Shoving away the blankets, Catherine flopped off the mattress. ‘Have you met the King?’ she asked, adjusting her nightgown. ‘Practical? Romantic? Rubbish! I can’t marry him!’
Mary Ann sat up, eyes wide. ‘Why not? You would be the Queen.’
‘I don’t want to be the Queen! I want . . . I don’t know. If ever I get married, I want there to be romance, and passion. I want to fall in love.’ Cath poured some tea into a cup, annoyed at how her hands shook. She was flushed – from talk of the King, from news of the Jabberwock . . . but mostly, she knew, from the dream.
Romance. Passion. Love.
She had never experienced them before, but she imagined they would leave her feeling like that dream had. Like the Joker did, with his quick smiles and witty remarks. She felt like she could talk to him for hours, for days and months and years, and never tire of it.
But . . .
He was a court joker. He was an impossibility.
She gulped, hard, and tried to tether her emotions back to the ground.
‘None of that matters anyway,’ she said, half to herself. ‘Marry the King – bah! What I want is to open our bakery. That’s what I’ve always wanted.’
Mary Ann scooted to the edge of the bed. ‘I want that too, of course,’ she said. ‘But . . . Cath. The bakery, much as we’ve talked of it, has always been, well . . . something of a silly dream, don’t you think?’
Cath spun to face her, surprised at the jolt of betrayal the words caused. ‘Silly?’
Mary Ann held up her hands in defence. ‘Not like that. It’s a good dream. A lovely thought, truly. But we’ve been discussing it for years, and yet we’re no closer to having any money, not without selling off your dowry. We don’t have any support. No one will think we’re capable of it.’
‘I refuse to accept that. I am the best baker in all of Hearts, and everyone who has tasted my pastries knows it.’
‘I don’t think you understand.’
Cath set down the cup without taking a drink. ‘What don’t I understand?’
‘You’re the daughter of a marquess. Look around. Look at the things you have, the life you’re accustomed to. You don’t know what it’s like to work every day so you can feed yourself and keep a roof over your head. You don’t know what it’s like to be poor. To be a servant.’
‘We’ll be businesswomen, not servants.’
‘Or,’ said Mary Ann, ‘you could be a queen.’
Cath inhaled a sharp breath.
‘I can run any amount of calculations, consider every angle of profits and losses, but our little, insignificant bakery will never come close to providing what the King could offer you. The clothes, the food, the security . . .’ Mary Ann’s eyes glazed over and though her words struck Cath as boringly practical, she could see this was not the first time Mary Ann had considered what life must be like for someone who was more than a maid.
‘Yes,’ said Cath, ‘but I would be married to the King, and I can hardly stand to be near him for a five-minute waltz. How could I stand an entire lifetime?’
Mary Ann looked like she meant to defend His Majesty, but she hesitated. ‘He is ridiculous, isn’t he?’
‘The worst.’
‘You don’t think there’s any hope of you coming to love him?’
Cath thought of the King – squat and impish and flighty as a butterfly. She tried to imagine being wed to him. Stooping down to kiss him, her mouth tickled by his curled moustache. Listening to his giggles as they bounced through the castle corridors. Watching his childish, gleeful expressions every time he won a round of croquet.
She shuddered. ‘I’m sure that I couldn’t.’
Slipping off the bed, Mary Ann poured a cup of tea for herself. ‘Well, you have three days to think on it. Perhaps your heart will soften in that time.’
Cath shut her eyes, glad that Mary Ann was ending the conversation. She never wanted to think about it again, but she knew she would have to. In three days her mother expected her to bring a gift of rose macarons to afternoon tea at the castle. In three days she would have to face His Majesty.
‘You came home by yourself last night?’ Mary Ann asked, heaping each cup with sugar.
‘Yes.’
‘How did you manage to get the corset off?’
Catherine looked away. ‘The ties had come loose during the ball. All that dancing . . .’ She trailed off, accepting the improved cup of tea, and deigned to change the subject. ‘I think we should go and look at the cobbler’s shop this morning. I want to see the home of our future bakery.’
Mary Ann smiled, but there was restraint behind it. ‘That sounds like a nice outing, Lady Catherine.’
For the first time, Cath could see that she, alone, believed wholeheartedly their plan could work. Would work. She had never thought she might have to persuade Mary Ann of it too.
But then she pictured the King of Hearts standing before her, holding her hand. She grimaced to think of that small, clammy hand in hers. And then, his request. To be his bride. To be his wife. There would be no passion, no romance, no love. But she could picture precisely how he would smile at her, so hapless. So hopeful.
Her stomach roiled.
Could she ever say yes to that?
As she took a sip of tea, a more important question struck her.
Could she ever say no?
CHAPTER 9
CLOSING SALE, read the wooden sign posted in the cobbler’s window. WALK IN BEFORE THE SHOES WALK OUT.
Catherine and Mary Ann stood beneath Cath’s lace parasol, admiring the storefront across the street and building their courage to go inside.