But she seemed unconvinced of it herself, and the fact that she didn’t mention the King once during the drive suggested to Catherine that she was more concerned than she wanted to let on.
The annual festival was their family’s great contribution to the Kingdom of Hearts – in some ways, their place among the nobility rested on the festival’s shoulders, and it had been their one notable distinction for generations.
Yet, knowing how much this could affect her family’s reputation was barely a passing thought to Catherine. It was the poor Turtle who would suffer most of all, the pitiful, devastated thing.
As soon as they arrived home, Catherine escaped down to the kitchen. The fire had long gone out, so she kept her shawl tight around her shoulders.
Setting a lantern on one of the tables, she grabbed a stack of recipe books and laid them out before her. She began flipping through, scanning the names of dishes their cook had made for them over the years. There were plenty of notes jotted in the margins – ‘Clarify the butter first or it will confuse the rest of the ingredients,’ or, ‘Don’t let the tomatoes stew for too long as they’re like to become bitter and resentful.’
Finally she arrived at the recipe she was looking for.
Mock Turtle Soup.
She bent over the brittle, broth-stained pages and started to read.
Begin with a medium-size mock turtle, the recipe began. Using a sharp butcher knife, remove the calf head. Mock turtles die slowly, so be aware that the head will continue to mewl and the body may try to crawl away for some minutes after decapitation. Once body is no longer mobile, submerge in a large pot of boiling water. Meat will naturally separate from the shell as it cooks. Remove the mock turtle from the water and peel away the skin and shell before—
Catherine slammed the book shut, her stomach roiling.
She would never eat mock turtle soup again.
Light footsteps thudded on the stairs and Cath turned to see Mary Ann descending the steps with a bundle of dirtied tablecloths in her arms. Her hair was dishevelled and exhausted circles had appeared beneath her eyes.
Pushing the stool back, Cath went to hold open the bin of soiled laundry waiting to be washed.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
Mary Ann groaned. ‘That was a long, tiring day, even for me.’
Cath pulled out one of the stools for her. ‘Were people talking about that poor Turtle after we left?’
Slumping on to the stool, Mary Ann untied her pretty bonnet and dropped it on to the counter. ‘It’s all anyone would talk of. No one can fathom what caused it. They just kept saying over and over how awful it was.’ She sighed. ‘A mock turtle. What could cause such a thing?’
She thought again of Sir Peter. Of the one devoured piece of pumpkin cake.
‘I don’t know,’ she said, and started gathering up the recipe books again. Gnawing on her cheek, she turned back to see that Mary Ann had laid her head down on her arms. Normally she was the model of productivity. It was odd to see weariness catch up with her. ‘Would I be a horrible person to inquire about the winner of the baking contest?’
Mary Ann wheezed into her elbow. ‘We can be horrible people together. I keep wondering, too, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask, even though I spotted Mr Rabbit while we were tearing down the grandstand.’ She lifted her head enough to meet Cath’s gaze. ‘They weren’t able to finish the judging, so I don’t see how they can award a winner. Probably the prize will go back into the treasury or be applied to some other celebration.’
‘I figured as much.’ Cath climbed on to the second stool, wishing she’d started a batch of bread rather than look up awful recipes. Kneading and pummelling the dough would have relaxed her.
Mary Ann’s eyes had shut. ‘They say Mr Caterpillar is almost moved out of his shop. It won’t be long now . . .’
She didn’t finish, nor did she have to. It wouldn’t be long before someone else took up residence in their storefront, if they weren’t ready to do it themselves.
‘All right,’ Cath whispered, gathering her courage. ‘No more stalling. I have to ask my parents for the money, or permission to sell off my dowry. There’s no other way around it.’
‘Oh, Cath.’ With a groan, Mary Ann peeled her head off her elbow again. ‘I adore your optimism, I always have, but they’re going to say no. You know it as well as I.’ Her mouth turned down and her thought seemed very far away as she added, ‘We’ll have no bakery without financing, and no financing without an investor, and who would ever invest in a poor maid and the daughter of a marquess? Maybe it’s time we realize this was never going to happen, and face our true destiny.’ She forced a smile in Catherine’s direction. ‘At least, to be the maid to a queen is more than I ever would have expected when I was a young girl, so it isn’t all that bad.’
Gnashing her teeth, Catherine grabbed the blue bonnet and thrust it on to Mary Ann’s head, cinching the yellow ribbon under her chin with a quick tug. ‘I won’t tolerate such nonsense. If ever there was a time for dreaming, this is it, Mary Ann. Now, I am going to march up there and demand a word with my parents, and I need to know I have your full support behind me. So do you want to start a bakery together or not?’
Mary Ann opened her mouth to speak, hesitated, and seemed to mull over her thoughts for a moment. Her head began to sink between her shoulders, and her blue eyes misted with unshed tears. ‘I do, Cath. My head tells me it will never happen, but my heart—’