Chapter 1 of "A Match For a Reluctant Bride: The Mystery Matchmaker of Ella Pointe"

"I was being watched. A prickle at the base of my neck told me so. Were they angered by the length of time I’d been sitting on the bench looking at the same painting? Maybe they wanted to take my seat on the bench I thought of as my own? Or was my weeping offensive, sopping up my hot tears with a hanky to keep them from dripping into the collar of my shirtwaist? Or perhaps they were a killer, planning their attack for the moment I walked outside?

I knew only that it would not be a male admirer. Recently jilted wallflowers who spent more time in art museums than with people did not have such powers of seduction.

Wiping my eyes, I turned slowly to catch sight of the bandit. I was right. A woman sitting on a bench across the room was indeed staring at me. She had hair the color of straw and a long, slender neck.

Had she found me odd, sitting by myself for such a long time? On the many days I spent here, I always ended up sitting in this same spot staring at the same painting. Only occasionally would someone stop to look. They never lingered long. No one ever sat. There were not many who studied the work as intently as I. The paintings filled me with joy, gave meaning to my ordinary life. This one was my favorite. I always saved it for last.

I glanced sideways at the woman, noticing the expensive details of her emerald dress and her upright posture. She had the air of someone of importance and wealth. A fine lady. The type I could never hope to be. Especially now that I was no longer engaged to Lionel. Only gossip lingered from our long engagement. Lionel and my best friend had married, leaving me behind to lick my wounds in the company of my beloved paintings. Thank God for art, or I might have curled into a ball and given up completely.

“May I help you?” I asked, finding my voice. “Do we know each other?” Maybe she was a customer at my father’s bakery, and I hadn’t placed her out of context.

“No, I’m sorry. I’ve been staring, haven’t I?”

“It seems so, yes.”

“The way you’re peering at the painting has made me unable to look away from you. I’ve never seen anyone so moved by a painting.”

“Yes, well, I see it differently today than I did yesterday. That’s how I know it’s truly a masterpiece.”

She got up from the other bench and came over, asking politely if she could join me. I nodded assent, and she held out her hand. I took in her impeccably white gloves and the delicate, expensive-looking buttons on the lower sleeve of her dress. “I’m Mrs. Aubrey Mantle.”

“Faith Fidget.” I gave her hand a quick squeeze before drawing mine back to my lap. “Nice to meet you.”

“Do you come here often?”

I nodded. “Almost every day. After work.” Who was this woman, and why did she want to know? If it weren’t that she was obviously a woman of means and prestige, I would have gotten up by now and walked away. One can’t be too careful in this city.

“Where do you work?”

“I work in my father’s bakery. In the front, taking orders and such. He likes to bake but doesn’t like helping the customers. He’s shy.” Like me. But I had to do it, or we’d be out of business.

“But you love art? Obviously.”

“More than anything else.”

“Are you an artist?”

I shook my head. “I wish, but I have no talent whatsoever. Regardless, I could look at these paintings all day. Do you see how there’s a story in each one?”

“I’ve never been one with enough patience to look properly. My late husband used to tease me that it wasn’t a race to see who could walk through the entire museum the fastest.”

“A lot of people are that way. There’s nothing wrong with it,” I added, for fear she’d think me rude.

“I’m always more interested in the people around me,” Mrs. Mantle said. “All the details that tell me about a person. For example, I have some ideas about you.”

“As in?” I couldn’t help but be intrigued. Most people didn’t notice me at all.

“Your love of art. The glimmer of intelligence in your eyes. Your simple dark skirt and white blouse hinted that you’d been at work, although I’d guessed a secretary, not a bakery. You mentioned a father but no mother, which leads me to believe your mother has passed away some time ago. You’re in obvious distress, given the tears. I’m guessing a man has broken your heart.”

My brows shot up in surprise. “How did you know?”

“As I said, I watch people carefully. The way you brushed away the tears with such ferocity, as if you wanted to punish yourself for crying. Tell me about him. What happened?”

I thought for a moment. Did I want to tell my pitiful story to a stranger? It was surely one she’d heard before. Left for a woman’s best friend.

An image of Lionel’s face danced before me. His soft brown eyes and a mouth too pink for a man, yet perfect. The pitying way he’d looked at me while saying the words, “I love her. We’re going to marry. I’m sorry, Faith. Truly, I am. But you deserve a man who loves you, and I’m not him.”

Mrs. Mantle seemed to be a woman who would never be silly enough to fall for the wrong man. She would never have allowed herself to give her whole heart to someone who didn’t love her back. Wouldn’t she have instinctually known that he was playing her for a fool? And what of my best friend? The betrayal that cut so deep it may as well have been done with a real knife.

“You’re correct. I have a broken heart. My betrothed has married my best friend.”

“Oh, dear me. How horrendous for you. It’s no wonder you’re crying.”

Her kindness made the tears return in full force. I held my damp hanky to my face and breathed in and out, in and out.

She patted my hand, almost as I imagined a loving auntie would. Strangely enough, it was comforting.

“I’m lost, Mrs. Mantle. Utterly lost. Humiliated as well. My poor papa had sacrificed so much to give us a small wedding. I had to tell him what had happened, and it was almost worse than when Lionel broke the news to me.”

I’d not wanted the wedding, only to be married to Lionel. Papa had insisted. Meanwhile, as the day approached, I began to dread walking down the aisle in front of all those people more and more. The idea of them all staring at me filled me with terror. Had that driven Lionel into Mable’s arms? No, I told myself. He didn’t love you.

“So you come here to look at your beloved paintings, hoping they will heal your broken heart.”

“That’s right. It might sound ridiculous, but they’re like old friends. Ones that can never betray me.”

“I understand completely. May I give you some advice? From someone who felt lost after the death of my husband?”

“Yes, please.” Please, tell me what I can do to stop hurting this much. To feel as if I’m dying slowly, a decay that started in my stomach and is working its way through the rest of me.

“I was devastated after the death of my husband. I could barely manage to get out of bed.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. The only thing that made a difference was to become involved passionately with another cause. In my situation, it was starting a business. I hurled myself headfirst into building something I could be proud of. I still miss him. I’m not saying that it magically took his place, but it makes living day after day worthwhile. I have purpose and drive. When I cannot sleep at night and I look over to the spot where Daniel used to lie and my heart fills with that terrible ache, I get up and go to my desk.”

“What is it that you do?”

She hesitated for a moment, playing with the buttons on the sleeve of her dress. “I’m in the staffing business. Companies or individuals hire me to find the perfect person for their needs.”

“How interesting. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Yes, well, I’m ahead of my time, perhaps?”

“What kind of positions do you fill?” I asked.

“All different sorts.” She clapped a hand to her forehead. “Strangely enough—and I just thought of it—I’m filling a position right now that might interest you.”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Mantle. I have to work for Papa.”

She continued as if she hadn’t heard me. “I have a client who is a very talented painter and even a little famous in Seattle. He’s looking for an assistant. Someone he can teach how to stretch canvases and clean brushes. Remind him to eat when he’s ensconced in a project.

“I wish you good luck finding someone. Seattle’s far away.” All the way across the country. “Will it be hard to find someone from here?”

“In the past, I’ve sent them the right candidate from here.”

“They travel all that way? For a job?”

“Sometimes people need a fresh start,” Mrs. Mantle said. “Like say, while healing from a broken heart. A change in scenery can be just the trick.”

“I wouldn’t be able to leave my papa. He needs me.”

“That’s a shame. I believe you’d be just right for the position. And the artist.”

“What’s he like?” My curiosity got the better of me.

“Dashing and charming from what I know. Very serious about his art but little else. Unmarried,” she added, as if an afterthought.

“That doesn’t sound like a brooding artist to me. I imagine them temperamental and manic, but I’ve never actually known one.”

“From all reports, Briggs Tutheridge is someone who enjoys life. Perhaps a little too much.”

How intriguing. Too much fun? What did she mean by that? My naivete about the world made it difficult to imagine how a person could have too much fun. As a woman who was not invited to dances or parties, it seemed to me that if fun were offered, why not take it? “I say, good for him. Life is short. Isn’t that what they say?”

Mrs. Mantle smiled. I seemed to please her with my answer, but I had no idea why. I sat there for a moment, imagining this dashing painter, probably with silver hair and a curled mustache. “What kind of painting does he do?”

“He earns money by portrait painting. But it’s my understanding that he enjoys painting landscapes of his island.”

“Island?”

“Yes, did I forget to mention that part? He lives on a small island off the Washington coast. They’re called the San Juan Islands and they’re nestled in the Puget Sound. I know little about the area, other than what my client’s told me. Calm waters, green meadows, an abundance of trees, and a mild climate. It rarely snows. There are more wildflower varieties than can be counted.”

“You’re speaking of the San Juan Islands?” I asked, flabbergasted. I’d seen them on the world atlas and been curious enough to ask our librarian for more details of the environment and indigenous people who dwelled there. She had none, other than to tell me the islands had been named after the Spanish Francisco de Eliza expedition in 1791 to honor his patron, who had a long Spanish name I couldn’t recall at the moment.

“Yes, you’ve heard of them?” Once again, Mrs. Mantle seemed exceedingly pleased by my knowledge of the San Juan Islands.

“I love maps,” I said, feeling sheepish. “I study them and dream of all the places I’d like to go if I could.”

“I have an idea,” Mrs. Mantle said slowly. “What if you were to go out for a short time and help Mr. Tutheridge? It would give you an opportunity to see that part of the world. You can come home after a few months or stay if you really like living there.”

“Wouldn’t he want someone permanent?” Even though I knew it was impossible for me to go, the idea excited me. No, no. I snuffed it out a second later. I could never leave Papa. He would be lonely without me. We’d always been a team of two, my sweet, dear papa and me. Without me, he would be lost.

“Mr. Tutheridge won’t mind. If you want to stay, he will be happy, but he also understands it might not be for everyone.”

“Which island is it?” I could picture the cluster of small islands on the map.

“Whale Island. Did you see that one on your map?”

“Yes,” I said excitedly. “It’s shaped like a horseshoe. Or at least, that’s what it looks like to me.”

“My client said Whale Island is shaped like a saddlebag, but a horseshoe will do as well.”

“Does the charming painter live there alone?” I would not want to be there alone with him. That would simply not do at all. Papa wouldn’t allow it, even if I wanted to go.

“Briggs Tutheridge lives with his mother and siblings on a large estate. They call it Stella.”

“Stella? How strange.”

“A little, yes. They’re eccentric, as only the rich can afford to be.”

“They’re rich?”

“Yes, the family is very wealthy,” Mrs. Mantle said. “Their father owned a shipbuilding empire, which was sold after Roland Tutheridge’s death, and the money was split evenly among his widow and the children.”

“How many Tutheridges are there?”

“Four altogether. Briggs, the painter, is the youngest son.”

“What age is he?” My image of an elderly man with a paintbrush might not be correct.

“He’s in his middle twenties,” Mrs. Mantle said.

“That’s very young to have established any kind of painting career, don’t you think? He must be very good.” How I would love to go and see this painter and his island. But no. Papa. I must think of him first.

Mrs. Mantle was taking her calling card from her bag. “If you decide at any point this would be of interest to you, please come by my office. I can give you more details. All expenses to and from will be covered by the client.”

All of them. Goodness, what an opportunity. I was jealous of the man or woman who took the job.

“No better way to heal a broken heart than to travel,” Mrs. Mantle said gently, rising to her feet. “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, dear. I hope to see you again.”

“I’m usually here in the afternoons, so we might see each other again.” I smiled up at her. “Thank you for such a nice conversation. I quite enjoyed it.”

“As did I.”

Then she was off, her skirt rustling and leaving the faint scent of sweet perfume behind.

I returned closer to the life depicted in my favorite painting. No use dreaming of faraway islands and charming painters and an estate named Stella. My life was here. I knew exactly what the rest of my life would entail. Working with Papa, coming to the museum, walking in the afternoons for exercise and fresh air, such as it was here in the city.

The first time I’d come to the museum, the picture had drawn me in as a lover might. A soulmate who had waited for my arrival and confessed their affection immediately. Ah, there you are. The one who will understand me and love me.

The scene in the painting was a simple one. A man stood before an easel, paintbrush in hand, contemplating his work, his weight favoring one foot more than the other. Behind him, a woman sat next to a creek, a book on her lap and an umbrella shading her from the sun. A brown dog slept in the grass next to her. There was nothing dramatic about the scene, which is why I loved it so fiercely. A depiction of a sweet afternoon in an ordinary life. I suppose I could imagine myself as the woman, reading and stroking her dog while the metallic scent of oil paints mixed with that of the summer grass.

However, today, as I sat here nursing my broken heart, I saw something different. Art changes depending on the viewer’s current experience. What once appeared as a happy domestic scene now told me a different story. Perhaps he was not contemplating his work. His worried expression could be one of impending betrayal. He might be thinking of the best way to tell the woman who trusted him with her whole heart that his feelings had changed. He’d fallen in love with another woman. This other woman might be her best childhood friend. Instead of a marriage proposal, as she’d expected, there would be a discussion in hushed, aggrieved tones. He would ask for her forgiveness but would receive none. “We never meant for it to happen. I’m sorry. Can you forgive me? Can we be friends? All of us?”

Since Lionel had broken our engagement, I had walked around with this ache in my belly and chest. I’d not been able to eat or sleep. Today, Papa had begged me to spend the day at the museum. “Look at your precious paintings, darling girl. They’ll make you feel better.”

As much as I loved Papa and respected his wisdom, he was incorrect. I did not feel better. Although I hoped my assumption wasn’t true, at the moment, it felt as if nothing would ever make me happy again. My whole world had fallen apart. I couldn’t fathom a way forward. Not when everything I dreamed of had been snatched away in the time it took for Lionel to tell me he loved Mable. The two people, besides Papa, that I trusted more than anyone had betrayed me. Six months, he’d said, when I asked him how long it had been going on. Six months. What an utter fool I’d been.

Should I go to the islands? For a short time, as Mrs. Mantle had suggested? I would talk to Papa about it and see what he thought. There was no harm in that.


That evening, I sat with Papa at our small kitchen table, eating the soup I’d made and a loaf of his famous sourdough bread. People stood in line every morning to buy them fresh. Anything we didn’t sell, we took home. Sometimes it was wheat, sometimes white, and once in a while a rye. Not my favorite, but if that’s all that was left, then so be it.

Our apartment above the bakery was the only home I’d ever known. It consisted of a small kitchen and living room, plus two bedrooms. I’d slept on the same twin bed since I’d turned two. Right around the time my mother left.

“Tell me about your day,” Papa said, smiling in that hopeful, careful way he had of late, worried to cause me further hurt with whatever he said or did. “How was the museum?” He leaned closer over the table, his bald head pink and shiny.

“It was nice. I met someone interesting.”

I went on to tell him about my encounter with Mrs. Mantle and the job she’d offered to me.

“Just right there on the spot?” Papa asked. “Isn’t that something.” He wiped his white mustache with the edge of a napkin. He was forever getting food caught in the bushy thing.

“Yes, and even more outrageous, she suggested I could take the position for a short time, see that part of the country, and return home when I’d had enough.”

Papa didn’t say anything, but I could tell by the way his brows knit together that he was deep in thought.

“What is it?” I asked.

He set his napkin near his empty bowl. “I think you should go.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t leave you. Who would take care of you and run the shop?”

“I’ll hire someone. I was going to when you married Lionel and had a baby anyway.” He stopped, looking stricken with remorse. “I’m sorry, love.”

My face blanched every time the traitor’s name was mentioned.

“It’s all right. Impossible not to speak his name ever again. He was part of our lives for a long time. Someday it’ll be easier to hear,” I said more robustly than I felt.

“I’m serious about the position.” Papa placed his arms over his ample tummy as he did when he was full and comfortable. “You should seize the adventure. Do it while you’re young and have nothing tying you to home.”

“I’m tied to you,” I said. “You’re my home.”

“I know, dear. I’d miss you tremendously, but think of it—working with a painter? Sweetheart, it’s a dream come true. Of course, this Briggs Tutheridge must know from the beginning that you’re only there for a short time. We wouldn’t want to be deceitful in any way.”

I moved my gaze from him to my bowl. The remaining slices of carrots were positioned in the bowl in such a way that they looked like eyes peering out from the face of the moon. Judging me? I squished one with my spoon.

“She’s right, this Mrs. Mantle,” Papa continued. “You need a change. Seeing the world has always been your dream. I never said anything at the time, but Lionel would never have taken you anywhere. Not on his salary anyway. Anyway, he’s the least adventurous person I’ve ever met. That dummy was happy to sit around all day playing cards and drinking tea like an old lady. No ambition, I tell you. I worried myself sick over it, knowing you were marrying a clumsy oaf. He wasn’t good enough for you. Never was.”

“Papa, you’re bad. He wasn’t an oaf.” I giggled. Lionel was tall and lanky and forever running into things or knocking objects off tables. I’d found it adorable. Apparently, and I was only learning this now, my father did not. Regardless, I could scarcely believe what he was telling me. The idea! Leaving him here and traipsing all the way across the country? “It’s impossible,” I said out loud. “I’m a young woman alone. I can’t take a train out there by myself.”

“I could hire you a chaperone.”

“A chaperone?” My mouth dropped, amazed by Papa’s sudden insanity.

“A lady’s maid, like the rich girls have,” Papa said, clearly enjoying his daydream.

“And how would we pay for that?” I asked, laughing. “You’re being silly, Papa. Very silly.”

“You worry about money too much. And you have no sense of fun. Too serious all the time.”

Slightly offended, I said, “Someone has to keep our finances together and our affairs in order.” I did the books, and we were a natural disaster away from poverty. Every night I prayed to God he would keep us and the bakery safe from harm.

Papa glanced over to the counter where a peach pie waited. “Are we having dessert?”

“I’ll get you a piece in a moment. Let’s be honest, you’re not exactly rich, Papa,” I said softly. “We can’t hire someone. That would take money straight out of our profits.”

“Isn’t that generally the idea of hiring help?”

“I don’t take a salary, Papa. You’d have to pay this new person a lot to do what I do.”

“That’s another reason you should go,” Papa said, sounding delighted with himself. “You could earn some money. A little savings to put away in case you ever needed it.”

“That’s the first thing you’ve said that makes any sense.”

“I’ll be all right here without you,” Papa said. “In fact, I’ll be happy thinking of you out there, seeing the country.”

“We’re barely turning a profit.” All right, that wasn’t completely true. We were doing fine. Well enough, anyway. However, I worried that if anything were to change, like say a flood, our meager savings wouldn’t last for long. Thus, I worried over every little penny and scrimped and saved wherever I could. Whereas Papa happily baked away in the back of the shop, singing out of tune and eating too many cookies. He wouldn’t hear of raising prices, insisting his customers trusted him to keep the costs reasonable.

Papa was right about one thing. I worried a lot and about a variety of things. Sadly, I hadn’t worried about Lionel falling in love with Mable. That had never occurred to me, and therefore I was not prepared for the worst. I wouldn’t make that mistake again.

“I’m firing you,” Papa said. “You’re out of a job.”

“You’ve lost your mind.”

His pretty blue eyes grew serious. I had brown eyes like my mother. I looked like her, from what Papa had said. “I mean it, sweetheart. You’re going. I insist.”

“I’ve never been away from you. Not ever.” My eyes grew moist and hot just imagining waving goodbye to him from a train window.

“I’ll be here when you return. Or maybe I’ll sell the shop and follow you out west.”

I got up to cut us each a slice of pie and returned to the table. Usually I enjoyed Papa’s pies, but tonight it didn’t appeal. I pushed a peach around my plate. I’d canned those peaches myself last summer. Who would do the canning if I weren’t here?

“Faith, I know I’ve asked a lot of you over the years,” Papa said between bites. “You had to take on the burdens of an adult way before you should have. Let me do this for you. Please. Allow me to set you free, at least for a year or two.”

“A year. Goodness, no. I can’t go for that long. Maybe six months.” A thought occurred to me, which I said out loud to Papa. “Why would Mrs. Mantle encourage me to commit only to such a short amount of time? Do you think they’re desperate? What if he’s an ogre and no one wants to work for him and that’s why she’s so flexible?”

“Borrowing trouble, that’s my Faith.” He sat back in his chair, watching me. “You’re doing this. It’s a sign from God, running into that woman today. What are the odds?”

I had no idea. Was he right? Should I take this unusual opportunity? “They have a lot of seals out there in Washington. I read about them. And whales. Orcas.”

“It’s not named Whale Island for no reason.” Papa pointed at my uneaten pie. “You going to eat that?”

“I don’t know how you can eat at a time like this.” Laughing, I pushed the plate over to him. “I’ll sleep on it. How’s that?”

“Fine. But you’re going.”

For the first time since Lionel told me goodbye, I felt lighter. I was going to have an adventure. For the first time in my life, I was going somewhere. Just as I’d dreamed of when I was a little girl.

A Match for a Reluctant Bride