Page 32 of Miss Delightful
He took a sip of his drink and adopted a thoughtful, troubled expression. “Is that outward display of housekeeping where our parishioners ought to direct their energies? Does that not encourage pride on a congregational scale?”
Uncle was quiet for a moment, then rose and folded his lap robe over the back of the chair. “You are so intelligent, Mornebeth—the apple of your grandmother’s eye—and yet, you lack wisdom. The objective is not to encourage congregational vanity, though where is the harm in taking pride in one’s house of worship? I’m not talking about popish excesses. I’m talking about a fresh altar cloth, clean windows, a few posies… The touches the poorest congregation can aspire to.”
Isaiah swirled his drink and downed the rest of it. Good brandy should not go to waste. “No harm in that, I suppose.”
“How gracious of you.” Uncle set his unfinished drink on the sideboard. “The more subtle objective is to encourage people to see their churches and neighborhoods with new eyes, to look about for what can be improved, for who or what has been neglected. To inspire them to take responsibility for the edifice where they gather and for the community it represents.”
This was sounding perilously like a sermon, and Isaiah’s evening had gone too well to be blighted with one of Uncle’s perorations.
“You want the folk to rally ’round the old kirk, is that it?”
“And to rally ’roundeach other, Isaiah. To work together for the common weal. To shift from weekly spectators at divine services to members in a community of substance. To visit across parishes and see how the neighboring community fares. That is the genius of Miss Delancey’s idea. The charitable projects are all to the good, but she has devised a way to strengthen the Christian purpose within our congregations at the same time. And this is just her latest suggestion. She’s working on a plan for children’s choirs to put on charitable benefits as a sort of competition as well, and… her ideas are endless.”
Uncle took up an elegant brass candlesnuffer. “Thomas will never be permitted to abandon a post where he’s an instrument of such unparalleled good. Because the ideas come through him, a lowly vicar, the other vicars are more inclined to accept them, as they’d never accept such schemes if the bishopric had concocted them. Miss Delancey has a genius for parish organization, and that genius must be allowed to flourish.”
Dorcas’s notions were halfway to outlandish, which only proved to Isaiah that she was urgently in need of the right husband.
“Surely you don’t approve of her visiting women’s jails?”
Uncle’s gaze took on that pitying quality the old aimed at the young whom they in truth envied. “Betsy Fry’s little prison stunts gain notice because her Quaker connections are alsobankingconnections. Where she aims the light of charitable reform, money follows, and the reform happens without Parliament lifting a beringed finger. She has organized schools within the prisons she visits, workshops for making blankets, and more. Dorcas Delancey sought to emulate that success. If you had half a brain in your handsome head, you’d see the credibility to be gained by such tactics. Credibility matters, Isaiah. Your grandmother taught you that.”
“Grandmama taught me that a good night’s sleep matters too,” Isaiah said, rising, empty glass in hand. “I am in truth quite pleased to hear you extol Miss Delancey’s abilities. I have long been impressed with her many virtues and hope to become better acquainted with her now that I’m back in London.”
“Your grandmother will be pleased to hear it. Have you had any luck finding lodging in Southwark?”
“A few strong possibilities. I should be out of your hair in another fortnight or so.” Unbeknownst to Uncle, Isaiah had taken rooms in a modest boardinghouse back in December. He did use those quarters from time to time when he wanted a bit of privacy. Uncle’s establishment was far more commodious, and the old boy was a font of useful knowledge.
Nonetheless, Uncle’s picture of the estimable Miss Delancey was missing a few parts that only Isaiah had seen.
The lovely Dorcas had a temper, for example. One she was learning to govern, however imperfectly. She also had the sweetest little scar on the inside of her right wrist from where a cat had swiped at her in childhood. Must have been quite the scratch.
“Miss Delancey will not suffer foolishness from you, Isaiah,” Uncle said, using the snuffer on the candles on the mantel and sideboard. “She has turned down a few offers over the years.”
Of course she had, from spotty boys and doddering widowers, the perennial proposers. “I’ll be patient. I excel at patience.”
“You excel at singing your own praises,” Uncle said as the scent of candle smoke filled the library. “Much like your darling grandmama. I’ll bid you good night and wish you good luck with Miss Delancey. She’s sent better men than you packing, so mind you go about the business with some humility.”
Isaiah offered his signature beamish-young-sprig smile, though humility had no place in his plans. “Thank you for the warning, Uncle.”
Uncle Zachariah shuffled off to dream whatever dreams old men dreamed—of regular bowels and warm quilts, perhaps—while Isaiah poured himself another generous portion of brandy and took the seat Uncle had vacated. A darkened library was a good place to think, and the situation with Dorcas wanted some pondering.
That she was appreciated in church circles was all to the good, because the benefit of accepting Isaiah’s suit would be that much more apparent to her. If she became difficult, he could destroy her father, her brother, and her, too, though he certainly did not want to.
“The business wants guile and boldness both.” A drive in the park would serve. Deceptively unassuming, and yet, if Isaiah simply showed up at the vicarage on the next sunny day, he’d also have the element of surprise. Dorcas would hesitate, but she would not refuse.
She’d never been able to refuse him anything, and—could a marriage have a stronger foundation?—she never would be able to either.
Marriage to Dorcas Delancey would besuchfun. One might almost say the prospect wasdelightful.
Chapter Eight
The day after supper with Isaiah Mornebeth, Dorcas woke to one of nature’s little jokes. The same sky that had offered mostly snow, sleet, clouds, and coal smoke arched bright and blue overhead for the second day in a row. The breeze that had been biting and remorseless for weeks was gone, and some misguided bird was chirping away in the garden.
The air was far from warm, and not exactly soft, but it was fresher than usual and contributed to Dorcas’s sense of hope.
Mornebeth had comported himself at supper exactly as if he were the devout, dedicated churchman he wanted the world to think he was. He never once alluded to Michael’s problems, never once hinted that his discretion regarding the whole, miserable business had lapsed.
Perhaps he even felt some shame for his part in that debacle—as well he should.
