Papa peered around his paper. “Is my presence really required? Might I not dine with Gertie, too?”
“Mr. Ainsworth! Mrs. Simeon is cousin to the Dowager Duchess of Hampstead.” Mama practically quivered with indignation.
“And what does that have to do with my attendance at tonight’s soirée, m’dear?”
“You never know when the dowager duchess might appear at one of Mrs. Simeon’s fêtes.”
“The old dame has not graced any of Mrs. Simeon’s parties with her presence yet,” Aster reminded them as she cut into a juicy kipper, her ruined soft-boiled egg pushed to the side. “They might be blood kin, but apparently that does not obligate her to attend her cousin’s gatherings. Heaven knows I would not be inclined to attend of any of Violet’s.”
“Good,” Violet retorted. “Because I shan’t invite you.”
“Girls, stop your bickering.” Mama glared at Aster, clearly unappreciative of her input. “You never know when yet the dowager will show—or even better—when her son, the young Duke of Hampstead, might make an appearance.”
“Young Hampstead eschews all polite Society,” Violet announced with an air of authority. Ever since her betrothal to Redding, she had turned into an expert on all matters of Society. “Everyone knows he has a small set of friends and prefers them to ballrooms.”
“One day he shall give that up. He will need to wed and produce an heir.”
“I’ve seen this young duke at my club,” Papa commented mildly through the barrier of his paper.
Mama gaped. “Mr. Ainsworth! You’ve never said as such. What is he like?”
“He’s a bit of a wild buck,” Papa mused as he turned his paper to the next page.
Mama looked almost affronted at the remark. “He’s young, only but ten and nine, I believe. Newly minted. That’s to be expected. He is the most eligible nobleman in the realm. Handsome and rich as Croesus.”
“Is it no wonder he spends so little time at the ton’s approved venues, with all you marriage-minded mamas slavering after him.”
It was a bit of irony, Primrose supposed, thinking of this unknown, faceless duke. She wanted so desperately to be seen and treated as an adult—to be let out of the nursery, for goodness sake—whilst this duke, this man, a mere lad, from all accounts, not so very much older than herself, had all the freedom in the world. He had wealth and opportunity. Every door was open to him, and he chose not to cross the threshold of any of them.
She didn’t even know him, but she hated him a little.
“The lad has to marry someday and he has no need of a dowry. He can wed whomever he wants. So why not one of our . . .” Mama’s voice faded as she alternated her gaze on Aster and then Primrose. Whatever she saw in the two of them made the excitement dim from her eyes. Her shoulders slumped in defeat. “That’s neither here nor there, I suppose.”
The insult was thinly veiled, and Primrose saw right through it. As far as Mama was concerned, the two most attractive Ainsworth daughters had already been matched. Mama did not expect the less appealing two to fare better.
Mama resumed with a beleaguered sigh. “In any event, it is quite a coup to be invited to Mrs. Simeon’s events. We are among the privileged chosen.”
Except for Primrose. She was not chosen. Even today, on her birthday. The vast unfairness of it all weighed down on her and pushed her to move.
Snapping back to action, she departed the room, glad to leave them to talk about all the things they would do without her.
Once in her bedchamber, she checked her reflection in her cheval mirror, looking herself over carefully. She pinched her cheeks for a bit of color. Cringing at the hopeless sight of her hair, she attempted to smooth down the tendrils that sprang from her coronet of plaits. Her hair was perpetually untidy. It would take more time than she had to tame the fiery strands.
She paced the length of her chamber, biding her time as patiently as she could until she needed to leave for her meeting with Olympia. A challenging task. Patience was the least of her virtues.
When she could wait no longer, she snatched up her reticule and fled her room.
In the foyer, she grabbed her bonnet and arranged it on her head. There. That would hide her less-than-perfect hair. She turned in a small circle, as though expecting to see someone in the entrance hall to bid her farewell, to inquire when she might return. Her mother or her father. Her sisters. Gertie or the housekeeper.
No one was about. She turned for the door. No one made note of her leaving the house, which wasn’t as much of a surprise as it should have been.
She was the forgotten daughter, after all. Mama might keep tabs on her, but that was only superficially. Invisibility was the proven condition of her life.
Know your place in the social hierarchy. There is nothing so gauche as a lady who looks high above herself—except the one who lowers herself beneath the station to which she was born.
—Lady Druthers’s Guide to Perfect Deportment and Etiquette
The youngest daughter always comes last.
Chapter Two
It was a rare sunny day as Primrose emerged from her house. Not a cloud in the sky. Perfect summer weather. She looked both ways for any carriages before crossing the street to Olympia’s house.
The Zaher’s housekeeper opened the door promptly at Prim’s knock, a smile quick to form on her lips.
All of Olympia’s household staff wore friendly expressions. Prim knew they had to be happier with their situation than the Ainsworth staff. Her household servants, few as they were, looked chronically tense, as though calamity could strike at any time. Because it often did. Certainly the Zaher staff was paid a better wage. That, too, likely made a difference.
Mama and Prim’s sisters (excepting Aster) had a penchant for histrionics. Aster undoubtedly enjoyed causing said histrionics. She had a knack for needling Violet and, once upon a time, Begonia. Of course, Aster’s unflappable nature amidst chaos annoyed Violet and Begonia to no end. Whether it was the news that a particularly favored bachelor had been lost to a rival debutante or the tragedy of a misplaced hair comb, such catastrophes could result in calamitous wails. And there was Aster, smiling suspiciously amid it all, so that Primrose had a strong notion of who’d hidden the hair comb.
“Well, happy tidings to you, Miss Primrose. And how are you on this fine day?” The housekeeper leaned forward with a sweet grin. “I understand someone is a year older.”
She resisted pointing out that she happened to be only a day older than yesterday. “Thank you, Mrs. Davis. Yes, it is my birthday.”
“Splendid. Happy birthday. I thought you were meeting Miss Olympia and Mrs. Zaher at Gunter’s? They left early this morning for the theater. Mrs. Zaher had some business to attend to there first.”
“Yes, the plan was to meet them there, but my mother and sisters have need of Gertie, who was to accompany me.”
She knew that Mrs. Zaher had a dress rehearsal this morning and Olympia had joined her. Prim envied the interesting things Olympia did courtesy of her mother. Not only was she allowed to attend her mother’s performances, but she joined her at many salons throughout Town where Mrs. Zaher was a featured guest. All kinds of artists and eccentrics frequented these salons. People Prim would never have an opportunity to meet in her family’s very modest and conventional circles.