The Wartime Matchmakers, page 8
“Yes, this is the Marriage Bureau,” Hetty replied at once, taking on a tone of polite warmth that Elizabeth knew would make all their future clients feel welcome.
“Is it very much? Your services, I mean?” the postman began uncertainly. “I lost my wife two years ago, still have two little’uns to raise. I was hoping . . . to find them a good mother.”
Elizabeth turned from her letter collecting to see Hetty retrieve one of their newly printed business forms and hand it to the postman.
“It’s not very much at all. We work with clients on all income levels. If you would like to fill this out and return it when you have time, we’ll set up a day for your interview.”
The postman’s eyes widened. “Interview?”
“Don’t be nervous,” Elizabeth said as she joined Hetty. “It’s only for us to become better acquainted. The more we know about you, the better we can help find a woman who would suit not only your children but also you.”
“Me?” the postman echoed as though the thought of finding love again simply had not occurred to him.
“Yes. A good marriage is made up of two people who suit each other and enjoy one another’s company. We also hope that love comes with that mutual liking,” Hetty added.
At this, the postman removed his cap and bowed his head bashfully. “Thank you. I’ll take this home and bring it with tomorrow’s mail.”
Elizabeth and Hetty watched him carry his few remaining letters away to the building next door.
“Oh, Hetty,” Elizabeth sighed in dreamy delight. “We have to find him a wife.” The look in the postman’s eyes had captured her heart. Hope. Hope for love, for a family, for a sense of not being alone in the world. It was a powerful thing to hope for love.
“He’s not the only one,” Hetty announced. She began to collect the tumble of envelopes on the desk. “There are at least a hundred letters here.”
“At least,” Elizabeth agreed. “Why don’t we separate them into two piles? Men here and women there.” She indicated places on Hetty’s desk. “Then we can begin making notes and sorting them based on other categories. I’ll fetch some index cards.” Elizabeth took her copy of the book about learning to play bridge and moved it into a drawer of her desk, and Hetty did the same with her knitting needles and pattern book.
For the next three hours, they sorted the letters into male and female candidates.
“Oh, look at this one. Man or woman? They didn’t say.” Hetty passed a piece of paper to Elizabeth. Elizabeth scanned the contents. There were plenty of personal details but nothing that could identify the writer as a man or woman. Even the handwriting offered no clues.
“We had better make an uncertain pile.” Elizabeth handed the letter back to Hetty. The place where their desks were pushed together became the uncertain territory. Elizabeth retrieved a letter from the stack nearest her and opened it. She unfolded the paper, and an old photograph slipped out. She couldn’t help but giggle as she took a closer look at it. A plump-cheeked baby lay sprawled naked on a tiger-skin rug, and on the back of the photo was scrawled, “Me at seven months.”
“Look at this.” She passed the photo over to Hetty, and Hetty snorted as she tried not to laugh. “Man or woman? I can’t tell,” Elizabeth admitted. “We had better write back to all of the uncertain letter writers and obtain some extra information.”
Hetty folded the letter and the photograph back into its envelope and placed it in the middle pile.
“I have an idea.” Hetty sat up suddenly. “We need a little black book. Or rather, a large black book.”
A flash of memory of sitting on a bench with Hetty after that first disastrous solicitor meeting came back to Elizabeth. Hetty had carried a little black book in her handbag that listed all her friends and their relevant information.
“Oh?”
“Yes, one with our clients, the ones unmatched. It must be a big volume, something like a ledger where we can record their name, religion, age, income, where they live, and so forth. We can sort them alphabetically by towns and even use a system to record when they have already met people.”
“That sounds perfect.” Elizabeth’s mind was already spinning with the possibilities. “Once they pay their small registration fee and become an official member of the Marriage Bureau, we shall put their names in the book and assign them an official number.”
She shuffled the blank index cards and bit her lip, thinking a moment before continuing. “Then we must also put their information on a card with details about them and what they are looking for in a partner. As we match, we can pair cards up together. We can also record the assigned numbers of the people they’ve met, so we don’t fear introducing them twice to the same person.”
Hetty nodded. “I’ll start on the men, you start on the women.”
They both turned at the sudden sound of a knock on the door.
“Do you think it’s a client?” Elizabeth asked at the same time Hetty exclaimed, “I bet the postman’s back.”
“Quick, toss you for it.” Hetty pulled a sixpence out of her handbag and tossed it. Hetty won.
She opened the door, and a middle-aged man in an officer’s uniform, hat tucked under one arm, studied Hetty uncertainly. He was a handsome man in his forties, and his hair was lightly streaked with gray. He had a regal bearing that likely came with years as a commander of men, not unlike Hetty’s father. Elizabeth decided she liked this man at once.
“This is the Marriage Bureau, is it not? My name is William Taylor.”
“Yes, please come in. I’m Hetty, and this is my partner, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth took the man’s hat and hung it on their spindly coatrack in the corner while Hetty gestured for him to sit in the nice chair that Charles had brought in a few days before for their clients. Hetty had tried to decline it, but Charles had insisted that his office had no need for a third chair for clients and it was getting in the way of the boxes of his current client work. Therefore, the beautiful leather-backed chair was now a permanent part of the Marriage Bureau office as the client interview chair.
Neither Elizabeth nor Hetty wanted to risk putting a client in one of the two rickety desk chairs until they could have them fixed. It was only a matter of time before a screw turned itself loose and a chair broke.
“Please, have a seat and we shall get started.” Hetty was all calm politeness, but as she reached for the letters on the desk, her hands shook. Noticing this, Elizabeth hastily collected the piles of envelopes for her and took them to the inner office, where she set them on the small table out of sight. Even though she was not the one asking questions, she was nervous as well.
Their first client! And so soon! It was rather remarkable. This was one of the most important moments in their lives. The destiny of this man and those whose words filled the hundreds of letters in the other room hung on the bureau’s ability to match them with the person who could fill the rest of their lives with joy. Every moment of this process with a client had to be handled with thoughtfulness and the utmost care.
Hetty collected an interview questionnaire and a pad of paper with a pen, and then, with a little initial awkwardness, she prompted the officer, a major, to explain his history and personal information. A few times Hetty froze, completely at a loss for what to ask him next.
“Now, I suppose you want to know what I’m looking for in a wife?” he volunteered gently.
Elizabeth watched the major from the doorway, careful not to intrude on the intimacy of the interview. It was clear he was a good man, quite kind and effectively able to lead Hetty through questions whenever she got a bit stalled.
“Yes, do tell me, what qualities, both physical and mental, do you require in a partner?”
At this, the major leaned forward a little, as though a tad embarrassed.
“She does not need to be a great beauty, but she does need a great heart. In my life, with what I’ve seen . . . I long for someone with compassion, someone who will care for others as I wish to.” The frankness of his response made Elizabeth’s throat tighten. A good man like this deserved a good woman, and someone out there—perhaps one of the women in their letters today—was the one for him.
Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder at the stack of envelopes safely tucked in their private back room while the interview slowly came to an end. Her fingers practically itched to tear into the envelopes and discover which woman might be the right one.
“Well, this is a good start, Major Taylor. If you don’t mind filling this out for the rest of your contact information.” Hetty presented him with the official registration form, and he dutifully filled it out.
“How much is the registration fee?” He slid the completed form across the desk and got to his feet. “I read something about ten guineas in the paper?”
“Oh, please, no fee today. You were very helpful to us, and . . . ,” Hetty stammered.
At this, a small smile curved the major’s lips. “I was your first client, wasn’t I?” There was no judgment, only bemusement in his kind eyes.
Hetty’s face turned as red as a radish. “Oh, but . . .”
He only continued to smile and shot a glance at Elizabeth. “It is ten guineas, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but . . . ,” Hetty said. “You really mustn’t . . .” She tried to push away the guineas he held out.
“There.” He placed them on the desktop next to his completed form. “It’s ten guineas to register?”
Elizabeth nodded, her face heated with embarrassment. She agreed with Hetty that the major shouldn’t have to pay for teaching them how to interview. But it was clear they would not win this battle of honor, not with the major still smiling with that gentleness that deserved to be given to a woman as darling as he was.
“Yes, that’s right. Thank you so much, Major Taylor. We will be in touch soon with several promising matches,” Elizabeth said as she regained herself.
His eyes, once so kind yet serious, now held a hint of mischief. “I imagine you will be. Goodbye, ladies.” He bowed politely, put his hat back on his head, and saw himself out.
“Lizzie, be honest. Did I make an utter fool of myself?” Hetty collected the guineas and put them in a black leather envelope before she picked up the major’s form.
“No, you didn’t. It was your first time; I would have been as flummoxed as you. We’ll both be far more relaxed next time.” Elizabeth gave her shoulder a sisterly squeeze.
“Yes, we will. Oh, it was just so intimate, hearing what he wanted in a person. I hadn’t thought about that part, about how much our clients will open their hearts and minds to us. They must have to trust us very much to do such a thing.” Hetty’s eyes grew round. “Heavens, we haven’t any friends to introduce him to! He’s much too old for our set, but oh, we must match him. He’s absolutely wonderful, isn’t he?”
Hetty was nearly swoony, and Elizabeth felt the same. He was rather the perfect client, and for him to be their very first, they were quite lucky. Elizabeth would do everything in her power to find him the perfect wife.
“The letters! There must be someone in there we can introduce him to.” Elizabeth took the major’s form and retrieved a blank note card to start their first entry in the catalog of men. “If none of these fit, we could send his money back in a few days.”
“We’ll find someone,” Hetty vowed with such determination that Elizabeth beamed with pride before they spread the letters out on the table again.
Half an hour later, they had six very good candidates for Major Taylor.
“This one is the best so far. She says—” Hetty’s excited words were cut off by another knock upon their door.
“Your turn,” Hetty insisted.
“All right, but once we get better prepared, I believe we should do the interviews together.” She had been thinking it over while watching Major Taylor’s interview. Two minds were better than one when they both worked together. There would be a lot of questions that they could cover, which one person alone might forget.
Elizabeth opened the front door and came face-to-face with a tall, dark-haired, handsome man. His slightly hawklike nose and the lift of his chin gave off an air of haughtiness, however. As he stepped into the room, wearing a well-tailored suit, his movements were smooth and confident as he spoke. His voice was pleasing to the ears, but his abrupt manner of conversation left Elizabeth unamused.
“This is the matchmaking service, isn’t it?” His brown eyes swept over her and then moved to Hetty, lighting up with recognition. “Hang on, I’ve seen you before.”
“Well, yes. I’m sure you have. We have had our pictures in the paper about the bureau—
The man shook his head and waved a hand. “No, I’ve seen you in the Tatler. You’re some brigadier’s daughter or some such thing. You wish to be an actress.” His tone wasn’t condescending but rather a tad smug, as though he was proud of himself for making the connection.
Hetty’s previously demure compassion that Major Taylor had engendered faded, and she narrowed her eyes.
Oh dear. Best to intervene, thought Elizabeth.
“Please have a seat, Mr. . . .”
“Frank Malcolm,” he supplied and seemed to expect a response of “Ah, yes, the famous Frank! How could we not have recognized you?” Elizabeth almost laughed, and she shot Hetty a look that made her friend roll her eyes.
“Well . . .” Elizabeth sat down beside him and pulled a clean pad of paper toward her. “Let’s start with your likes and dislikes—”
“Who do you know socially?” he cut in.
The rudeness of the question caught Elizabeth off guard. “I beg your pardon?”
“Who do you know in the highest social circles? I must only be introduced to young, beautiful ladies in the Book.”
The Book? Lizzie had no idea what the Book was. She peeped quickly at Hetty, who mouthed the word Debrett’s silently with raised eyebrows.
Ah, yes, Debrett’s. It was the ultimate book, published each year, with information about all of England’s wealthy and titled people. Elizabeth had never seen a copy before. She was a girl from Cambridge, after all. But Hetty must know about it.
“Well, who do you know?” Mr. Malcolm asked again, his gaze moving between Elizabeth’s face and the rolled-up canvas by the door where they had hidden the mostly empty paint cans. Admittedly, it didn’t present a professional portrait of their offices, but they hadn’t had time to put it all away. Neither of them had imagined anyone would come knocking today.
“I see. If you don’t have anyone . . .” His tone suggested they had no one . . . and he wasn’t entirely wrong. They hadn’t yet had time to sort through all the letters they’d received that morning.
“We do. It’s just that we don’t offer anyone up as a possible candidate until we’ve finished the interview.” Elizabeth was making this rule up as she went along, but it was a good one.
Hetty sat down at her desk across from them, looking quite busy, when suddenly the phone rang. She answered immediately.
“This is the Marriage Bureau, Hetty speaking . . . Oh? Yes, of course, let me take down some information. An heiress? Oh, lovely. How much a year do you . . . That much? Why, of course, we would have a list of excellent gentlemen who— Yes, most definitely.” Hetty gave Mr. Malcom a look of consideration as she listened to the woman on the phone while she also scribbled notes on a pad.
It took Elizabeth a moment to collect herself, and she turned back to Malcolm as Hetty ended the call, only for the phone to ring again. And again. The entire length of Mr. Malcolm’s interview, Hetty took a staggering amount of phone calls, all from young women of means and with connections.
“Please fill out the rest of this form, Mr. Malcolm, and if you wish, you may pay your fee. Then we will contact you soon about potential matches.”
He filled out his form, frowning occasionally as he answered the questions about his future wife’s requirements of height, religion, figure, income, and other topics.
“My income is eight hundred pounds a year. It’s best to marry someone already out in society, you see. Back in Calcutta, there are expectations, and I shouldn’t like to disappoint people. My wife will need to impress my set back in India when we return.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Elizabeth murmured as though she cared, but in truth, this man wasn’t that likeable. He didn’t seem to be a fortune hunter, but his hunger for glory was less than inspiring. It would make it all the more difficult to find a wife for him. Fully aware of and frankly embarrassed by her own bias against Mr. Malcom, Elizabeth tried to smile and nod as he continued to talk about his friends back in Calcutta.
Elizabeth accepted his form and fee, a cramping sensation developing in her stomach at the thought of finding a woman who would tolerate Mr. Malcolm from Calcutta. She didn’t want to send any nice girl out to dinner with him. She’d likely toss a bowl of soup over his head once he dared to open his mouth. But perhaps she could find a woman who didn’t mind his desire to social climb, and they could make the precarious journey up the ladder together?
Once Mr. Malcolm left the office, Hetty leaned back in her chair and smirked.
“What was that all about? Would any of those women really make a good match for him?”
“Oh, come now,” Hetty snickered. “There weren’t any women. I could see him putting together that we had only just started, and I’m not interested in matchmaking him. But we don’t want him spreading the word that we have no prospects for matches on the books. So . . .” She kicked the phone cord on the desk, and the phone rang.
Elizabeth burst out laughing. “Every single call?”
“Every one. That will give him something to think about besides getting himself photographed in the Tatler, the Daily Sketch, or the Bystander. Christ, what a man. He’s a true schemer. I didn’t think we’d have any of those so early.”
Elizabeth hadn’t thought they’d have gotten anyone like that at all. She’d spent the last few days rehearsing a dozen types of conversations in her head to coax shy Londoners out of their shells to discuss their romantic needs. But the Calcutta man, Mr. Malcolm, was entirely unexpected.
