Page 47 of Miss Delightful
Isaiah would not see thirty again—thank God—and he was not trying to be subtle. “You’ve found me out, Mrs. Benton. I suspect divine providence has guided me to this encounter with you, because I am concerned for Miss Delancey. It would never have occurred to me to seek your counsel, but here you are, and even I can grasp the wisdom of sharing my worries with you.”
Isaiah had spoken in his best churchman-ese, in half-prayerful roundaboutation. Mrs. Benton had obviously learned to translate the same dialect.
“You want to court Miss Delancey.” She examined a bunch of carrots and apparently found them wanting, for she embarked on an inspection of another half-dozen bunches.
Isaiah waited with saintly patience until she’d concluded her transaction, then added the chosen carrots to the basket.
“Miss Delancey never used to be a solemn girl,” he said. “She’s grown positively dour with the passing years. Why is that?”
“She was livelier before Master Michael went up north, but that was ages ago, Mr. Mornebeth, and even lively girls eventually settle down. You want to know if she’s pining for a reluctant suitor or waiting for some fellow’s fortunes to come right.”
Isaiah let a silence build while he and Mrs. Benton left the bustle of the market behind. “I am apparently to have no secrets from you, am I?”
“The Delanceys are as close to family as I have, sir. You trifle with Miss Delancey, and you will have me to answer to.”
Such a foe—a cook-housekeeper growing long in the tooth, one who prided herself on choosing the best carrots. Archangels defend me.
“Trifling is the furthest thing from my mind, though I must ask another question. Does the vicar grasp what an ally he has in you?” Such an inquiry required a delicate touch—reluctant to pry or give offense, motivated by only the highest principles. “Churchmen, being occupied with lofty spiritual matters, can sometimes miss the earthly realities deserving of immediate notice.”
Mrs. Benton stepped around a puddle on the walkway. “Vicar is much occupied with his duties, and he has a devoted daughter to keep him company. I will not stand for criticism of either father or daughter, Mr. Mornebeth.”
Loyalty to an employer was such a useful failing.
“I mean no criticism of either when I suggest, in a purely theoretical sense, that if Miss Delancey were to meet a man worthy of her esteem, then her father might more easily appreciate another lady in his household who has contributed much to his happiness for years on end.”
A titled lord usually would not marry his housekeeper, but among the humbler folk, practical unions were the norm. Thomas Delancey likely had no designs whatsoever on Mrs. Benton, but Mrs. Benton clearly was carrying the torch of matrimonial regard for her employer.
Too bad for her, but very convenient for Isaiah.
“He does dote on his Dorcas,” Mrs. Benton said. “She is very mindful of her papa’s standing, too, for all she has her crusades. I can tell you she’s not walking out with any young man at present. She’s too busy, for one thing, and she doesn’t suffer fools, for another.”
“Are all men in love fools?”
“When a man loves a woman, Mr. Mornebeth, he hands her the ability to make a fool of him, and that requires far more courage of him than strutting about the clubs or prattling from the pulpit. Are you offering that power to Miss Delancey?”
Only an idiot would surrender his dignity to a woman. Isaiah was not an idiot. “My esteem for her eclipses the regard I have harbored for any other young lady, Mrs. Benton. My grandmother has introduced me to half the belles in Mayfair. They haven’t a patch on Miss Delancey for intelligence, purpose, or a firm grasp of what a life in the Church requires of a man.”
Or for temper. Dorcas did have that lovely, simmering temper, and her dear brother had strayed so very far from strict propriety all those years ago—as had Dorcas.
“Vicar thinks well of you,” Mrs. Benton said, a trifle grudgingly. “But then, he thinks well of most people.”
“I’m sure he thinks well of your roasts and of your delicious apple walnut torte too.”
“That is precisely the sort of balderdash that will get you nowhere with Miss Delancey, Mr. Mornebeth. Talk to her of the plight of mothers in jail or children in factories. Speak to her of the Corn Laws, and she will think more highly of you.”
Isaiah’s grandmother owned thousands of arable acres. She thus tended to favor keeping the price of grain high, as did most of the gentry and aristocracy. As heir to those acres—something Isaiah did not bruit aboutmuch—and as a devoted grandson, he shared her opinions. Besides, if England were suddenly bereft of its starving paupers, the Church would have much less relevance, and then where would society be?
“I am happy to discuss Corn Laws by the hour if you think such a topic will raise me in Miss Delancey’s esteem.”
“She makes up her own mind, Mr. Mornebeth, but Master Michael considered you a friend, and Vicar has always liked you. That will mean much to Miss Delancey.”
They turned onto the vicarage’s street, and Isaiah stopped at the corner. “I will part from you here, though I thank you for bearing me company. When next I am blessed with an invitation to dine with the Delanceys, I will be sure to extol the virtues of the meal as pointedly as possible. Even a godly man can overlook the treasure under his own roof, Mrs. Benton.”
She clearly liked that observation. “Then I will hope you are a frequent guest, Mr. Mornebeth. Who are the flowers for?”
“When they open, they will be for Miss Delancey, unless you think that’s too forward of me? Thanks for a pleasant meal and all?”
“Give them a day or two in a sunny window. I’m sure they will look splendid and be appreciated.” She bobbed a curtsey and turned for the vicarage.
