Page 19 of Miss Delightful
“Miss Delancey. Good day. Henderson, that will be all.”
Henderson bowed and withdrew.
“To what do I owe the invasion?” Mr. MacKay said, holding out a hand. “Your cloak, please, for I am well aware you will not quit the premises willingly until you see for yourself that John has created pandemonium where a tranquil household used to be.”
Fatigue, or perhaps hours of singing lullabies, had dropped Mr. MacKay’s voice from baritone to bass.
“Did you miss your beauty sleep again, Mr. MacKay?”
He undid the frogs of her cloak. “What day is it? What month is it? No wonder old George went mad. He and his darling queen had fifteen children. I can no longer reliably count to fifteen, though that is about fourteen and three-quarters too many offspring for my feeble brain to grasp. Why Charlotte did not commit regicide is a mystery for the ages.”
“You are adorable when you babble.”
He drew off her cloak. “That’s something, I suppose. Always good to learn new skills. Adorability has eluded me thus far. Come along. The despot is all smiles as he anoints himself with porridge and flings toys about his domain.”
As happy as Dorcas was to follow Mr. MacKay up to the nursery, she also wanted to linger and inspect. His house was every bit as clean as the vicarage, though it lacked appointments. No bucolic landscapes or battle scenes were framed on the walls.
The sideboard in the entryway held no venerable wooden tray full of keys, correspondence, the odd penknife, or stray pair of spurs. The landing was devoid of a philosopher’s bust or even a bowl of dried flowers. The windowsills held no pretty little sketches or struggling ferns.
Perhaps Scottish thrift was at work in this lack of personal touches, or perhaps this serviceable domicile was a reflection of Mr. MacKay’s soul. Lived in, but planed down to essentials, ripe for abandonment on short notice.
“I did not think the boy should be banished to the eaves,” Mr. MacKay said. “He has the guest room two doors down from my quarters, or he and Timmens do. Henderson is in love with Timmens, but she—wise lady—has avoided his advances. Henderson was in love with the cook’s helper from next door last week. If you spend enough nights pacing the nursery floor, you learn an impressive store of secrets.”
“Rather like spending a night in jail.”
“I would not know, though not for lack of trying.” He showed Dorcas into a room full of warmth and sunshine, though the unique smell of Baby in Residence was also evident. “His Highness is receiving. Timmens, I believe you know Miss Delancey. Don’t get up lest the fiend resume howling.”
Timmens sat in a rocking chair, nursing the baby, though she’d arranged a shawl over her shoulder and over the baby. Modesty was preserved, not that Mr. MacKay seemed at all unsettled to have come upon wet nurse and infant at such a moment.
“I will leave you, Miss Delancey, to admonish John regarding the proper deportment of babies in the middle of the night. I must repair my toilette before I rejoin you. That assumes I don’t fall asleep facedown in my washbasin.”
He assayed a bow and left, closing the door silently in his wake.
“That one’s canny,” Timmens said, adjusting her shawl. “Knew to close the door quietly, lest the lad notice. Young John is canny too.”
Dorcas took a seat in the reading chair near the window. “Does John thrive?” He appeared to be the picture of cherubic health, nestled against his nurse. The sight provoked an odd blend of annoyance and longing, so Dorcas rose and commenced tidying.
“John is adjusting,” Timmens said. “My ma claimed that any change—washing the blankets, moving the crib, forgetting to close the curtains—could set some babies off. John has lost his ma, lost his home, lost his everything, and he’s cutting new teeth. He’ll settle, or Mr. MacKay will know the reason why.”
Clearly, Mr. MacKay had an admirer. “He’s good with the baby?”
“He’s magic. Has the touch, or the voice. Never lets on that he’s tired or hungry or out of patience. A man like that…” Timmens paused for the business of switching John to the other breast.
Dorcas smoothed quilts, she straightened blankets. She folded up little dresses and arranged a trio of small stuffed bears on the windowsill.
“Where did these come from?”
“Mr. MacKay raided a toy shop. We have two rattles, a proper baby spoon for our little mouth, three storybooks, and he ordered booties and caps too. John will want for nothing.”
Save his mother’s love? Dorcas sat on the bed, which was a true bed, not a cot. The cradle in the corner was lovely and large enough to keep John comfortable for months yet. And Mr. MacKay thought to uproot the boy all over again to send him off to some foster family in the shires?
“You are attached to that baby, aren’t you?” Dorcas asked.
“Hard not to be, what with losing my little Enoch. Named him for a prophet, more fool me.” She fussed the baby, who made odd slurping noises. “I know what you’re thinking, Miss Delancey, and you’re not wrong.”
Dorcas wasn’t thinking. She was in the grip of emotions that refused to be named, but left her uncomfortable and restless. Mr. MacKay had already procuredbaby things. He’d known to do that—which was important—but had he made any further inquiries regarding Melanie’s death?
Her disappearance, rather?
