“Oh—oh!” She faced Margaret again, clawing her fingernails into the racket’s netting. “I was distracted by … by the Raven. Did you see it? It appears that the, uh—the Joker is over … Oh, my. Margaret, what is happening to your hat?”
Margaret’s face lit up and she reached tentative fingers toward her fascinator. “What is it doing? Tell me.”
“It’s … blooming,” said Cath, as the rosebud that was as big as Margaret’s head began to open—the yellow petals curling open to reveal a lush flower, the hue deepening to rich gold at its center. The edges of the petals glimmered, as if dipped in sugar crystals, and the softest, most wonderful fragrance drifted toward Cath’s nose.
“My, that is a fine hat you’re wearing, Lady Margaret.”
They spun to see the Countess, who had spoken, and the Duke, who was blushing at his hooves, standing not far away.
Margaret’s enthusiasm fizzled as she stuck her nose into the air. “Thank you,” she said, rather unkindly.
“Did you by chance get it at that new hat shop outside the Crossroads?” the Countess asked. “I’ve heard much about it these past weeks and have been meaning to make a trip there myself, though with my old age it’s hard to get around much unless I have a strapping young man to assist me.” She grinned, as if she’d said something wicked, and curled her fingers into the crook of the Duke’s elbow.
“That is indeed where I got it.” The confession seemed strained. Margaret’s shoulders stiffened beside her ear. “That is to say … naturally, that pride and … the sin of arrogance … it requires willpower to … to doff the vanity that such attention-grabbing-ness might … otherwise … prevail upon oneself…” She gulped. “Amen.”
“Amen,” Cath, the Duke, and the Countess recited.
Cath cleared her throat. “I believe what Lady Margaret means to say is that ‘Once a goldfish, forever a goldfish.’”
The Duke dared to glance up, his small dark eyes captivated by Margaret and her unfurled hat. Despite her haughtiness and upturned nose, with Lord Warthog ogling her in such a way and her hat sitting aromatically atop her head, it once again became possible to imagine her as not-unattractive.
“Forever a goldfish,” breathed the Duke. “I could not agree more.”
“It’s nice to see young ladies taking up their exercise,” said the Countess, gesturing her cane toward the battledore rackets. “I was just telling the Duke that this tea party is already much improved over the black-and-white ball. I should like to see the King maintain such high standards of guests. None of that—riffraff that was about before.”
“Oh yes,” Margaret said. “Like that awful Cheshire Cat. What is a feline like that doing at a royal ball, with all the vanishing and unvanishing and sitting on people’s heads. It isn’t natural.”
“Such is an insult to proper ladies and gentlemen.” The Countess planted her cane back into the grass. “Not to mention Mr. and Mrs. Peter.” She made a face akin to a child trying their first bite of cooked spinach. “Dreadful folk. I’ll be pleased to never cross their paths again.”
“What we can be grateful for,” interrupted Catherine, folding her hands over the battledore racket, “is that you were present, Your Grace. Margaret was just telling me about your courageous sacrifice—throwing yourself in between her and the Jabberwock in order to protect a fair maiden! And I see you still bear the wound to prove it.” She gestured at the bandage peeking above the Duke’s cravat, then held the racket against her chest. “It’s like something from a story. So romantic! Margaret, don’t you think the Duke was very brave?”
She was met with a brooding glare from Margaret and was glad the Duke was too busy blushing again to notice.
A new voice intruded into their circle, deep and witty and tumbling with laughter. “I certainly hope,” said the Joker, “that this won’t be the standard of romance by which all men in the Kingdom of Hearts shall be held to.”
Catherine whipped her head so quickly to the side she near gave herself a neck crick. The Joker was tipping his bell-tinged hat to the Duke. “You run a difficult competition, Lord Duke.”
“Well, I wouldn’t…,” the Duke stammered, his snout twitching. “Th-that is to say, any man would have … Lady Mearle was in danger, and I … it wasn’t anything spectacular, I assure you…”
“He’s humble too?” said Jest, raising an eyebrow and looking at Catherine, Margaret, and the Countess in turn. “Which of you three ladies is he trying so hard to impress?”
Biting the inside of her cheek, Catherine subtly nodded toward Margaret.
“Ah.” If Jest questioned the Duke’s choice, there was no sign of it as he rocked back on his heels.
The Countess batted her lashes, flattered to have been included as a potential romantic conquest. “All you young men these days fancy yourselves such charmers,” she said, clearly charmed. “But I assure you, I won’t be marrying again. Once in a lifetime was plenty enough for me.”
“A loss to us all,” said Jest, sweeping up the Countess’s hand and kissing the back of it. She swooned some more.
“You must be the ever-wise Lady Mearle I’ve heard so much about,” he said, giving a kiss to Margaret, and then—“And … the delightful Lady Pinkerton, if I’m not mistaken?” His attention found her again. The leather of his glove was warm and supple beneath her fingertips, and the slight graze of his lips on her knuckle was hardly worthy of the heat that climbed up her neck and onto her ears. There was a joke behind his kohl-lined eyes. A secret passing between the two of them.
“Enchanted, Mr. Joker,” said Cath, glad when her voice didn’t shake.
His grin brightened.
Lord Warthog straightened his waistcoat and squared his shoulders with renewed composure. “And what of you, Lady Mearle? I don’t recall I’ve yet heard of your having any, erm … proposals?”
Cath flinched. Though she knew the Duke’s intentions were anything but cruel, his sudden change of countenance made the hopeful question sound as though he were mocking her.
Which was, of course, precisely what Margaret heard.
Glowering, she snatched the battledore racket out of Catherine’s hands. “I don’t see that it’s any business of yours. Or anyone else’s for that matter. But if you must know, I consider myself above trivial matters such as courtships and flattery. I prefer to spend my hours improving my mind through an intense study of philosophy and stitching parables into the linings of my gowns. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go find my hummingbird.” Adjusting the hat on her head, she marched off toward where the bird had fled, leaving a stricken Duke and oblivious Countess in her wake.
“Think I can guess the answer to your question,” said Jest, joking, but not unkind. He handed the Duke a gracious smile. “Better luck next time, chap.”
With a sigh, Lord Warthog tipped his hat to Catherine and led the Countess away, his interest in their conversation waning as soon as Margaret had gone.
“I apologize to have interrupted,” said Jest, though he spoke quietly and it was difficult to hear him over the sudden galloping of her heart.
“You needn’t apologize,” she said. “I fear I was doing a disservice to the Duke, though I’d meant to help.”
“’Tis too often the way of good intentions. Is matchmaking a frequent hobby of yours, or is the Duke a rare and lucky beneficiary of your services?”
“So far, I’m afraid my services have been neither lucky nor beneficial, but it is in fact my first attempt. The Duke fancies Lady Mearle, but isn’t adept at showing it, as you may have noticed. And so he and I are … trading favors.” She shrugged. “It’s complicated.”
“So you deal in favors. That’s good to know.”
He grinned.
She grinned back.
“Speaking of favors,” he said, with some hesitation, “I’d nearly forgotten. I was sent to summon you, Lady Pinkerton.”
“Summon me?”
He clasped his hands behind his back in imitation
of one of the royal squires. “His Majesty the King has requested a word with you.”
CHAPTER 12
CATHERINE FOLLOWED JEST with mounting trepidation. Her stomach was in knots over meeting the King, but she did her best to steel herself against what she assumed was his imminent proposal.
It was difficult to steel herself against it when she wasn’t sure what her answer would be. Every time she imagined how miserable she would be upon accepting his proposal, it was followed by a vision of how delighted her parents would be. How very proud. Oh, how her mother would brag …
Her seesaw emotions were not helped by the casual whistling of the Joker who walked a pace ahead of her, or the narrow cut of his shoulders, or his elegantly long strides that made her blood rush for reasons she couldn’t fathom.
Her head spun. Maybe she would faint again. She almost embraced the idea.
Jest led her into a courtyard that was surrounded by boxwoods and chiming bluebells. A fountain sat in its center and the King was walking around its edge like a tightrope walker, his arms outstretched for balance.
Jest cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, may I present Lady Catherine Pinkerton.”
The King squealed with delight and hopped off the fountain.
Catherine curtsied, and cursed herself for not having fainted during the walk.
“Thank you, Jest, thank you. That will be all!” The King clapped his hands as Jest bowed once to him and once to Catherine. He seemed to hesitate as he met her eyes, as if he saw the pleading in her face. The chant of please, please don’t leave that was running loops in her head.
His brow creased.
Bracing herself, Catherine looked away.
“I won’t be far,” said Jest, “should my presence be wanted.”
Though it was said to the King, Catherine suspected he meant it for her. She did not look up again until she’d heard the faint thumping of his boots passing out of the courtyard.
She and the King were left alone in the romantic gardens. He was smiling at her like he’d just opened an unbirthday present and found it was precisely what he’d asked for.
“You wished to see me, Your Majesty?”
“I did, Lady Pinkerton.”
A heavy, clouded silence followed before the King cleared his throat. “Don’t the gardens look marvelous today? Listen to those bluebells, so in tune.”
She listened. The bluebells’ chime was beautiful, hitting all the right notes. The music did nothing to calm her.
The King offered her his arm, and she had no choice but to take it and allow him to lead her along the pathways, between geraniums and creeping ivy and heavy-headed dahlias. The King was so jovial, practically skipping beside her. She wanted to put her hands on his shoulders and order him to calm down, but she did her best to be amused by his enthusiasm instead. She listened while he gabbled on about which flowers the gardeners had chosen for the upcoming season and how his vintner was going to make elderberry wine this year and how very excited he was to attend the annual Turtle Days Festival that the Marquess and Marchioness were hosting, and would she be there—but of course she would, being their daughter—and would she dance the quadrille and was she eager to try her luck at the oyster hunt?
She listened with utmost politeness, but hardly heard any of it. The weight of the paper-wrapped macarons inside her pocket became an anchor dragging her down. She had baked them to ensure she was still in the King’s good graces. She had baked them with the intention of compelling him into a marriage proposal.
Catherine had tried to leave them at home that morning, feigning forgetfulness, but her mother had had none of it.
She did not want to give them to the King. She did not want to encourage him.
Perhaps it wouldn’t matter. He was going to ask for her hand anyway. Why else would he have had her escorted into the gardens?
She tried to breathe. This was better than the ballroom, at least. Better than being surrounded by every person she’d known in her life. Out here, she felt like she had a slim chance of saying no without dying of guilt as she said it.
They passed through an archway, around a cutting garden, beneath a trellis, while the King talked of everything and nothing. Catherine yawned. She wished she was still playing yard games with Margaret. She wished she was drinking tea and gossiping with her mother and her friends. She wished she would have thought to eat something when she first arrived—her stomach was going to begin gurgling any minute.
As they meandered into another courtyard, her eyes caught on Jest’s dark motley again. As promised, he hadn’t gone far, and he now crouched in the next garden before the Two of Spades, a young gardener who was watching the Joker with awe.
Jest was showing him a card trick.
Catherine’s feet pulled her off the path without her noticing. She drifted toward the pair, watching as Jest took a pack of cards into his hands and fanned them up one arm, then flipped them with a gesture too quick to follow. The cards dominoed down to his elbow. He made them dance and skip, form a living chain between his fingers, spread out into the shapes of stars and hearts, before collapsing back into a deck of cards once again. Then he shot them all up into the air in a stream high as a water fountain and allowed them to rain down over their heads like red and black confetti.
The young gardener froze mid-laugh at the sound of a startling caw. The Raven swooped down from a nearby rose tree and caught a single card in his beak before landing on Jest’s forearm. The bird cocked his head to one side, revealing the card he had caught.
It was the two of spades.
Jest gave it to the young card, who looked like he’d never been given anything half so special in his life.
“Do you like him?”
Cath jumped. She’d forgotten all about the King.
Heat flooded her cheeks. “N-no … I don’t—”
“I think he’s perfect.”
She pressed her lips shut.
“I think he could be the best court joker this kingdom has ever seen, and that’s including Canter Berry, the Comely Comedian.”
Catherine had no idea who that was, but was glad to be able to let out a breath. Of course the King was asking her if she liked the Joker. His tricks and his jokes, his illusions and games.
Not the man.
And she didn’t.
Like the man.
She barely knew him, after all.
She gulped.
“He’s very … fun to watch,” she confessed.
“Did you see his performance at the ball?”
She knotted her fingers together. “Yes, Your Majesty. It was spectacular.”
“It was, wasn’t it?” The King bounced. “Come, I shouldn’t have sent him away so hastily. We’ll have a bit of entertainment!”
“Wha—no!”
But the King was already pushing through the shrubbery. “Jest, oh, Jest!” he singsonged.
Jest started. The Raven was allowing the young card to pet his wings, but as soon as they saw the King, the card threw himself onto his face out of respect and the bird took flight into the trees. The King did not seem to notice either of them.
Catherine lagged behind, tempted to hide behind the bushes.
“Another good day,” said Jest, his kohl-lined eyes landing on Catherine, full of questions.
She straightened her spine, inch by inch, aware that she’d been slumping.
“We were just speaking of your performance the other night,” said the King, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Lady Pinkerton is quite an admirer!”
Catherine flinched.
Jest glanced at her, not attempting to hide his amusement. “I’m flattered, Lady Pinkerton.”
“Not too much, I hope.”
His dimples stretched down either side of his face.
“Won’t you entertain us?” said the King.
“Oh no, you don’t have to.” Catherine waved her hands. “I’m sure you have other guests … and for a mere crowd of two�
�” She trailed off.
Jest was peering at her like she’d offered him a challenge. “With great pleasure, Your Majesty,” he said, not taking his attention from Catherine. “But first, perhaps it would be prudent to excuse the young squire.” He rolled his fingers toward the Two of Spades, still prostrated on the ground.
The King blinked, as if he hadn’t noticed the card was there. “Oh! Oh yes, yes, you’re dismissed,” he said, adjusting his crown.
The card hopped to his feet, bowed quickly, then ran out of the garden as fast as he could, clutching the card Jest had given him.
Unable to come up with a logical reason to excuse herself, Catherine let the King tug her down onto a stone bench. She kept a proper amount of space between them, yet her heart still fluttered like a bumblebee’s wing. Did Jest know the King was planning to ask for her hand? Did he care?
“Do you have a preference on entertainment, Your Majesty?” Jest asked.
“No, no. Whatever the lady would like.”
Cath could feel the King looking at her and she squeezed her hands in her lap, determined not to look back. “Surely you know your trade best. Whatever pleases you will no doubt please us as well.”
He met her awkwardness with that relaxed, crooked grin of his, and slipped the deck of cards into his sleeve. “Nothing pleases me more than bringing a smile to the face of a lovely lady. But something tells me you will not make that task as easy as it was the eve of the ball.”
She flushed.
“Oh, she thought you were spectacular at the ball,” interjected the King. “She told me so.”
“Did she?” said Jest, and he seemed truly surprised.
“I did,” she confessed, “though now I’m wishing I would have chosen my words more carefully.”
He chuckled. “It’s my role to be spectacular. I shall do my best not to disappoint.” Tipping off the black three-pointed hat, he reached inside and produced the silver flute she’d seen him playing in the gardens that night. His smile widened when he saw that she recognized it, and he whispered, “Try not to faint.”
Cath crossed her arms, unbearably aware of the King at her side. Watching. Listening.
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