A Match for a Bookish Bride

A MATCH FOR A BOOKISH BRIDE THE MYSTERY MATCHMAKER OF ELLA POINTE BOOK TWO TESS THOMPSON Copyright © 2023 by Tess Thompson All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Cover design by Evelyne Labelle at Carpe Librum Book Design at www.carpelibrum.com Created with Vellum CONTENTS 1. Amelia 2. Benedict 3. Amelia 4. Amelia 5. Benedict 6. Amelia 7. Benedict 8. Amelia 9. Benedict 10. Benedict 11. Amelia 12. Benedict 13. Amelia 14. Amelia 15. Benedict 16. Amelia 17. Amelia 18. Benedict 19. Amelia 20. Benedict 21. Amelia 22. Benedict 23. Amelia 24. Benedict 25. Benedict 26. Amelia 27. Amelia Also by Tess Thompson About the Author For all the bookish girls in the world. Without books, where would we be? 1 AMELIA The day my life changed began the same as many others before. A trudge to work on a day in early April through the teeming streets of Boston, gripping the bag with Mr. Pitts’s scone between the tips of my nearly frozen fingers. An icy rain stung my cheeks. Gusts of cold air crept up my skirt. Most of the snow had melted, leaving the sidewalks muddy. Chunks of dirty snow were the last reminders of the blizzards that had whipped through Boston for most of February. By the time I arrived at the office building, a ramshackle dwelling in a tawdry part of town, I felt chilled to the very depths of my bones. Averting my eyes from the women who worked the corner and the beggar asleep under the awning of the neighboring business, I unlocked the entrance with my key and then shoved the creaky door open with my shoulder. A dank, mildewy smell greeted me in the chilly room. My instinct was to keep my overcoat on, but I dutifully hung it on the hook, smoothed my skirt, and straightened my once white but now more of a dingy gray blouse. With quick movements motivated by cold and the knowledge that Mr. Pitts would have his eye on the clock and dock my pay if I was late with his coffee, I lit a fire in the woodstove, set water on to boil, and scooped grounds into the percolator. The scone he wanted every morning was from a bakery shop about four blocks from our building. Betsy, the baker’s daughter, always had it ready for me, even though Mr. Pitts wasn’t always expeditious in paying his monthly tab. She did it for me, knowing what a curmudgeon I worked for ever since the day I’d cried in front of her and told her about the harsh reprimand I’d received the day before. The shop had run out of scones by the time I’d arrived, so I’d brought a hot bun instead. From that day forward, Becky always had Mr. Pitts’s scone set aside and packaged for my seven-thirty pickup. Some days, she slipped a little scrap in for me, but only if her father wasn’t watching. After the water boiled, I poured it over the grounds in the top part of the coffee maker. A large portion of my training during my first day had been about how to brew the perfect cup. It wasn’t as easy as I would have imagined. He had a lot of steps that must be followed exactly. By now, I could do the whole process without thinking. I arranged his cup and scone on a tray the way he liked. He’d also spent longer than I’d ever thought possible going over exactly how he liked his morning meal set on the tray—the cup to the far right and the plate in the middle, with a folded cloth napkin between them. Although I’d had a breakfast of pasty oatmeal at the boardinghouse, my mouth watered at the buttery smell of the pastry. All winter my stomach had felt empty and my hands and feet cold. Come now, I told myself sternly. There was no reason to feel sorry for myself. I had a job and a dry place to sleep. I was luckier than many, I thought, as I rapped my knuckles against the doorframe. A flake of paint floated to the floor as I did so. I received no response, other than the phlegmy clearing of Mr. Pitts’s throat. He was forever clearing it or coughing or blowing his nose. His ailments were especially bad in the spring. Regardless, I took it as an invitation to speak. “I have your breakfast, Mr. Pitts. May I come in?” I opened the door a crack. Behind his desk, he was bent over the morning newspaper. Only his shiny bald head greeted me. “Good morning, sir.” I waited for him to acknowledge me before setting down the tray. I’d learned that lesson well enough. Nothing. Silence except for the tapping of his foot against the wood floor. He was displeased with me. What had I done? I swallowed and drew in a quick breath for fortification. “I have your coffee.” Mr. Pitts turned the page of the newspaper open on his desk to the Help Wanted section. A hint? “Sir?” I shifted weight between one foot and the other, pressing the tray against my waist. What had I done to anger him? My gaze swept the small, dark office. Everything was where it should be. His books on finance that I’d never seen him actually open were dusted and placed in alphabetical order. A decanter of whiskey and a glass for his midday drink were on the round table under the slit of a dirty window. Dirty on the outside, mind you. Inside, I cleaned once a week. The stack of correspondence I’d typed the day before waited for his signature. “The scone looks excellent this morning. Not like yesterday’s one at all.” He’d