“Yes, but now she’s writing letters. A lot of letters.”
“To whom?”
“Her friend from school, but…” He shook his head.
“You think it’s being passed on to a gentleman.”
His father shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. I just wish they all could have more company than what’s in our little village.”
Meaning, he wanted them to have a Season in London. “I’m working on it,” he said, doing his best not to give in to desperation. He lifted his gaze. If the stable wall weren’t there, he’d be gazing straight onto the daffodil garden. The daffodils would sell. They had to.
“Strange thing to be selling flowers,” his father said. “They’re not a real crop. Just posies for ladies.”
“There are a lot of ladies who like posies.”
“Ladies like roses,” he said firmly. “Not daffodils that are brown by the time they get to London.”
Jackson straightened up as he studied his father. “What are you trying to say?”
The man whistled to their stable hand, calling the boy over. “Finish this up, will you Tommy?” Then he leaned heavily on his cane as they left the barn. Jackson joined him, shortening his steps to match his father’s as they headed not to the house but around the side toward the daffodil garden.
“Father—”
“I got a letter from Lady Meunier.”
Jackson stifled a groan. What trouble was Isabelle stirring up now?
“She’s worried about you. Said you’ve fallen into a wild crowd, enchanted by a crazy woman, and taking insane risks with your money.”
“She wants me to invest in her canals. I want something different.”
His father arched a brow at him. “Flowers?” In that one word, the man conveyed all his contempt for anything so insubstantial as a daffodil. But in case Jackson didn’t understand, he continued on. “Wheat and pigs, that’s real commerce. Flowers are a woman’s plaything. Something that doesn’t last and isn’t purchased when times are hard.” His father gestured at the small patch. It was a riot of yellow right now, nearly the peak of blooms. Jackson didn’t know what he’d do in two weeks if all the flowers were gone.
“It’s a risk,” he admitted. “But so are the canals.”
“Not the same thing, and you know it.” His father turned to him, his cheeks ruddy in the cold. “Just what has this gel got you into?”
“This gel,” Jackson returned, “is Isabelle’s niece. She’s not crazy, and she didn’t get me into anything.”
“But it was her idea, yes?” His father shook his head. “She’s pretty enough, but what does she know of commerce? If ladies liked daffodils, they’d have been buying them before now. It’s all roses in London. Always been, always will.”
Jackson drew breath, forcing himself to remain calm. His father wasn’t being unreasonable. He was merely saying the same things Jackson had considered before. But he didn’t like the way his father dismissed Lady Gwen. “I know what I’m doing. I’ve done well by us so far, haven’t I?”
“No question about that,” his father agreed. “It’s been because of you that we’ve kept the house and the tenants going. You paid for the repairs, you kept many of ’em fed when the crop was bad, but you said it was because of Lady Meunier. Said it for years that if it weren’t for her, you wouldn’t have the foggiest idea what to do.”
“She has taught me a lot.”
“Took me aback, I can tell you. Never thought a woman could do what she has. You’ve been singing her praises for years.”
He had. “But I learned. And now I want something of my own.”
His father nodded, his expression softening. “I understand that, son. A man needs to make his own way sometimes. It takes maturity to see that a good thing doesn’t come around often. And once you find it, you don’t let go. It’s the folly of youth to dismiss what works in search of something new.” He snorted. “Especially something as frivolous as posies.”
His father wasn’t wrong. In his twenties and thirties, the man had pursued several bad investments in the hopes of restoring the family fortunes. None of them had profited, and so he’d become the epitome of conservative. Small profits that came steadily over years. The tried and true, because what he’d tried in his younger years hadn’t paid off.
“I know what I’m doing,” Jackson repeated. It was the truth, but it was also a lie. He had never done anything like this before. He had never tried to create a market for something rarely seen in London. There were several very real dangers, and it was folly to stake all the money he’d carefully saved on this one idea.
He was doing it anyway. And his family needed to help him or get out of his way.