And what about himself? Should he seek out another matchmaker? So far all he’d done is to help the sisters get organized. They hadn’t given him any names of potential brides, and none had come through the door that day that he’d be interested in. Was he wasting his time?
He trekked toward his boarding house. It was at least ten blocks away. But he didn’t mind. The cold air helped him think. His family knew he was going to take some extra time here and see if he could find a wife to bring home.
Ma came up with the idea of finding a bride this way. She told him he’d at least get to meet any potential brides and decide if he wanted to bring one home with him. He liked the idea, so here he was. He still couldn’t get over the fact The Sister’s Mail-Order Bride Company was supposed to be one of the best in the country. So far, he didn’t see how. He also wasn’t sure if they’d find poor Phoebe the sort of man she needed. One that could protect her, appreciate her hard work and gentle demeanor, and would treat her right.
Braxton stewed over the thought all the way to his boarding house.
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.”
