Page 55 of Miss Delightful
“His name is John, and because he is as a son to me now, he will bide for the most part with me, though he’ll certainly become acquainted with my Scottish relatives. Where Dorcas and I make our home will largely depend on her wishes. Good day.”
“I mean no insult to you, MacKay, and I do care about the child. I am well acquainted, though, with how the morally upright can treat those of questionable birth. Perhaps in Scotland, society is more tolerant, but here in London… John will face challenges.”
“Then he will face them supported by me and every resource I command.”
Alasdhair left the vicarage with a sense of having escaped an enemy garrison. Delancey doubtless did aspire to a godly life, but he also found virtuous excuses for every occasion when his striving fell short. Wishing John to Scotland, for example, was not expedient for Delancey’s ambitions, but rather, a kindness to wee John.
Warning Alasdhair of competition for Dorcas’s hand was not an effort to destroy his confidence, it was merely paternal fair play.
If Dorcas was Miss Delightful—and she was—then her father was Mr. Self-Delusion.
Alasdhair was debating whether to stop by the tea shop on his way home when a flash of dark green wool on the walkway ahead of him caught his eye. Many a lady wore a heavy cloak on such a nippy day, but this lady also wore a poke bonnet adorned with a single pheasant feather on the left side.
Alasdhair knew of only one woman who’d trimmed her everyday bonnet thus, and that lady was Melanie Fairchild. He quickened his pace, intent on taking a closer look, but when he turned the corner, the woman had vanished.
Chapter Twelve
Dorcas drowsed before a roaring fire in Alasdhair’s sitting room, her mind drifting over thoughts of hot chocolate, babies, and blooming heather. Scotland was said to be beautiful, and she had no idea which corner of Scotland Alasdhair called home.
A soft kiss grazed her cheek. “Dùisg, a ghràidh.”
The warmth of Alasdhair’s burr curled around her heart as the heat of the fire had taken the chill from her body. “I dozed off,” she said, straightening. “What did you say?”
“Wake up, my dear. How are mother and child?” He set a tea tray on the hassock before Dorcas’s chair and took a seat on the raised hearth.
“They are well, thank heavens. The child waited until this morning to arrive, but Mrs. Bonner tends to have long labors. I wanted to let you know that I haven’t had a chance to warn Papa that you intend to call, except I am apparently too late. Is that lemon cake?”
He passed over a fat slice. “From the tea shop. I could not enjoy my snack sitting all on my lonesome at the back table. Did Mrs. Bonner name the baby?”
“Mr. Bonner did. Alma, because her safe arrival lifted his spirits so. He cried, Alasdhair. Held that squalling little scrap of humanity and cried with no dignity whatsoever.”
“You cried too,” Alasdhair said, taking a bite of the lemon cake when Dorcas held it out to him. “Exhaustion can make us impossible or turn us up sweet and saintly. You’ve looked in on John?”
“He went down for a nap shortly after I arrived. Timmens says he had a lively night and will probably sleep a good two hours. She’s off to see her sister, and Henderson has guard duty. You should have a sandwich. Lemon cake is not proper sustenance.”
Alasdhair poured two cups of tea. “The sight of you, curled up in my reading chair, is the best nourishment. Your father tried to be difficult.” He added a dash of honey and a dollop of cream to her tea, stirred it, and passed it over. The mug was heavy—no delicate porcelain—and its warmth felt good in Dorcas’s hands.
“Papa does not like surprises.” The tea, by contrast, was surprisingly good. Stronger than Dorcas was used to and smooth and rich rather than harsh.
“Your papa does not like the idea of you living in Scotland with me, though he’s happy to consign John to some drafty old Highland castle. The vicar said if I could out-court the wondrous Mr. Mornebeth, he would tolerate me for a son-in-law.”
“Papa did not say that.”
Alasdhair took up a sandwich, gnawed off a bite, and chewed in silence.
Dorcas had dreamed of his kisses, of the feel of his hands on her back, the pleasure of his embrace. That was all quite lovely, but this cozy chat by the fire, the perfectly prepared cup of tea, the chance to report on a mother and child safely through their travail…
This is heaven. The thought popped into Dorcas’s mind all of a piece, knitting together caring, kisses, and something more, something to do with what drew her to linger at Alasdhair’s house even when he was absent from it.
“Your father,” Alasdhair said, “dreads to lose you to holy matrimony. He might not admit it to himself, Dorcas, but he knows that you keep his congregation running smoothly. Mornebeth would put some claims on your time as a husband, but he wouldn’t disappear with you to Scotland.”
Dorcas cradled her mug in her hands as some of the glow of the moment faded. “I would just as soon never hear that man’s name again.”
Alasdhair finished his first sandwich, dusted his hands, and considered her. “Was Mornebeth the partner you chose for your foray into wicked rebellion, Dorcas?”
No accusation or disgust colored that question, merely curiosity. That Alasdhair would leap to such a conclusion was unnerving, though he was a man who thought much, observed carefully, and denied himself the comfort of willful blindness.
The urge to disclose the whole sordid truth nearly undid Dorcas, but the habit of dissembling was too ingrained and the trust she’d placed in Alasdhair too new. Time for truth later, when they were in that Highland castle, far, far from ugly memories and the man who’d precipitated them.
