Page 24 of Miss Delightful
“Mr. MacKay does not need your ridicule,” she said. “He hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep for much of the past week.” And his days had likely been taken up asking difficult questions of mud larks, river police, and beggars when he wasn’t shopping for stuffed bears or tiny silver spoons.
“He can usually manage without sleep,” Sir Orion said. “It’s the empty belly that lays him low. He simply cannot abide hunger as most others can. He could fight like a demon when the moment called for it, but the instant we ceased battle, he had to eat or he’d keel over.”
“The Scots are a delicate race at heart,” the Welshman—Mr. Powell—said. “All growl and howl when the whisky is upon ’em, but poetical and retiring by nature.”
Sir Orion hit his companion on the arm, probably for trying to make a play on the wordretiring.
Dorcas allowed them into the sitting room and preceded them into the bedroom. Mr. MacKay had not moved. He lay on the rug, one bare foot sticking out from under the quilt.
“The poor wee lad,” Mr. Powell said. “Shot right out of the saddle, didn’t even make it to the bed.” Mr. Powell brushed Mr. MacKay’s hair back with a gentle hand. “MacKay, you worthless slug. Time to get up. We’re marching for Valencia today.”
He’d nearly shouted, and Mr. MacKay’s only response was a sigh.
Sir Orion knelt on the rug. “MacKay, on your feet! Parade inspection in fifteen minutes!”
Another sigh.
“Stop amusing yourselves,” Dorcas said, turning down the covers. “Get him onto the bed, please, and loosen whatever needs loosening so he can rest comfortably.”
“He is resting comfortably.” Sir Orion covered Mr. MacKay’s exposed foot with the quilt. “He will nap here for about twenty or thirty minutes, then wake up ravenous, though he might not realize he’s ravenous. My wife claims some people are like birds. They must eat constantly in small amounts, or they grow muddled, tire easily, and become snappish. MacKay is such a one, rather famously in some circles.”
“Goddard’s wife is a chef,” Mr. Powell said. “Our Ann is also a paragon among women, for she took on the thankless business of being married to Goddard, didn’t she? There’s no accounting for the fortitude of women.”
Dorcas did not care if Sir Orion was married to the Queen of Brobdingnag. “Mr. MacKay will rest more comfortably in his bed. Please get him off the floor.”
The men exchanged the look of fellows humoring an upset female, though Dorcas wasn’t even beginning to approachupset. One man grasped Mr. MacKay under the arms, the other took his feet, and they half lifted, half slung him onto the bed.
“If you would please tell him we came by to collect him,” Mr. Powell said, “we’ll await him at the Aurora Club. He’ll need to eat before he leaves the house, mind, or we’ll be scraping him off the walkway. Food first,beforecoffee. Tell him to take his time and not to bother shaving. We’ve seen him looking much worse.”
Sir Orion took his friend by the arm. “We’ll wish you good day, Miss Delancey, and you have our thanks for your concern regarding MacKay.” He bowed correctly, smacked Powell, who bowed as well, and then they were out the door.
Dorcas folded the covers over Mr. MacKay, who’d again rolled to his side. She shook out and folded the quilt from the floor and tossed the pillow into the reading chair. When Henderson showed himself, she ordered a tray for Mr. MacKay and a pot of coffee, and then she peeked behind the privacy screen.
Everything was orderly and neat, from the razor strop, shaving brush, and straight blade to the hard-milled soap in a flowered ceramic dish. Two plain white towels were draped over the washstand’s rail, and a mirror hung high enough to reflect only what lay north of Dorcas’s eyebrows.
Most curious were a dozen sketches of serious, dark-eyed children, all of whom looked to be less than ten years of age. Orphans. Dorcas knew the look, knew the caution and banked bewilderment in their gazes.
A noise from the bed had her withdrawing from what she ought not to have seen.
Mr. MacKay had switched sides, but not roused. Dorcas took the reading chair when she should have left Mr. MacKay to slumber on in solitude.
She was merely resting her eyes when an annoyed burr roused her.
“Have they gone? I know Powell and Goddard were here, or did I dream that?”
“They have traveled on to the Aurora Club, where they await you, though you are not to hurry to join them. A tray is on the way, and I forbid you to leave the house until you eat something.”
Mr. MacKay nuzzled his pillow. “I love it when you give me orders.”
Was he still half asleep? “I do not love it when a grown man in otherwise apparent good health collapses in a heap at my feet. I don’t care for that at all.”
“Every woman should have a grown man collapsing in a heap at her feet from time to time. Keeps us grown men humble.”
“Mr. MacKay, you frightened me.” Dorcas hadn’t meant to say that. Hadn’t allowed herself to think it, but if anything happened to Mr. MacKay, where would that leave John? How would she investigate Melanie’s disappearance?
He sat up, scrubbed a hand across his face, and swung his feet over the side of the bed. “If I frightened you, then we’re even, because you for damned sure intimidate the hell out of me. You are fearless, woman, and I apologize for my language, but profanity is another indication that I need to eat.”
“I am not fearless.” Far from it.
