His jaw shifted once as he watched her but didn’t say a word.
“Mr. Jones,” Augusta said. “Good morning.”
He tipped his head toward her, then Margaret, Josie, and finally, Phoebe. “Ma’ams. Miss Hale.”
George scrambled upright and barreled toward him. He clipped a chair with his shoulder, making it wobble. Mr. Jones reached out with his free hand and caught it before it toppled over.
Phoebe watched the movement. The man didn’t even look at the chair. His hand simply found it, steadied it, and moved on. As if he’d been catching falling objects his entire life.
Augusta beamed. “We were just about to begin a small… organizational effort.”
Josie nodded eagerly. “A very small one. Hardly anything at all.”
Mr. Jones glanced once more around the room. “Looks manageable.”
Phoebe almost dropped the applications. Was he offering to help?
Margaret set a stack of ledgers on her desk and smiled at him. “Mr. Jones, would you mind if we borrowed your… practical talents?” She pointed to a table near the back wall. One of its legs leaned inward at a tired angle, supported by a wedge of folded paper. “That table’s been threatening rebellion for months. But we’re going to need it if we want to straighten out this mess.”
Mr. Jones set his hat on a hook of the coat rack. “I can look at it.”
Augusta turned back to Phoebe. “Miss Hale, if you would be so kind as to sort all letters and applications into three piles. Arrivals, departures, and inquiries. Then we’ll deal with them as soon as we can.” She produced a frayed bit of ribbon from her pocket and tied it around one bundle of envelopes, then frowned at the crooked bow.
Phoebe nodded. “Of course.” She carried her stack to the nearest desk and sat. A moment later Mr. Jones knelt by the wobbly table leg across the room. Phoebe watched from the corner of her eye as he tested the wood with his hand, then removed the folded paper and slid it aside. The table listed farther.
He caught it with his shoulder, dug a small knife from his pocket, and trimmed a bit from a stray piece of wood he’d fished from underneath the table. He wedged it under the leg, tested the table again, then leaned a little of his weight against it. The table held firm.
Phoebe turned back to her letters and applications and forced herself to focus. The envelopes bore names and dates. Some were new. Others had clearly been read several times. She separated them into neat piles just as Augusta requested. As things were put in order, a small knot in her chest loosened. She hated when things were in chaos. Such as whenever her father came home…
“That’s better,” Margaret said waving at the table. “It looks good as new.”
Mr. Jones straightened, wiped his hands on his denims and eyed Augusta.
She stood in the middle of the office, turning slowly as if counting everything in her head. “We’re behind, and it is only getting worse,” she said. “Brides are coming up on departure dates. Grooms need updates. One trunk never reached its owner. Telegrams need to be sent to grooms, and I have no idea where I put half my notes.” She turned another full circle. “Has anyone found the calendar?”
Josie crossed her arms. “We had everything in order until George came to stay.”
George, busy trying to chew off the ribbon loop around his leg, ignored the accusation.
All three sisters began talking at once. Brides. Grooms. Missing trunks. Misdelivered letters. Augusta waved a stack of notes at no one in particular. Margaret pointed to an open ledger, then peered at it. And Josie tried to untangle a string knotted around another set of applications. Their words tumbled over one another, faster and louder, the sound rising like a kettle about to boil.
Phoebe set down her letters. “Perhaps,” she said over the chatter, “Mr. Jones and I could help sort things into piles while you take care of the brides set to come in today.” Maybe she shouldn’t have volunteered him like that, but it was too late now.
The noise stopped. Three pairs of eyes turned toward her again.
Phoebe kept her tone calm. “If we separate everything… telegrams here, letters there, applications in another stack. It may seem less overwhelming. Then you can decide what must be answered first.” She swallowed and waited for Mr. Jones to tell everyone he didn’t have the time.
He glanced at the scattered papers, then at Augusta, and gave a short nod. “I reckon that makes sense.”
Augusta’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Yes. Yes, of course. Very well. Miss Hale, Mr. Jones, if you don’t mind sitting together at the table.” She pointed to the newly repaired one. “You can sort while we see to other matters.”
Phoebe’s heart skipped. Sit with Mr. Jones? Work beside him? It was a simple thing. Practical. Still, her stomach fluttered as she gathered her piles of letters and carried them to the table. Mr. Jones picked up a stack of telegraph messages and followed. George padded along between them like a furry chaperone.
They sat next to each other. George flopped under the table; his body pressed against both their feet.
“Well,” Mr. Jones said quietly. “Guess we’ve been drafted.”
Phoebe’s lips curved into a smile. “It appears so.”
