Page 61 of Miss Delightful
A successful match, by any measure. That she’d buried both of her sons as well as her husband didn’t make it any less so.
“Isaiah is a good catch,” Phoebe said, and that was true. He was by no means a great catch.
“Isaiah is arrogant, but then, I suppose I was, too, at his age.”
“He wants a wife whose reputation will give him cause for pride and who will deliver him a proper dressing down in private when he needs one.”
“Which will be frequently.” Zachariah finished his tea and returned the cup and saucer to the tray. “I do not envy any young lady that challenge.”
Phoebe realized with no little dismay that Zachariah found Isaiah’s companytedious. Perhaps an old man’s jealousy of the young accounted for that, because Isaiah was shrewd, charming, and good-humored, much as Zachariah had been at that age.
“You know Thomas Delancey?” she asked.
“Everybody knows old Tom. He’s a fixture at St. Mildred’s and uniformly well liked.”
But not precisely respected, and Phoebe knew why. “He’s nigh a decade your junior, Zachariah Ingleby, and he has a daughter, Dorcas.”
Zachariah made a face as if the milk in his tea had soured. “Miss Delightful. She’s something of a crusader.”
“Precisely. Somebody needs to take the girl in hand and put all that zeal to a constructive use. Isaiah is perfect for her. She can attach herself to his career instead of trying to reform London’s great unwashed. Isaiah needs a challenge, and Miss Delancey needs to concern herself with a family, rather than carping in the newspapers about her silly causes.”
Zachariah rose again. He’d always had too much energy for a sedentary calling. “Dorcas Delancey is not a girl, Phoebe. She’s on the shelf, or shortly will be, and her silly causes are exactly the sort of reform most sensible people support.”
“Most people, who haven’t a pot to piss in or a groat to their names. Most people, who will never have the vote and who grumble about paying their tithes. Her father has the right idea—advocate for generosity and tolerance at the individual level, appeal to the conscience, and leave the politicians to wrestle in the mud. Isaiah can teach her that.” Phoebe could teach her that, given enough time.
“Isaiah will want a biddable wife,” Zachariah said, tossing a half scoop of coal onto the hearth. “His habits make that plain enough.”
Isaiah wasn’t any naughtier than half the other young bucks swanning about Town on their quarterly allowances. Of that, Phoebe had no doubt. True, she’d received a few unsavory reports from her connections in Yorkshire—Isaiah was a Mornebeth male in his prime—but that had been the very reason for sending him north. He’d been enjoying the gaming hells and fleshpots of Mayfair a little too enthusiastically for a man of the cloth.
A lot too enthusiastically, if Phoebe’s reporters had been accurate.
Yorkshire, owing to a paucity of both gambling establishments and houses of ill repute, had served as a place for Isaiah to while away a few years.
“I have reason to believe that Isaiah will be amenable to a match with Miss Delancey. If I am adroit—and I am—I can make him think the notion is his idea. His pride will do the rest. The lady is as good as wearing his ring.”
Zachariah remained before the fire, poker in hand. “Phoebe, don’t you ever tire of the machinations? Doesn’t any part of you want to see Isaiah stand or fall on his own merits? He’s not stupid, he’s had a good education, and you see that he wants for nothing. Give him a chance to make his own way.”
Men left to make their own way got up to wenching, warfare, and making bastards. “I cannot rehabilitate the nature of the male beast, Zachariah, but Isaiah is the best and brightest of the Mornebeth brood. I owe it to the family to support his advancement, and that means he must marry as I see fit.” Isaiah was also her oldest grandchild and thus believed himselfentitledto Phoebe’s aid.
Except he wasn’t. Her aid would come at a price, and that price would be marriage in the very near future to the wife of Phoebe’s choosing.
“What of Miss Delancey? She’s apparently content to support her father, to be the comfort of his old age. What of Tom Delancey when you snatch his daughter away? She’s not simply a reformer, she’s also exceedingly clever, and Tom’s congregation thinks quite highly of her.”
“While they murmur in their tents about how flagrantly improper she is. I have my spies, Zachariah, and Ophelia Oldbach knows her neighbors well.”
“Ophelia Oldbach’s approval has ever been a prize beyond reach. If she truly thought Miss Delancey in need of a sermon, she’d speak to the young woman herself. I urge you not to meddle, Phoebe. Inform Isaiah that a man employed by the archbishop has no need of a quarterly allowance from his grandmother. Warn him that he’s no longer a young sprig who will be forgiven for indulging in high spirits. I would hate for his bad judgment to result in your disappointment.”
“Come have another cup of tea,” Phoebe said, favoring Zachariah with her most charming smile, because the moment had come for some cajolery. “Do you know what I treasure most about you, Zachariah?”
He set his poker aside and tried for a smile of his own, though the effort was tired. “You treasure me because I am the best whist partner you will ever have, and I usually tell you what you want to hear.”
He was certainly falling short of that mark today. “You are lethal at whist because everybody is taken in by your charm.”
The smile turned rueful. “Fat lot of good my charm does me with you.”
“Pouting on a man of your years is undignified. I treasure you because you do not tell me what I want to hear when honesty matters most. I know Isaiah lacks humility, but so do I. I understand him, and with your aid, a great deal of patience, and some luck, I can pilot Isaiah safely past the shoals of bachelordom. Now come have your tea, and tell me how the grandchildren go on.”
That was Zachariah’s cue to start spouting off about his brilliant brood—Phoebe could never keep them all straight—but he remained by the fire.
