Page 28 of Miss Delightful
“Going for a turn out back in this weather?” Papa asked.
Dorcas tucked a scarf around her neck. “Fresh air is good for us, and there’s a breeze from the north today.” Meaning London’s winter miasma of coal smoke was for once blown away almost as quickly as it accumulated. “I’ve been meaning to raise a difficult topic with you, and walking in the garden sometimes helps me organize my thoughts.”
She’d put off this discussion for more than a week, too busy fretting about John and trying to ignore the memory of Mr. MacKay’s lips softly pressed to her cheek.
“No more nights in jail, Dorcas. You’re lucky you did not come down with jail fever. Lucky you did not spread contagion to my whole congregation. I forbid any more such outings, for your own good and because I have my reputation to consider.”
The congregation was his, notours. The reputation worth guarding was his. Papa was a good man, better than most, but he was plagued by a human need for public recognition and respect, which church work merited rarely and begrudgingly.
And he missed Michael. Dorcas’s brother, also a clergyman, had been able to challenge Papa and cheer him up as Dorcas never could.
“The difficult topic is not another night in jail,” Dorcas said. “Mrs. Fry has that initiative well in hand. The difficult topic is Cousin Melanie.”
Papa had been a bit more cheerful lately, a bit less inclined to lament Michael’s posting to Northumbria, a bit less grumbly. He looked to be preparing a spectacular grumble at the mention of Melanie’s name.
“I pray for your cousin,” he began. Not forhis niece, but forDorcas’s cousin. “I pray for her earnestly and regularly, but she brought upon herself the sort of ruin that can destroy an entire family’s standing. If her peccadilloes had not taken place beyond the watchful eye of London’s gossips, you would find her behavior redounding to your own discredit.”
How quickly and harshly Papa judged. How confidently he condemned.
“I am sorry to tell you, Papa, that she is thought to have jumped from the Strand Bridge more than a week past. She left behind a small son, John, and I’ve seen to the charitable distribution of her effects.”
Papa’s brows twitched as he looked past Dorcas’s shoulder to the frozen garden beyond the door to the terrace.
“Melanie took her own life?”
At least he sounded sad rather than relieved. “Apparently so. Some of her effects were recovered by the mud larks, though as far as I know, nobody saw her jump.”
“Well, that’s something.”
Somethingthat could protect the family from having to deal with the repercussions of the “rash and melancholy act” so frequently decried in the same newspapers that turned private despair into headlines shouted from the street corners.
“Without a body, no one is inclined to hold an inquest. She made provisions for her son, and the child appears to be thriving. I don’t see the gossips getting wind of the situation.”
“A small mercy that,” Papa said, aiming his Vicar Delancey Understands smile at her. “He works in mysterious ways, does He not? We can hope that Melanie is at peace now.”
Papa wanted peace, for himself, for his almighty reputation. Dorcas wanted the peace and solitude of the garden.
“You don’t intend to ask me about Captain Beauclerk?” she asked.
Papa’s smile vanished. “I will ask you not to speak his name. Shame upon him for despoiling a young girl like that. Melanie chose to run off with him, but he enticed her as surely as the serpent enticed Eve.”
And yet, nobody blamed the serpent for his slithery, mendacious nature. “As far as I know,” Dorcas said, “Beauclerk is still in Canada. I doubt he’s even aware of the child’s existence.”
“And you intend to tell him? Dorcas, why must you stir up mischief in situations that are already troubling enough? A father has neither rights nor responsibilities to an illegitimate child unless he chooses to take an interest. Beauclerk could have mustered out, he could have taken up a trade and made an honest woman of your cousin, but he did not. Let us put this topic behind us, a sad chapter come to a tragic close. I have more pleasant news to discuss.”
Fine, then, Dorcas would not trouble Papa’s handsome head with the fact that Melanie might well be alive and desperately in need of help. She might be alive and kicking her heels in Paris. Wherever she was, whatever had driven her to a desperate ruse, Dorcas wished her cousin safety and joy.
Dorcas arranged the scarf about her ears, chin, and cheeks, as Mr. MacKay had. “What’s your news, Papa?”
“We’re to have a guest for supper tomorrow night.” He made this announcement as if Mrs. Benton should be pleased to have her plans upended at what—for the kitchen—was the last minute. “A special guest.”
Retired bishops were special guests, and they all seemed to appreciate a free meal and a captive audience. Dorcas enjoyed most of them, in moderation, provided they were not too prone to leering at her or patting her shoulder.
“I will tell Mrs. Benton to set an extra place,” she said, “and I will make it a point to review the wine selections. The everyday will not do for a special guest.”
“This fellow isn’t particular,” Papa said, taking on the air of a small boy with a delightful secret. “He’s humble and handsome and…” Papa paused to assay his signature twinkling eyes, “He likes you.”
Heaven defend me from lonely choir directors.“I’m sure the meal will be very pleasant.” Dorcas put her hand on the door latch, needing the sanctuary of the garden more than ever if she was to endure hearing the rascally key of E minor disparaged over the soup.
