Sixteen Scandals - Sophie Jordan Page 0,1

week.

When Prim entered the dining room, Mama was already seated at the table, eating and sipping her tea as she browsed the scandal rags beside her like she was Napoleon examining a map of Europe.

Primrose cleared her throat. “Ahem.”

No response.

She tried again, declaring rather grandly, “Good morning.”

Mama returned the greeting with a distracted murmur, not glancing up from the day’s gossip holding her rapt attention.

Papa at least looked around the edges of his paper at her. “Good morning, poppet.” He then went back to reading.

Primrose studied them both, her anticipation ebbing over their lackluster reaction to the sight of her. She waited several more moments.

“It’s someone’s birthday,” she called out, hoping that would gain her acknowledgment.

Perhaps they merely sought to surprise her?

The silence stretched and she admitted to herself that it was unlikely given her parents were not demonstrative people and they lacked a sense of humor in general.

Mama finally spoke, not glancing up. “Of course, it is. We have not forgotten.” She took a moment longer, her finger tracking the sentence she was reading. With a sigh, she lowered her paper, and began to generously lather jam onto her toast with single-minded focus.

“Happy birthday, poppet.” Papa looked around the edges of his paper once more. It was recognition, lackluster though it may be.

Mama had not said the words, but Prim now doubted she would. Her mother was not the effusive sort. At least not very often. When her daughters received marriage proposals, then she became quite demonstrative.

Apparently this, the fifteenth day of June, was not to be remarked on in any special way. It was to be treated as an ordinary occasion.

Prim cleared her throat. “I know we haven’t anything planned for today, but—”

“Correct,” Mama said perfunctorily, stabbing her toast once in the air. “I warned you that we haven’t the time or attention to devote to you right now.”

Prim nodded. “Of course. Yes. I know that, but I had hoped that I might join you out this evening since I am now—”

“Not possible.”

Primrose flinched. The quick denial felt like a slap. She looked back and forth between her parents, instructing herself to stay calm and not panic. Begging or crying or coming at her parents aggressively would reap nothing.

She moistened her lips and took a careful breath. “You promised when I turned ten and six—”

“Yes, well, you should not be such a selfish girl to fling that at me now,” Mama snapped, looking up from her toast to level a hard stare on Primrose. “Have you any notion of the stress involved with arranging Violet’s wedding whilst ushering Aster through the marriage mart?” She rubbed her fingers at the center of her forehead as if the very mention of these things caused her pain.

“And the coin involved,” Papa intoned from behind his paper.

Mama continued as though he had not spoken. It was her modus operandi to ignore all mentions of money.

“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