Phoebe looked up at her. The woman had salt-and-pepper hair, a little plumpness to her figure, kind blue eyes, and a wide smile. “Hello.”
Another woman hurried into the waiting area. She was taller, also gray-haired (more salt than pepper), and wore a horrified look. “Oh dear me! George!” She turned to the dog and pointed toward the office. “Get back in there, you beast!”
The first woman blushed a deep red. “I’ll take care of him, Augusta.” She dragged the dog through the door and shut it firmly.
The woman named Augusta huffed, then turned to Phoebe. “I’m terribly sorry. Are you hurt?”
Phoebe sat up and straightened her hat. “No, I’m… I’m fine.”
Augusta offered her a hand. “Here, let me help you up.”
“Thank you.” Phoebe let her pull her to her feet, then brushed at her coat and drew in a breath. “Goodness.”
“I do apologize. I’m Augusta Merriweather. And you are?”
“Miss Phoebe Hale.” She shook the hand Augusta extended.
“Tell me, are you here to become a mail-order bride?” Augusta asked. “Or are you here about the dog?”
“The dog?”
“Yes, George. We’re looking for his owner. We put an ad in the paper.”
“Oh, I see.” Phoebe blew out a breath. “No, I’m not here about the dog. I’m here about a husband.”
“Splendid! Do come inside, dear.” Augusta opened the door slowly, peeked in, then motioned Phoebe forward.
Inside was a large office with four desks scattered throughout the room. Another young woman sat at one of them, speaking to a woman of medium height and build, and also older. So these were the three famous Merriweather sisters, owners of The Sister’s Mail-Order Bride Company. They were known for making excellent matches for a bride. In fact, Phoebe had heard they were second only to Mrs. Adelia Pettigrew, the famous matchmaker in Denver.
“Follow me, dear,” Augusta said and led Phoebe to a desk at the center of the room. She took a seat and gestured to the chair opposite. “Do sit down.”
“Thank you.” Phoebe sat and clutched her reticule in her lap.
“Name?”
Phoebe noticed a typewriter sitting on the desk. “Wow,” she breathed.
Augusta followed her gaze. “Ah, yes. Isn’t it magnificent? It’s so functional. Val insisted we each have one.”
“I’ve heard of typewriters but have never seen one.” Phoebe reached out. “May I?”
“By all means.” Augusta slid a piece of paper into the machine, turned a knob, and fed the sheet into place. “Now, name?”
“Oh, yes… Phoebe Hale.” She watched with fascination as Augusta tapped keys with just two fingers. She wasn’t sure if that was how typing was supposed to be done, but it was still marvelous to watch.
“Age?” Augusta asked.
“Twenty-two.”
Augusta studied her a moment. “Blonde hair, blue eyes, petite build.” She typed as she spoke.
Phoebe smiled. “Fascinating.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” Augusta leaned closer. “Though I only use two fingers. I don’t know why Val insists we use all of our fingers the way the instructions say.”
“Val?”
“Our assistant.” Augusta sighed. “She’s not here. She left a week ago to take a group of brides to Wild Rose Ridge. That’s in the Washington Territory.”
