Heartless(42)

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 to persuade the King that he did not really wish to marry her at all.