Write or Die: It all started because Phillip Power believes he’s a great matchmaker

Two Write or Die meetings ago, we somehow ended up discussing worst dates, which Lindsey won hands down. Like, so many bad, bad dates (thank goodness she met and married Ben, so that's all behind her now!). One of her stories began with "It all started because Phillip Power believes he’s a great matchmaker." The subsequent story was a complete disaster that left her audience slightly traumatized, even though we hadn't been there! At the next meeting someone joked that her premise would make a great subject for our next (this) short story. So it was decided that everyone's story had to begin with: 

"It all started because Phillip Power believes he’s a great matchmaker."

That's it. No other direction or requirements. Just that it starts with ^. I immediately pictured a Bridgerton-esque scenario - for some reason "cravat" popped into my head and demanded to be a part of the story. I can't wait to see where other people decided to take the prompt. 

(Update: two people wrote about him being the maker of matches...get it? A match maker, not a matchmaker. 😆)

Everyone in the group knows Phillip, which makes it even funnier. Our plan is to compile all the stories and give them to him as a birthday present (next month). He has a good enough sense of humor that he'll appreciate reading them...I think. 😁😬

So, without further ado...

It all started because Phillip Power believes he’s a great matchmaker. 

But let me back up.

When you live most of the year in the country, neighbors take it upon themselves to be intimately involved in each other's lives. This can range from having tea and sharing gossip to offering never-ending suggestions on how crops should be planted and disparaging the techniques used to train your latest racehorse. This intrusion only amplifies in the spring and summer, when anyone who is anyone makes their yearly pilgrimage to London for The Season. Instead of appreciating all the diversions the metropolis has to offer, those eligible for the marriage mart become the center of attention of every eager mama, whispering debutant and neighborly busybody.

Enter Sir Phillip Power, a self-proclaimed negotiator of the matrimonial arts.

After a single successful venture into this arena, Sir Phillip willingly regaled his audience with the story of introducing Miss Emma Spalding to Viscount Edwin Arkwright and how their marriage resulted in four strapping sons. He subsequently used this triumph as a reason to inflict his services as a matchmaker upon all his acquaintances, requested or otherwise. 

I silently cursed his name as I sat across from Sir Elton Dunward, the latest eligible bachelor Sir Phillip was convinced could be a good match for me. Sir Dunward was the third suitor to appear on my doorstep in as many days. The first visit was from Archie Fenwick, a barrister of some renown. While I appreciate ambition, learning that he spent so much time in the office and courtroom that he had custom wigs made that were lighter and more breathable for extended use was concerning. The thought of being alone most nights and the object of gossip when I constantly attended functions alone due his extensive workload was troubling. The fact that his rooms were in close proximity to his office was also cause of concern. Living in the unfashionable part of town would mean fewer visitors, which only increased my unease about being lonely within a marriage. A social creature by nature, I did not see how we would be a good fit. The fact that he did not believe the reading of fiction to be a valuable pursuit for women, who should rather use their time to “improve themselves” in such things as painting, embroidery and the like, was also an unattractive discovery.

Attempt number two came in the form of Stockton Hawthorne, whose family was in textiles. Though his face reminded me of Edgar Allan Poe, I approved of his fashionable dress as he entered, until my eyes lighted upon his cravat. Were the starched linen indeed a living thing, it would appear to be actively attempting to murder him. The cloth was wrapped so high and tight that it looked as if it were maintaining a literal stranglehold, with no intention of releasing him before his demise. When our conversation turned to clothing, I delicately noted the restrictiveness and questioned the practicality, comparing it to the discomfort of an overly tightened corset. He immediately took offense, as if I’d insulted his entire profession, condescendingly explaining that this was the very latest in men's fashion, that comfort meant little and that he didn’t expect someone who wore dresses from two seasons ago to understand. I agreed with him that I did not and wished him a good afternoon. 

This brings us to my current guest - Sir Elton Dunward. While I appreciated the implied compliment of Sir Phillip recommending me to such an ancient house, I could not understand why he had done so. The advantage of the match was obvious, but the reason for believing it to be a compatible one was not immediately apparent. 

“I believe you spend most of your time in the country, to the north,” he was currently asking, while I was pouring his tea.

“Yes, my family lives outside Barrow upon Soar, a lovely village south of Nottingham,” I replied before asking if he’d like milk and sugar. He requested both, thanking me with a nod as I handed it to him.

“Then you must have an impressive stable,” he said, stating it as a fact, rather than phrasing it as a question. 

“We have several horses, but they mainly work in the fields since my sisters and I don’t ride much.” 

 “But you must ride! What else is there to do in the country? Which do you prefer, the pommel or the leaping horn side saddle?” 

“I have only used the pommel, but since I don’t often ride, I haven’t had enough experience to comment on its merits,” I replied. 

“But what kind of horses do you stable? I have some lovely Cleveland Bays and Yorkshire Trotters and one Irish Drought that I swear by for fox hunts. Surely you have some preference in horse breeds?”

“...the brown kind? Our horses are sweet, but again meant mainly for fieldwork,” I said a bit sheepishly, becoming self-conscious at my lack of equine knowledge. 

Sir Elton shook his head in disbelief. How could anyone endure life in the country without the relief of horses and a brisk ride over the hills, away from stuffy drawing rooms, his face seemed to say. 

“So you don’t ride even when you go visiting?” 

“Since the horses are needed on the farm, we mostly walk when we visit our neighbors. An exception would be using them to pull the carriage for balls or on market day, to keep our dresses clean and carry home the goods we purchased.” 

“Extraordinary,” he breathed before he took a sip of his tea. 

He continued to look aghast until his departure shortly thereafter. 

This needed to stop. I must speak to Sir Phillip as soon as possible. 

Thankfully he rarely missed a ball, and tonight’s gathering was at his sister-in-law’s estate, so he must surely attend.  

Several hours and a gown change later, I emerged from our carriage, along with my parents and brother, Charles, the only other eligible member of the family. I’d confided my frustrations to him earlier in the evening, but since the “assistance” wasn’t aimed in his direction, he found it quite diverting and refused to assist me in putting a stop to it. I declared him no brother of mine and vowed revenge, which he also found amusing.

The room was lit with what felt like a thousand candles, giving off warmth as well as light. Since there was still a chill in the spring air, the heat was welcome. I made my way through the ornately decorated rooms in search of my overly enthusiastic matrimonial patron. 

The themes in each space were very distinct, as well as abrupt. If you could arrange them in a straight line, they would create a veritable rainbow, flowing from one shade to the next. The red room was filled with velvet couches and overstuffed pillows, which lead into the orange room, with lots of wood accents and an amber crystal chandelier. The yellow solarium with lemon trees, dancing lady orchids and canaries in gilded cages opened into the green jungle room, with its exotic plants and safari trophies adorning the walls. Thankfully I found Sir Phillip in the blue room, a library filled with navy bookshelves, fireplace and ample seating in various shades of blue. 

The aggressive rustle of my skirts alerted Sir Phillip to my displeasure, causing him to turn in my direction as I entered the room. Apparently my irritation showed plainly on my face, for a look of dismay appeared on his. We greeted each other appropriately, his bow answering my curtsey. 

“Madame, whatever could be the matter? You look quite put out. May I be of assistance?” he asked. 

“The ceasing of any and all assistance is what I’ve come to request,” I began. “I know you are always well intended and being the subject of your consideration is truly kind, but I would ask that you focus your matchmaking expertise on a more willing recipient. The suitors you have sent to my doorstep have all been lovely gentlemen, but lovely for someone else.”

“Truly?” he asked. “For each of them had attributes I thought you would appreciate in a match.” 

“In what possible ways?” tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop it. 
Looking slightly abashed, Sir Phillip said, “I know you enjoy reading, as does Archie Fenwick. Since his family is in the textile business, I thought you and Stockton Hawthorne would enjoy discussing fashion, and Sir Elton Dunward has a grand estate in the country, so I assumed you would have plenty of things in common, as you reside primarily in the country.” 

Reminding myself that he was acting out of kindness, I took a deep breath before answering. 

“Unfortunately Mr. Fenwick only has time for books related to the law and disapproves of women reading novels, which immediately eliminates any possible compatibility. Mr. Hathorne went so far as to note my gown was from two seasons ago - albeit after I questioned his choice in cravat - which led him to depart rather abruptly. And although we both live in the country,  I believe I shocked poor Sir Dunward by my lack of interest in horses or riding. It was inconceivable to him that a country maiden would not ride and he left our tea in a state of great bewilderment. So alas, I do not expect a second visit from any of these gentlemen, which I believe is for the best.” 

“I admit my surprise,” he ruminated. “I usually offer more accurate suggestions. You know, of course, that I aimed Cupid’s arrow at Miss Spalding and Viscount Arkwright, which led to their matrimonial bliss?” 

“Yes, oh yes,” I said, attempting to divert his train of thought away from that antidote before it cascaded into the full retelling of his greatest personal triumph. “Perhaps it is that I am not the best subject for your talents. Maybe someone you have spent more time with…”

I paused dramatically, doing my best to look artlessly pensive. 

“Come to think of it…you know my brother Charles is quite an eligible bachelor, don’t you?” 

~ Katie Q. 🐧