for Quincy, and he fell at her feet and rolled onto his back without shame.

James, Thornhill’s eldest, marched to pet Lady Nibbleton, who eyed the miniature person with wary interest. Eliza nestled on Maeve’s hip, thumb in mouth, wide eyes reflecting everything with caution.

Joy spread her arms. “Goodness, I hoped all my favourite people would appear, and here they all are at once! Pirates, flag-bearers, breeders—what a company.”

“Have you really a goat now, Aunt Joy?” Benjamin demanded, eyes sparkling.

“I have. Lady Nibbleton of the Tent Chewing Brigade. You may parley with her after luncheon, but mind your hat. She is indiscriminate when it comes to eating.”

“And is it true,” Augustine enquired gravely, “that Lord Orville once carried off an entire cheese?”

“An entire Stilton,” Freddy supplied, arriving, “larger than your head, young sir.”

“Oooh,” whispered Charlotte, twirling again. “I want a cheese.”

“There are smaller cheeses,” Joy assured her, “in the food tent.

Joy stooped so they could all crowd around.

“This year’s fête,” she announced, “boasts more delights than any May Day festival. You may test your arms at the Pie-Flinging Booth—Cook has baked special cream missiles—and at three o’clock there will be Blind Man’s Bluff on the south lawn, overseen by Quincy, who refuses to wear the blindfold but promises to bark impartially. ”

Benjamin’s hand shot up as if in school. “Will there be pudding?”

“After the sack races,” Joy confirmed. “I have seen four kinds so far: lemon drizzle, ginger syllabub, gooseberry tart, and a chocolate sponge.”

“Capital!” he answered.

“A boy after my own heart. And—” Joy spread her arms wider—“the jewel in Heartsfield’s crown: the Cat Derby. Six famous racers, one velvet ramp, feather wands for reins, and a blue ribbon to the swiftest whiskers.”

A collective intake of breath greeted this. Even Nicholas’s thumb slipped from his mouth to express excitement.

Freddy adopted his most portentous baritone. “But derby racers must prove themselves worthy. There will be a Jockey’s Inspection first. Clean boots, brave hearts, and no smuggling sardines under your bonnet, Master Sylvester.”

“I would never!” cried Sylvester—though his grin strongly implied he might.

“Everyone present and accounted for,” Freddy declared. “Pirates, accountants, and goat artillery, form ranks!”

Chaos obliged happily: pennants tangled with cutlasses, baby Edmund burst into delighted shrieks, and Rose attempted to fasten a ribbon to Mortimer’s considerable middle with limited success.

Westwood raised a hand like a drill sergeant and corralled the mass towards the orchard path, where tables waited under striped awnings.

The children surged ahead, Lydia toddling after Quincy, Augustine already pretending to jot odds in his book.

Joy and her sisters lingered a moment, exchanging glances heavy with years of shared motherhood—and the faintest astonishment that they had somehow multiplied into such a carnival.

“Bless us all,” Patience murmured, “but our nursery will soon outgrow the house.”

Hope linked arms with her. “We always have Davenmere if needed.”

“At least there will always be hands to wave feathers.” Maeve adjusted Eliza’s sun bonnet. “And small voices to cheer when the goats stage a coup.”

Grace laughed. “We wanted adventure for our children. Joy has handed them a kingdom of misrule.”

Joy felt warmth rise to her cheekbones—part pride, part that old shy disbelief that life could turn out so richly unexpected. She caught Freddy’s gaze over a sea of bonnet ribbons and whisking tails. He lifted an eyebrow in silent invitation. Ready?

She nodded, her half-blurred vision swimming with colours: Lydia’s saffron sash, the deep blue of Augustine’s journal cover, the sleek black of Mortimer’s coat, Charlotte’s bright pink pinafore, and Freddy’s steadfast figure in oat-straw tweed guiding them all forward.

“Come, sisters,” she said, voice light and sure. “Before Lady Nibbleton relocates the pastry table, and before Lord Orville requisitions the cheese. The world may call this a mere country fête, but we know it for what it is: the finest fête ever assembled under one orchard’s boughs.”

When at last the time came for the actual derby, the children were sent to gather their assigned charges.

The Cat Derby of Heartsfield Grange had grown, over five summers, into a country legend: a velvet-lined ramp, twelve feet long, sloping from the start to a triumphal arch plaited with catnip and hawthorn blossoms. This year Frederica’s original litter—six venerable kittens now grown in their dignified middle age—were each to be coaxed down the course by one of the cousins brandishing a feather wand.

The notion delighted every adult present.

It also reduced the stable‐boys to helpless laughter, for middle-aged cats were scarcely given to obliging footraces.

But the children took the assignment as solemn destiny. The competitors were:

Lord Orville—striped, long-bodied, and proud possessor of a half-missing ear from an early duel with a neighbouring tom. Jockey: Benjamin (Faith’s eldest, six years old).