Eight
A pesky ache immediately took up residence behind Gwendolyn’s temple. Taking a moment to soothe it away, she considered Walter for a moment before blowing out a breath. “Forgive me if I misunderstood, but this proposal of yours . . . It doesn’t involve a marriage, does it?”
Given the horror now lurking in Walter’s eyes, she was evidently off the mark.
“Forgive me, Miss Brinley,” he began as he took to rubbing his temple as well. “I fear drawing the undivided attention of determined ladies so early in the day has left me unusually clumsy with my words. I certainly didn’t intend for you to take what I’m about to suggest as a marriage proposal, but . . .” He frowned. “You immediately assuming that’s what I was going to propose has me wondering if gentlemen you’re barely acquainted with make it a habit to broach marriage with you.”
“Oddly enough, that has occurred several times in the past, but usually because I was mistaken for my cousin.”
His lips curved. “I doubt that. I would think such misunderstandings have more to do with your propensity for creating chaos than mistaken identity.”
Gwendolyn began rubbing her temple again. “I don’t make a habit of introducing chaos into anyone’s life.”
“You’ve singlehandedly turned what should have been my straightforward quest to find a suitable bride into a complete circus.”
“I did not. I merely encouraged you to reveal the characteristic you’re searching for in a potential bride. If you’re unaware, that’s what we matchmakers are supposed to do.”
“I can’t claim to be an expert on matchmakers in general, but I imagine those in the matchmaking business take on . . .” He paused and tilted his head. “Do they call them clients?”
“Mrs. Parker refers to her charges as the ladies she’s agreed to sponsor for a Season.”
He gave a bob of his head. “Perfectly understandable, since the word client reeks of trade, something no society matron would care to participate in. But returning to the point I was trying to make—may I assume the main job of a matchmaker is to find the most beneficial marriage for the ladies they’re sponsoring?”
“I would think that doesn’t need confirmation.”
He inclined his head. “Indeed. But may I also assume matchmakers find advantageous matches by ferreting out personal information pertaining to each bachelor in a most discreet fashion?”
“Discretion might come into play.”
“Of course it does. It then stands to reason that after matchmakers ferret out pertinent information regarding potential suitors, they keep that information under wraps so their competition is left in the dark about what a certain gentleman is searching for in the wife department.”
Irritation sent Gwendolyn’s toe tapping against the sand as she swallowed the argument she longed to voice, knowing she couldn’t contradict his reasoning because he wasn’t exactly mistaken.
“You know I’m right,” Walter said. “But to spare you the indignation of having to admit that—something I’m convinced wouldn’t sit well with you, given your attitude—allow me to present an employment opportunity I wish to offer.”
Her toe tapping came to an abrupt end. “What do you mean . . . my attitude?”
He smiled. “Considering I’m hoping you’ll agree to come work for me, I don’t think it’s in my best interest to delve into that topic.”
“Why would you want to hire a woman you believe possesses an attitude?”
“Because your type of attitude could very well provide me a way to avoid searching for a wife this Season.”
Gwendolyn’s eyes narrowed. “On my word, now I understand what you’re getting at. You want me to become your children’s governess.”
“Indeed, and to entice you into accepting that position, I’m willing to extend you a very lucrative offer.” Walter took a step closer to her. “It’s the perfect solution for both of us. You, Miss Brinley, are clearly a competent woman, because you managed to win a stare down with the most contrary pony I’ve ever met. I have a feeling, what with how you’re the eldest of six, you’re very good at managing children.”
“I am very good at managing children, but I have no interest in becoming a governess.”
“Did you miss the part where I said it will be a lucrative offer?”
“That would have been difficult to miss. But even with such a tempting proposition, I won’t be taking you up on it.”
“Why not?”
“I already have a position. I’m an assistant matchmaker.”
“But again, you’re not very good at it.”
“That’s simply your opinion.”
Walter frowned. “It’s not opinion—it’s fact. You broke a significant matchmaking rule last night by allowing everyone at the Astor ball to learn I’m looking for a mother for my three motherless children.”
“I’m not going to argue that I broke a matchmaking rule, or several, but that doesn’t mean I’m not competent in my position . . . or that I won’t get competent in the future. I’m still in the infant stages of matchmaking, and you mark my words, by the end of this Season I’ll be one of the best matchmakers in Newport.”
He cocked his head, but before he could voice the argument he clearly wanted to voice, an ear-splitting howl of rage rang out from across the beach, drawing Gwendolyn’s attention. To her amazement, the wailing came from a pint-sized little girl garbed in an ivory bathing dress, her golden locks tied back from her rapidly reddening face with a pink bow. Glancing to the right of the little girl, Gwendolyn discovered a little boy with the same golden hair stomping up and down on a sandcastle that had clearly been painstakingly engineered by a diminutive architect who was now in a massive state of hysterics.
“Priscilla still seems to be in fine form,” Walter muttered as he watched the little girl begin tossing fistfuls of sand at the little boy, who didn’t stop his destruction but seemed to increase the momentum of his stomps, eliciting louder howls of rage from Priscilla.
Gwendolyn shaded her eyes with her hand, wincing when Priscilla hurled a sand pail at the little boy. “Those are your children?”
“Those are my twins—Priscilla and Samuel.” Walter jerked his head toward two women dressed in white blouses and dark skirts, both of whom were watching the drama unfold in front of them without moving so much as a finger to intervene. “It appears Miss Wendell and Miss Putman are hesitant to act because . . .” He gestured to two well-dressed ladies standing a few feet away from the ruckus, both seemingly attempting to cajole the children to no effect.
“My mother, Ethel, along with my mother-in-law, Matilda, have once again attempted to intervene on their grandchildren’s behalf, a circumstance that often leaves the governesses I employ reluctant to take control of any unpleasant situation.”
“If you employ two governesses, why do you need me?”
He winced as Priscilla abandoned her sand throwing and launched herself at her brother. “Is that really a question that needs answering as we watch my children and their unbecoming antics, which again, the governesses are ignoring?”