Before the awkwardness could stretch on, the Marquess perked up. ‘I heard the most delightful tale at the party today,’ he said, dabbing his napkin at the corners of his moustache, ‘about a little girl who discovered an upward-falling rabbit hole just off the Crossroads, and when she started to climb, her body fell up and up and—’

‘Not now, dear,’ said his wife. ‘Can’t you see we’re discussing our daughter’s prospects?’ Then she grumbled, ‘If she has any left at all, that is.’

The Marquess deflated, and set his napkin on the table. ‘Of course, my dear. You always know just the right thing to talk about.’

Catherine frowned. She would have liked to have heard the story.

Clucking her tongue, the Marchioness said, ‘No one ever warns you how exhausting it will be to have an eligible daughter. And now I have the festival to concern myself over. If this marriage ordeal was resolved I could better devote myself to it, as I have every other year, but as it is, my attention is being pulled into two separate directions. I shall never be able to focus on the festival now.’

Mary Ann, Catherine saw, failed to refrain from an eye roll. Though the Marquess and Marchioness hosted the Turtle Days Festival, it was the servants who did all the work.

‘I’m sorry, Mama,’ Catherine said.

‘It’s even worse now that the whole kingdom is in a frenzy over this . . . this Jabberwock.’ She shuddered.

‘It’s terrifying,’ said Catherine, though her attention was wandering as a steaming bread pudding was set before her. It smelled of rich vanilla bean and custard. Mouth watering, she lifted her dessert spoon.

‘Oh, good heavens, no,’ said her mother. ‘Don’t be absurd, Catherine. You’ll be mistaken for a walrus at the festival. Abigail, have this taken away.’

Cath whimpered, gazing after the dessert as it was hastened off the table. She pressed her palm against her middle, feeling her stomach beneath the corset and wondering if her mother was right. Was she becoming a walrus? She did have an almost-constant yearning for sweets, but she only gave in to it, well, maybe once or twice a day. That wasn’t strange, was it? And she didn’t feel any bigger, even if her corsets suggested differently.

She caught a sympathetic smile from Mary Ann as she filled the wine glasses around the table.

‘Don’t you have any thoughts on this at all, Mr Pinkerton?’

The Marquess was watching the dish of bread pudding disappear with the same sorrow Catherine felt. ‘About you sending away the dessert?’ he said. ‘I do have a thought or two about it.’

‘Not that, you old man. Though you’re where she gets it from, you know.’

Cath bristled. ‘I am sitting right here.’

Her mother batted the fact of her presence away. ‘I’m asking if you have any thoughts on the marriageability of your own daughter. The marriageability that is fading away as we sit here, sulking.’

‘I wouldn’t be sulking if I were eating bread pudding,’ the Marquess muttered.

Her mother heaved a sigh. ‘We have had no other prospects, you know. No offers of courtship. Nothing!’

Cath licked her lips, and it sparked in her head that now was the time to tell them about the bakery. This very moment. She would have no better chance, not with both of them at her attention.

Now.

Ask them now.

She sat up straighter in her chair. ‘Actually, there is one prospect, Mama. One that I . . . I’ve been meaning to discuss with you both.’

Mary Ann stiffened, but Cath tried not to look at her. Her presence would only make her more nervous.

‘There is something I’ve been considering lately. Well, for quite some time, really. But I could use your assistance, and . . . support. And you did just say, Father, that I could do anything I put my mind to—’

‘Out with it, child,’ said her mother, ‘we haven’t got all evening.’

‘It . . . has to do with my hobby. My . . . baking.’

Her mother threw her hands into the air. ‘Oh – your baking! That’s what it is, you know. That’s why none of the men want anything to do with you. Who’s ever heard of a marquess’s daughter that bakes, when she should be practising embroidery or the pianoforte!’

Catherine cast a panicked look at Mary Ann, who had begun tying knots into her apron strings.

She turned back to her mother. ‘But . . . you just admitted this is half the reason the King liked me in the first place. He likes my desserts. Aren’t you glad I have something I’m good at?’

Her mother guffawed, but her father was nodding. ‘I enjoy your desserts,’ he said. ‘Remember that rum cake you made for my birthday? With the raisins in it? You should make one of those again.’

‘Thank you, Father. I would love to.’

‘Don’t encourage her.’

‘Mother, please. Listen for a moment, and . . . try not to cast hasty judgement.’

The Marquess leaned forward, curious. The Marchioness grunted and folded her arms, but gave Cath her attention, at least. Mary Ann stood in the corner, silently counting off the knots she’d tied.

‘You see,’ said Catherine, ‘there’s this storefront in town that’s set to become available. The cobbler’s store, you know, on Main Street. And, well, I’ve been thinking, and—’

‘Forgive the interruption, my lord.’

Cath paused, turning to see Mr Penguin, their butler, standing at the entrance to the dining room in his customary tuxedo.