Chapter Two

Chloe had reveled in her brother’s many recountings of his and Porter’s misguided bits of mischief over the years. Watching Mrs. Northrop study Porter as they waited to be greeted by Mr. and Mrs. Ellsworth, Chloe suspected this Christmas season would provide years of entertaining stories.

A matchmaker. Porter had secured the services of a matchmaker. The very thought rose as a bubble of laughter in her throat. Porter far preferred quiet settings with his most intimate acquaintances. A matchmaker would have him running all over creation, tossing himself into every social whirl she could find. What had possessed him to pursue such misery?

The guests who had arrived just ahead of them slipped away, following a chambermaid up the grand front stairs, no doubt on their way to the rooms they would occupy for the length of the house party.

Their small group took their place in front of their hosts. Porter executed an awkward bow. Lewis slept against his chest, making even that small effort more difficult. Chloe adored the mischievous little boy, but he was unendingly rambunctious. Greetings would be less complicated with him slumbering. Porter clearly agreed, as he was excessively careful not to wake his son.

The Ellsworths seemed to accept the clumsy bow. They turned their attention to Vance and Chloe. Mrs. Ellsworth offered a curtsey, her high-piled white hair bouncing atop her head. Mr. Ellsworth’s wide eyes studied them both.

“Well met. Well met.” He watched them with all the eager interest of an excitable puppy. Chloe had taken his measure the first time she’d met him: curious, often tactless, surprisingly sweet. Mr. Ellsworth looked her over, his bushy brows pulling low. “You’ve grown older.”

She copied his expression, evaluating him. “Aging seems to be a common ailment.”

His grin blossomed on the instant. “Well delivered, Miss Munson.”

“And well deserved, Mr. Ellsworth.”

His wife swatted at him. “You really must begin thinking before simply saying whatever enters your mind.”

“If he does that,” Chloe said, “no one will recognize him.”

Both the Ellsworths laughed. No matter Mr. Ellsworth’s unhealthy fascination with anything that was none of his concern and Mrs. Ellsworth’s inability to rein in that particular tendency of his, they were rather delightful people, provided one could hold one’s own.

“And who is this?” Mr. Ellsworth turned his sights on Mrs. Northrop.

“Mrs. Adelaide Northrop,” the matchmaker answered.

“Northrop?” He filled the two syllables with all the awe one would generally reserve for shocking news of great international import. “Are you Mrs. Northrop who engineered a match for Lord Carraway’s girl, Turnbill’s son, and”—his eyes grew wider still—“the one Society called the Princess Pompous?”

Chloe let her eyes dart to Porter, desperately holding back her deep desire to gloat. Not two seconds into this introduction and Mrs. Northrop had been discovered, just as Chloe had predicted.

“One and the same,” Vance answered, “but, for the duration of this house party, she is simply Mrs. Northrop, friend of the Munson family. I believe you were informed we would have an additional guest.”

Mr. Ellsworth turned to Chloe, a hound on a scent. “Has she come to find a match for you, Miss Munson?”

Had Chloe been even the least bit sensitive about the state of her matrimonial prospects or the fact that she had been declared decidedly on the shelf two Seasons ago, she might have been embarrassed. Instead, she laughed unabashedly.

“Good heavens, no. Though our dear Mrs. Northrop could likely manage it, I have no desire to employ her services.”

That brought Vance’s attention to her, mouth downturned. “Have you abandoned all hope, then?”

“Utterly.” She dipped a curtsey to their host and hostess. “I would be very much obliged if we could be shown to our rooms. As Mr. Ellsworth ascertained so quickly, I am not so young as I once was.”

Mrs. Ellsworth quickly assumed command of the situation. A maid was assigned the task of accompanying Chloe, Vance, and Mrs. Northrop up to the wing of guest chambers where they would be staying. Another maid was tasked with showing Porter and his sleeping bundle to the nursery.

The first leg of their respective journeys proved identical. Chloe climbed the stairs beside Porter.

“Thank you for playing along with this little ruse,” he whispered. “If Ellsworth knew Mrs. Northrop was here on my request—” He shook his head.

“He suspects she is here on mine,” Chloe said.

Porter winced. “I am sorry about that.”

She waved it off. “I will endure, I assure you. But know that you are deeply indebted to me for this.”

He rubbed his son’s back. “You declared me deeply indebted several times today already. I hope you prove a merciful moneylender.”

“Always.”

At the upper landing, Porter was led in the opposite direction the rest of them were. The corridor wound a bit, the uneven floors speaking of piecemeal renovations over the years. Chloe rather enjoyed old houses like this one. They were not the grand, picturesque estates one was likely to read about in a travelogue, but they had charm and character.

Mrs. Northrop was placed in a bedchamber adjoining Chloe’s. The connecting doors were open, affording her a full view of that woman’s lodgings. Their maids slipped out after seeing to the unpacking of their clothing, leaving the two of them, strangers at best, in each other’s exclusive company.

“It seems our claim to be very dear friends has been believed,” Chloe said, standing in the doorway. “We will not be rid of each other all week, I daresay.”

Mrs. Northrop motioned her inside. “Tell me a little about Bartrum.”

Chloe made a sound of pondering. “He does not care for plum pudding. He cracked his ribs falling out of a tree when he was twelve years old. His son is running him ragged.”

A bit of amusement entered Mrs. Northrop’s eyes. That was a fine sign. Chloe tended to annoy people who did not possess at least some sense of the ridiculous. “You have known him a long time, it seems.”

“Since he and my brother met at Harrow.”

Mrs. Northrop indicated she should sit on the bed. “Is he as bashful as he appears?”

“He does not appear bashful to me,” Chloe answered.

Far from surprised, Mrs. Northrop nodded her agreement. “Why is he so unsure of his ability to find himself a wife? He was married before.”

“Yes, but he didn’t ‘find himself’ Rebecca. His parents found her.”

“And were they happy?”

That was a bit more personal than Chloe was entirely comfortable discussing. She didn’t answer.

Mrs. Northrop sat beside her. “I am not asking out of a love of gossip or selfish curiosity. I wish only to ascertain what he needs in a potential wife.”

“Did he give you no indication of his preferences?” Poor Porter was so frazzled so much of the time. It was a wonder he’d remembered to sign his name to the letter he’d sent the matchmaker.

“He wishes his son to have a mother.”

That made sense.

“But that is the only specific item he had on his list. I cannot say I am satisfied with that answer.”

Odd. “Why is that?”

“Because I suspect he needs far more. He simply doesn’t realize it yet.”

Chloe rose again, shrugging as if about to make a very casual observation. “Perhaps we could simply tell him what he needs and then you can provide it. That worked with the little charade you and I and my brother are enacting.”

Mrs. Northrop didn’t appear displeased with the show of humor, but neither did she seem the least put off the scent. “Is Mr. Bartrum a good man? Beneath the trappings of a gentleman, beneath the awkward bumbling through discussions of matches, beyond being attentive in his care of his son . . . is he a good person?”

Chloe stopped in the doorway, looking back at Mrs. Northrop. “I can say with full confidence that he is, quite possibly, one the best people I have ever been privileged to know.”

“Excepting your brother, I assume.”

“No, actually.” She leaned her shoulder against the doorframe. “Now, I don’t mean to imply that my brother is anything other than a truly lovely and good-hearted person. But Porter is something different. He is thoroughly good, to his very soul. Even as a much younger man, at an age when many children are blissfully unaware of the needs around them, he was deeply compassionate and eager to lift burdens and contribute to the happiness in the world.” She was not doing justice to the heart so few people truly got to see. But how did one explain such a thing? “You asked if his marriage was a happy one. It is something of an odd question because he makes a point of finding happiness in every situation, and he works hard to help others be happy as well. He and his late wife were not, perhaps, the most naturally suited to one another, but they were happy, in large part because he would not have stopped trying to make it so.”

Mrs. Northrop tipped her head a bit to one side, brow pulled in thought. “In what way were they ill-suited?”

Chloe might have objected, except she, herself, had made the admission. Further, if Mrs. Northrop were to make a match for Porter that was not either a misery or yet another marriage in which he would spend his days exhausted by the effort to find some success in a poorly chosen arrangement, she needed this information.

“He was not what she wanted,” Chloe said. “She thrived in Society and lived for the whirl of constant coming and going. He didn’t mind participating but was happiest at home or in small gatherings. He was willing to do what she preferred but was seldom given the same consideration.”

“Oh, dear.” Mrs. Northrop spoke with neither pity nor amusement. Rather, she seemed to simply understand the difficulty of such a situation.

“The late Mrs. Bartrum wasn’t an unfeeling person. But quiet evenings and tiny social circles was her idea of purgatory.”

Mrs. Northrop nodded. “That is very nearly the definition of ‘ill-suited.’”

“I do not for a moment think he needs or even wants to marry a lady who is a hermit,” Chloe said. “But I do hope he can find someone who understands him and who considers his happiness important enough to not disregard it.”

“He deserves to be happy?”

She smiled a little. “He deserves it more than anyone.”

* * *

Adelaide sat in the quiet of her guest chamber after Chloe returned to hers, pondering. She’d been right to take on this assignment. There was far more to Porter Bartrum’s predicament than met the eye.

He’d not been given the opportunity to choose his first wife, and so had no experience making such a monumental decision. She had no reason not to believe Chloe’s recounting of Mr. Bartrum’s first marriage. Any gentleman who had invested so much effort into creating happiness in such a mismatched arrangement had reason to be wary of another. His hands were quite full enough with his very energetic son. To find himself once more struggling with marriage must have been a discouraging prospect.

His worry, his inexperience, and his timidity in the company of strangers made it far too likely he would bungle the entire thing if left to undertake his own matchmaking.

Adelaide would need to be circumspect in her efforts, as this was a more complicated endeavor than she’d anticipated. He wished for his interest in a match to remain a secret. His son would require much of his time during the house party. He didn’t quite know what he wanted or needed. He had allowed very little time in which to find his future.

And, though she suspected neither of them realized as much, Chloe Munson was in love with him.