Page 31 of Miss Delightful
That had been great fun.
“Thomas never gives up,” Uncle replied, pouring a drink for himself. “He will be eighty years old, delivering the same well-reasoned sermons in the same annual rotation, and still, he will long for more than a pastor’s pulpit.”
“We must commend his capacity for hope.” Poor Thomas simply wasn’t bright enough to navigate the intricacies of church politics. He took people at face value and—bless him—was ambivalent about his own plodding ambitions.
“You don’t miss the Dales?” Uncle asked, tossing another scoop of coal onto the hearth. The library was not large—it needed to hold only theological treatises and philosophical tomes, after all—and thus it was warm. Whatever else was true about Uncle Zachariah, he’d prospered handsomely while heeding his calling.
“The Dales are pretty, but the winters last four years each, and one must learn to discuss sheep in excruciating detail. Shearing, lambing, the wool markets, foot rot. I was grateful for a chance to serve in the shires, and I am even more grateful to return to civilization.”
“You did more than discuss sheep, my boy. Your grandmother kept an eye on you.”
Isaiah saluted with his glass. “Grandmama taught me most of what I know of any use.”
She advised setting ambitious objectives and taking the long view, the strategic view. Thus Isaiah had done the tedious work of ingratiating himself with the coteries around the Archbishop of York and in the various cathedral circles. He’d taken tea with all the right wealthy old beldames and stood up with all the daughters of the titled houses.
He’d been “caught” praying alone by every notably pious bishop, and he’d been seen to dutifully mail monthly letters home to his grandmother, though those letters had mostly reminded her to send along his quarterly allowance as soon as may be.
All the while, he’d hoped Dorcas, in some small way, had missed him. He’d hoped that, despite herself, she’d wondered how he was managing. He did not expect her to care for him—not yet, as she wasn’t a woman to yield her allegiance easily—but he hoped that he’d occupied some peripheral corner of her mind. A memory, a regret, a wish, a puzzlement… something.
Clearly, he had. Clearly, she recalled their past dealings and speculated about future dealings. There wasinterest, however careful she was to pretend otherwise. Interest was a start, and if Isaiah was again patient and determined, Dorcas would eventually realize that they were perfect for each other.
“How did you find the estimable Miss Delightful?” Uncle asked, settling into a wing chair. He was a widower and apparently enjoyed his unattached status. He’d aged from handsome to distinguished, complete with a full head of snowy-white hair. If he and Grandmama did more than gossip and scheme together, Isaiah would not judge them for it.
“Miss Delancey remains quite unmarried, which I admit pleases me.” Isaiah could find another candidate for the post of Mrs. Isaiah Mornebeth, but hewantedDorcas. Had wanted her for years. She would be a fitting reward for his ambition and hard work, and she would come to accept that her freedom—also her frustrations—would soon be at an end.
“She’s half the reason old Thomas will never rise above parish work,” Uncle said, dragging a lap robe across his knees.
“Too headstrong and outspoken?”
“Headstrong, outspoken women who channel their boldness into haranguing Parliament and the public on behalf of the less fortunate are to be treasured. They spare their menfolk the necessity of taking on lost causes and dealing firsthand with the wretched masses. Miss Delancey’s problem is that she’s too valuable in her present post.”
Isaiah took the opposite wing chair, which had been positioned to catch the fire’s warmth. “Explain, please. From what I can see, if Dorcas Delancey is permitted to grow any more independent, she’ll succumb to the sort of impulses that nearly ruined her brother and precipitated the downfall of her pretty cousin.”
Dorcas had a wayward streak, and Isaiah intended that he be its sole beneficiary. She needed precisely the disciplined, loving guidance he would provide, because he alone knew how far she’d gone in service to her principles, even the misguided ones.
“Thomas is stuck at the parish level,” Uncle said, “because Miss Delancey has made him into something of a pattern card for parish priests. He’s established this sister-parish initiative, pairing wealthy parishes with poorer jurisdictions, and now he’d like to pair urban parishes with rural ones. The shepherds entrusted with larger church affairs love that sort of thing.”
“So Thomas took credit for an idea Miss Delancey concocted.” A good idea.
“One of an endless store. We’re getting up a competition here in London next year, also Miss Delancey’s idea. Each congregation that chooses to participate will come up with two improvement projects—turning a vacant lot into garden plots, distributing laying hens, sending boxes of necessities to new mothers. The nature of the projects is entirely up to the imaginations concocting them.”
“A competition of do-goodism? Isn’t that what most of Mayfair’s charitable efforts are?”
“So young and such a cynic. Miss Delancey’s scheme has another element. The first project is to be accomplished with only congregational resources—donations of supplies, labor, means, and so forth. A congregation with few material resources might be rich in ingenuity or labor, a congregation with a lot of means might not have much creativity to bring to bear on the challenge. The first project is most of what each contestant congregation is judged on.”
“Who are the judges?”
“Chosen by lot from the rolls of the parishes that prefer not to attempt projects. Men and women.”
“Fair enough, I suppose.” If decent women were useful in any sphere beyond the domestic, it was the charitable. “What’s the extra component?”
“The second project is a proposed undertaking and intended to be of greater scope than the first. The congregation that accomplishes the most impressive first-round task and proposes the most ingeniously charitable second-round task wins the funds to embark on that second project.”
“And Miss Delancey came up with this scheme?”
“We all know it was her idea, but Thomas has done a good job of presenting and advocating for the plan. Churches all over London are looking a bit more spruce already, because the judging committee members will drop around unannounced to monitor progress on the various projects. Mark me on this, Isaiah, you will see tidier cemeteries, cleaner church steps, and less dust on the pews this spring because of Miss Delancey’s notions.”
Isaiah wrinkled his nose, torn between admiration—the notion was clever—and unease. The notion wasquiteclever, putting vanity and competitiveness to a constructive, Christian use. The Dorcas he’d known years ago hadn’t aspired to cleverness, and he much preferred her that way.
