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Cecilia—gleaming grey with a scandalous fondness for snacks. Jockey: Sylvester (Hope’s eldest, now seven).

Camilla—silky tabby whose figure bore evidence of many cream dish triumphs. Jockey: Robert (Patience’s first, five and three-fourths).

Theo—steady, mellow, black fellow. Jockey: Augustine (four and a half).

Evalina—orange tabby and white-pawed huntress, quick as thistledown, given to sudden philosophical naps. Jockey: Lydia (just barely five)

Mortimer—grey tabby whose girth suggested strategic pacing rather than sprint. Jockeys: Beatrix and Briony (just turned four).

The children gathered at the head of the ramp, feathers aloft.

Freddy, acting course steward, tried to assume an expression of sober authority but betrayed himself with a twitch of laughter when Mortimer yawned hugely and flopped over the starting line as if to say, ‘wake me when the cream arrives.’ Quincy patrolled importantly; Lady Nibbleton lurked some yards away, chewing a stolen ribbon from the Dowager’s bonnet.

Joy raised a handkerchief—today’s official starting flag. “Ready—steady—GO!”

They were off—sort of…

Sylvester whooped, waggling a bright blue feather in front of Lord Orville, who sprang forward three aristocratic strides, ears flattened, then paused to glare back as if to question the futility of this exercise.

Camilla advanced two dignified paces, decided the velvet was deliciously warm, and curled daintily upon it.

Robert, scandalized, flapped his feather like a flag: “Charge, ma’am! ” Camilla blinked regal indifference.

Cecilia surprised everyone by scampering half the distance in a fluid grey streak―Benjamin galloped beside her until a biscuit tumbled from his pocket. Cecilia reversed course to devour the prize.

Theo trotted methodically, Augustine pacing him at a distance. “Keep the inside lane, old chap.” Evalina darted with airy elegance until Charlotte squealed encouragement. The cat, taking the squeal for rebuke, executed an elegant pirouette and sat down to groom her paws.

As for Mortimer—the twins’ gentle coaxing induced exactly three waddling steps before he discovered a discarded sliver of pie at the side of the course. He settled upon it with the gravity of a Roman senator.

The crowd—sisters, husbands, villagers—roared approval of the chaos.

Joy’s sides hurt from laughing. “We may finish by Michaelmas,” she called to Freddy.

Halfway down, fortunes shifted. Lord Orville, offended by Camilla’s public nap, delivered a gentlemanly cuff to her haunch, waking her in indignation.

She shot forward, knocking Theo sideways.

Augustine yelped. Theo decided the best avenue of retreat was directly over the steward’s boots. Freddy hopped back to give way.

Evalina, startled by the commotion, opted for altitude.

She bounded onto the arch itself, scattering catnip leaves upon the heads of the crowd.

A sudden breeze sent catnip drifting across the course like green snow.

Camilla inhaled bliss, rolled ecstatically, and collided with Cecilia, who was still pursuing biscuit crumbs.

Both tumbled into a catnip-induced heap of wriggling purrs.

The children shrieked with delight. Lady Nibbleton, reading the excitement as invitation, trotted over, planted herself between Lord Orville and the finish arch, and began chewing catnip sprigs. Lord Orville halted in affront. Sylvester drew his wooden sword. “Yield the course, foul beast!”

The goat butted the air in answer.

Freddy, wiping tears, judged the moment ripe for decisive intervention. “Quincy!” he barked. The collie, awakened to duty, bounded forward, barking a summons to obey. Lady Nibbleton, being herded, gave one last tug at foliage and lumbered aside.

In the sudden clearing, Lord Orville saw destiny: tail lashing, he streaked for the arch.

Camilla rolled after him in a sideways tumble.

Theo plodded behind with Augustine, while Evalina executed a swan-like leap from arch to ramp and glided the final inch nose-first over the line mere whiskers ahead of Lord Orville.

The crowd erupted. Charlotte clapped so hard she fell backward into Grace’s arms. Joy, wiping tears beneath her spectacles, declared, “Evalina by a whisker’s breadth!

” Reverend Hathaway, official judge, confirmed it—though confessed he’d lost sight of Mortimer entirely.

A search party discovered him snoozing in the picnic basket, neatly curled around the pie’s remainder.

Lydia proudly tied the winner’s ribbon on Evalina’s neck.

As dusk painted orchard leaves bronze, Joy slipped her hand into Freddy’s. “Next year, we should add a dog sprint,” she whispered.

Freddy laughed. “With Lady Nibbleton to officiate?”

“But of course.” She left him to superintend the children’s further entertainment.

Joy found a quiet bench beneath an old pear’s shade. One by one, her sisters drifted to join her, husbands herding offspring at a discreet distance.

“Remember our first garden party in Town?” Patience asked. “We thought ourselves so grand…until Joy discussed fetlocks with half the bachelors present.”

“And Faith sneezed on Lady Jersey’s aigrette,” Grace added, giggling.

Faith sniffed with mock outrage. “That feather was poorly anchored.”

Hope leaned closer, voice low with contentment. “What matters, is all our roads wound back together.”

“Yes.” Joy traced the bench grain with a fingertip. “And I would not trade a step.”

In the field beyond, children chased kites dangling on strings. Freddy organized teams, his laughter unmistakable. Joy’s heart stitched the images together: family, laughter, resilient love glowing in her chest.

As the afternoon wore into evening, the cats curled on hay bales, and the laughter of children drifted skyward. The Whitford family’s second generation had written its own way forward.

The meadow emptied slowly, as all good fêtes must: children yawning with exhaustion, and the villagers content with food and laughter.

By eight o’clock the light had mellowed into dusk.

Above the orchard, the sky shifted from amber to pink and purple, and shadows stretched long beside the collapsed Cat Chute.

Everyone gathered on benches or cushions, and lantern poles were already planted in the grass awaiting dusk. Night edged in, carrying rich scents of hay and woodsmoke.

“Come,” Freddy said, his voice gentle amid the din. “There are lanterns to light.”

Joy squeezed Freddy’s hand. The whirl of colour and laughter shimmered, but through it she saw—truly saw—their entire world: friends, family, animals, imperfection, joy.

Her right eye might fail, but her heart’s vision felt startlingly clear—to love and be loved amid such uproar was the finest finish she could imagine.

Lanterns—thin paper globes painted by children during the afternoon—were lit, one by one: crimson, amber, palest green. Their glow set the orchard glimmering like hanging fruit on a fantastical tree.

They raised their lanterns. The children counted: three…two…one—release! The spheres bobbed skyward, trembling, then steadied, drifting over orchard silhouettes. A collective sigh rose with them.

Joy tipped her face to his, lantern light gilding his features. “I used to fear I should never see clearly again,” she whispered.

“And now?”

“Now I know clarity belongs to more than eyes.”

He pressed a kiss to her temple. “Mrs. Cunningham, you remain the finest vision in Kent.”

She laughed—soft, unbelieving—and let the sound join lanterns, the summer breeze, children’s shouts, and the cricket’s song. The world blurred, sharpened and blurred again, but still shone: a constellation of small, perfect lights lifted by hands she loved.

And high above Heartsfield Grange, the lanterns sailed on, marking the sky with gentle fire, while below the orchards slept, guarded by goats, kittens, puppies, and the echo of unending joy.