Page 53 of Miss Delightful
This display of support, at variance with Papa’s guidance, was both surprising and welcome. “I cannot afford to offend him, Mrs. Benton.” The admission disgusted Dorcas, as Isaiah Mornebeth disgusted her—now that she was permitted to be honest with herself. “I’ve told Papa I am not at home to Mr. Mornebeth, and I am telling you the same thing now.”
“I understand.”
“You do?”
Mrs. Benton paused at the top of the steps, her hand on the newel post. “I was married to a good man, Miss Dorcas. My Patrick wasn’t given to flowery speeches, but I knew he loved me. He worked hard to keep a roof over our heads, never complained about my modest portion, and never berated me when I could not have children. That man said more with silence and genuine affection than all the flatterers and fawners have ever said with their flummery and flowers.
“Mr. Mornebeth,” she went on, “is the sort of fellow who thinks himself cleverer than all the rest, special. Anointed by providence for lofty rewards, though he’s getting too old for such hubris. He hides it well, but he’s so busy planning his own canonization that he can’t be bothered to notice the difference between apple walnut torte and pear tarts.”
“You make splendid pear tarts.” Had served them on the occasion of Mornebeth’s supper at the vicarage, if Dorcas recalled correctly.
“I do—my mother’s recipe—but Mr. Mornebeth was so intent on prying details of your situation from me that he forgot the first rule of flattery: Root your compliments in truth, or they are so many lies.”
“I appreciate the warning, Mrs. Benton. I do not wish to create awkwardness with Mr. Mornebeth, and I have even less wish to encourage any ambitions he holds regarding my future.”
“Then best of luck to your Scotsman, I say.” She hugged Dorcas, an unprecedented display of affection, then bustled off for the stairs.
Dorcas felt as if she’d taken ship on a vessel caught up in successive storms. First, Alasdhair’s ferocious declarations and insights, delivered with all the intensity and integrity he possessed. Dorcas hadn’t told him the whole of her past, but she’d told him enough to have sent any other suitor packing.
Alasdhair MacKay had instead gone to arrange a special license.
Then this exchange with Mrs. Benton… Dorcas took herself out to the garden and perched on the stone bench beside the frozen birdbath. That Mrs. Benton could see through Isaiah’s posturing was a vindication.
“I am not foolish to mistrust him.” He’d never apologized for his bad behavior toward Dorcas, never expressed regret for his trespasses.
And he had trespassed. Egregiously. Admitting that was easier now. Breathing was easier now too. Dorcas had much to consider, much to sort out, but her perspective on the past had been given a healthy nudge in the direction of objectivity.
Dorcas was contemplating the wonder of Mrs. Benton’s apparent tendresse for Papa when Papa himself came out into the garden, waving a piece of paper.
“Daughter, Daughter, I have the best news! Come inside, for we must make plans!”
A bishopric? Now? What else could put such a spring in Papa’s step. “Tell me,” Dorcas said, rising. “Tell me the great news, and then I have some news to share with you too.” Papa did not deal well with surprises, and Alasdhair’s call tomorrow would be surprising indeed.
Papa hadn’t bothered to button his coat, nor had he donned a hat. “Michael is coming.” He brandished the paper again. “Your dear brother is coming for a visit, and by heaven, Dorcas, if we had a fatted calf, that creature’s days would be numbered. Michael is coming home for a good long visit, and I daresay if a post opens up closer to Town, he’ll be applying for it.”
“That is wonderful news, Papa. I’ll have Mrs. Benton air out his room and see that your calendar is free of appointments while Michael is with us. And if you have another moment—”
“A post in Kent would be ideal,” Papa went on. “Never hurts to be within hailing distance of Canterbury. The Kentish congregations tend to be well fixed, with plenty of titles. Surrey is also pleasant, and even Sussex or Berkshire would do. I am off to the club, my dear, and will likely not be home for dinner. Such news, such news…”
“But, Papa, if you could tarry for five minutes…” He went flapping and waving back toward the house, leaving Dorcas standing on the garden path. “Papa! When does Michael arrive?”
“Next week,” he called over his shoulder, “weather permitting. I shall pray without ceasing for his safe arrival until that blessed day.”
Papa disappeared back into the vicarage before Dorcas could tell him that Alasdhair MacKay intended to call tomorrow, much less why he’d be calling, or how Dorcas hoped Papa would receive him.
* * *
“If you’ve come about money,”Mr. Delancey began, folding his hands on the desk’s leather blotter, “then I will disabuse you of the notion that the boy’s family has much in the way of coin. We are comfortable, through the grace of God. We intend that the child want for nothing essential, but I will not tolerate repeated attempts at extortion. You are apparently his legal guardian, MacKay, and he is your responsibility.”
The vicar’s version of wrathful sternness might have convinced a recruit in his first week in uniform. Even a very young Dorcas would have paid her father’s temper little mind. She had exaggerated Delancey’s sternness when advocating for John, a tactic Alasdhair understood.
For Dorcas’s sake, he allowed the insult in Delancey’s words to pass. “The lad’s name is John Fairchild, though I’d be pleased to see him travel under the MacKay banner if that’s his preference. He’s about so long, and his smile would light up your whole household.”
Delancey cleared his throat. He scooted in his chair. “That the child thrives is, of course, an occasion for gratitude.”
“I did not come here to discuss John with you,” Alasdhair said, getting as comfortable as possible on a wee, creaky chair with lumpy cushions. The shelves of theological treatises added to the study’s pontifical air, and a landscape of some gleaming cathedral reinforced the trappings of churchliness. The urge to burst forth into one of Rabbie Burns’s more rollicking airs nagged at Alasdhair. “I am honored to have been entrusted with John’s upbringing, and I had nothing but respect for his mother.”
“Nothingbut respect?” Delancey added a judgmental little sniff.
