Jest’s yellow gaze fell to the floor.
The White Rabbit lowered the trumpet. “His Royal Majesty, the King of Hearts!”
“Your Majesty!” cried the Marchioness. Cath followed her mother into a curtsy, trying to gather her scattered composure. “Your visit honors us! Would you care for some tea? Abigail! Bring the tea!”
The King cleared his throat, smacking his fist against his sternum a few times. “Thank you warmly, Lady Pinkerton, but your husband already offered and I already declined the kindness. I do not wish to take up too much of your time.” He was smiling, like usual, but it was an awkward, nervous smile, not the joyful one Cath was used to.
He would not look at her.
She felt sick to her stomach and was glad, for once, that her mother had sent the dessert away.
“Oh, but won’t you at least sit, Your Majesty?” The Marchioness gestured at the nicest chair in the room—usually the Marquess’s seat.
Whipping his red cloak behind him, the King nodded gratefully and sat.
In unison, the Marquess and Marchioness sat on the sofa opposite him. Only when her mother reached up and yanked her down did it occur to Catherine to sit as well.
The guards stared at the wall, their club-tipped staffs held at their sides. The White Rabbit looked a little crestfallen that he hadn’t been invited to sit too.
And Jest—
Mute and still and impossible for Cath to keep her eyes away from. Rake and flirt he may be, but against her better senses, she felt as drawn to him as ever. She stole glimpses of him again and again, like gathering unsatisfying crumbs in hopes they could be re-formed into a cake.
When the King did not immediately speak, Cath’s mother leaned forward, beaming. “How we enjoyed your tea party this afternoon, Your Majesty. You indulge us so in this kingdom.”
“Thank you, Lady Pinkerton. It was a splendid gathering.” The King pushed the crown more securely onto his round head. He seemed to be preparing himself.
Catherine, stick straight and uncomfortable on the edge of the sofa’s cushion, prepared herself as well.
He would ask for her hand.
Her father would agree.
Her mother would agree.
That was as far as her thoughts would go.
No, she must imagine it all. It was happening. It was here.
The King would ask for her hand.
Her father would agree.
Her mother would agree.
And she …
She would say no.
The silent promise to herself made her dizzy, but she remembered the determination she’d felt during the croquet game and tried to summon it again.
She would be a picture of politeness, of course. She would deny his proposal with as much grace as possible. She would be obliging and flattered and humbled and she would explain to him that she did not feel suited to the role of queen. She would say there was certainly a better choice, and though her gratitude for his attentions was limitless, she could not in good conscience accept him—
No, no, no.
She was wrong, and she hated the knowing of it.
With her father there, and her mother, and the dear, sweet King of Hearts, and all their hopeful eyes focused on her … she knew that she would undoubtedly say yes.
She stopped looking at Jest. Her eyes were suddenly repelled by him. His presence in the room was painful, suffocating.
“I quite enjoyed a game of croquet with Lady Pinkerton at the party,” said the King.
“Oh yes, she was just telling us all about it,” said the Marchioness. “She enjoyed herself as well. Didn’t you, Catherine?”
She gulped. “Yes, Mother.”
“She is a remarkably skilled croquetesse.” The King giggled. “Why, one look from her and the hedgehogs just go—woop!—right where she means for them to go!” He kept giggling.
Cath’s parents giggled along, though she could tell her father wasn’t sure what was so amusing.
“We’re very proud of her,” said the Marchioness. “She is accomplished in so many ways, between the croquet, and the baking.” Her eyes landed on Catherine, full of motherly adoration.
Cath looked away and caught sight of Mary Ann’s pale blue eyes through the cracked door. The maid flashed an encouraging smile.
“Lady Pinkerton and I also, uh, had an enlightening conversation with my new court joker. Do you remember?” The King met her eye for the first time, and between his uneasiness and the mention of the Joker, Cath found herself caught in a mortifying blush that was sure to be misinterpreted.
Her mother elbowed her father.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” she said. “I do remember.”
“Oh yes, very good. He, uh … Jest, that is, has given me some thoughtful advice, for which I’m quite grateful, and I’ve been … thinking, and … well.” The King pulled the fur collar of his cloak away from his throat. “I have a very important question for you, Lady Pinkerton. And … and Lord and Lady Pinkerton, of course.”
The Marchioness grabbed her husband’s wrist.
“We are your humble servants,” said the Marquess. “What can we do for you, Your Majesty?”
Cath sank into the sofa. Good-bye, bakery. Good-bye, the smell of fresh-baked bread in the morning. Good-bye, flour-dusted aprons.
The King wiggled. His feet kicked against the chair. “I have called on you tonight with the purpose of … of…” A bead of sweat slipped down his temple. Cath followed it with her eyes until the King rubbed it away with the edge of his cloak. Then he started to speak, fast, like he was issuing an important declaration that had been rehearsed a hundred times. “… of asking for the honor of entering into a courtship with Lady Catherine Pinkerton.”
Then he burped.
Just a little burp, out of nervousness, or perhaps even nausea.
Catherine, delirious with anxiety, choked back a snort.
Behind the King, Jest flinched, and the small action returned Cath’s attention to him.
He found her in the room.
She couldn’t tell if he was amused or embarrassed for the King, but it was quick to fade, whatever it was. Jest seemed to change as he looked at her. His body lengthening to full height, his shoulders tugging backward, his eyes searching hers.
Cath didn’t know what he was looking for, or what he found. She felt half crazed, delusional with a wish that she was anywhere but here.
“A courtship?” said the Marchioness.
Cath yanked her gaze away from Jest. Her thoughts started to spin, her subconscious dissecting the King’s words.
Courtship. That is what he said.
The King was asking to court her, precisely as Jest had advised.
He was not proposing.
Relief rushed through her, fast as a rising tide through the whistling cove.
She placed a hand over her thundering heart and looked at her mother, whose mouth was hanging open.
“Well,” the Marquess blustered, “you honor us, Your Majesty. I—” He turned to his wife, as if searching for permission to respond.
Shutting her mouth, she kicked his ankle.
“I—uh, give my hearty blessing to such a courtship, but of course the decision lies with my daughter. Catherine? What say you?”
The room fell quiet.
The King, terrified but hopeful.
Her mother, pale with anxiety.
Her father, patient and curious.
Mary Ann, inching the door open so she wouldn’t miss a word.
The White Rabbit, eyeing an expensive vase with yearning.
And Jest. Unreadable. Waiting, along with the others, for her to speak.
“I … am flattered, Your Majesty.”
“Of course you’re flattered, child.” Her mother kicked her this time. “But don’t leave His Majesty waiting for an answer. What say you to this most kind and generous offer?”
Courtship. No obligations. No commitments. Not yet.
And, possibly, time t
o persuade the King that he did not really wish to marry her at all.
It didn’t feel like she’d been given a choice, not a real choice in the matter—but it didn’t seem so entirely dreadful, either.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” she said, already exhausted at the prospect. “It would be an honor to be courted by you.”
CHAPTER 16
CATHERINE WAS TREMBLING by the time she retreated to her bedroom, dizzy with the King’s visit. Mary Ann had started a fire some hours ago, and the room was filled with a pleasant warmth that Cath couldn’t enjoy. She sank into her vanity chair with a groan.
She was officially courting the King.
Or, rather, the King was courting her.
And soon all the kingdom would know about it.
A knock startled her, but it was only Mary Ann. She shut the door and fell against it. “Cath!”
Catherine held up a hand before Mary Ann could say more. “If you should dare to congratulate me, I will never speak to you again.”
Mary Ann hesitated, and Cath could see her thoughts rearranging inside her head. “You’re … unhappy?”
“Yes, I’m unhappy. Remember before when I said I didn’t want to marry him, that I didn’t want to be queen? I meant it!”
Mary Ann slumped, crestfallen.
“Oh, don’t look like that. It is a great honor. I suppose.”
“Maybe the courtship will change your mind?”
“I’m hoping it will change his mind.” She rubbed her temple. “I have no idea what I’ll do if he proposes. When he proposes.”
“Oh, Cath…” Mary Ann crossed the room to wrap her in a sideways hug. “It will be all right. You’re not married yet. You can still say no.”
“Can I? And risk my mother’s tyranny and disappointment for the rest of my life?”
“It’s your life, not hers.”
Catherine sighed. “I don’t know how I’ve let it get this far already. I wanted to say no, but Mother and Father were right there, looking so eager, and the King looked so desperate, and I just … I didn’t know what else to do. Now everything is more boggled up than before.”
“Yes, but nothing that can’t still be made right.” Mary Ann soothed down her hair. “Shall I bring up some tea to calm your nerves? Or—perhaps some of that bread pudding?”
Cath’s heart lightened. “Could you? Oh, but help me take down my hair first. I feel like I’ve had these pins in for a week.”
She turned so Mary Ann could begin pulling out the pins and her eyes alighted on the diamond-paned window. A single white rose rested on the outside sill.
She stifled a gasp.
Mary Ann was talking, but Cath didn’t hear a word. Her hair cascaded, layer by layer, across her shoulders.
She averted her gaze from the flower, her heart beginning to pound. “Do you think I’m being silly?” she asked. “About the King?”
“We can’t choose where our affections lie,” said Mary Ann. She set the hairpins on the vanity and began turning down the bed linens, careful to avoid the thorny rose branches that were still wrapped around the bedposts. Cath’s mother had decided to leave it for a time, in hopes that it would keep any further dream-plants away. “For what it’s worth, though, I think the King is … a sweet man. And his affection for you is more than apparent.”
Cath watched Mary Ann work, though it was torture to keep her eyes away from the window. Already she was thinking she’d only imagined the rose, but she dared not look again for fear it would catch Mary Ann’s attention too.
Which was peculiar, this instinct to keep it a secret. Never in her life had she hidden anything from Mary Ann. But the rose felt like a whispered message, a hushed glance across a crowded room. Something precious and not to be shared. Something that she didn’t think practical Mary Ann would understand.
“I’ve changed my mind about the bread pudding, and the tea. I have no appetite.”
Mary Ann glanced up from fluffing her pillow. “Are you ill?”
Catherine laughed, the sound strained and high-pitched. “Not at all, just needing a moment of peace. I might stay up and read for a while. I’m not tired. You needn’t bother with all that.”
“Oh. Would you like me to stay? We could play a game, or—”
“No, no. Thank you. I … I’d like to be alone. I think I need to sort through everything that’s happened.”
Mary Ann’s face softened. “Of course. Good night, Cath.” She left the room, shutting the door behind her.
Catherine fought the whirlwind of nerves in her stomach as she listened to the sound of Mary Ann’s footfalls receding down the hall. To the creaking of the house around her.
She forced herself to face the window.
She hadn’t imagined it. One perfect white rose on a long stem had been laid atop the windowsill so that the flower was framed by the harlequin-shaped leading.
She approached the window with a racing pulse and lifted the sash. Careful of the thorns, she took the flower between her fingers.
The night air carried a citrus scent, and looking out, she saw that the lemon tree that had been replanted beneath her window had already grown up to this second story, its dark boughs full of yellow fruit. She scanned the branches, then down to the lawn and garden, but the nighttime produced only shadows.
Another glance upward, and this time she spotted tiny black eyes. She reeled back, dropping the rose at her feet.
The Raven inclined his head. Or, she thought he did. His inky feathers were almost invisible in the darkness.
“Hello again,” she said, shivering in the night air.
“Good eve, fair lady, your forgiveness we implore, to come so brashly tapping, tapping at your chamber door.”
“Oh, well, this isn’t exactly my chamber door. More like a window, actually.”
The Raven bobbed his head. “I made some alterations for the sake of the rhyme.”
“I see. Well—good evening, fair Raven, my forgiveness I bestow, for this uncanny meeting outside of my window.”
A boisterous laugh startled Catherine, sending her heart into her throat.
In his black motley, he was nearly impossible to see in the shadows, perched in the crook of a tree branch. He looked mysterious and elegant, his gold eyes glinting in the light of her bedroom’s fire.
“That was impressive, wasn’t it, Raven?” Jest said. “The lady is a natural poet.”
“What are you doing here?” asked Catherine. “I thought you left with the King.”
“He had no further need of me tonight, so I took my leave. I thought I could take a walk, look around. I’m still new to these parts.”
“But you’re not walking. You’re climbing trees.”
“It’s still exercise.”
Catherine leaned farther out the window. “The courtship was your idea, wasn’t it?”
His smile faded and in the darkness he looked almost uncomfortable. “I hope I haven’t overstepped, my lady. But it seemed, from your reaction at the party today, that you would prefer a proposal of courtship to a proposal of marriage.”
She pressed her lips.
“Although it would also seem,” Jest continued, his voice sympathetic, “that you don’t particularly want either one.”
“You must think I’m a fool to even consider rejecting him.”
“My lady, I am a professional fool. I can say with certainty that you do not have the makings of one.”
She smirked. “Then that’s a relief.”
“Is it? Have you something against fools?”
“Not at all. Only, if I were as natural at foolishness as I am at poetry, I might try to take your position from you, and you seem so very well suited to it.”
His body shifted—a melting of his muscles—and she realized that he was relaxing. She hadn’t seen the tension in his body until it was gone. “It does seem to suit me,” he said, “though I daresay the hat would look better on you.” He shook his head, just enough to make the bells jingle.
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Their smiles met each other across the darkness, tentative and a bit shy.
The moment was shattered by footsteps in the hall. Cath gasped and spun around, her pulse racing—but the steps continued on. Probably her father, retreating to his library for the evening.
She let out a slow breath, feeling the hard thump of her heart beneath her fingertips.
Turning back, she saw that Jest hadn’t moved from his perch, although his body was taut again.
“Well,” she said, trying to keep her voice light, though it trembled a little, “it seems that whether or not I wanted a courtship, I now have one. Thank you for your … involvement, but you should probably leave, before someone sees you.” She reached for the window sash.
“Wait!” Jest slipped off his bough, skipping across a few branches until he was arm’s reach from her. He made it look as simple as walking on flat ground. “Is there someone else?”
She paused. “I beg your pardon?”
“Are you in love with someone else?”
She stiffened, bewildered. “Why would you ask me that?”
“I thought maybe that’s why you’re opposed to the King. I thought you might have already given your heart away to someone else, but maybe … maybe it’s someone your parents wouldn’t be so quick to approve of.”
She started to shake her head. “No, there isn’t anyone else.”
“You’re sure?”
She was surprised at the dart of annoyance that stuck in her ribs. “If I had given my heart to someone else, I surely think I would know of it.”
His shoulders sloped downward, though his hands were still securing him to an overhead branch. He looked almost relieved, but also confused. “Of course you would.”
“Don’t misunderstand me,” said Catherine. “I am fond of the King. I just…”
“You don’t have to explain it to me, Lady Pinkerton. I’ll admit I’ve grown fond of the King myself, though I haven’t known him long. Nevertheless, I think I understand you.”
It was a kindness, saying it, when Catherine felt wholly treasonous at her lack of affection for the King.
“I’m fond of you too, I think.”
She laughed at the unexpected compliment. Or what she thought might be a compliment. It didn’t seem romantic enough to qualify as a confession. “Me?”