Page 29 of Miss Delightful
“Right you are. I was supposed to keep the guest’s identity a secret—he hoped to surprise you—but you will want to practice your party piece at the pianoforte and spare a little extra time for your coiffure. I daresay in the circumstances, you’ll also want to pick out a pretty frock to wear for this guest.”
Dorcas never wasted time primping. Her objective was to escape notice, not invite it. Humility was a virtue and camouflage a necessity. She mustered a smile because Papa was so pleased with his secret and so obviously dying to tell her who the special guest was.
“Don’t keep me in suspense, Papa. I have little enough occasion to trouble over my appearance. Who could possibly merit such singular effort?”
“Our guest is to be none other than our own dear Isaiah Mornebeth. He’s done such a capital job with his responsibilities in the north that he’s been posted to Lambeth itself. One of his very first calls upon returning to London was upon his old friend at St. Mildred’s, and, my dear…” Papa beamed as if he were watching the parish children rehearse the Easter play. “Mornebeth asked specifically to be remembered to you. Enjoy your outing.”
Papa rocked up on his toes so great was his glee, then strode off, probably to sort through topics of conversation that would impress the eligible and much respected Mr. Mornebeth.
When the door to Papa’s study had closed, Dorcas stumbled into the garden. She made it past the hedges surrounding the birdbath before she fell to her knees and was sick upon the snow-dusted grass.
* * *
“I owed you a progress report,”Alasdhair said.
He’d also simply wanted to see Miss Delancey again, to bask in the delight of her prickly, difficult, darling presence. “I suspect you would come see John daily, except that you don’t want to grow attached to him, nor do you want to insult me by implying that Timmens and I cannot manage adequately without your supervision.”
Alasdhair had once again been received in the vicarage’s celestial parlor of propriety, though this afternoon, both hearths had been lit, and a bouquet of pink camellias graced the low table. The windowsill was adorned with a pot of blooming violets, and a lace runner had been added to the mantel.
Dare he hope those touches were for him?
“I have never raised a child, Mr. MacKay. Timmens’s experience eclipses yours and mine combined, and we must trust her expertise and dedication.”
“Hers and Henderson’s. He’s the second-oldest of nine. Henderson has more to learn as a butler, but what he doesn’t know about infant ailments isn’t worth knowing.”
Miss Delancey hadn’t invited Alasdhair to sit, and she wasn’t by nature rude. Determined, bold, outspoken… but not rude. She stood over by the window as if half tempted to leap out of it.
“I notice,” Alasdhair said, “you do not correct me when I say you are avoiding an attachment to the child.” He was certainly trying not to become entangled in gummy smiles and trusting sighs.
“John is my cousin’s by-blow, Mr. MacKay. In the normal course, I would be forbidden any attachment to him at all.”
Miss Delancey smoothed her skirts, a gesture Alasdhair would have called nervous in another woman. She was decked out in a spectacularly drab gray ensemble that was clearly intended to hide the perfection of her form. Her coiffure was a severe chignon, not an elegant little curl or clever braid to be seen. Alasdhair, lucky, tormented sod, had known fleeting instants of proximity to that perfect form, had touched the dark, silky abundance of her hair.
“You are plainspoken,” he said, “but not impolite, and your observation regarding John is very nearly rude. Is something amiss?”
She half turned to rearrange the pot of violets so it sat squarely in the late afternoon sunbeam. “I am quite well, thank you. I assume John thrives too?”
“Last night, he permitted me six hours of uninterrupted sleep. I woke today prepared to wrestle titans and subdue dragons. Instead, I made some inquiries at Horse Guards.”
She crossed to the mantel, shifting a vase holding a single camellia bloom six inches to the left. “This has to do with Melanie.”
When she set the vase down, it apparently caught in a wrinkle of the lace runner and nearly tipped. Miss Delancey’s hand got splashed before Alasdhair could right the vase.
He passed her his handkerchief. “Shall we take a turn in the garden, Miss Delancey?”
She dabbed at her hand. “I’d like that. I am not myself today. We’re to have company for dinner, a guest my father expects me to charm and flatter.”
“Keep it,” Alasdhair said, holding the parlor door for her when she would have returned his linen. “Any man expecting flattery from you had best also be alert for flying swine.”
She passed through the door, her dignity in full sail. “I am a gifted flatterer. I flattered Mrs. Oldbach into providing flowers until Lent begins. I flattered our choir director into adding a children’s chorus to the Easter program. I flatter my father…”
She trailed off as she reached the foyer and took a cloak down from a peg. Alasdhair appropriated the cloak from her and draped it across her shoulders.
“You flatter those who could never mistake your overtures for flirtation. Why is this dinner guest different?” He wrapped his own scarf around her neck, cheek, and ears, careful not to disturb her Mother Superior coiffure. The MacKay plaid, a lighter blue and green than the Black Watch, went well with her coloring.
“This guest is not different, or he should not be different,” she said, helping Alasdhair into his greatcoat.
He’d donned proper morning attire for this call, needing very much to prove to Miss Delancey that he’d regained his competence with a razor, brush, and comb.
