“Aster is in her third season with no offer in sight.” She wagged three fingers in emphasis, her eyes bulging as though in physical pain. “How can you expect me to allow you to make your entrée into Society? To have two daughters on the marriage mart at the same time? I did that with Violet and Aster. Never again. No, thank you very much. ’Tis madness. I shall not repeat that mistake. You can wait another year.”
“Another year?”
“At least.”
She gasped. “At least?”
“Oh do stop parroting me, Primrose.” Mama released another long-suffering sigh. “You grow tedious.”
Prim moved on numb legs toward the dining table and sank down onto a seat. She did not bother fetching herself a plate. She ignored all the tempting smells beckoning from the sideboard. Her stomach rolled. She feared that if she attempted food right now, she would be ill. She began cautiously, knowing it benefited her not to annoy her mother. “You’re saying I might have to wait more than a year before my coming-out in Society?”
“Yes, well, one can hope Aster will have a betrothal by this time next year.” Mama began lathering her second slice of toast. She did not even look up as she delivered this most disastrous news.
Papa was buried in his paper, but Primrose tried appealing to him nonetheless. “Papa?”
He turned a page.
“Papa?” she said more insistently.
“Primrose,” Mama chided. “Mind your tone. A lady does not shout.”
Prim resisted the urge to argue that she wasn’t shouting. It would be for naught. That would only bring forth another reprimand. As far as Mama was concerned, anything above a whisper was considered excessive. Unless it was Mama doing the shouting, of course.
Papa lowered the paper with a mild grunt, peering at Prim and Mama blandly through his spectacles. “Yes, m’dears?”
“I’m ten and six, Papa. Today,” she said, putting weight on the final word, hoping it would affect him in some way. She knew she could not reach her mother. Papa was her only hope. “Mama says I must wait to come out at least another year.”
Prim held her breath, searching his face, hoping Papa might intervene on her behalf.
Mama took a crunchy bite of toast and spoke with great agitation through a mouthful, bits of crumbs flying from her lips. “Do not try to appeal to your father. It will do no good. He and I are in accord on this. I’ll not have two daughters competing for suitors again. Aster is enough of an ordeal on her own.” She shuddered and took another angry bite.
Primrose shook her head, bewildered. Most assuredly, Mama had made her mind up long ago. She had simply not seen fit to inform Prim. If only she had told Prim this months ago, weeks even, then she would not now face such crushing disappointment . . . and such a keen sense of betrayal at this moment.
Mama went on, “Once Aster is betrothed, you will then have your turn, Primrose.”
Prim’s shoulders slumped.
When her mother said it like that, it sounded so annoyingly reasonable.
Last born, last daughter remembered.
Mama choosing Aster over Prim was nothing out of the ordinary. Mama was always choosing one of her three elder daughters over Prim. It was the condition of her life.
Papa nodded. “A sound plan, Primrose. I am certain you see the sense in that. Once Aster is betrothed, you will have your mother’s most dedicated attentions on you.”
Truth be told, to be out in Society without Mama’s full attention sounded like a blessing, but Prim dared not say that.
As she slumped in her chair, Aster and Violet entered the room and made their way to the sideboard, where breakfast awaited their selection.
Aster and Violet bore the same coloring, with their deep chestnut hair and milk-and-roses complexions, but there the similarity ended.
Violet was curvaceous and moved as gracefully as a floating snowflake. Many a suitor had written odes to her grace and beauty. She received no fewer than four proposals during her first season, and three in her second, but Violet had waited, claiming a bigger and better fish was coming. That fish had arrived in her third season in the form of Redding. She had finally accepted him, to Mama’s great joy.
Contrariwise, Aster was somewhat boxlike. She did not float when she walked like Violet. Rather, she charged ahead with jarring steps as though in a rush to reach her destination. Mama once claimed she was shaped like a tree stump—this was after a frustrating morning spent at the dressmaker’s when nothing poor Aster tried on appeased Mama.
Violet seated herself first.
Aster soon followed, her plate piled high with food, quite ready to enjoy her meal.
Mama frowned. “Aster, what have I said about daintier, ladylike portions?”
Aster shrugged and took a bite of her kipper with an almost defiant air. She didn’t care. She enjoyed food and ate with gusto.
Prim sat in silence as the conversation moved from tonight’s diversion to events beyond that, namely Violet’s upcoming wedding.
“And what are your plans for the day, Primrose?” Mama asked, finally turning her attention back to her youngest daughter.
She looked up warily at the question, feeling as though she were facing a firing squad. The inquiry felt like a trap. Since Prim was not preparing for an evening out, she would be doing nothing extraordinary or particularly diverting. Mama must know that. She rarely inquired after Prim’s day, as her options were obviously limited. Prim was not allowed to leave the house without a chaperone, after all.
Most girls not yet out in Society spent their days working through their lessons with their governess. Occasionally they strolled the park or the halls of a museum. They had tutors, too, in dance or voice or pianoforte.
Not Primrose though.
Mama had deemed her finished over two years ago, around the time that Aster entered Society. Even though Prim could not carry a tune. Even though her skill at the pianoforte was abysmal.
Prim had been on her own for quite some time without a governess or tutor. There had been no dancing instructor, but Prim enjoyed dancing and was passable at it. Aster had no interest and made no effort to master her steps, so Violet had skipped right to Primrose to practice. For that reason alone, Primrose knew all the dances: the quadrille, the cotillion, and even the most scandalous waltz.
And yet, since Violet had become betrothed, she’d had little need for dance practice, so Prim’s days were spent in rather dull occupation. If she did not have plans with Olympia, she usually engaged herself in reading.
“My plans?” she echoed.
“Yes. What do you have planned for your day?”
Prim swallowed. Dread worked a slow churn in her belly. “I have plans to meet Olympia at Gunter’s. I thought I mentioned that last week.”
She had not mentioned any such thing to her mother, but sometimes subterfuge worked. Mama was less than attentive when Prim spoke. Prim often claimed she’d gotten permission when she in fact had not. Fortunately for her, Mama could never remember.
Mama pursed her lips. It was her usual expression when Olympia’s name entered any conversation.
As far as Mama was concerned, Olympia was ill-bred. Her mother was a performer—a word tantamount to peasant in Mama’s mind. If Olympia’s mother were not world renowned and fêted by all of London society, Mama would have forbidden their friendship from the start.