Her dread returned tenfold. “Forgive me, but I must go dance the lobster quadrille.”
“Ah yes.” Hatta drifted his hand through the air. “Obligations rest heavy on the shoulders of nobility.”
She couldn’t tell whether he was insulting her or not. “Heavier than you might think. Thank you again for the gift.”
“Will you wear it during the dancing also? I’m sure you’ll be at the very center of attention, and a businessman couldn’t complain over the attention.”
Cath pulled the hat more firmly onto her head. “Hatta, I’m not sure I shall ever take it off.”
He bowed. “Then off you go. And please, if you happen to see His Majesty, I hope you’ll give him my regards.”
She stumbled halfway to the door. “His Majesty?”
Hatta’s violet eyes glinted. “The King of Hearts, love? I thought you knew him, but as you look so surprised, I must have been mistaken.” He held his hands out in supplication. “Nevertheless, your path is more likely to cross with him than is mine, and I wouldn’t complain of a kind reference put forth to our sovereign.” His smile turned wry. “After all, I am a man of ambitions, Lady Pinkerton.”
CHAPTER 26
THE DAY HAD WARMED, tempting the festival guests down to the shore with its foaming waves and rocky outcroppings. Knowing that she was already too late to join the opening ceremonies, Cath did her best to dodge in between the conch shells that stood twice her height on the damp shore and the swarms of people as they drifted toward the beach, leaving the vibrant tents with their flapping pennants behind.
She noticed an inordinate number of guests wearing Hatta’s creations. It was easy to spot them in the crowd, with their elegant shapes and peculiar embellishments. She recalled Mary Ann telling her how popular his hats were becoming, but she hadn’t been ready to believe it. It had seemed, at the time, that Hatta’s Marvelous Millinery was her discovery, her special memory, but word had spread fast through the fashionable circles of Hearts.
On the constructed platform on the center-most beach, her father, the Marquess, was already halfway through telling the story of how the first Turtle Days Festival had come to be. Catherine loved the story, and loved even more the way her father told it. She was sad that she had missed hearing it from the beginning.
The legend was that her many-greats-grandmother, when she was young and beautiful and poor, had one day led a troupe of dancing turtles and lobsters into the throne room of the then King and Queen of Hearts. Under the girl’s guidance, the creatures had danced a ballet that was awkward and preposterous, yet the girl’s narration of the dance turned it into something spectacular. The dance told the story of a lobster and a turtle who fell deeply in love despite the impossibility of such a match. They battled through numerous trials and obstacles to be together, finally claiming their eternity of joy.
Her grandmother’s telling of the story was so honest and heartfelt that, by its end, the dance had driven both the King and Queen to tears. They cried so hard that the throne room flooded and overflowed from the cliffs, and that was how Rock Turtle Cove came to be.
In her delight, the Queen granted the girl a mansion and the title of Marchioness.
From then on, that gift of storytelling had been passed through every generation that grew up in the manor off Rock Turtle Cove, and the talent had entertained countless kings and queens who sat on the throne. Cath’s father was no exception. When Cath was a child, her father had told her stories every night as she lay in bed. Stories of faraway lands and mythical creatures, daring adventures and happy endings. As she grew, she had tried to replicate her father’s skill. She practiced with her dolls first, and Mr. and Mrs. Snail in the garden, and Cheshire. She thought for sure that she, too, would be an amazing storyteller, as all her family before her.
The first time she’d told one of her stories to her father, he cried. Not because her tale was so poignant, but because Cath’s telling of it was so ghastly.
The misery of her father’s disappointment had haunted her for two long years, until the morning she’d stumbled down into the kitchen and watched their cook prepare a sweet potato pie, and Cath discovered a new passion.
“—the tale of Marchioness Pinkerton, may she rest ever in a piece of cake,” her father was proclaiming from the stage, his voice flowing over the shore as easily as the crashing waves, and holding the crowd in raptures, “began to spread throughout the kingdom. Men and creatures alike came from far and wide to hear the Marchioness recount the story of the turtle and the lobster. Their forbidden romance. Their impossible match. The love that resulted in an age of peace between all the creatures of the land and sea.”
Catherine glanced around, unsurprised to find tears glistening in the eyes of those beside her. She had cried at this tale so often as a child that sometimes just hearing the word lobster made her feel soft and pliant on the inside.
Not today, though. Today she heard lobster and knew that the opening dance was coming. Her dread deepened.
“As the people of the kingdom arrived in droves, a unity formed among those who had heard the Marchioness tell her tale of woe and wonder, and a nightly celebration began among those who had made an encampment on the beaches of Rock Turtle Cove. There was singing and dancing and revelry and bonfires, every night! The people shared with one another their food and their stories, and a great companionship thrived.”
Cath heard a sniffle beside her and looked down. She startled upon recognizing the Turtle from Hatta’s tea party, wearing the same bowler hat he’d worn at the party, embellished with a green satin ribbon. Tears were flowing from his eyes.
Cath dug a handkerchief from her purse and handed it to the young thing, who thanked her and pulled his head back into his shell, leaving the hat perched on top. His disappearance was soon followed by a nose-emptying honk.
She wanted to lean closer and whisper to him that she was glad he was all right, glad that he’d made it to the Crossroads that night when the Jabberwock had attacked, but he seemed already distraught enough to go about reminding him of such horrors.
“As the years passed,” her father went on, “the Marchioness decided to honor the gathering on the beaches of Rock Turtle Cove, and she declared a day of celebration, a day in which all of Hearts’ creatures were invited to remember the love of two unlikely beasts, and the happiness their love brought to the kingdom.”
As her father finished, the crowd applauded. The Turtle appeared again and tried to pass Cath’s handkerchief back to her, but she smiled and suggested he keep it—just in case he needed it again.
She braced herself for what was to come next, her throat as dry as if she’d eaten a handful of sand. She paced her breaths, trying to calm her jitters.
“Here to dance the lobster quadrille, our first dance of the day, I present to you all my darling, my dear, my joy—my daughter, Catherine.”
Cath stepped out of the crowd. Excitement thrummed around her, but she did her best not to look at any of the faces she passed. Once she’d climbed onto the driftwood stage, her father held up his hands for silence. “Please clear the beach so the dancing can commence! Participating dancers, you may take your places!”
The audience pulled back, making way for the dancers, though most of the sea creatures needed no prompting as they hastened to their places. The orchestra, too, was already set up against the cliffs. That left only the jellyfish to be cleared away, and a team of walruses were there in seconds, shovels in hand, to make quick work of the job.
Catherine loved the festival and the story, but as traditions went, she hated this one. Her mother had passed the responsibility on to Catherine when she was eleven years old, and, as with every year, she and her partner would be the only humans among the seals and crabs and dolphins.
Catherine did not despise dancing, but she did despise being first, being watched, being judged. She was always sure that she was one dance step away from making a dunce of herself. She could still recall how her stomac
h had tied into knots that first year. How her palms had sweat, despite the cold. It seemed worse every year, especially as her body had matured and she’d been forced to dance with potential suitors, rather than the sweet-meaning gentlemen of the court who laughed like kindly grandfathers as they swung her through the air.
Only a handful of jellyfish remained on the beach when she felt the faint tickle of a fingertip tracing the back of her wrist.
Cath jumped and spun around, but Jest had already pulled back. His attention dropped as he pulled black gloves onto his hands. “Good day, Lady Pinkerton,” he said, too casual. He was dressed in his usual motley, the black heart dripping from the kohl around his eyes. If it hadn’t been for the faintest hint of redness in his cheeks she would have thought she’d imagined the touch, but she knew she hadn’t. Her entire arm was still tingling.
“Good day, Sir Joker,” she said, suddenly breathless.
The corners of his mouth twitched and he met her gaze, before his eyes skipped up to the macaron hat. “I take it you’ve been to see Hatta.”
She reached up to give the hat a squeeze, liking the lightness of it more and more as the soft insides contoured to her head. “He’s very clever.”
“He certainly likes to think so.” Jest inhaled sharply, and she noticed that his eyes were troubled, still looking at the hat. “Did he say what it does?”
“The hat? I’m not sure it does anything.” She listed her head to the side, but the hat was snug enough that it didn’t shift. “Unless you are going to teach me the trick with the White Rabbit.”
He was shaking his head, but it was a subtle movement. “Hatta’s creations are far from ordinary. And you look…” He hesitated.
Cath raised her eyebrows and watched his Adam’s apple bob.
“Today, you seem rather…”
She folded her hands patiently in front of her skirt. She could see him biting back his words. Considering and reconsidering before, finally, he said, “You are a pleasure to look on, is all, Lady Pinkerton.” He pointed his chin past Catherine’s shoulder, disappointment clouding his expression. “As your beau will no doubt tell you as well.”
“My b—oh.”
Catherine heard the King first, his giggles loud over the chatter of the audience, and her dread returned. She turned to see the King of Hearts bobbling across the sandy dance floor.
Her pulse galloped. She had not been in the King’s presence since he’d asked to court her. She wanted to turn and run, but she had already been spotted. The King scurried toward her and pulled himself up onto the stage.
“Good day to the most pretty, precious, and p- … p-…”
“Provisional?” Jest supplied.
“Provisional lady in all the land!” Then the King hesitated, not sure if the description was fitting or not.
Cath cast the Joker a cool look. He grinned.
The King shook his uncertainty away. “I must say, that is a very fine hat you’re wearing, Lady Pinkerton. Why, you look almost good enough to eat—my sweet!” His face was full of blushes and frivolity, and all the horrible lines of poetry written into his cards over the past week came whirring back through Catherine’s head.
She curtsied and tried to be flattered. “You’re too kind, Your Majesty. Are you enjoying the festival?”
“I am indeed!” He jigged in place, his face all joyful anticipation. “It’s all very good fun. Just what the kingdom needed, I daresay.”
She inclined her head. “It is nice to have some merriment during these dark times. I’m sure you’ve heard that the Jabberwock attacks have continued.” A shiver caught hold of her shoulders as she thought of the little carousel pony in the pumpkin patch. “And his latest victim, a courageous Lion—”
The King held up his hands, backing away as if she were the monster. “Please, I beg of you, my darling, let’s not speak of it. I break out in hives every time that horrid creature is mentioned.” He pulled away the collar of his cloak to reveal a newly developing rash.
Cath frowned. “But you are doing something about it, aren’t you? I’ve thought that perhaps you should hire a knight or a monster slayer. In the stories, there was always some brave soul that volunteered to slay the Jabberwock, and that seemed to go rather well, judging from all the ballads that came out of it. Well, I suppose it didn’t go very well for the Jabberwock, but all things considered—”
“Oh, oh!” The King clapped. “The lobster quadrille is about to begin! I’ve been eager for it all morning!”
Cath paused. “Yes, any moment now, I suspect.”
The King was sweating profusely, not meeting her eyes. She recognized shame in his expression, but it only annoyed her. Silly or not, clever or not, he was the King of Hearts. He should be doing something about the Jabberwock, shouldn’t he?
She sighed. “I take it you’ll be watching the quadrille, Your Majesty?”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” he said, only too happy to look at her now that she wasn’t pressuring him about the attacks. His eyes glittered.
She envied the ostriches, wishing she could bury her head beneath the sand.
When she didn’t say anything more, the King’s expression turned halfway pleading. “Have you yet … chosen a dance partner? For the quadrille?”
Guilt scratched at her. Cath felt as heavy with it as if her dress had been soaked through with seawater. Jest’s presence lingered in the corner of her eyes, as tempting as fresh vanilla ice cream, but she did her best to ignore him.
“Not yet, Your Majesty.”
His eyes brightened again.
And for a moment—just a moment—Catherine imagined turning to Jest and holding her hand out to him and asking if he would do her the honor of dancing the lobster quadrille.
She pictured her parents’ baffled expressions, the surprised murmur of the crowd, Jest’s sure hands on her waist, and she bit her tongue against a burble of glee.
“Your Majesty, good day! What a profound pleasure this is.”
The fantasy crumbled away as her mother nudged in between her and the King.
She recoiled.
“Good day, Lady Pinkerton!”
They shared the requisite greetings, her mother’s curtsy far grander than Catherine’s had been. Catherine inspected her own feet, knowing that to look up would be to look at Jest—his magnetism was stronger by the moment.
“My darling Catherine, we are ready for the dancing to begin.”
She peered up at her mother’s fervent, impatient face.
“Have you chosen a partner, my sweet daughter?”
She shook her head. “No, Mother. Not yet.”
“Well then.” Her mother’s eyes were sharp. “We’d better make a choice, hadn’t we? We don’t want to keep everyone waiting.” The Marchioness clasped her fingers beneath her bosom while Catherine worked her fists into the heavy wool of her skirt. Her mother’s eyes widened at her, lacking subtlety.
Catherine inhaled and met the gaze of the King. His hopefulness was painful to look at, though, and her eyes skipped upward to Jest.
Jest. The court joker. Who seemed to be laughing at her.
Well—not literally, but his lips were pressed in an attempt to contain the laughter that was so very obvious behind his twitching mouth.
Indignation flared behind her sternum. Jest knew that the King desperately wanted to be asked. He knew that the Marchioness desperately wanted Cath to ask him. He knew that Cath was equally as desperate not to.
Once again, it seemed her palpable discomfort was a source of amusement to him.
Lifting her chin, Cath turned back to the King, then promptly lowered her chin once more to meet his eye. “Your Majesty,” she said, “would you do me the great honor of being my dancing partner for the lobster quadrille?”
The King squealed. “Oh, yes, yes, I would be delighted, Lady Catherine. I do enjoy a quadrille, I must say!”
With some relief at the decision being made, for what it was worth, she threaded her arm thro
ugh the King’s elbow.
Before they could leave the platform, Jest craned his head toward her and whispered, “He means well, Lady Pinkerton.”
She stared at him, long enough to see that his amusement had vanished, taking his confidence with it. In that moment, he looked vulnerable and maybe even disappointed, though he tried to smile. Tried to be encouraging.
“Enjoy your quadrille,” he said, with a tip of his hat.
Her gut sank.
Once again, she had chosen the King. It was her choice. It may not have felt that way, but it was.
There was no taking it back, but …
“Oh, I won’t be dancing the lobster quadrille,” she whispered back. “I’m going to be in a secret sea cave. Remember?”
His eyes brightened, but she turned away before she could see whether he remembered his promise or not. Those hushed words spoken when he’d been standing in her room at the end of an impossible night.
She would dance her lobster quadrille. He would juggle his clams. And all the while they would pretend that they were hidden away in a secret sea cave, concerned with no one but themselves.
She was sure all the world would have noticed the longing in her face, except all the world was focused on her hand locked inside the crook of the King’s elbow.
They reached the dual lines of sea creatures, already partnered with their lobsters. The King was far too exuberant to notice how distracted Cath was.
What would have happened if she had asked Jest to dance instead?
What would happen if she chose him?
Was such a choice truly outside the realm of possibility, or did it only seem that way because such a choice had never presented itself before?
She was as empty as a marionette as the dance began, her body leading her through the steps. They advanced, they retreated. Her skirt twisted around her ankles. Her heels sank into the sand. The King’s hands were soggy in hers and the wind was burning her cheeks, and all around her lobsters were being tossed out to sea and their partners were diving in after them. Everyone was laughing and splashing and turning somersaults along with the music. Even the King, caught up in the moment, charged out into the surf, wading halfway up to his calves. He turned back to her, laughing.