Page 18 of Miss Delightful
She hauled him along the walkway. “Into the house with us. I set my maid to sorting Melanie’s effects, though we’ll launder the lot before we donate it, of course.” She chattered on, about quilts and charities and Melanie having been more clever than people realized, while Alasdhair pondered a question.
Miss Delancey appeared to have life organized exactly as she pleased. She was the de facto lady of her father’s very comfortable house. She flouted convention in the interests of her charitable undertakings and did so with virtuous impunity. The matchmakers saw her as no threat, the bachelors saw her as no prize, and she liked it that way.
Why would a woman who’d gone to great trouble to fashion that life have such empathy for a cousin who’d desperately needed a fresh start?
* * *
Busyness,the most effective camouflage known to womankind, was driving Dorcas barmy. She’d met with the flower committee to hear them bemoan the difficulty of adorning the church with blooms in midwinter. She had heard the same lament every winter for the past ten years and offered the same sympathy and solutions.
Silk bouquets, for pity’s sake.
A hint to the wealthier parishioners that some hothouse loans would be appreciated. Mrs. Oldbach would doubtless be delighted to send along some winter heath or hellebore. If she was feeling particularly generous, she’d show off her camellias.
Another option was an expenditure from parish funds for a tastefully understated bouquet from Mr. Prebish’s shop, with a note of thanks for his ecclesiastical discount.
At the mention of an expenditure, the ladies looked as if Dorcas had offered to get out a volume of naughty prints. Half horrified, half fascinated, and more than half willing to be convinced. The ritual was as familiar to Dorcas as the children’s Christmas play. Mr. Prebish saw some extra business—nobody wanted the job of asking Mrs. Oldbach for anything—and two pots of tea were consumed for no useful reason.
Dorcas had endured a call from the choir director, an earnest young fellow who believed the key of F major to be atonicfor the nerves—pardon the pun, Miss Delancey—while B-flat minor was a sure road to derangement. His culprit of choice the previous week had been E minor. Rag-mannered and shrill, that was E minor.Mark me on this, Miss Delancey.
She had paid a call on Mr. Bothey, hearing his stories of the war in America for the three-hundred-and-forty-seventh time.
And amid all this activity, no further word had come from Mr. MacKay regarding Melanie’s death, John’s situation, or the price of primroses in January. Busyness could hide Dorcas’s worry, though worry had become a dragon prowling in her mind.
And because she was worried, Dorcas bundled up—scarf and straw hat rather than a bonnet—and set off without benefit of the housekeeper’s companionship.
She was safe enough traveling the length of four streets in broad daylight, provided she dressed plainly—worn heels were a must—and spent no time gawking at shop windows. A woman inclined to browse shop windows was a woman with leisure time and—very likely—disposable coin. A woman whose boots were never down at the heel was a woman who never had to budget carefully.
Amazing, what an education a few nights in the women’s jails could provide.
Dorcas approached Mr. MacKay’s door, and only then did she admit that perhaps a very small part of her motivation for this call was simply to see the man himself. He’d been tired when last they’d met. His blue eyes had been shadowed, his manner a trifle less guarded.
He’dtouchedher. Taken it upon himself toadjusther scarf, such that she was swaddled in soft wool. He’d presumed to the extent of fleeting brushes of his fingers against her cheek and chin. How could a man have warm hands when out of doors on such a bleak day?
And then she’d threatened to hug him, heaven help her, because he’d seen what Dorcas had not: There was hope. There was hope for Melanie, and there was hope that she’d been motivated by something more daring and courageous than despair. Dorcas had found no boots among Melanie’s effects, but then, Mrs. Sidmouth’s maid might well have helped herself to a sturdy footwear.
“Good day, miss.”
A fellow in a dark suit opened the door to Major MacKay’s home. He was young to be a butler, though a former officer’s household wasn’t a Mayfair mansion. He was also blond when, for some reason, Dorcas associated either baldness, gray hair, or, at the very least, dark hair with butlers.
“Please do come in.”
She slipped inside without sparing a glance for who might see her calling alone on an unmarried man. She had traveled past the bounds of Papa’s parish, and if anybody asked, she was seeing to the welfare of a foundling.
Prevarications and falsehoods, camouflage and disguises. This was her life. Perhaps it was the life any woman who aspired to propriety had to live.
“Miss Dorcas Delancey,” she said, passing over a card, “come to call on Major MacKay.”
“I haven’t lit the fire in the parlor, miss, though I can remedy my oversight. Callers are a rarity. The major might be some time coming down, or rather, might not be home.”
The fellow colored to the tips of his ears, while Dorcas passed over her hat and scarf. “Another busy night?”
“Timmens says it won’t last, that the boy has had a shock, and he’s teething. The major has the knack of calming him. Says all recruits need time to adjust to life in uniform. I certainly did.”
“You served under the major?” Dorcas offered him her commiserating, confidential smile, the one she used in the churchyard on young bachelors, new parents, and poor relations forced to accept the charity of a parishioner’s household.
“I were his batman, and you could not have asked for a better officer, miss. I recall once when we were on a forced march…”
The butler’s gaze went to the stairs, though Dorcas hadn’t heard footsteps. Mr. MacKay stood on the landing, no coat, cuffs turned back, hair disheveled, and a day’s growth of beard giving him a piratical air.
