On the opposite side of the room, Mary Ann stopped pouring tea long enough to shoot Catherine a curious look. Cath couldn’t hold it, too ashamed of her recent failure with Hatta.
The King clapped, a solo applause for Catherine’s opportune entrance. “There she is, there she is!” he said. “And here I am—surprise!”
Cath forced a wobbly smile. “Good day, Your Majesty. To what do we owe this honor?”
“Ah, my beloved,” said the King, beaming around the word and ignorant to Cath’s grimace, “there is to be a spectacle most extraordinary at the Lobe Theater tonight—a special production of King Cheer, performed in my own honor! I was hoping…” He cleared his throat. “I hoped, with the permission of the Marquess, that you might agree to accompany me, my … my sweet.” His hands knotted themselves together and his coyness would have been endearing if Cath hadn’t been so reviled.
“My, that sounds splendid, Your Majesty,” said the Marchioness. “Doesn’t that sound splendid, Catherine?”
Her gaze darted to Jest, rather against her will, but his expression was as blank as an undisturbed pond.
“I am flattered, Your Majesty, but I would require a chaperone for such an outing and I don’t know that we can spare—”
“Take Mary Ann,” said her mother. Mary Ann froze in the middle of pouring a spoonful of sugar into a cup. “Mary Ann, stop bothering with all that and go get changed. Snap, snap!” Her mother punctuated the words with snapping fingers and, with hardly a surprised glance at Catherine, Mary Ann had scurried from the room and the Marchioness had taken over the tea. “You, too, Catherine. Go make yourself presentable. The Lobe Theater is very nice, if I recall, though it’s been years since Mr. Pinkerton took me there, isn’t that right, Mr. Pinkerton?”
The Marquess grinned at her, all swoony eyes. “Oh yes, my love, I remember it well. You were ravishing that night, and I do believe I spent more time watching you than the show. The Taming of the Stew, wasn’t it?”
The Marchioness tittered.
“But, Mother,” started Catherine, “what about the Jabberwock? Surely it isn’t yet safe to—”
Her mother’s delight turned fast to a frown. “Don’t be daft, child. You’ll be with the King! Surrounded by guards! No harm will come to you.”
“But I’ve only just gotten home and I’m not—”
“Catherine. His Majesty has requested your presence at this most extraordinary spectacle. We will not disappoint him, will we?”
By which, Cath knew, she was asking if Catherine would dare to disappoint her.
She gave the slightest shake of her head.
“As I thought. Now run along and put on something proper.” Her sunshine smile was back as she turned to the King again. “You did say that you take your tea with milk, isn’t that so, Your Majesty?”
Gnawing on the inside of her cheek, Catherine turned toward the door. She dared one last look at Jest, but the only change was a tiny crease between his eyebrows. As if he sensed her attention on him, he sighed, slowly, but his focus stayed attached to the far wall.
As she headed up to change, Cath wondered which of them wanted to be there less.
* * *
THE CARRIAGE RIDE proved to be even more awkward. With Catherine and Mary Ann taking up two spots in the King’s barouche, the White Rabbit was forced to sit out with the footman and he looked so forlorn about it Cath almost suggested trading places with him.
In the end, she wished that she had, as she was left crammed into a tiny vestibule facing the King and Jest on the other bench.
Luckily, the King seemed oblivious to the discomfort around him. He jovially carried on a solo conversation with prattle about the palace gardens and how he wanted a tree house once some of the trees got big enough to support it.
Jest’s eyes remained locked on the window, even though a curtain was pulled down over the view.
Cath found herself leaning into Mary Ann each time the King said something particularly annoying, and Mary Ann began doing the same, offering what silent empathy she could. Soon their shoulders were pressed so tight together Cath’s fingers had started to tingle.
She was grateful when they arrived at the theater—an architectural marvel with seating that wrapped almost all the way around the stage, mimicking the shape of a human earlobe.
At the King’s arrival, a hand of Diamond courtiers flattened themselves on their bellies, making a carpet that extended to the theater entrance, which was carved to look like two upright rabbit ears. The goggle-eyed footman assisted Cath and Mary Ann from the carriage.
Grabbing a scepter from the driver’s seat, Jest led their group forward, hoisting the scepter high. Before he had gone into the theater, the great black raven swooped down from the sky and settled on top of the scepter like a perch. Jest didn’t slow, but Raven did turn his head to glance back at Cath with his black, expressionless eyes. He dipped his beak toward Jest’s ear and said something Cath couldn’t hear. Jest shook his head sharply in response.
Catherine realized she was staring at him. She had hardly stopped staring at him since they’d left Rock Turtle Cove.
If Jest had looked at her once, she knew nothing of it.
The King, ever oblivious, offered his elbow and Cath took it, stifling her disappointment. Mary Ann followed behind, apologizing to the courtiers as she stepped across them.
The lobby was crowded with guests waiting to take their seats. Jest and Raven had already disappeared into the bustle as Catherine and the King entered and were met with bows and curtsies and so many congratulations they might already have been betrothed. Catherine did her best to look baffled when she received their well-wishes, earning plenty of baffled looks in return, but soon it became clear that she was losing this battle. After the King’s proclamation at the festival, all of Hearts believed them engaged, and there seemed to be little Catherine could do to dissuade those rumors here, at a theater, on the King’s arm.
Overnight her life had become a whirlpool, sucking her below the surface.
They greeted Margaret Mearle, who looked smug and unimpressed that Catherine was now a favorite of the King, and the Duke, who tried to hide his envy at the King’s romantic success.
Cath realized she’d been so caught up in her own heart’s matters, she’d pitifully failed the Duke. He had asked her to help him win Margaret’s affections, but all she could think to do was to shake them both and order them to get over their pride and awkwardness before it was too late.
A hand suddenly grabbed Cath’s wrist, pulling her free of the King. She spun and was surprised to find herself staring into the gaunt face of Lady Peter, who held her more tightly than Cath would have thought she had strength for.
“Do you have any more?” Lady Peter said before Cath could get off a greeting. She was whispering, but it was almost as loud as a yell in the crowded space.
Cath ducked her head closer, not sure she’d heard right. “Any more?”
Lady Peter nodded, her eyes wide and bloodshot. She cast her gaze around the lobby before tugging Cath closer. Their faces were mere inches away from each other now, and Cath could see the yellow tinge of the lady’s teeth, the sharp edges of her cheekbones. There was a sheen of sweat on her upper lip.
“Tell me,” Lady Peter said, pleading. “Please tell me you have more. I’ll do anything, pay any amount—” Her voice broke. “That is, I haven’t much money, but I can pay you in dirt and favors, or—”
“Lady Peter, please. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Her voice dropped again. “The cake.”
Catherine gaped. “Pardon?”
Lady Peter’s mouth turned down with irritation and she dug into her dress pockets. It was, Cath realized, the same black muslin dress she’d worn at the King’s black-and-white ball, and though it was practically rags compared to the gowns the other ladies wore, she wondered if it might be the finest dress Lady Peter owned.
The thought struck her with a dart of pity, an
d she wondered if it would seem terribly rude to give her one of her own dresses. She had plenty, though it would have to be taken in quite a lot to fit her, and Sir Peter hadn’t seemed fond of charity …
Her thoughts halted when Lady Peter pulled her hand out of her pocket, revealing a sullied linen napkin. She peeled open the corners and in the center of the napkin were the remains of a slice of spiced pumpkin cake, so squashed that the cake and frosting had melded together into an almost unrecognizable lump.
A few crumbs started to tumble over the napkin’s edge and Lady Peter gasped and leaned down, catching them in her mouth.
Her whole body was trembling as she peered up at Cath again and refolded the napkin over the cake, stashing it back into her pocket. “I took all what was uneaten after the festival, but this slice is all what’s left. Please, you must have more. Tell me you have more.”
Cath started to shake her head. “No, I … I’m sorry. I only made the one cake.”
She saw no point in mentioning the test cake she had made. Between her and Mary Ann, it hadn’t lasted long.
Lady Peter’s expression fell. Not into disappointment, but a crazed sort of anguish. She reached for Cath’s wrists again, clamping on to both of them this time.
“But where did you get the pumpkin?”
Cath’s lips parted. She hesitated.
She couldn’t admit to the theft, not to the man’s own wife.
“Please!” Lady Peter screeched. Cath gasped as her grip tightened, sure she was leaving bruises. “I’ll die without it. Please.”
Die?
Was she dying? She looked ill enough.
Cath stammered, “It was from your—your husband’s pumpkin patch. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have taken it, but it looked abandoned and—”
“Liar!”
“Ow!” Cath yanked her hands away and looked down, bewildered, to see that Lady Peter’s nails had left bloodied scratches on her arms. She stumbled backward, her previous sympathy eclipsed by shock.
“He destroyed them all,” Lady Peter said. Her face was stricken and pale as bone. “Burned them, every last one. He doesn’t understand how I need them, need them—”
A shadow loomed over them and Cath was almost relieved to see Sir Peter. He grabbed his wife’s arm, turning from her to Cath with his terrible scowl. “What’s this about?”
“Nothing,” Lady Peter said quickly, withdrawing into the meek, trembling girl Cath remembered from the ball. “Only trying to make acquaintances, like you said…”
“Don’t you bother with Lady Pinkerton. She thinks we’re beneath her,” he said, which Cath thought was unfair, even though she had seen little of them worth admiring. “The show is beginning.”
Lady Peter didn’t argue as he tugged her away, but her gaze did find Cath again. Pleading. Pleading.
As soon as they were gone, Catherine dragged in a deep breath. She rubbed her wrists, glad that the wounds weren’t deep and had already stopped bleeding, though they stung something dreadful.
She scanned the crowd, dazed for a moment and unable to recall where she was or why she was there. She spotted the King having a conversation with the Dowager Countess Wontuthry—the King standing on a step so he could be at the Countess’s height, even with her bent back.
It took Cath a long moment to remember that she was here with the King. He was her beau. Many believed, her betrothed.
Only then did she realize that in her bewilderment she’d been looking for Jest.
Stomach sinking, she picked her way through the emptying lobby. The King lit up when he saw her and bid the Countess farewell before towing Cath up the steps. She followed him with mounting dread, down a lavish hallway artfully decorated with plaster molds of various hearing apparatuses—from tiny mouse ears to humongous, flopping elephant ears. Torch-like sconces cast warm fire-glow across the sculptures.
The King had a private box on the first balcony level—the kind that sacrificed a decent view of the stage in return for being seen by the rest of the theatergoers. The White Rabbit held back the velvet drapes.
Her heart leaped when she saw that Jest was there, waiting for them, a silent shadow against the rail. Raven was still perched on the scepter, cleaning his feathers.
But when Jest didn’t so much as look up at their entrance, her heart plummeted back down again.
“Here we are, here we are!” the King said, ushering Cath toward the front row. She heard a sharp intake of breath from Jest as she was squeezed past him, his body drawing back to keep from touching her, and she had to tighten her own fists to keep from accidentally, purposely, brushing his hand.
She and the King sat in the front row while Mary Ann took a seat behind them. Jest and the Rabbit remained standing at the door. Cath locked her gaze on the stage and its closed curtain, eager for the show to begin so she could shut her eyes and imagine herself elsewhere.
“Can you see all right, Lady Pinkerton?” asked the King.
“Perfectly,” she said, resisting the urge to ask if he required an extra cushion to lift him up.
“Do you want for anything? A glass of claret? Some cheese?”
“I’m fine, thank you, Your Majesty.”
“Are you too warm? Here, Rabbit, take Lady Pinkerton’s shawl—”
“No, thank you, Your Majesty.”
The King hesitated, his face eager to please, before slowly settling back. After a moment, he leaned forward so far off the railing that Cath had a strange urge to push him over, though the thought made her feel wretched. This man, she reminded herself, was not at fault for anything that had happened.
She wished he hadn’t made some assumptions, or made that mortifying announcement at the festival, but then, she was the one who had agreed to the courtship. She was the one who should never have let this carry on so long, not if she intended to reject him.
She had to reject him. She had to.
But thinking of it gave her a headache.
The King turned back to the Rabbit. “How long before the show begins?”
A rustling behind Catherine was followed by the ticking of a pocket watch—she wondered if it was the one Jest had given him at the ball, but she didn’t turn to look.
“Five minutes, Your Majesty,” came Mr. Rabbit’s reply.
The King turned back, galloping his feet. “Jest, Lady Pinkerton and I are bored. Won’t you amuse us?”
Cath’s head snapped up. “That’s not necessary. I’m not bored at all, in fact.”
Jest looked at her—finally. She tried to smile, imagining they were accomplices in their understanding of the situation, but he flinched and turned away.
Withdrawing, Cath looked down at the mezzanine level. “I enjoy watching the people. Why—is that Mrs. Quail? I heard she had a nestful of eggs a few months ago but it seems they’ve all hatched. What a darling little family they make.”
The King followed her gesture. “So it is!” He clasped his hands beneath his chin. “I just love when they’re little, don’t you? The cute little cherubs, with their itty-bitty beaks and plump little bodies.”
He sighed and Catherine had to agree that the baby quails were adorable. She counted a baker’s dozen of them, taking up an entire theater row.
“How many do you want?” asked the King, settling his elbows on the rail and dropping his chin into his palms.
She peered sideways at him. “Eggs? Or quails?”
“Children.” His face had gone ruby red, but his eyes were dreamy when he glanced at Catherine through his lashes. “I want a full suit of ten someday.”
Heat rushed up her neck, blooming across her cheeks. An impossible-to-ignore choking noise from Jest twisted like a knife in her stomach.
“I … suppose I haven’t given it much thought,” she said, followed by a painful gulp. It wasn’t entirely true. She thought it might be nice to have a family someday.
But not with him. Dear Hearts, not with him.
Jest thumped his scepter so hard on the floor Cath
felt it vibrating through her feet. Raven squawked and fluttered for a moment before settling down again.
Catherine and the King both turned.
“I could use some claret,” Jest said, looking at the King as if he dared his sovereign to deny him such a request. “Can I bring the happy couple anything while I’m gone?”
Cath’s heart pattered. “You’re leaving?”
The rest of her question shrieked in her head. He was leaving her alone? With him?
She was surprised at how much it hurt. After all, Jest had told her he wouldn’t compete with the King for her affections. He would stay out of it until she’d made her decision.
Every moment spent in their mutual presence made her feel like a spineless coward, but that didn’t change the fact that she didn’t want Jest to leave.
Coward, coward, coward.
The King started to bounce in his chair. “Aha! You see, Jest, she does wish for a spot of entertainment!”
“Oh no, that wasn’t what I—heavens. It is rather warm in here, isn’t it?”
Some of the tension in Jest’s shoulders drained away. “Allow me,” he said, swooping forward and assisting her out of her shawl before she could take a breath. His gloved fingertips were tender against her shoulders. She shivered.
“I am of course happy to provide entertainment, if it pleases the lady,” said Jest, hanging her shawl on a rack at the back of the theater box. “Perhaps I shall offer poetic waxations on the lady’s buttercream frosting skin? Endless compliments on her hair like melted chocolate?”
Rather than be embarrassed at Jest quoting their “personal” correspondence, the King happily kicked his heels. “That was from one of the letters I sent you, remember? Jest only had to help with that one a little bit.” He straightened the crown on his head. “I was awful hungry after writing it.”
“Fine literature does work up an appetite.” Jest was no longer trying to hide his ironic tone, but he seemed in no danger of the King picking up on his mockery.