Page 65 of Miss Delightful
Delancey started again with his rubbing cloth in the upper-left corner of the paper. “I enjoy this exercise. I find it meditative, and I spare somebody else the effort while saving a coin or two by buying the unsized paper. Michael and Dorcas used to do this for me, and I feel closer to them when I do it.”
“You’ll miss her,” Isaiah said, arranging his features in a sympathetic expression. “She will miss you, too, but we will be right across the river, and you will be a frequent guest at our table.”
Delancey was good for that at least. Everybody liked him, he was a fine conversationalist, and Dorcas’s image as the devoted daughter should not be entirely abandoned.
Delancey paused halfway down the page. “You are very confident of your success, Mornebeth, but Dorcas is not the girl you knew years ago. She is an independent spirit, much like her mother was. Marriage to you—to anybody—might not appeal to her. She’s had other expressions of interest, you know.”
The perennial proposers. No threat whatsoever. “Curates seeking to curry your favor? Dorcas deserves better than that.”
Delancey looked up from his paper, and while his gaze wasn’t hostile, neither was it friendly. A show of fatherly something or other. Sternness? Gravity? Isaiah’s own father had passed to his reward when Isaiah had turned eleven. Isaiah had thus never acquainted himself with the lexicon of paternal facial expressions.
“And you think you are what Dorcas deserves?” Delancey asked, resuming his rubbing.
“I esteem her greatly, sir, and I will provide for her well.”
“But does she love you?”
Who would have thought a high-church-ish vicar would turn up sentimental? But then, Delancey was a widower. Even Grandmama occasionally waxed wistful about her departed spouse. Grandpapa had been a hounds-and-horses, wenching-and-wagering old scallywag, but she’d seen something worth marrying in him.
“Love has many guises,” Isaiah said. “If Dorcas is not in love with me now, I hope she can grow to love me after we speak our vows. She does not strike me as overly plagued with romantic fancies, one of her many fine qualities.”
“She doesn’t? Perhaps you’re right. When Michael comes, you must join us again for dinner. He will certainly want to renew his acquaintance with you, particularly if you aspire to join the family.”
Oh, raptures.Another boring roast with boring potatoes, indifferent wine, and endless church talk. “Then I have your permission in principle to court Dorcas when the time is right?”
Delancey set aside his rag and rose. “No, Mornebeth, you do not. I thought I was quite clear on that. You are to maintain the demeanor of a family friend until such time as Michael’s visit ends, or he resolves to bide here in the south indefinitely. The approach of spring is always a busy time in any congregation, and Dorcas has much on her mind.”
Delancey gestured toward the door, and Isaiah had no choice but to rise and be escorted from the study.
“Your ambitions will be better served by patience,” Delancey went on. “Believe me. You must acquire the habit of cheerful forbearance if you hope to marry Dorcas. She dislikes surprises, cannot be ordered about, and will not be hurried. She’s like me in that regard.”
“I appreciate your counsel,” Isaiah said when Delancey had handed him his hat at the front door. “I will school myself to appreciate the lady from the posture of friendship—for now.”
Delancey opened the door. “My regards to your grandmother.”
“Of course, and to Dorcas as well.” Isaiah bowed and took his leave because he had been—literally—shown the door.
How odd. But then, Delancey doted on his only son, and if his comments could be taken at face value—they could, for Delancey had no guile whatsoever—then the old boy was enhancing Isaiah’s chances of success.
Or thought he was. Dorcas would not refuse Isaiah’s suit, just as she’d not refused his overtures all those years ago. She’d had no real choice then, and she would have no choice regarding her prospective spouse either.
The only question remaining was exactly how and when Isaiah would explain her situation to her.
Chapter Fourteen
“Tell me of your brother,” Alasdhair said, ushering Dorcas onto the walkway.
Well, of course. Everybody wanted to know how Young Vicar Delancey went on, and probably always would.
“I have missed him,” Dorcas said, tucking the plaid scarf up around her cheeks. She’d also been relieved to be parted from her only sibling. “Michael was the best of big brothers in many senses. When Papa was too bombastic, Michael would wink at me behind Papa’s back. When Mama died, Michael began taking me to the subscription library every Tuesday. He wasn’t the sort to tease me in public or hide my dolls.”
“My sisters would have thrashed any brother who attempted either infraction. Powell’s sisters would have pilloried such a brother.” Alasdhair shifted his extra bag of sandwiches and shortbread to his left hand and offered his arm. He was walking Dorcas home from the tea shop, and then he’d repair to his club to tend to correspondence.
His house was undergoing a thorough cleaning, an occasion which merited his absence, by decree of the staff and Powell’s housekeeper.
“Powell’s sisters bide in Wales?”
“Aye, for now. ‘Formidable’ is the closest English word to describe them. Female fortresses of determination, for all they are quite mannerly. When the lady cousins get together, we gents repair to the billiards room to pray.”
