Page 13 of Miss Delightful
Merely a friend.What would it be like to have this taciturn, ungenteel Scot as a friend? How did friendship between men and women work, if at all?
“Thank you for that,” Dorcas said. “If Melanie never thanked you for your friendship, I’m thanking you on her behalf. I mean that. A good friend is a treasure for the heart.”
“Friends can also lead us astray,” Mr. MacKay said as they approached a shopfront that displayed racks of pretty tea cakes and fresh pastries in the window. “Heaven should bear a scent like this,” he said, hand on the door latch. “Warm and rich and nourishing. I never smelled cinnamon as a boy. My first whiff was a revelation. I decided I would be a baker so I might inhale that fragrance all day long.”
And yet, he wore the scent of heather on his person now. “You’d grow accustomed to it.”
“One never grows accustomed to heaven or hell, Miss Delancey.” He held the door for her. “The quieter tables are at the back.”
“You are being polite, suggesting I need not be seen sitting with you by the window, which concerns me not at all. I am interested at present in warmth, Mr. MacKay, in a seat that spares me the cold drafts by the door.”
The shop was half full, perhaps because the morning was half gone. Red-and-white-checked tablecloths lent the place a cheery air, and more baked goods were displayed at a glass-enclosed counter opposite the door. Pots of violets sat in the corners of the windowsills, and the warmth was a benediction.
“That table,” Mr. MacKay said, nodding toward an unoccupied corner. “You would not be so cold if you left your bonnet at home and wore a scarf about your ears instead.”
“You wear neither bonnet nor scarf, and yet, you seem indifferent to the elements.”
“I am a plow horse. You are a Welsh pony by comparison. I cannot abide the stifling summers here in the south, while you probably delight in them.”
“I’ve never been compared to livestock before,” Dorcas said, stripping off her gloves and stuffing them into the pocket of her cloak. “I like the notion that I’m as sturdy as an equine, not some delicate creature in need of cosseting.” He, of a certainty, did bring plow horses to mind. Powerful, robust, muscular…
She fumbled with the ribbons of her bonnet.
“Allow me.” Mr. MacKay had her ribbons undone in a few deft tugs, his knuckles brushing warmth along the underside of her chin. “We all benefit from a bit of cosseting. You should try the hot chocolate here. They serve it with whipped cream and sprinkle it with cinnamon. For a bit extra, they’ll stir in hazelnut liqueur to ward off the chill.”
Friends can also lead us astray… Not that he was a friend. “You bought that treat for Melanie, didn’t you?”
He hung Dorcas’s bonnet on a peg among a row along the wall. “We came here before Christmas, with wee John. Sat at the window so he could watch all the passersby. If I’d known Melanie was planning to pawn his cradle…”
“I didn’t know either. Did not even think to wonder if the baby had a cradle.”
Mr. MacKay took the cloak from Dorcas’s shoulders and hung it on another hook. “Guilt will destroy you, Miss Delancey. You tried to help, and that meant worlds to Melanie.”
“Worlds,” Dorcas replied, taking a seat at the table, “but not enough. To take her own life… She despaired, Mr. MacKay. Despite that beautiful healthy baby, despite a roof over her head, despite me, despite you, she despaired. That breaks my heart.”
He hung his greatcoat over Dorcas’s cloak and took the opposite seat. “Mine too. Breaking Shroop’s head might have cheered us up a bit. Perhaps another time.”
Dorcas could not tell if she was on the receiving end of some Scottish-soldier-plow-horse humor, or a true reflection of Mr. MacKay’s thoughts. No twinkle in his eye, no hint of a smile, and yet… he had a sense of humor that lurked like a sea creature beneath the waves. A ripple on the water, a fin breaking the surface, only to disappear as if imagined.
Mr. MacKay gestured to a youth with an apron tied about his middle.
The waiter approached. “Major, ma’am. Sandwiches and cakes, same as usual?”
“The lady might be interested in your hot chocolate, Silas.”
Silas brushed overly long dark hair from his eyes. “It’s a right treat, ma’am. I whip the cream myself, and we can serve it with cinnamon or nutmeg or both, though the nutmeg is dear.”
“Have the nutmeg,” MacKay said. “Be bold.”
“Cinnamon, please,” Dorcas said, rather than accede to MacKay’s temptation. “I’ll try the nutmeg another time.”
“Major, same for you?”
“Tea, lad, and some tucker. Be off with you.”
Silas bustled away, still grinning. The boy clearly knew and liked MacKay, and MacKay had some fondness for the boy too.
“I will investigate the pawnshop in St. James’s,” Dorcas said. “I had better find your cradle among its offerings, or a receipt for its recent sale.”
