Page 73 of Heartless

It became habit to check her window for white roses and peer into the tree boughs for black ravens, but there was no sign of Jest or his companion. Jest did not try to steal her away for another midnight rendezvous. Nor did he come to her door and ask to speak to her father and make a case for why he should be allowed to court her.

Which was, of course, a good thing – practically speaking. And yet she couldn’t stopper the fantasies of him doing just that, and her father somehow, miraculously, impossibly agreeing to it.

The King’s courtship, on the other hand, had begun in earnest, and the courtship meant constant nagging from her mother. Why hadn’t His Majesty invited Catherine to another gathering? Why wasn’t Catherine doing more to put herself in his path? When was he going to propose? What flowers should they choose for the bridal bouquet? On and on and on.

‘Another delivery for Lady Catherine,’ said Mr Penguin. Their butler was dwarfed by a humongous flower arrangement, with only his webbed feet and black coat-tails visible beneath.

Cath sighed and set down the book she’d been reading. A week ago she would have looked at the flowers with hope – were they from Jest? Was he thinking about her half as much as she was thinking about him?

But the gifts never were from Jest, and one look at the bouquet of red roses, red carnations, and red dahlias confirmed that this was another gift from her doting suitor.

Their courtship, thus far, had been undemanding, though mostly because Cath was avoiding him. She had dismissed a number of requests for chaperoned walks through the palace gardens, trips to the opera, and invitations to tea. As far as the King knew, she had been afflicted with a week-long headache, and she was hoping he would soon deem her too sickly to pursue further.

Her beau (as her mother called him) had made up for their lack of companionship through a constant stream of gifts. Each one filled Catherine with dread, knowing the King could not have bestowed such generosity on anyone less grateful. Her mother, on the other hand, was delighted with each delivery.

She received cakes and pies and tarts from the palace pastry chefs, and Cath did her best not to be too critical of them . . . on the rare occasions when her mother actually let her sample the desserts at all. She received diamond earrings and ruby brooches and golden pendants, all decorated with the crown’s signature hearts, as if the King’s intentions weren’t obvious enough. She received fine silk gloves and music boxes and even a curled lock of prickly white hair tied with a red velvet ribbon. That particularly appalling gift had even come with a poem:

Roses are red, violets are blue,

I would even trim my moustache for you!

She had memorized the short stanza against her will and the words had nauseated her on multiple occasions since.

Worst of all were the gifts beneath which she could envision Jest’s involvement. The occasional poem that warmed her soul. The letters that touched her on a deeper level. The words that she could imagine uttered in Jest’s voice, perhaps even penned by his hand . . . yet always, at their end, signed by the King.

She knew the King was seeking Jest’s advice on this courtship and each of these cards was a needle in her heart. She found herself poring over those words, imagining Jest crafting them with her in mind, and pretended that he meant every word.

A painful, bittersweet reality. Jest was wooing her, but only in the name of the King.

‘Our house is beginning to smell like a florist,’ she muttered, taking the linen card out of the newest bouquet.

‘Would you like me to put it with the others, Lady Catherine?’

‘Please. Thank you, Mr Penguin.’ The butler left, taking the flower arrangement down to her mother’s sitting room, where the only person who appreciated the bouquet could admire it.

Breaking the wax seal, Cath unfolded the letter. She kept hoping, with each new delivery, that this would be the letter in which the King would apologize and confess their courtship was not up to expectations and he was forced to end their arrangement.

She should not have allowed such optimism.

At least it wasn’t one of the letters that made her tremble, lifting off the page in Jest’s voice. This one was entirely His Majesty.

To my dearest, darlingest Sweetling –

Your eyes are like ripe green apples sprinkled with cinnamon. Your skin shimmers like buttercream frosting. Your lips are a ripe raspberry. Your hair is dark chocolate melted on the castle drawbridge on a very hot day. You smell better than a loaf of fresh bread in the morning. You are more beautiful than a birthday cake. You are sweeter thanvanilla honeyvanilla and honey mixed together. With sugar on top.

Yours most ardently, with all my gushingest, ooziest admiration –

The King’s signature and postscripts were in a different penmanship. This had been the case with most of the cards he’d sent. She pictured Jest, quill in hand as the King dictated the letter. Flinching from the overwrought prose, politely biting his tongue.

The King of Hearts

(Not that there are any other kings around. Especially kings that call you their Sweetling. At least, I hope not!)

(Tee-hee-hee!)

P.S. Can I have some more tarts?

Gagging, Cath tumbled on to the bed and slid the letter into the pages of her book, hoping it would be forgotten there ever after, when a second note fell from the envelope’s folds – a piece of white parchment printed with a red heart. It reminded her of the slip of confetti she’d caught in the ballroom, what seemed like ages ago.

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