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?”
