Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Phoebe had barely stepped into the office the next morning before she was ambushed.
“Miss Hale!” Augusta cried from across the room. “There you are!”
Josie darted past her, skirts swishing, ribbons already trailing from her hands. “We’ve done it!”
Margaret popped up from behind her desk like a jack-in-the-box. “We’ve found him!”
Phoebe blinked, still holding her reticule and muff. “Good morning?”
“Our apologies for not sending word sooner,” Augusta said as she swept across the room. “We were up early talking about it and simply couldn’t wait. Miss Hale, we have found you the perfect groom.”
Phoebe’s heart hopped, then dropped straight to her toes. “Oh. Mr. Trevor you mean?”
The sisters shook their heads and gathered around her like an excited flock of birds.
“He’s reliable,” Josie said.
“And respectable,” Margaret added.
“Not to mention refined,” Augusta finished. “Truly the answer to your situation.”
Phoebe glanced to the other side of the office. Braxton stood near the repaired table, sorting a small stack of letters. He looked up and met her gaze. For several seconds, neither of them moved.
Before she could utter a word to him, he looked away and focused on the letters as if they were suddenly the most fascinating things in the world. George trotted up and sat beside him, head tilted toward the women as if listening too.
Augusta clapped her hands. “He’s already on his way. We invited him here for an interview.”
“An interview?” Phoebe repeated, eyes still on Braxton.
Margaret nodded. “Well, a conversation. A preliminary… pre-courtship evaluation.”
Josie beamed. “You are going to be so pleased.”
Phoebe doubted that very much. How did they even get word to the gentleman this early in the day? “I… um, Augusta, I appreciate your efforts, truly, but…”
“No need to thank us yet,” Augusta said. “Just sit at my desk, dear, and try to appear calm and available.”
Phoebe wasn’t sure what that meant but allowed herself to be guided to the chair in front of Augusta’s desk. Her hands tightened around her reticule and muff while her heart thumped unhelpfully in her chest.
A groom. A real groom. Someone who might want to marry her and solve the question of rent and safety and everything else. Or, she thought as she tried not to fidget, someone who could make everything worse.
The office door opened. A man stepped inside.
He wasn’t tall exactly, though not short.
His build was slight, his shoulders narrow.
His coat was immaculate, his waistcoat a shade too bright, and his neckcloth tied in a perfect knot that screamed time and vanity.
His dark hair was parted with precise care, slicked back from a high forehead.
A faint scent of cologne floated into the room ahead of him.
His eyes, however, told her everything she needed to know. They skimmed over Augusta, Josie, Margaret… landed briefly on George with mild disgust… then swept to Phoebe and lingered.
He smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Ah. There she is.” The man crossed the room. “Mr. Horace Bartholomew Pringle,” he said, as if announcing royalty. “At your service.”
Phoebe rose slowly. “Miss Phoebe Hale.”
He took her hand before she’d decided whether to offer it, turned it, and bent over her knuckles.
His lips barely grazed the air above her glove.
He held on a fraction too long. “Delighted,” he declared.
“Positively delighted. The Merriweather sisters tell me you are everything I’m seeking in a wife. ”
Unable to help it, Phoebe glanced over Mr. Pringle’s shoulder. Behind him, Braxton had gone very still. His jaw worked once as he turned another letter over. Though she doubted he’d read a word on it.
George stared at Mr. Pringle and sneezed.
Margaret stepped forward, clasping her hands. “Mr. Pringle is a bookkeeper of excellent standing, Miss Hale. He works for a very respectable firm.”
“With prospects,” Josie added eagerly.
“Very good prospects,” Mr. Pringle corrected. “Peabody, Pringle & Sutterson. We handle accounts for some of the finest families in Chicago. Perhaps you’ve heard of them.”
Phoebe had not. “I’m afraid I haven’t.”
“I shall educate you,” he said as if bestowing a favor.
She smiled politely and sat again, hands folded neatly in her lap. He took the chair opposite without invitation, then leaned back in it like it was his.
Augusta, Margaret, and Josie drifted away just far enough to appear not to be hovering while very obviously listening.
Mr. Pringle adjusted his cuffs. “I am a man who values order, Miss Hale. Routine. Standards. My future wife must present herself well, speak with decorum, and never embarrass me.”
“I see,” Phoebe said. She hoped he didn’t take too close a look at the room they were in. Though better than it was, it still was disorganized.
“Of course,” he continued, not noticing whether she did. “I expect a tidy household. Punctual meals. Social calls made properly and on time. My mother insists upon a certain standard of… polish.”
Phoebe opened her mouth. “Your mother?”
“She lives with me,” he said. “Naturally. She is one of the finest judges of character in this city. She will train you.”
Phoebe’s spine went cold. “Train me?”
“In the appropriate comportment for a Mrs. Horace Bartholomew Pringle,” he said with a proud nod, as if the title alone should make her swoon. “My wife must reflect well on both myself and my dear mother. We have an image to maintain.”
Phoebe forced her lips into a neutral shape. “Of course.”
Her heart, however, was a different story. If this man was so… well, him. Why did he need a matchmaking service? Hmmm, maybe she just answered her own question.
Across the room, Augusta nodded approvingly, Josie clasped her hands to her chest. And Margaret dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, moved by her own success, no doubt.
Phoebe fought against a sigh. Seeing as how the three went through the trouble of actually producing a prospective groom, she should at least ask a few questions. “And… where do you live, Mr. Pringle?”
“A respectable neighborhood,” he said. “Near enough to the shops and offices, far enough from the riffraff.” His gaze flickered briefly to George and Braxton. “You will like it there, once you are accustomed to my mother’s schedule. She rises early.”
She gave him a lopsided smile. “That’s… nice.”
“There are rooms that will need some rearranging once you move in, of course,” he went on.
“My mother’s things take up space, but I’m sure we can find room for your few belongings.
Women don’t need much, after all. Just a wardrobe and a sewing basket.
And of course you will not be working. My wife ought to be properly idle. It gives the right impression.”
Phoebe stared at him. “Idle?”
“Yes. Gives people the impression I can provide.” He smiled smugly. “You understand, I’m sure.”
Oh, she understood. Just not in the way he wanted. Phoebe cleared her throat. “And what do you expect in terms of… partnership?”
He blinked. “Partnership?”
“In a marriage,” she clarified. “How do you see… us… relating to one another?”
He chuckled, as if she’d told a joke. “My dear Miss Hale, a husband leads. A wife follows. That is the order of things. You’ll see. My mother will explain.”
Phoebe pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth to keep from saying something impolite.
Across the room, Braxton’s jaw tightened. He set the letters down with more force than necessary.
“I also prefer a quiet, agreeable wife,” Mr. Pringle continued. “No arguing. No disagreeing in public. My wife is to be decorative and pleasant. Smiling is encouraged, of course. It reflects well on my business.”
Phoebe could feel her smile cracking at the edges. She was glad when George rose, ambled over, and sat beside her chair. The dog stared at Mr. Pringle with deep, canine suspicion.
Mr. Pringle’s nose wrinkled. “Does the dog have to be here?”
“He’s fine,” Phoebe said.
“If he’s yours, he’ll not be allowed in my house,” Mr. Pringle announced. “Animals belong outside. Or nowhere.”
George sneezed on his trouser leg.
Mr. Pringle recoiled, dabbing frantically with a handkerchief. “Shoo! You horrid creature.”
Phoebe’s eyes flashed. “He’s very sweet.”
Braxton set the letters aside and walked toward them with slow, measured steps. George’s hind end began to wag, thumping against Phoebe’s skirt.
“Everything all right here?” Braxton asked mildly.
Phoebe felt something in her chest unclench at the sound of his voice. “Perfectly fine.”
Mr. Pringle gave Braxton a once-over and dismissed him. “We are in the middle of a conversation, sir.”
Braxton’s gaze remained friendly, but something behind it cooled. “I can see that.”
George edged closer to Braxton, pressing his head against the rancher’s leg. Braxton scratched behind the dog’s ears. “Just makin’ sure Miss Hale don’t need anything.”
“I assure you,” Mr. Pringle said, “I am more than capable of seeing to my future wife’s needs.”
Phoebe’s head snapped toward him. “Future…?”
“We shall sort out the finer points soon enough.” He waved a dismissive hand. “The Merriweather’s will arrange the details. I have already informed my mother she may expect you for the holiday, Miss Hale. She is making plans.”
Phoebe’s stomach dropped. “Holiday?”
“At our home, naturally,” he said. “It’s important you begin training as soon as possible.”
Braxton’s eyes darkened. “Now see here…” he began. “The lady hasn’t…”
Phoebe cut in before he said something that would start a fight. “Mr. Pringle, I appreciate your… enthusiasm… but I have not agreed to anything.”
He blinked. “Haven’t you?”
“No,” she said, more firmly this time. “We’re only talking.”
“I assumed the sisters’ recommendation carried more weight,” he said, sitting straighter. “They did promise you were ready for a match.”
Phoebe’s cheeks burned.
Across the room, Augusta, Margaret, and Josie all tried to look innocent and failed spectacularly.