couldn’t suppress her curiosity. The only gentleman really in her life was her father, and he spent most of his days avoiding her mother. That seemed to be his chief occupation.
Following breakfast, Papa would take himself to his club, where he spent most of the day among other gentlemen conversing, playing cards, drinking, smoking cigars—all the leisurely activities of a gentleman. At times he even attended a lecture.
Papa had inherited a small country estate from his father. That was where he’d grown up, frolicking and running along the Cliffs of Dover.
As Mama had no interest in country living, even in so picturesque a setting, she had convinced him to sell the property and relocate to London. A poor decision. At least when Papa had owned his country estate, he’d received rents from tenants. Now they lived off the ever-dwindling money from its sale.
Mama never approved of discussions having to do with money, or lack thereof, but Prim had listened in on Papa with his man from the bank. Their funds were on the decline even all those years ago.
Jacob spoke beside her. “Well, I’m required here some of the year. I have responsibilities and matters to attend to . . . and then there’s my estate. It requires a great deal of attention in the day-to-day operation.”
“You don’t have people to manage it for you?” She could not see him elbows deep in ledgers or tilling the fields with laborers.
“I have a good staff, but I like to be involved. Work through the accounts, check over the fields myself, explore new developments in agriculture. My father always told me that a man who is blind to his affairs limits himself from greatness.”
She’d always thought of the gentry as an indolent group, but he was painting a different picture. She swallowed, questioning everything she had ever been taught. According to Mama, gentlemen did not muddy their hands with labor. They had servants or staff for that. But he was not at all like that.
“You aspire to greatness?” she asked.
He looked a little uncomfortable at that question. “Let’s just say I aspire. My father was a great man. If I could be half as decent, I should feel gratified.”
“He passed away?”
“A year next month.”
To have so much responsibility thrust upon one so young, Prim could not fathom that. “My condolences.”
“He’d been sick. It was a relief to see him out of pain.”
She nodded.
They turned onto another path. Not a dark walk. Rather, this row was still wide and well-lit by strategically placed lanterns.
“And what of you and your family? You mentioned sisters. How many do you have?”
“Three.”
“So there are three others like you? All bearing floral names?”
She laughed slightly at that. “Suffice it to say my sisters are nothing like me, beyond our names.”
“No?”
She nodded. “Not even in the slightest.”
He nodded back, the motion slow. “Intriguing. You are the anomaly.”
“Black sheep,” she admitted.
“Ah, a venerable position in any family.”
She half-winced, half-smiled. “I try to do it justice.”
He laughed lightly. “Sneaking off to Vauxhall will do the trick.” He paused before adding, “You said you were all named after flowers?”
“Yes. There is my eldest sister Begonia. She is married with children. Violet is betrothed and Aster is yet unmarried,” she recounted.
“Ah, a dwindling numbers of debutantes in your house. It’s down to you and Aster.”
“Nothing is expected of me until Aster has become formally betrothed.”
“You have a reprieve then. And that is . . . good? Or disappointing?” He looked at her expectantly and she wondered when had it suddenly become so comfortable to talk to him.
Their steps crunched over the loose pebbles on the cobbled path as they walked. Prim still kept her eye out for a flash of yellow. “I am in no haste to wed . . .” Especially as she now faced the fact that Mama would be the one largely making all the decisions when it came to who her suitors would be.
“That would make you very different from most debutantes of my acquaintance. They call the season the marriage mart for a reason, after all.”
She knew her admission could be seen as unconventional. Sometimes Prim wished she had a better grasp of what she wanted for her life. If she were more like Begonia and Violet, her life would be far simpler. “As I said, I am the black sheep.”
“I am an only child,” he volunteered. “Unless my mother ever decides to remarry. She is young enough.” He shrugged. “Younger than I am when she had me.”
“You