The Telegraph Proposal Page 7

  After greeting the Watsons, Hale leaned a bit to the left to see how many people were still in line. The two women at the end looked very much like—no, were—Mrs. Archer and her daughter, Antonia.

  What were they doing in Helena?

  Perhaps they were here to check on Jakob Gunderson. The agency provided a full refund if either of the parties involved in a correspondence courtship falsified information regarding their appearance or situation.

  From what Jakob said, Miss de Fleur was everything he’d requested, she just fell in love with someone else. Which didn’t constitute a breach of contract. Not that Hale was an expert in . . .

  What kind of law did matchmaking services fall under?

  And Mrs. Archer was looking at him, not Jakob.

  Hale worked his way down the line, grateful there were only five people between him and the Archers. No one in Helena knew he’d engaged the services of a matrimonial company, and he wanted to keep it that way—especially if the reason the ladies were in town was to tell him that Portia wasn’t coming. Enough people were going to be prying into his privacy now that he’d declared for mayor. He didn’t need them prying into his romantic failures.

  If it was a failure. Until he spoke with the ladies, he was indulging in speculation.

  He kept his greetings short but respectful as he worked his way toward them. “Mrs. Archer, Miss Archer. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

  “Mr. Adams.” Mrs. Archer held out her hand in greeting. As Hale shook it, she whispered, “Is there somewhere private we can talk?”

  His pulse picked up its tempo. “Is something wrong?” Mrs. Archer cut a censorious glance at her daughter. “No, but we do need to talk about ... our mutual business.”

  Curious.

  His office was too far away for ladies to walk on a hot day. “Please come with me. I’ll ask the owner of The Import Company”—Hale pointed at the black-and-white-painted sign on the side of the brick building—“if we can borrow his private office.”

  “Of course.” Mrs. Archer smiled but it didn’t reach her eyes. “It looks like quite a nice gathering. May I ask what it’s for?”

  Hale explained about the combination grand opening and candidacy announcement as he ushered the ladies around the back of the store to the alley entrance. They weren’t there to shop, so it wasn’t improper to enter via the back door and avoid the line. When they entered the stockroom, Hale excused himself to find David Pawlikowski. He was hanging a “SOLD” tag on a tall grandfather clock while assuring a large woman with makeup as heavy as her jowls that he could order her an identical one.

  After receiving permission to borrow the man’s office, Hale led the ladies up the back stairs, opened the door, and allowed them to precede him.

  There were two desks in the spacious room. One was on the right, the surface piled high with papers, cans of paint, and tin ceiling tiles. That one had to be Jakob’s as he’d been in charge of the store’s construction. The desk directly in front of them held nothing but a wrought-iron picture frame. Some rolls of wallpaper and a ladder were propped against the wall on the left, the space in front of them large enough for another desk.

  Hale grabbed the two chairs and set them side by side in front of the clean desk. “Please have a seat.”

  “Thank you,” the women replied in unison—Miss Archer with a look of defiance on her face.

  The two ladies were both tall, lean, and had square jaws. They had dark hair under their hats—the elder’s a sensible bonnet tied in a bow under her chin, while the younger wore a concoction with a long, red feather and an enormous bow tied to the side.

  He leaned his hip against the edge of the desk and faced the women. “Now, what brings you all this way?”

  Instead of answering, Mrs. Archer turned her head to glare at her daughter.

  Miss Archer glared right back.

  Mrs. Archer shook her head. “You got us into this mess, so you will get us out of it.”

  That sounded ominous.

  Miss Archer raised a gloved hand to grip the gold locket hanging around her neck. “I didn’t get us into any mess. It will all work out just fine.”

  “A matter of opinion—one which I highly doubt.” The older woman huffed. “Get on with it.”

  Hale might as well have been somewhere else for all the attention they were paying him.

  With a heavy sigh and a stinging glance at her mother, Miss Archer finally looked him in the eye. Lifting her chin, she squared her shoulders. “Did you or did you not request that Miss Portia York come to Helena to commence a sixty-day courtship?”

  “I did.”

  “Then it’s safe to say you are happy with her?” There was both a challenge and a question in her words.

  “I am.”

  The younger woman turned her head to give her mother a triumphant smile. “Even though she wasn’t the kind of woman you said you wanted.”

  She wasn’t? Hale tried to remember the qualities he’d listed on his original application for the agency’s services.

  Mrs. Archer bent her head, tipping it so her face was hidden from his view by the brim of her bonnet. She whispered, “Our philosophical difference is the least of our problems here.”

  What on earth did that mean?

  “He can hear you, Mother.”

  The women stared across the two feet of space between them, the veins above Mrs. Archer’s high collar visible. Whatever was going on, it appeared it had the woman strained to her last nerve.

  “Go on,” he encouraged in his best lawyerly voice.

  Miss Archer shifted her attention back to him. “Well . . . as you know, you rejected the first nine women we sent to you.”

  “Yes, I recall that I did.” Where was she going with this?

  “But then I sent you Miss York’s biography and you’ve been writing to her ever since.”

  He waited for her to continue.

  She lifted her chin a bit higher.

  “. . . And?”

  “So it’s safe to say you’re happy with her.” Miss Archer was working him the way he did clients who needed to be talked into something they didn’t want to do even though it was for their own good.

  “Go on.” This time his patience had reached its limit and the words came out as a command.

  There was a little less defiance on her face. Maybe even a bit of concern. “Well . . . you see ... I went a little outside the agency’s normal practices to procure Miss York for a correspondence courtship.”

  His neck heated. “Define ‘outside normal practices’ for me.”

  She waved her hands like she was warding off a bee. “Oh, it’s nothing bad, I assure you.”

  Hale lowered his chin. “In my experience, Miss Archer, whenever someone must assure another person that what they’re about to say is nothing bad, it’s usually something bad.”

  Miss Archer’s smile wilted. “Not if you want Miss York to join you in Helena for a sixty-day courtship.”

  “Which we’ve already established.” Hale attempted to keep his exasperation at bay. But this woman was pushing his limits of gentlemanly behavior. “I’m still waiting to hear how far outside normal agency practice you went with regards to Miss York.”

  Miss Archer shot a look at her mother, who was now the one looking triumphant. “It’s nothing bad.”

  “You’ve already assured me on that point, Miss Archer.” And he was even less inclined to believe her now than the first time.

  “It goes back to your rejection of the first nine candidates we sent you.”

  “They weren’t compatible.” Which was rather obvious.

  “Although they were exactly what you asked for.” She raised her head, a challenge in her brown eyes. “So instead of giving you the woman you asked for, I sent you the woman you needed.”

  He narrowed his eyes, trying once again to picture the qualifications he’d listed eight months ago on his application. But—honestly—did it even matter? Portia was who he
wanted. However, the lawyer in him wasn’t about to say as much. “Are you saying she came to your agency in an unusual way?”

  Miss Archer shook her head, the dark red feather tucked into the ribbon of her hat waving from side to side. “Miss York filled out an application and was vetted just as you were, Mr. Adams. I only changed her name and some of her specifics so you wouldn’t guess her identity.”

  He heard the words and understood their meaning, but he couldn’t quite comprehend what she was implying. Unless . . . “Did you read the letters she wrote to me?”

  This time the feather waved up and down.

  He crossed his arms over his chest as though they could shield him from feeling undressed. And she thought this was nothing bad? He’d like to hear precisely what she thought qualified for that.

  Then again, he really didn’t.

  She was talking again. He shoved the arguments and accusations shouting inside his head to one side in order to hear her. “. . . knew she was the perfect match for you, but in case you rejected her, as you had the others, I didn’t want there to be any awkwardness between you.”

  He frowned. “Are you saying I know Miss York?”

  Another nod, this one less vigorous so the feather barely waved.

  He squinted, trying to picture the women he’d met in Denver. “Who is she?”

  Miss Archer shot another glance at her mother, took a shallow breath, and looked him in the eye. “Yancey Palmer.”

  The name exploded inside his skull. He stood so fast, the picture frame toppled. Yancey had lied. Out and out lied! He’d opened his heart in those letters, which was hard enough when they were written to a woman he trusted—the woman he thought was his perfect match.

  But to Yancey Palmer?

  His skin burned with mortification. “I ask you to leave this office, Miss Archer. And I expect a full refund for allowing Miss Palmer to use your agency to pull off this scheme.”

  “But . . .” Miss Archer looked at him like he was confused or was the one who’d done something wrong. “She didn’t—”

  “Not another word.” He held up his hand, his palm facing her. “I don’t care what Miss Palmer said to manipulate you into deceiving me, there is no justification for what you’ve done. None. Now please leave before I do something we’ll both regret.” He stomped to the door and opened it. Given what he wanted to do—and say—it was far and away the most gentlemanly option.

  Miss Archer stood, her eyes blazing. “If you would just listen—”

  “Leave. Now!” The bellow from his throat must’ve scared the girl because—after a huff—she stormed out.

  Mrs. Archer stood. She snapped open her purse and withdrew a piece of paper. “The magnitude of this offense required that I come to you in person to offer both my apologies and a full refund.” She laid a banknote on the desk. “I’ve added additional funds to cover your expenses in corresponding with Miss Palmer and the letter you sent to us requesting her to join you in Helena.”

  Hale was tempted to march across the room, pick up her feeble attempt to repair the irreparable, and tear it in half right in front of her.

  “It also comes with an offer to continue working with you free of charge should you desire.” Mrs. Archer touched her hat as though to assure it was still in place. “I completely understand if you are unable to place your trust in me after this. In which case—if you wish—I will refer you to another agency and pay their fee.”

  If he couldn’t trust her again? If he wanted to contract with another mail order agency? No and never. He worked his jaw open enough to say, “Not at this time, madam.” He gestured to the exit for her as well—also something a gentleman shouldn’t do. But he needed the woman out of this office before the rage racing through his veins exploded in a tirade.

  Mrs. Archer didn’t take the hint. “I think it important that you understand, Miss Palmer—”

  “I think we’ve said all there is to say at this point.” Hale barely recognized his own voice. The only other time he’d been this infuriated was on his eighteenth birthday, when he’d found out about another person living a lie.

  Mrs. Archer dipped her chin. “Nevertheless, you need to listen to—”

  Hale spun around and left.

  * * *

  Yancey was checking the price tag on a set of pillowcases trimmed with Brussels lace when a touch on her elbow turned her around.

  Judge Forsythe stood there with a frown on his face. “Have you seen my nephew anywhere?”

  “I haven’t been keeping track of him since we ran out of buttons.” Yancey looked around the store. “Did he make it inside?”

  “There’s no line outside, so I assume so.”

  Yancey swung her gaze past the open archway leading into the stockroom. Her eye caught a particularly stylish hat with a tall maroon feather poking out of the brim. Antonia Archer owned a hat exactly like it. Was she here? If so, was something wrong with Nathan? Yancey’s breath hitched.

  “Are you all right, Miss Palmer?” The judge’s question sounded like it came from another room.

  “I’m fine, but please excuse me.” Without waiting for his reply, she strode toward the back of the store. “Antonia? Is that you?”

  The woman spun around. It was Antonia. “I’m sorry, Yancey. I’m so sorry.”

  “About what?” Yancey pressed her palm against her pounding chest. Heat spread up her neck and down her arms. Nathan didn’t want her. Or had been injured. Or was lying in a hospital somewhere. Or ... “Is Nathan dead?”

  Antonia jerked backward. “Good heavens, no.”

  Yancey exhaled with a whoosh. “Oh, thank goodness. I was—” The look on Antonia’s face stopped Yancey’s words. “Something else is wrong. What is it?”

  “I don’t know where to begin. I never ... I mean, he was so happy with you. I never imagined it would end like this.”

  Nathan didn’t want her. After all their tender words—after he hinted that he wanted to bring her to Denver—he didn’t want her. What had changed?

  “Let’s go somewhere private.” The suggestion came from Judge Forsythe.

  Before Yancey could tell him—politely, of course—that this was none of his business, the sound of heavy footsteps drew her attention.

  Hale Adams was stomping down the stairs, his face red. He stopped on the third step from the bottom and pointed a finger at her nose. “You lying, scheming, manipulative—”

  “Hale!” Judge Forsythe cut into his nephew’s tirade. “Calm down.”

  “Not this time, Uncle. She’s gone too far.”

  Yancey stared at him. “Gone too far? What are you talking about?” The only thing she’d done wrong as far as Hale Adams was concerned was running out of campaign buttons. Yes, she’d underestimated the number of people who would want them, but she hadn’t lied about it. Or manipulated anyone into wearing one.

  “Mr. Adams,” Mrs. Archer’s voice came from the top of the stairs. “Please. Miss Palmer is as innocent as you are.”

  “Ha!”

  Yancey turned her head away from Hale’s scorn. Store patrons gawked and craned their necks for a better view of the drama unfolding in the stockroom.

  Lovely. She was being berated for some unknown reason and everyone in Helena—enough of them, at any rate—were watching like the forest-green brocade curtain tied to the door between them made her an actress on a stage.

  “Let’s take this upstairs, shall we?” Judge Forsythe whispered.

  “Sir, under any other circumstance I would follow your advice most heartily.” Hale’s voice was loud enough to be heard by the back row of their audience. “But I refuse to be in the same room with this . . .”

  Yancey returned her attention to Hale.

  “This . . .” He repeated as he waved his hand in her direction.

  The inexplicable insult was as confusing as it was uncharacteristic. Hale—the man who prided himself on always being a gentleman—had refused to call her a lady or a woman or even a person. T
ears stung her eyes—not of grief or remorse—but of rage. “Nor do I wish to be in the same room with you, Mr. Adams.” She kept her voice as low as possible and swooped her hand toward the door to the alley. “Please. By all means. Leave.”

  He stared down at her, unmoving.

  “Go to your office.” Judge Forsythe’s command brooked no argument. “I’ll meet you there in half an hour.”

  Hale slid his eyes from her to his uncle. Some kind of communication passed between them, because after a long moment, Hale clomped down the last two steps and out the door.

  Yancey picked up her skirts and ran up the stairs. Hale’s scent—a combination of cedar cologne and typewriter ink—lingered in the air. For years, she’d breathed in the fragrance like life. Now she choked on it.

  Mrs. Archer met her at the top, swinging her hand toward the open door to her left. As Yancey passed, she heard the matchmaker say, “Sir, what Miss Palmer and I need to discuss is of a confidential nature.”

  “I am that young man’s uncle,” he responded, as though that gave him the right to know everything about his nephew’s life.

  “Then speak to him.” Mrs. Archer’s tone was polite but firm.

  Yancey gripped the back of a chair, her mind jumping from one thought to another.

  She’d never seen Hale so livid. Not even at Bruno Carson. She’d done nothing to engender such rage.

  Nathan didn’t want her. What had she done?

  Hale shouting accusations she couldn’t begin to unravel and Mrs. Archer calling down—

  Wait. Why was Hale talking to Mrs. Archer?

  “No, Antonia.” Mrs. Archer’s voice cut into Yancey’s wonderings. “I will speak to Miss Palmer. You go to the hotel and wait for me there.”

  “But—”

  “Antonia Elinor Archer, you turn yourself around and go before I fire you from the agency.”

  After a slight pause, a swish of fabric announced Antonia had done her mother’s bidding.

  “Sir,” Mrs. Archer continued, “I must ask you to leave.”

  There was an even longer pause before Judge Forsythe said, “Of course, madam.”