Page 35 of Miss Delightful
“A nap. John wakes her up at least once a night, usually twice. He prefers the breast to his porridge, though Timmens says that will all change on the day and at the time of the boy’s choosing. Would you like to hold him?”
When Dorcas Delancey was in the grip of strong emotion, she tended to look as if she was puzzling over a conundrum. She regarded John with exactly that expression now.
“He appears quite comfortable with you,” she said. “Henderson offered to bring up tea. I declined.”
No tea, no cuddles with the baby, but when last they’d parted, she had kissed Alasdhair’s cheek. “Tell me about the serpent.”
“Mr. Mornebeth was on his best behavior.”
Mornebeth. Alasdhair had a name, and if he had to waltz with all of Powell’s sisters nightly for the entire spring Season, he’d soon know more than just a name about the man.
“His good behavior worries you?”
She took the seat behind Alasdhair’s desk—of course. “When the French left off skirmishing, when they packed up camp and disappeared into the night, did you conclude they were about to surrender?”
“Just the opposite. Shall I accost this Mornebeth person in a dark alley, Miss Delancey? I would bring reinforcements if necessary. My cousins excel at pugilism, thanks in no small part to my helpful tutelage.”
She rearranged the quills in his standish such that all three tilted in the same direction. She moved the pounce pot so it sat equidistant from the standish and the wax jack. She reached for Alasdhair’s stack of correspondence, probably intending to sort it by date, but stopped herself.
He hoped she was trying not to smile.
“You will teach John to defend himself.”
They had both, somehow, made the leap from John biding with Alasdhair for a fortnight, to John having become a fixture in the household.
“His papa is an ocean away, and for all we know, Captain Beauclerk might remain in the New World for years. His mother is missing at best, and I am entrusted with his care. He’ll have a home with me as long as he needs one.”
“Thank you.”
“You are trying to dodge a discussion of Mr. Mournful.”
Timmens’s arrival spared Miss Delancey from having to reply. “So you’ve off with the lad again, Major. Greetings, Miss Delancey. These two wander the premises when my back is turned, exploring the great, wide world. I found them in the kitchen last evening, playing fling-the-porridge. John should be a champion at horseshoes thanks to Mr. MacKay’s early instruction.”
“Mr. MacKay is apparently generous with his many forms of expertise.”
“He is,” Timmens said, plucking the boy from Alasdhair’s arms. “And God be thanked for that, or a poor nursemaid would never get any sleep. Come along, young man. Major MacKay has better things to do than entertain my favorite tyrant.”
She dipped a curtsey, John in her arms, and bustled off.
“I adore a managing woman,” Alasdhair said. “Life is so much simpler when a lady of purpose takes matters in hand.”
“And yet,” Miss Delancey said, “I don’t envy the woman who attempts to manage you. Is that your sword hanging over the hearth?”
“Aye. A reproach and a reminder. My cousins and I display our swords by agreement. We were at our club one dark and dismal night, and some other former officers were telling tales before the fire. They regaled one another with recollections of a certain siege and the ensuing battle, the scene of my worst nightmares. To hear those fellows, you’d have thought it was all a grand lark. My cousins had to haul me from the place by force, lest I correct a narrative as false as it was self-serving.”
“You were angry?”
“Murderously so. Goddard and Powell promised me they would keep their swords in plain sight to remind them of the truth of war, the violence and injustice of it. What the Spanish went through, thanks to the competing ambitions of the French and the British, was beyond horrific. To hear savagery and rapine reduced to ‘jolly good fun’… Suffice it to say, I owe my cousins for putting distance between me and the gallows.”
Miss Delancey rose. “Some of us lack the strength to deal in truth, Mr. MacKay. We create fabrications in defense of our sanity. A little self-delusion can spare us an inundation of sorrow and remorse.”
“Does self-delusion figure into your dealings with the serpent, Miss Delancey?” Had she been sweet on Mornebeth once upon a time? If so, and the fool had let her go, he was a very stupid serpent.
She moved away from the desk to study the portrait of Alasdhair’s grandparents. They were decked out in the clan plaid, their expressions deceptively genial for a pair of aging rogues.
“My self-castigation has more to do with Melanie. I knew she and Beauclerk were growing too close. He was a penniless squire’s penniless son, a charmer. I appreciate charm, particularly subtle charm, and aspire to it myself on occasion, but his attentions bore an ardency that boded ill.”
Must work on my subtle charm.“You blame yourself for their elopement?”
