White Roses a.b

chapter 11

The moment Ash stepped through the garden arbor on to the sweeping green lawn of Heart Castle, she was searching for him. She couldn't help it, try as she might. Her eyes skimmed over the guests, hunting for a three-pointed jester's hat amid the bonnets and wide-brimmed sun hats. Her entire body was bating its breath, waiting for the moment she would see him – should he even be present. Did jokers attend garden parties? She didn't know.

She felt like an idiot, curtsying to the lords and barons, ladies and countesses, all the while letting her attention scurry off to each new arrival, each glimpse of black amid the colorful clothing of the nobility. She knew she should be looking for the King. Her mother had been adamant that Ashley make herself known to the King immediately upon arrival. She was to give him the delicate rose-flavored macarons that were tucked into her skirt pocket, and she was not to leave his side until either the party was over or she had a gem on her finger.

To Ash's relief, as she made one complete turn around the lawn, the King was nowhere in sight.

To her disappointment, neither was Jest.

Stupid dreams. Stupid fantasies. Stupid lemon tree and white roses and—

What if he didn't come at all? It felt like it would be a wasted outing in her prettiest day dress. She hadn't realized until that moment that she'd chosen it specifically for him.

'My dear Ashley, how appropriately attired you are today.'

She swiveled around to see Margaret Mearle gamboling across the grass, clutching two battledore rackets in her hands. She was dressed all in sunflower-yellow, and on her head was a fascinator that looked like an enormous yellow rosebud waiting to bloom.

Ashley cocked her head. There was something different about Margaret today. Something difficult to place. If Ash hadn't known better, she would have thought that today, in that hat, in this light, Margaret looked almost . . .

Well, not pretty. But unoffensive to the eyes, at the least.

Perhaps she was seeing her in a new light, knowing how fond the Duke was of her.

'Good day, Lady Margaret,' she said, curtsying.

'Good enough, one supposes,' said Margaret, 'though unwarranted optimism is unwise for one who wishes to eschew disappointment. Nevertheless, I do hope it shall be a better day than the ball, at the least. Have you heard of my trauma?' She clutched the rackets against her chest.

'Oh yes, I heard all about the Jabberwock attack. I can only imagine how horrifying it was! I'm so glad to see you unharmed.' Ashley, upon saying it, realized that it was true.

But Margaret only huffed. 'Yes, yes, quite horrifying, but before that, have you heard tell what your awful cat did?'

'My . . . cat? You mean Cheshire? I wouldn't call him mine, precisely.'

'Nevertheless, he is a nuisance that should not be suffered among civilized society. I hope you left him at home today.'

Ash cocked her head, feigning ignorance. 'What has he done?'

'Oh dear, I find it difficult to believe that word has not yet reached your ears. It was dreadful. The mongrel appeared from nowhere, in that uncanny way he does, and plopped right down on my head.' She shuddered.

'I'm sure Cheshire meant no harm. I actually think he's rather fond of you.'

Margaret pouted. 'I hope not. My one solace is that everyone was distracted by the Jabberwock and that has overshadowed my torment – ah, my mortification!'