Page 64 of Miss Delightful
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“I confess,”Isaiah said, “when Grandmother suggested I’d spent enough time in the north, I was pleased to heed her summons in part because I knew a return to London meant…”
He assayed a beamish smile at Thomas Delancey across the parson’s venerable if somewhat cluttered desk.
“A chance to court Dorcas?” Delancey suggested.
“Precisely, sir. A chance to renew a warm friendship of old, with Dorcas and with her family.”
Delancey was rubbing pounce into unsized paper, an exercise Isaiah would have thought within the housekeeper’s purview, or Dorcas’s. When he and Dorcas were married, she’d do as he told her, and without complaint. When she’d learned the habit of obedience, then he’d allow her small freedoms, provided she did not abuse his indulgent nature.
“Tell me specifically of your prospects, Mornebeth.”
So they were to do the pretty. Very well. Isaiah excelled at doing the pretty. “I am my grandmother’s heir, though I try not to mention that too frequently. First, I prefer to advance on my own merits. Second, the old dear is worth a pretty penny, and if I become seen as a good catch, I will be besieged. I already know which lady will make me the perfect wife, and I have no need to look further.”
This little recitation was mostly balderdash. Isaiah would advance on his own merits, Uncle Zachariah’s kind influence, Grandmama’s gift for collecting tattle, or Dorcas’s fine reputation for good works. The means mattered naught compared to the advancement.
Besides, Isaiah was asplendidcatch. He was handsome, mannerly, as gainfully employed as a gentleman could be, neither too old nor too young, and as any sensible fellow knew to do, he kept his vices and virtues in separate compartments of his life.
Did Delancey want to count Isaiah’s teeth, for pity’s sake?
“A match between you and Dorcas would have my approval,” Delancey said, setting aside his cloth and curving the paper to allow the sandarac to trickle back into the pounce pot. “You are well known to me and much respected in church circles. Your family is well situated, and I know Dorcas has had a chance to take your measure.”
Isaiah kept his hopeful smile in place, though Dorcas had donefarmore than take his measure.
Delancey ran his fingertips over the paper. “I cannot, however, give you permission to court my daughter at this time.”
Bloody bedamned hell.“My dear sir, neither the lady nor I are in the first blush of youth. What can possibly justify a delay of the courtship at this stage?” Isaiah tried to balance affront with courtesy, because Delancey needed to know that Dorcas’s days as St. Mildred’s ecclesiastical maid-of-all-work were numbered.
She would doubtless thank Isaiah for freeing her from the post of congregational charwoman. She was going utterly to waste at St. Mildred’s, entertaining the spotty choir director when she could be planning dinner parties for the archbishop’s staff.
Delancey ran his cloth over the paper one more time, then got out another sheet from the box at the corner of his desk and sprinkled it with sandarac.
“I say this kindly, Mornebeth: If you haven’t the patience to wait a few weeks to begin your official courtship, then you haven’t the patience for marriage. From what I hear, you have yet to find lodgings, yet to begin your duties at the palace, and I’m not sure where you’re attending services these days.”
The rubbishing old windbag was enjoying himself, enjoying the role of papa with a suitor at his mercy.
“I am escorting Grandmama to services until I’m established in Southwark. To be honest, I’ve put off leasing a house because I hoped I’d not be searching for bachelor quarters.”
A small half-truth. Isaiah had not leaseda house. He’d taken rooms, though. A bachelor needed the occasional private situation if he wasn’t to expire of excessive good behavior.
“If you don’t marry Dorcas, then Lady Phoebe will soon see you matched with another equally estimable young lady. Best lease a house, Mornebeth, and then your suit will be that much more attractive when you do commence the official courtship.”
“I am to be permitted to court the lady soon?” Grandmama had been very clear that Isaiah’s engagement to Dorcas was to be short and immediately commenced. That suited him famously, and it ought to suit Dorcas as well.
She was no longer young. That much had been the God’s honest truth. She would also have awkward explanations to make on the wedding night if she married any man other than Isaiah.
Delancey commenced rubbing the sandarac into the paper in gentle, methodical circles that followed the typical path of the pen—from upper-left corner to bottom right.
A task for a halfwit.
“My permission truly matters little, Mornebeth. Dorcas has ever known her own mind, and your suit will stand or fall on its own merits. The issue is that Michael is coming to visit at long last, and Dorcas must be free to enjoy her brother’s company. We haven’t seen him for several years, and for you to hover about looking eligible at such a time won’t flatter your cause.”
Michael. Interesting.
Isaiah’s immediate reaction was resentment—Michael had served his purpose years ago and deserved his banishment to the Dales—but perhaps having him on hand would encourage Dorcas to realize her good fortune that much sooner. Dorcas would do anything for her brother and father, after all.
“I see your point,” Isaiah said. “I also note that you refer to an official courtship that cannot commence until the happy occasion of Michael’s visit has concluded. What of an unofficial courtship?”
