“Well done, Jest,” called the King.
“Thank you muchly, Your Majesty.”
Clenching her teeth, Cath hauled her flamingo toward her own hedgehog, a bout of stubborn determination burning through her limbs. Never had she considered herself a competitive person, but this—this was different.
This felt oddly personal.
After just one meeting, the Joker had infiltrated her dreams and overtaken her every waking thought. She’d even worked him into her bakery fantasy, though she would never admit that to anyone, especially now that she knew Jest would just as soon see her married to the King.
He was naught but a flirtatious louse, and she’d fallen deeper with every rakish smile. What a fine joke she must have made for his amusement.
How dare he?
She took up her place beside her hedgehog and surveyed the course. The hedgehog and flamingo both watched her, waiting, as she looked from the arched cards—a few of which had fallen flat in exhaustion while they waited—to the rover hoop, the final goal. To all the opposing hedgehogs scattered haphazardly around the course, their players chasing after them or screaming at their uncooperative flamingos.
To Jest, strolling across the grass.
She narrowed her eyes and widened her stance, lowering the flamingo’s head to the ground. The hedgehog rolled up.
“If you fail me,” she whispered to the flamingo, “I will wrap your neck around a tree trunk and tie it in a pretty pink bow and leave you there until one of the gardeners finds you.”
The flamingo cautiously curled its neck to look at her from upside down. “Ah like purty pink bows.”
She gave an annoyed shake and it straightened out again.
She pulled the flamingo back, pinned her eye to the hedgehog—
and swung
hard.
It was a picture-perfect croquet, knocking into Jest’s hedgehog moments before he swung for it. Startled, Jest leaped back, and his hedgehog rolled right beneath his feet and bounded and bounced wildly off course.
He blinked up, meeting Cath’s gaze across the lawn.
She grinned at him, pleased at Jest’s flabbergasted expression, and gave her flamingo a twirl. She’d all but handed the win to the King.
“Well, dash it all,” she said, feigning innocence.
Pleased, she strolled off the court and stuck her flamingo’s feet into the soft dirt before heading toward the tables. With that excellent play, she felt she’d earned some cake and a nice cup of tea.
CHAPTER 14
“WHY IS THERE so much pepper in this soup?” the Marchioness complained, pushing back her bowl. “It’s hardly edible.”
“I’m sorry, my lady,” said Abigail, whisking the offensive dish away. “It was a new recipe—I believe the Duke of Tuskany gave it to us, a specialty of his own cook’s making.”
The Marchioness wrinkled her nose. “It’s a miracle he hasn’t starved.” She straightened the napkin in her lap while Catherine and her father sipped at their own soups without complaint.
Though, Catherine could admit, it was awful peppery, and starting to burn her throat.
“So, Catherine?” her mother said. “How did you find the tea party?”
Cath froze, her soup spoon lifted halfway to her mouth. She met her mother’s anxious, hopeful grin with a nervous, innocent one of her own. “I found it to be rather like the last tea party, and the one before that,” she lied, and choked down another spoonful. “Would you pass the salt, please?”
Mary Ann stepped forward to bring the salt to her so her parents wouldn’t have to reach over the tureens and gravy boats.
“Perhaps so, but did you speak with His Majesty?”
“Oh. Um. Why, yes, I did. He and I took a turn around the gardens.” She paused to ensure nothing she was about to relate would be condemning. “We crossed paths with the new court joker and he entertained us with a beautiful melody on his flute.”
Silence. The grandfather clock that stood against the wall raised an arm to scratch beneath his gray mustache. Catherine glanced at him and wondered if the pepper was getting to the furniture.
“And?” her mother pressed.
“Oh, he’s very talented.” Cath leaned forward over her bowl. “Perhaps too talented, if you ask me. One might find it unnatural. To play the flute and the mandolin, and to know card tricks and magic tricks and riddles, and I hear tell he’s even an adept juggler. It’s enough to make the rest of us feel unaccomplished, and I don’t think he needs to flaunt it all quite so much as he has, and after only two gatherings! Plus, there’s something peculiar about that hat of his, don’t you think? Something not quite…” She traced an invisible outline of the three-pointed hat with her spoon into the air. “… spatially accurate. I find it uncanny.” She looked at her unimpressed mother and her confused father and realized she’d been rambling. She jammed the soup spoon into her mouth.
“Well,” said her mother. “That’s all … interesting. What happened after the Joker entertained you?”
She swallowed. “Oh. Then we played croquet.”
“You and the Joker?”
“Y-yes. Well, and the King too. And a few others.”
Her mother sagged with relief. “I hope you let him win.”
Catherine was proud that it wasn’t a lie when she said, “The King did win, as a matter of fact.”
As the soup was taken away, Abigail came forward to carve slices from a roast set atop a bed of roasted squash.
Her mother’s eyebrows rose. “And then?”
She thought. “And then … I had some cake. Though if we’re to be honest, it was a little dry. Oh—and Jest came by and played his flute some more once the game was over. The show-off.”
The melody had been beautiful, of course, and was still parading through her ears.
“Jest,” said her mother, and hearing his name in her voice made Catherine startle.
“Sorry,” she stammered. “That’s the Joker. That’s his name.”
Her mother set her fork down on the table, so carefully that she might as well have thrown it. “What do we care about the Joker? Tell us about the King, Catherine. What did he say? What did he do? Did he try your macarons? Did he like them? Are you betrothed or not?”
Cath shrank away, all too aware of the rose macarons still heavy in her pocket. They were probably crushed to bits by now. She was grateful when her entree was set before her, giving her an excuse to look down. She dug a fork into a chunk of roasted squash. “I may have forgotten to give him the macarons,” she confessed, stuffing the bite into her mouth.
She stiffened, surprised. Not any squash, but savory, buttery pumpkin, sprinkled with thyme leaves and, this time, just the right amount of pepper.
It was delicious. She shoveled a second bite into her mouth, wondering if they might all turn orange as Cheshire had. Which would be better than growing to the size of oak trees, which had happened once when their cook purchased a bad batch of acorn squash.
Her mother groaned, ignoring her own plate. “How this is wearing on my old nerves! To think I was so close to having my daughter engaged—and to the King himself!” She placed a hand to her chest. “It’s more than my heart can take. All day I was waiting for that blare of trumpets, that announcement that the offer had been made and accepted, that I would live to see my daughter crowned a queen. But that announcement did not come, even though you took a turn with His Majesty through the gardens! And played croquet! And were serenaded! You can’t mean to say the mood wasn’t romantic. Unless … unless he has changed his mind. Oh dear, what will we do?”
Catherine met Mary Ann’s gaze, and was rewarded with a confidante’s smile, secretive but supportive. She smiled back, but covered it by sipping her wine.
“I don’t know, Mother,” she said, setting down the glass. “He didn’t propose. I can’t guess his reasons. Have you tried the pumpkin? It’s fantastic. Abigail, please tell the chef that this pumpkin is fantastic.”
“I w
ill, my lady,” said Abigail with a small curtsy. “I believe it came from Sir Peter’s patch.”
Cath stabbed another bite. “It’s astonishing that such a horrid man can grow something so scrumptious.”
“What are you on about?” screeched her mother. “Pumpkins! Sir Peter! We are talking about the King.” She thumped her hand on the table. “And you may not be able to guess his reasons for not proposing today, but I certainly can. He has lost confidence in his choice of a bride, that is his reason. He heard you’d gotten ill at the ball and now he thinks you may be a sickly girl, and no man wants that. How can you have rushed off so soon?”
“To be fair, I did not know the King would be proposing, and you did insist on that very tight—”
“That is hardly an excuse. You know now. You knew today. I am marvelously disappointed, Catherine. I know you can do better than this.”
Cath looked at her father, hoping for defense. “Is this how you feel too?”
He turned his head up, the slices of roast beef and pumpkin on his plate already three-quarters eaten. His expression, though bewildered at first, quickly softened, and he reached for Cath, settling his hand on her wrist.
“Of course, dear,” he said. “You can do anything you put your mind to.”
Cath sighed. “Thanks, Papa.”
He gave her a loving pat before returning his attention to his plate. Shifting in her seat, Cath resigned herself to her mother’s disappointment and focused on cutting her meat into very tiny pieces.
“I was so hopeful for those macarons too,” the Marchioness continued. “I realize it isn’t ladylike to slave away in the kitchen all day, but he does fancy your desserts and I thought, once he tastes them, he’ll remember why he meant to propose in the first place. How could you have failed at such a simple task?” She scowled at Catherine’s plate. “You’ve eaten enough now, Catherine.”
Catherine looked up. At her mother’s twisted mouth, at the top of her father’s lowered head, at Mary Ann and Abigail pretending to not be listening. She set down her knife and fork. “Yes, Mother.”
With a snap of her mother’s fingers, the plates were taken away, even her father’s, though he was still clutching his fork. He soon slumped with resignation.
Before the awkwardness could stretch on, the Marquess perked up. “I heard the most delightful tale at the party today,” he said, dabbing his napkin at the corners of his mustache, “about a little girl who discovered an upward-falling rabbit hole just off the Crossroads, and when she started to climb, her body fell up and up and—”
“Not now, dear,” said his wife. “Can’t you see we’re discussing our daughter’s prospects?” Then she grumbled, “If she has any left at all, that is.”
The Marquess deflated, and set his napkin on the table. “Of course, my dear. You always know just the right thing to talk about.”
Catherine frowned. She would have liked to have heard the story.
Clucking her tongue, the Marchioness said, “No one ever warns you how exhausting it will be to have an eligible daughter. And now I have the festival to concern myself over. If this marriage ordeal was resolved I could better devote myself to it, as I have every other year, but as it is, my attention is being pulled into two separate directions. I shall never be able to focus on the festival now.”
Mary Ann, Catherine saw, failed to refrain from an eye roll. Though the Marquess and Marchioness hosted the Turtle Days Festival, it was the servants who did all the work.
“I’m sorry, Mama,” Catherine said.
“It’s even worse now that the whole kingdom is in a frenzy over this … this Jabberwock.” She shuddered.
“It’s terrifying,” said Catherine, though her attention was wandering as a steaming bread pudding was set before her. It smelled of rich vanilla bean and custard. Mouth watering, she lifted her dessert spoon.
“Oh, good heavens, no,” said her mother. “Don’t be absurd, Catherine. You’ll be mistaken for a walrus at the festival. Abigail, have this taken away.”
Cath whimpered, gazing after the dessert as it was hastened off the table. She pressed her palm against her middle, feeling her stomach beneath the corset and wondering if her mother was right. Was she becoming a walrus? She did have an almost-constant yearning for sweets, but she only gave into it, well, maybe once or twice a day. That wasn’t strange, was it? And she didn’t feel any bigger, even if her corsets suggested differently.
She caught a sympathetic smile from Mary Ann as she filled the wineglasses around the table.
“Don’t you have any thoughts on this at all, Mr. Pinkerton?”
The Marquess was watching the dish of bread pudding disappear with the same sorrow Catherine felt. “About you sending away the dessert?” he said. “I do have a thought or two about it.”
“Not that, you old man. Though you’re where she gets it from, you know.”
Cath bristled. “I am sitting right here.”
Her mother batted the fact of her presence away. “I’m asking if you have any thoughts on the marriageability of your own daughter. The marriageability that is fading away as we sit here, sulking.”
“I wouldn’t be sulking if I were eating bread pudding,” the Marquess muttered.
Her mother heaved a sigh. “We have had no other prospects, you know. No offers of courtship. Nothing!”
Cath licked her lips, and it sparked in her head that now was the time to tell them about the bakery. This very moment. She would have no better chance, not with both of them at her attention.
Now.
Ask them now.
She sat up straighter in her chair. “Actually, there is one prospect, Mama. One that I … I’ve been meaning to discuss with you both.”
Mary Ann stiffened, but Cath tried not to look at her. Her presence would only make her more nervous.
“There is something I’ve been considering lately. Well, for quite some time, really. But I could use your assistance, and … support. And you did just say, Father, that I could do anything I put my mind to—”
“Out with it, child,” said her mother, “we haven’t got all evening.”
“It … has to do with my hobby. My … baking.”
Her mother threw her hands into the air. “Oh—your baking! That’s what it is, you know. That’s why none of the men want anything to do with you. Who’s ever heard of a marquess’s daughter that bakes, when she should be practicing embroidery or the pianoforte!”
Catherine cast a panicked look at Mary Ann, who had begun tying knots into her apron strings.
She turned back to her mother. “But … you just admitted this is half the reason the King liked me in the first place. He likes my desserts. Aren’t you glad I have something I’m good at?”
Her mother guffawed, but her father was nodding. “I enjoy your desserts,” he said. “Remember that rum cake you made for my birthday? With the raisins in it? You should make one of those again.”
“Thank you, Father. I would love to.”
“Don’t encourage her.”
“Mother, please. Listen for a moment, and … try not to cast hasty judgment.”
The Marquess leaned forward, curious. The Marchioness grunted and folded her arms, but gave Cath her attention, at least. Mary Ann stood in the corner, silently counting off the knots she’d tied.
“You see,” said Catherine, “there’s this storefront in town that’s set to become available. The cobbler’s store, you know, on Main Street. And, well, I’ve been thinking, and—”
“Forgive the interruption, my lord.”
Cath paused, turning to see Mr. Penguin, their butler, standing at the entrance to the dining room in his customary tuxedo.
“We have a visitor,” he said.
“At this hour?” said the Marchioness, aghast. “Tell them to come back tomorrow.”
“But, my lady,” said Mr. Penguin, “it is the King.”
CHAPTER 15
THE DINING ROOM was still for a beat, two beats, th
ree—before Cath’s mother launched herself from the table.
“Whealagig! What are you waiting for? Get out there and greet him!”
“Er—right. Of course, darling.” The Marquess tossed his napkin onto the table and followed Mr. Penguin to the parlor.
“We’ll be right there! Do not let him leave!” The Marchioness rounded on Catherine, plucking some of her dark hair forward to hang in wavy locks over her shoulders. She pinched Cath’s cheeks. Dipped a napkin corner into the nearest water glass and scrubbed at Catherine’s mouth.
Catherine squirmed. “Stop it! What are you doing?”
“Making you presentable! The King is here!”
“Yes, but he hasn’t asked for an audience with me.”
“Of course he hasn’t asked for an audience with you, but that’s clearly why he’s here!” Cupping Cath’s face in both hands, her mother beamed. “Oh, my precious, precious girl! I’m so proud of you!”
Cath frowned. “Just a moment ago, you were—”
“Never mind a moment ago, the King is here now.” Pulling away, her mother shooed at her with both hands. “Come along. To the parlor. Here, chew on this.” She plucked a mint leaf from a bouquet on the sideboard and shoved it into Catherine’s mouth.
“Mother,” she said, chewing twice before pulling the mint leaf out. “I’m not going to kiss him.”
“Oh, stop being such a pessimist.”
Catherine blanched at the very idea of it.
She was bustled through the doors and past her father’s library, into the main parlor where her father was standing with the King and the White Rabbit and two guards—the Five and Ten of Clubs—and …
Her heart leaped, but she silently chastised it until it sank back down again.
Jest stood at the back of the King’s entourage in full black motley, his hands behind his back. Though he’d been inspecting a painted portrait of one of Catherine’s distant ancestors, he straightened when Catherine and her mother entered.
A drumbeat thumped against the inside of her rib cage. She barely had time to catch her breath before a trumpet blared through the room and she jumped.
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