‘Will you wear it during the dancing also? I’m sure you’ll be at the very centre of attention, and a businessman couldn’t complain over the attention.’

Cath pulled the hat more firmly on to her head. ‘Hatta, I’m not sure I shall ever take it off.’

He bowed. ‘Then off you go. And please, if you happen to see His Majesty, I hope you’ll give him my regards.’

She stumbled halfway to the door. ‘His Majesty?’

Hatta’s violet eyes glinted. ‘The King of Hearts, love? I thought you knew him, but as you look so surprised, I must have been mistaken.’ He held his hands out in supplication. ‘Nevertheless, your path is more likely to cross with him than is mine, and I wouldn’t complain of a kind reference put forth to our sovereign.’ His smile turned wry. ‘After all, I am a man of ambitions, Lady Pinkerton.’

CHAPTER 26

THE DAY HAD WARMED, tempting the festival guests down to the shore with its foaming waves and rocky outcroppings. Knowing that she was already too late to join the opening ceremonies, Cath did her best to dodge in between the conch shells that stood twice her height on the damp shore and the swarms of people as they drifted towards the beach, leaving the vibrant tents with their flapping pennants behind.

She noticed an inordinate number of guests wearing Hatta’s creations. It was easy to spot them in the crowd, with their elegant shapes and peculiar embellishments. She recalled Mary Ann telling her how popular his hats were becoming, but she hadn’t been ready to believe it. It had seemed, at the time, that Hatta’s Marvellous Millinery was her discovery, her special memory, but word had spread fast through the fashionable circles of Hearts.

On the constructed platform on the centre-most beach, her father, the Marquess, was already halfway through telling the story of how the first Turtle Days Festival had come to be. Catherine loved the story, and loved even more the way her father told it. She was sad that she had missed hearing it from the beginning.

The legend was that her many-greats-grandmother, when she was young and beautiful and poor, had one day led a troupe of dancing turtles and lobsters into the throne room of the then King and Queen of Hearts. Under the girl’s guidance, the creatures had danced a ballet that was awkward and preposterous, yet the girl’s narration of the dance turned it into something spectacular. The dance told the story of a lobster and a turtle who fell deeply in love despite the impossibility of such a match. They battled through numerous trials and obstacles to be together, finally claiming their eternity of joy.

Her grandmother’s telling of the story was so honest and heartfelt that, by its end, the dance had driven both the King and Queen to tears. They cried so hard that the throne room flooded and overflowed from the cliffs, and that was how Rock Turtle Cove came to be.

In her delight, the Queen granted the girl a mansion and the title of Marchioness.

From then on, that gift of storytelling had been passed through every generation that grew up in the manor off Rock Turtle Cove, and the talent had entertained countless kings and queens who sat on the throne. Cath’s father was no exception. When Cath was a child, her father had told her stories every night as she lay in bed. Stories of faraway lands and mythical creatures, daring adventures and happy endings. As she grew, she had tried to replicate her father’s skill. She practised with her dolls first, and Mr and Mrs Snail in the garden, and Cheshire. She thought for sure that she, too, would be an amazing storyteller, as all her family before her.

The first time she’d told one of her stories to her father, he cried. Not because her tale was so poignant, but because Cath’s telling of it was so ghastly.

The misery of her father’s disappointment had haunted her for two long years, until the morning she’d stumbled down into the kitchen and watched their cook prepare a sweet potato pie, and Cath discovered a new passion.

‘. . . the tale of Marchioness Pinkerton, may she rest ever in a piece of cake,’ her father was proclaiming from the stage, his voice flowing over the shore as easily as the crashing waves, and holding the crowd in raptures, ‘began to spread throughout the kingdom. Men and creatures alike came from far and wide to hear the Marchioness recount the story of the turtle and the lobster. Their forbidden romance. Their impossible match. The love that resulted in an age of peace between all the creatures of the land and sea.’

Catherine glanced around, unsurprised to find tears glistening in the eyes of those beside her. She had cried at this tale so often as a child that sometimes just hearing the word lobster made her feel soft and pliant on the inside.

Not today, though. Today she heard lobster and knew that the opening dance was coming. Her dread deepened.

‘As the people of the kingdom arrived in droves, a unity formed among those who had heard the Marchioness tell her tale of woe and wonder, and a nightly celebration began among those who had made an encampment on the beaches of Rock Turtle Cove. There was singing and dancing and revelry and bonfires, every night! The people shared with one another their food and their stories, and a great companionship thrived.’

Cath heard a sniffle beside her and looked down. She startled upon recognizing the Turtle from Hatta’s tea party, wearing the same bowler hat he’d worn at the party, embellished with a green satin ribbon. Tears were flowing from his eyes.

Cath dug a handkerchief from her purse and handed it to the young thing, who thanked her and pulled his head back into his shell, leaving the hat perched on top. His disappearance was soon followed by a nose-emptying honk.