Page 22 of Miss Delightful
Isaiah Mornebeth set the worn book on a growing stack. “How could any struggle befall you, Thomas? You have more moral and spiritual clarity than any man I know.”
They had taken on this task of sorting hymnals in the sacristy of St. Mildred’s, a space small enough to be kept warm by a lit hearth and braziers. The lavender sachets stored with the vestments and the cedar-lined wardrobes also gave the room a pleasant scent.
A confessional sort of space, and Mornebeth had always been easy to talk to, as Thomas imagined the truly holy were easy to talk to.
“Appearing resolute before the flock is part of the job,” Thomas replied, “and they are a good flock, for the most part. They pay their tithes, they show up for services, they tolerate Dorcas’s little projects and committees.”
The next three hymnals would all last at least another year. “But is this why the Lord called me?” Thomas went on. “Is it merely ambition that draws me to a more challenging post?”
Thomas hated to use the wordambitionaloud, and he would not speak even to Mornebeth of a bishopric. A pious man could have ambitions for others—that they kept to the path of righteousness, that their talents were appreciated, that they observed the Commandments…
But could that pious man have ambitions for himself?
“To yearn to use one’s abilities in service to the fullest extent of one’s capabilities is not ambition,” Mornebeth replied. “That is the essence of a vocation.”
Thomas started on the next stack of hymnals. “You are such a comfort, Mornebeth. Always so sensible.”
Isaiah Mornebeth was at least twenty years Thomas’s junior, but he had the settled air of an older man, always had. He was a sweet, calm, good-humored, kindly fellow, and a favorite of the archbishop’s inner circle.
Mornebeth embodied that passage from Matthew about being as wise as a serpent and as harmless as a dove. He was also wellborn—his mother’s uncle had been an earl—and his blond good looks would age well.
He was ideally poised to rise to the very top of the church hierarchy and had precisely the humble temperament that ensured nobody would envy him his successes.
“Speaking of sensible comforts,” Mornebeth said, “how is your dear Dorcas?”
The day took on a bit more of winter’s gloom. “She thrives in the execution of her duties, as always. I could not ask for a more conscientious daughter.”
Though Thomas could, and regularly did, ask the Almighty for a less obstreperous daughter. Dorcas had the best intentions, but her methods…nights in jail? As if she were some reforming Quaker biddy? Thomas hadn’t learned of that undertaking until he’d seen Dorcas’s article in theCharitable Circular. She’d used a pen name, thank the merciful intercessors, but her tone, her utter confidence in her convictions, had been plain to read.
“Tell me, Thomas, is Dorcas’s devotion to you what has prevented her from marrying some lucky fellow?” Mornebeth bound up the stacks of discarded hymnals with twine.
They would go to a poorer parish for another several years’ use. Dorcas had set up a fund five years ago to cover the cost of replacing hymnals and purchasing music for the organist and choir. She’d seen that a small, regular offering allowed the congregants who cared for music to make a greater contribution than if they’d been given only an annual drive to respond to.
“Isaiah, I confess I do not know why Dorcas is so unnatural in her proclivities. I adored her dear mama. Dorcas saw in our union what a happy marriage looks like. I pray that my daughter finds a suitable fellow, but I no longer dare urge her in that direction. Until she does marry, I do not feel I can take on another wife myself, and that, I fear, hampers my chances of making a greater contribution.”
Of earning a bishopric. A post at Lambeth. Even a post on the staff of the Archbishop of York would be a step forward. Isaiah had spent five years in the north and made all sorts of connections during his time away from London.
Now he was poised for a stint at Lambeth itself, renewing old acquaintances and making new acquaintances. That was how a man of ability and dedication should go forward with his calling. Not this trudging about in the same parish circle like a mill horse, Sunday after Sunday.
“Dorcas is a strong-willed female,” Isaiah said. “They are in a particular quandary, knowing their proper place to be one of submission and meekness and yet having much to give if properly guided. She needs a special man to provide that guidance.”
Thomas started on the last stack. “I honestly do not know what she needs. She could run the vicarage blindfolded, her committees execute their duties without drama, and she makes all the proper calls and the charitable ones too. She has dedication, I’ll give her that, but she lacks…”
Dorcas exercised discretion. She bent the rules only in the interests of her causes and was respected for her convictions. Her personal decorum was never wanting—far from it—and she attended to the purely social duties conscientiously.
“She lacks humility, perhaps?” Mornebeth said. “I would never accuse Dorcas of pride in the sense of vanity, but she is quite assured about her objectives, isn’t she? She hasn’t failed often enough or publicly enough, hasn’t endured the sort of significant embarrassment that would temper her self-assurance.”
Two more hymnals were found wanting. “You have the gift of delicacy, Isaiah. I have wondered if Dorcas isn’t lonely and if all of her odd flights and outspoken articles aren’t some backhanded attempt at gaining notice. I appreciate her. I tell her regularly what a help she is to me, but a father’s words are pale consolation compared to the esteem of a husband and family.”
Plainer than that Thomas could not be. Dorcas would do well—very, very well—to gain Isaiah Mornebeth’s notice. He was a rising star in the Church and well connected in polite society. The right wife would all but assure him of stellar success.
Dorcas was perhaps a dozen years younger than Mornebeth, at which nobody would bat an eye. Her older, wiser husband could curb her misguided ways as Thomas had been unable to.
And then perhaps, Thomas himself could look about for a suitable helpmeet.
“Invite me to dinner,” Isaiah said. “Let it be a surprise, and I will exert myself to charm our Dorcas. I truly missed her when I was in the north. Even as a girl, she argued morality as enthusiastically as any cleric, and she has ever been a handsome woman.”
Dorcas was plain, alas. She didn’t bother over her appearance as a lady ought, though she was always appropriately attired at supper. She was also unfailingly polite to Mornebeth, though Thomas had the sense that kind, practical Dorcas had never cared for Mornebeth.
