Page 52 of Miss Delightful
“The price of setting a table worthy of your father’s household only increases, though some of that is simply the season. You were off to see to Miss Melanie’s baby?”
Dorcas did not want to be interrogated now, did not want to fashion the careful, diplomatic answers that the topic called for. “Papa told you about that?”
“He’s concerned for you, miss. Charitable works are one thing, but the child’s antecedents are lamentably irregular, and the baby is apparently well provided for without your efforts.” She held out her hands to take Dorcas’s cloak. “Albeit the boy dwells in a bachelor household.”
Dorcas moved away, tidying up the inevitable stack of morning mail. Mrs. Benton was a good soul. Her contribution to keeping the vicarage running was enormous, and yet, she’d never presumed to mother Dorcas, never shown an ambition to be more than a valued employee.
“Mr. MacKay is a former officer and heir to the Scottish equivalent of a barony.”And John won’t be living in a bachelor household much longer, if all goes well.“Mr. MacKay took a kindly interest in Melanie’s situation despite her circumstances. I esteem a man who can set aside judgmental conventions where the welfare of a mother and child is at risk.”
“So do I.” Mrs. Benton used a handkerchief to dab at a smudge on the mirror over the sideboard. “Was Mr. MacKay troubling you, Dorcas? I could not hear what he was saying, but his tone was somewhat emphatic.”
“We argue,” Dorcas said, the admission surprising her. “I delight in arguing with him. He doesn’t mince off into gentlemanly restraint owing to my inferior female intellect as soon as he senses that I’m about to checkmate his theories. He can admit that he’s wrong.”
Mrs. Benton moved on to straightening the cloaks, coats, parasols, and umbrellas on their various hooks. “You like that about him?”
Likewas too pale a word for adoration mixed with relief and joy. Oh, to cut loose with logic, facts, learned citations, and persuasion… to demolish empty posturing and conveniently false equivalences…
“Major MacKay is easy to talk to, Mrs. Benton. He’s told me about the war, about childhood pranks with his siblings, and when I prattle on about women in prison or the inane politics of the grounds committee, he listens to me.”
Mrs. Benton’s gaze traveled down the corridor toward Papa’s study. “A man who listens well is a treasure. I have always regarded your father’s patience as a listener quite highly.”
Something wistful in her tone caught Dorcas’s ear. What else about Papa did Mrs. Benton regard quite highly?
“I suppose for Papa it goes with the job.”
“The grounds committee is a tribulation to you and the vicar both,” Mrs. Benton said. “If you’d like, I can take the meeting minutes. I’ve baked an extra dozen hot cross buns in case Mr. Knorr and Mr. Crown come to verbal fisticuffs over flowerpots on the church steps again.”
A battle royal, that discussion. Flowerpots, in the opinion of Mr. Knorr, were the devil’s trap for the unwary, just waiting to trip the unsuspecting, also an exercise in vanity. Mr. Crown—brother-in-law to Mr. Prebish—returned fire with quotations about the lilies of the field and congregational pride.
All quite ridiculous.
“The issue isn’t flowerpots,” Dorcas said. “The issue is who will be promoted to the pastoral committee when Mr. Riley rotates off next year.” Until Dorcas had established mandatory retirements for all committee members, the jockeying had been relentless.
“And the solution,” Mrs. Benton said, “is to promote neither of them until they learn to behave with greater decorum, but will the vicar see the wisdom of that suggestion? You’d think they were a lot of schoolboys. I gather your Mr. MacKay is not a schoolboy.”
“Far from it. He’s a good man. Somewhat unconventional, but decent to his bones.” Decent enough that Dorcas was actually, truly, honestly contemplating marriage with him. The heart boggled to consider such a possibility.
“You are a good woman,” Mrs. Benton said, twitching at the folds of Papa’s greatcoat. “I see how hard you work, Dorcas Delancey, and I believe another young man sees that too.”
“Has our choir director come by extolling the virtues of F major again?”
“Mrs. Tritapoe has him in mind for her oldest. The young lady is quite musical, which is fortunate, because she has more hair than wit. I refer to Mr. Isaiah Mornebeth. I ran into him at the market, and he was inquiring very pointedly about you.”
All the joy, all the glee, trepidation, and wonder in Dorcas catapulted top over tail into dread. “Mr. Mornebeth?”
“Not as youthful as our choir master, nor as dashing as your Mr. MacKay, but still an impressive fellow.”
“In his own mind, he’s doubtless the catch of the Season.” As soon as she muttered the words, Dorcas regretted them. Thomas Delancey’s daughter would never disparage another churchman, much less a friend of her father and—ostensibly—of her brother.
“Mr. Mornebeth purchased flowers for you,” Mr. Benton said. “Daffodils symbolize new beginnings, if I recall correctly.”
“And chivalry.” Neither meaning had any relevance where Isaiah Mornebeth was concerned. “Will I find these flowers in the library?”
“That’s the curious part. He bought a bunch of unopened buds, which would make no sort of bouquet. He claimed they were thanks for a fine meal, but, Miss Dorcas, one delivers flowers the day after enjoying a fine meal, and one delivers a blooming bouquet. I found his choice odd.”
Sinister, one might even say. “Perhaps he could not afford the opened flowers.”
“I pay attention to prices, Miss Dorcas, and every bunch was priced the same. I know your father enjoys Mr. Mornebeth’s company and that he’s considered a rising star, comely, with a genuine calling, and from good family. That doesn’t mean you must tolerate his overtures.”
