The King’s round face was as red as the ruby heart in his crown. ‘Er – that is . . . well . . . I have not . . . exactly proposed yet, you see . . . but with you here, Lady Pinkerton—’
‘Oh, how clever you are!’ she said, cringing internally at the shrill in her tone. From the corner of her vision she could see that Jest had frozen, and the King, too, had a new wide-eyed visage. ‘It is so smart of you not to hurry. I’m sure the lady is most grateful.’
The King gawped at her. ‘Er. Well, actually . . .’
‘Nobody likes to be rushed into these things, after all. Courtships and marriage proposals should be taken slowly if they’re to, er . . . result in mutual happiness. I find that men are too quick to ask for a lady’s hand, not realizing that we prefer it to be a long . . . rather arduous process.’
The King continued to stare at her.
‘Of course. Lady Pinkerton is correct,’ said Jest, and his voice was measured and patient compared to Cath’s desperation. She and the King swivelled their attention back to him.
‘I am?’ said Catherine.
‘She is?’ echoed the King.
‘Absolutely, but you are a wise man to know it already.’ Jest threaded the flute between his belt and tunic.
‘Er – yes. I mean, I am, naturally. Wise, that is. But, er, what do you mean?’
‘As Lady Pinkerton was saying, all ladies enjoy the dance of courtship, the rush of new love, the anticipation of a yet-unknown happiness.’ He hesitated, as if searching for the proper words, before continuing, ‘The courtship period is the foundation upon which a happy marriage will stand, and should not be hurried by any devoted lover – not even a king.’ Jest inclined his head. ‘But it seems you know all this, Your Majesty.’
‘Y-yes,’ stammered the King. He looked bewildered. ‘That’s what I’ve always said. The courtship is the . . . the foundation . . .’
Cath’s chest was expanding – with relief, with gratitude. Jest glanced at her and raised his eyebrows, as if in question. As if he was concerned that his involvement would not be appreciated.
But it was, more than she could express.
‘The Joker has explained it perfectly,’ she said. ‘Wedding proposals, after all, should not come as a shock.’ She laughed, and hoped it didn’t sound as frenzied to them as it did to her. ‘I can see that advice-giving is among your talents.’
Jest’s grin turned teasing. ‘I live to serve.’
Suddenly, the King hopped to his feet. ‘I know,’ he said, beaming with renewed courage. ‘Let’s play croquet!’
‘Croquet?’ said Cath.
‘Yes! Croquet! It is my best sport. I’m not much of a dancer, you see. And I can’t compose ballads or poetry. But . . . but the hedgehogs are fond of me.’ He said it more like a question, and his eyes were shining when he looked at Cath. ‘You’ll see, Lady Pinkerton.’
He stomped off with purpose towards the croquet court, his fur-lined cloak fluttering behind him and his sceptre held high.
Cath turned to Jest. If he shared any of her agitation, it didn’t show.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘Whatever for?’
Before she could stammer out some response, he removed his hat and swooped it towards the retreating King.
‘After you, my lady.’
CHAPTER 13
CATHERINE ALLOWED HER favourite hedgehog to sit on her shoulder, so long as it stayed calm and agreed not to poke her neck with its quills. Beside her, a flamingo stood with one stick-leg tucked up into its feathers. It had horrible shrimp breath and Cath kept trying to sidestep slowly away.
The King, Margaret Mearle and Jack were all taking their turns simultaneously, making for a crowded court. Jest’s hedgehog had rolled off grounds some time ago and Cath had lost sight of him over one of the rolling hills. Margaret’s flamingo had the bone structure of a noodle and she wouldn’t stop screaming and shaking the limp thing, so her progress had so far been painfully slow. Jack seemed only interested in trying to croquet everyone else’s hedgehogs off course.
The King had started out the game well enough – his hedgehog was indeed fond of him – but his flamingo had since turned unpredictable. Catherine watched as he swung at his hedgehog for the third time in a row, and again his flamingo curled up its long neck at the last moment and missed the hedgehog entirely. The King let out an annoyed huff and shook his flamingo by its scrawny legs. ‘We practised this, you foul fowl! You can’t have stage fright now.’
‘His poor Majesty,’ Catherine mused to herself.
The flamingo beside her rolled its beak a couple of times, and drawled, ‘Ah like yer pink dress.’
Cath shot it a withering smile and tugged at her cotton eyelet dress, the same pale pink as the bird’s feathers.
Flamingos were such stupid creatures.
Finally, on the fourth swing, the King smacked his hedgehog on the rump and it went flying over the croquet court, scampering just by the foot of the Six of Clubs without rolling beneath his arched back.
Balling his fists, the King stomped unhappily on the grass. ‘Useless thing!’
Cath, still on the sidelines, thought this boded well for her strategy. One of the guards had fallen asleep while in a backbend, and she suspected he would make for an easy target if she got to him before he collapsed.
She turned her head and winked at her hedgehog. ‘Shall we?’
‘Conspiring with the game pieces, I see,’ Jest said, startling her. She turned to see him leaning against a garden statue with his own flamingo draped over one shoulder. ‘I’m not sure that’s allowed, Lady Pinkerton.’