Heartless(39)

“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 will, 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.