Heartless(30)

“I wouldn’t know. I’m not one to gossip. Gossiping always leads to spoiled milk.”

“Of course. That’s a very good rule to live by.” Cath was nodding sagely when she spotted Lord Warthog taking a turn around the lawn with the Dowager Countess Wontuthry. The Countess had her hand on the Duke’s elbow, the other gripping a cane that kept sinking into the soft grass. She was speaking fervently on some topic, but the Duke’s gaze was darting from Catherine to Margaret to the ground and back to Margaret. His jowled face was warped with anxiety.

Clearing her throat, Catherine leaned closer to Margaret, like a conspirator. “Tell me more about the Jabberwock attack,” she whispered. “Were you very frightened?”

“Oh! Must we speak of it?” Margaret placed a hand to her brow. “I feel faint at the memory. Did you know—that beast broke through the windows and headed straight for me! I cannot be sure why. One is made to wonder if a creature with such wicked propensities might not be naturally drawn to one of goodness and pristine moral values, such as myself.”

“Er, yes,” said Catherine. “One is made to wonder.”

“Indeed, and the nightmares shall haunt me unto my deathbed. Even now I see its jaws when I shut my eyes, still hear the click-clacking of its enormous claws.”

Catherine gripped her elbow for support. “Yes, but … you were rescued, were you not? I heard the Duke was very heroic. Is it true that he threw himself in between you and the beast?”

Margaret sniffed. “More like he couldn’t get out of the way fast enough. That man has all the grace of a wild boar.”

She squinted. “Actually, I think wild boars can be quite quick and athletic…”

“Oh! There he is! Wave, quickly, or he’ll think we’ve been talking about him.” With a look that was as much grimace as smile, Margaret wiggled her fingers at the Duke and the Countess.

The Duke immediately looked away, ducking his large chin behind a green cravat.

Margaret grunted. “Such arrogance.”

“I’m beginning to think he might just be shy…”

“We mustn’t encourage such ill behavior, Catherine. That is just like paying the cart in carrots before the horse gets his gift.”

Cath tried to puzzle this out for a moment, but quickly gave up. “How I do wish I could find fault with your wisdom, Margaret.”

Margaret scoffed. “Why—I daresay the Countess is flirting with him! What a vile woman.”

“I’m not sure—”

“I could grab on to any man’s arm, too, if I wanted to pretend to have a crooked spine.”

“To be fair, she does have a crooked spine.”

“Yes, and evidently a desire to add to her wealth. Can you imagine, curtsying to Her Ladyship, the Dutch Countess Wontuthry? Or the Counting Duchess of Tuskany? Who needs that many syllables, anyway?”

“It seems to me that he’s just helping an old lady across the lawn.”

Margaret glowered. “You are observant as a toadstool, Lady Pinkerton.”

Cath scrambled to right the teetering ship of their conversation. “Well, even if the Countess were flirting, I think the Duke is actually taken with—”

“Oh no. Now they’re coming this way.” Margaret turned her back on them. “Let’s look as though we’re caught in a game of Battledore and Shuttlecock so they won’t pester us.” Margaret thrust the extra racket into Catherine’s hand.

“Won’t that be rude?”

Ignoring her, Margaret hustled a fair distance away and threw up the shuttlecock—a needle-nosed hummingbird—striking it in Catherine’s direction. Instinctively, Cath dove to hit it back, but missed. The hummingbird stuck nose-first into the sod.

“Sorry, dearest Catherine!” Margaret preened, loud enough to be heard halfway across the lawn. “You really must take more time to practice.”

Stooping, Catherine pried the bird out of the grass. Its jittery wings buzzed. She glanced up at Margaret, who was adamantly not looking at the Duke, while the Duke, standing not far away, had eyes only for her, now that he was in no danger of being found out.

The Countess continued to prattle on beside him, oblivious to his wandering attention.

“Come on, Catherine,” Margaret urged. “Hit it back.”

Sighing, Cath tossed the bird into the air and batted it toward Margaret. They made it through three passes, Margaret growing more competitive with every hit. Though Catherine would never have considered herself athletic, she was in better shape than her competitor, who was soon wheezing with the effort, her face blotchy and scrunched in concentration. But her lack of skill was made up for in determination, and on her third hit, she sent the bird flying over Catherine’s head. Cath ducked and swiveled to follow its path through the sky—straight toward an enormous jet-black raven.

Catherine gasped.

The hummingbird froze mid-flight and backed up fast on its fluttering wings. It hesitated a moment, not knowing what else to do, then turned and flew off toward the hedge maze.

Catherine did not care. Her heart was in her throat, her eyes scouring the crowd. Dresses and waistcoats, top hats and bonnets.

She spotted him amid the tables where the ladies were fanning themselves and sipping at their tea and beaming at the Joker as he strummed a mandolin. Above them, the Raven cawed, and Jest glanced up, still strumming. The Raven soared down and settled on his shoulder.