Page 46 of Heartless

Though, Catherine could admit, it was awfully peppery, and starting to burn her throat.

‘So, Catherine?’ her mother said. ‘How did you find the tea party?’

Cath froze, her soup spoon lifted halfway to her mouth. She met her mother’s anxious, hopeful grin with a nervous, innocent one of her own. ‘I found it to be rather like the last tea party, and the one before that,’ she lied, and choked down another spoonful. ‘Would you pass the salt, please?’

Mary Ann stepped forward to bring the salt to her so her parents wouldn’t have to reach over the tureens and gravy boats.

‘Perhaps so, but did you speak with His Majesty?’

‘Oh. Um. Why, yes, I did. He and I took a turn around the gardens.’ She paused to ensure nothing she was about to relate would be condemning. ‘We crossed paths with the new court joker and he entertained us with a beautiful melody on his flute.’

Silence. The grandfather clock that stood against the wall raised an arm to scratch beneath his grey moustache. Catherine glanced at him and wondered if the pepper was getting to the furniture.

‘And?’ her mother pressed.

‘Oh, he’s very talented.’ Cath leaned forward over her bowl. ‘Perhaps too talented, if you ask me. One might find it unnatural. To play the flute and the mandolin, and to know card tricks and magic tricks and riddles, and I hear tell he’s even an adept juggler. It’s enough to make the rest of us feel unaccomplished, and I don’t think he needs to flaunt it all quite so much as he has, and after only two gatherings! Plus, there’s something peculiar about that hat of his, don’t you think? Something not quite . . .’ She traced an invisible outline of the three-pointed hat with her spoon into the air. ‘. . . spatially accurate. I find it uncanny.’ She looked at her unimpressed mother and her confused father and realized she’d been rambling. She jammed the soup spoon into her mouth.

‘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 savoury, buttery pumpkin, sprinkled with thyme leaves and, this time, just the right amount of pepper.

It was delicious. She shovelled 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.’

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