Page 23 of Miss Delightful
Which made no sense at all. Perhaps that was simply more of her backwardness, of which she had an abundance. She would turn up her nose at the very fellow best suited to make her into a proper, loving wife.
“I’ll consult with my calendar,” Thomas said, “and you may expect an invitation shortly.” He’d consult with Mrs. Benton, his cook-housekeeper, and she would determine when it was convenient to entertain.
“St. Olaf’s will consider this quite a windfall,” Isaiah said, surveying the bound stacks of used hymnals. “They will be making a much more joyful noise, thanks to your generosity, Thomas. You can be sure I will remark your kindness at the palace. We ought to institute sister-parish relationships throughout London and even between rural and metropolitan churches. A village boy should have friends in Town when he comes seeking workl.”
“I made precisely the same observation to Dorcas the other evening.” Or had Dorcas been the one expounding on the greater potential of her sister-parish concept? She did tend to expound, if left unchecked.
“You are a man of superior insight, Thomas, and of vision. Vision is rare in a parish cleric, and I intend to do all in my power to see that you are recognized for it. Are we to take these offerings to St. Olaf’s now?”
“Gracious heavens, in this weather? Dorcas will see to the delivery, and you and I will enjoy a hot meal at my club. You must tell me all about your sojourn in the north and how you are finding the palace upon your return.”
Isaiah smiled, a sweet, wistful smile that made him look like a choirboy, though choirboys tended to be a naughty lot.
“Not much to tell, Thomas. Sheep and scenery, never enough funds to do the Lord’s work, and more tea and shortbread than one man should have to endure.”
“Then it’s steak and a good claret for us, my friend. Dorcas is off somewhere fussing over a foundling, and she will not miss me at luncheon.”
To be seen sharing a meal with Mornebeth would be a small victory and also a pleasure. Mornebeth deserved that courtesy at least, for calling on an old friend and for offering to put in a good word for Thomas at Lambeth.
That cheering thought almost made up for the misery of having to walk four streets to the club on this dreary, chilly day.
Chapter Six
Dorcas and Mr. MacKay toppled to the floor in an odd progression of dance steps. First, he careened into her, and his size was sufficient that, for a moment, she was pinned beneath him against the edge of the bed.
He was absolute dead weight and plenty of it, but she tried to prevent him from crumpling to the floor. Her efforts were unsuccessful, and he subsided to the carpet beside the bed like a kite caught in a downdraft.
He twitched once on the carpet, then curled onto his side. “Nighty-night, love,” he murmured. “Dream of me.”
Dorcas hopped off the bed and stood over him. “Mr. MacKay?”
A gentle snore was her reply.
“Major?”
His foot twitched.
He was not drunk, of that Dorcas was certain. She was equally certain that rousing him would be unkind, if not impossible. She tucked a pillow under his head—his hair was much softer than it looked—and draped a quilt over him. The bedroom had no bell-pull, so she went out into the corridor and called down the steps.
“Henderson! Mr. MacKay has need of you.” The instant she’d raised the alarm, she regretted it. John might be napping, and he, too, would need to catch up on his rest.
Two men appeared at the foot of the steps. Both tall, dark-haired, a little weathered, and looking quite concerned.
“Is MacKay in difficulties?” The fellow on the right asked in accents that suggested Welsh antecedents.
“I don’t know,” Dorcas replied. “He’s fast asleep on the floor. One moment, he was nattering on about his horse’s loyalty. The next, he said he needed to sit down, except he did not sit. He more or less collapsed.”
Both men were grinning as they came up the steps. “MacSwoon rides again, does he?” The larger fellow was English and wore an eye patch. “MacKay goes a bit short of tucker and keels right over. Has a right temper when he’s hungry too. Can hold his drink like a stevedore, but doesn’t dare skip a meal.”
Dorcas led them back to Mr. MacKay’s suite, though she was leery of allowing two large, unserious men into Mr. MacKay’s bedroom when his dignity was imperiled.
“He has been going very short of sleep lately,” Dorcas said. “I am Miss Dorcas Delancey, and I came by to discuss a charitable matter with Mr. MacKay. Who might you gentlemen be?”
They were apparently too delighted to contemplate their friend’s collapse to introduce themselves.
The Welshman paused outside Mr. MacKay’s door. “Dylan Powell, at your service. This wretch is Colonel Sir Orion Goddard, and we are cousins to the patient. Served with him in Spain too. Let’s have a look, shall we?”
Either one of these men could have flipped Dorcas over his shoulder, but she stood her ground anyway. A point needed to be made.
