‘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 honour 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.
It didn’t feel like she’d been given a choice, not a real choice in the matter – but it didn’t seem so entirely dreadful, either.
‘Thank you, Your Majesty,’ she said, already exhausted at the prospect. ‘It would be an honour to be courted by you.’
CHAPTER 16
CATHERINE WAS TREMBLING by the time she retreated to her bedroom, dizzy with the King’s visit. Mary Ann had started a fire some hours ago, and the room was filled with a pleasant warmth that Cath couldn’t enjoy. She sank into her vanity chair with a groan.
She was officially courting the King.
Or, rather, the King was courting her.
And soon all the kingdom would know about it.
A knock startled her, but it was only Mary Ann. She shut the door and fell against it. ‘Cath!’
Catherine held up a hand before Mary Ann could say more. ‘If you should dare to congratulate me, I will never speak to you again.’
Mary Ann hesitated, and Cath could see her thoughts rearranging inside her head. ‘You’re . . . unhappy?’
‘Yes, I’m unhappy. Remember before when I said I didn’t want to marry him, that I didn’t want to be queen? I meant it!’
Mary Ann slumped, crestfallen.
‘Oh, don’t look like that. It is a great honour. I suppose.’
‘Maybe the courtship will change your mind?’
‘I’m hoping it will change his mind.’ She rubbed her temple. ‘I have no idea what I’ll do if he proposes. When he proposes.’
‘Oh, Cath . . .’ Mary Ann crossed the room to wrap her in a sideways hug. ‘It will be all right. You’re not married yet. You can still say no.’
‘Can I? And risk my mother’s tyranny and disappointment for the rest of my life?’
‘It’s your life, not hers.’
Catherine sighed. ‘I don’t know how I’ve let it get this far already. I wanted to say no, but Mother and Father were right there, looking so eager, and the King looked so desperate, and I just . . . I didn’t know what else to do. Now everything is more boggled up than before.’
‘Yes, but nothing that can’t still be made right.’ Mary Ann soothed down her hair. ‘Shall I bring up some tea to calm your nerves? Or – perhaps some of that bread pudding?’
Cath’s heart lightened. ‘Could you? Oh, but help me take down my hair first. I feel like I’ve had these pins in for a week.’
She turned so Mary Ann could begin pulling out the pins and her eyes alighted on the diamond-paned window. A single white rose rested on the outside sill.
She stifled a gasp.
Mary Ann was talking, but Cath didn’t hear a word. Her hair cascaded, layer by layer, across her shoulders.
She averted her gaze from the flower, her heart beginning to pound. ‘Do you think I’m being silly?’ she asked. ‘About the King?’
‘We can’t choose where our affections lie,’ said Mary Ann. She set the hairpins on the vanity and began turning down the bed linens, careful to avoid the thorny rose branches that were still wrapped around the bedposts. Cath’s mother had decided to leave it for a time, in hopes that it would keep any further dream-plants away. ‘For what it’s worth, though, I think the King is . . . a sweet man. And his affection for you is more than apparent.’
Cath watched Mary Ann work, though it was torture to keep her eyes away from the window. Already she was thinking she’d only imagined the rose, but she dared not look again for fear it would catch Mary Ann’s attention too.
Which was peculiar, this instinct to keep it a secret. Never in her life had she hidden anything from Mary Ann. But the rose felt like a whispered message, a hushed glance across a crowded room. Something precious and not to be shared. Something that she didn’t think practical Mary Ann would understand.
‘I’ve changed my mind about the bread pudding, and the tea. I have no appetite.’
Mary Ann glanced up from fluffing her pillow. ‘Are you ill?’
Catherine laughed, the sound strained and high-pitched. ‘Not at all, just needing a moment of peace. I might stay up and read for a while. I’m not tired. You needn’t bother with all that.’