Page 67 of Miss Delightful
“Of Melanie, of the women in jail, of all the Auroras.”Of myself at a younger age.
Dorcas would have struck out across the street in a convenient gap in the traffic, but Alasdhair remained on the walkway, gazing down at her.
“As a suitor, I am apparently doomed to awkwardness where you are concerned, but Dorcas Delancey, I love you. I love you forunderstanding. One does not make such declarations on street corners, I know. Bad form and all that. I would kiss you, but Old Man Tingley will report my outrageous conduct to Powell, and Powell might well unleash his sisters upon me. Say something so I will cease babbling.”
“I am in a bad mood.”
“I’m sorry, I apolo—”
She held up a gloved hand. “I love my brother, but I also resent him bitterly. He renders me not merely drab by comparison, but invisible. I know the times when his charm failed, when his stupidity hurt others and he was never held to account. Men sow wild oats, an occasion for tolerant humor, while women end up like Aurora. Sometimes, Alasdhair, I think if I give vent to my anger, I will end up in Bedlam. Worse yet, that is exactly what society wants me to think, the better to ensure my ire is turned into stitched samplers or dosed with patent remedies.”
“Don’t you dare take up stitching samplers, Dorcas Delancey. You are right to be angry.”
“And that,” she said, touching his cheek, “is why I love you. You do not tell me to trust in divine providence or keep to my proper place so men of greater understanding can deal with life’s vexing conundrums.”
Alasdhair brushed the tail of her scarf back over her shoulder. “Men of greater understanding have been dealing with life’s vexing problems for millennia. The result, it seems to me, is much in need of improvement. What can I do to make your brother’s visit less bothersome to you?”
Dorcas did not merely love Alasdhair, sheadoredhim. “That you ask means much. Simply be patient. Michael must return to his congregation at some point, and a special license is valid for months. I will call upon you when I can and find an occasion to introduce you to Michael.”
“Please do,” Alasdhair said, taking her hand and starting across the street. “I’ve never met a paragon before.”
“He’s not really a paragon.”
“They never are. The military boasted its share of paragons, and they invariably proved troublesome.”
Dorcas passed the rest of the walk home in silence, trying to put a name to what had transpired between the tea shop and the vicarage. The truth should have appalled her. She had lost her temperon the street. Spouted off. Ranted.
Ladies never had such lapses.Mrs. Alasdhair MacKaywas apparently welcome to have them whenever she pleased. The freedom in that realization was nearly incomprehensible.
As was the comfort of Alasdhair’s hand in hers. Dorcas dropped his hand as they approached the vicarage and took up the more decorous arm-in-arm posture. Alasdhair encouraged her candor to a shocking degree, while Papa still expected his daughter to comport herself at all times with appropriate dignity.
Dorcas had time for one other thought—what did she expectof herself?—before Alasdhair was bowing over her hand in parting.
* * *
Isaiah had spentthe past twenty-four hours putting Thomas Delancey’s little show of paternal authority into perspective.
Delancey, with a pathetic lack of both guile and originality, wanted to become a bishop. He wanted the financial security of such a post, the prestige, the respect. Given that deluded hope, Delancey would of course put more emphasis on parading his handsome son around the ecclesiastical race course than he would on practically anything else.
Showing Michael off, all grown up and sporting his collar, would take precedence over announcing a match for St. Mildred’s plainest spinster.
Fair enough. But that spinster needed to know exactly what lay in her future, lest she get to thinking of going north with her brother, or—worse yet—accompanying him to some heathen missionary post. If Thomas Delancey were desperate enough for recognition, he might talk his children into just such a display of holy foolishness.
Isaiah was rehearsing his interview with Dorcas as he approached the vicarage, only to see her taking leave of a tall, dark-haired brute before the vicarage’s front door. The man presumed to brush his bare fingers over Dorcas’s gloved knuckles as he bowed his farewell.
Dorcas ought to have withdrawn her hand in a manner that left no doubt as to the unacceptability of such forwardness. This was not an old man whose flirtations could be considered harmless, nor did the fellow’s attire proclaim him to be particularly wealthy. His greatcoat had only one cape, his scarf wasplaid. He wore no gloves and carried no walking stick.
But then, sometimes the wealthy did not advertise their good fortune.
Still, who the hell did he think he was, this strutting interloper, to embarrass Dorcas at her own front door?
Rather than accost another man on the street, Isaiah waited until Dorcas had ducked into the vicarage, and her escort had jaunted off in the direction of Mayfair. Dorcas’s admirer had the bearing of former military, and clearly, London’s streets did not intimidate him. He flipped a coin to a crossing sweeper and strolled from view.
Good riddance, whoever he was. Isaiah waited two minutes, then rapped on the door of the vicarage.
The housekeeper greeted him. “Mr. Mornebeth, how do you do? Come in, come in. If you are calling upon Mr. Delancey, I’m afraid he’s over at the church meeting with the sextons. The bells don’t ring themselves, apparently.”
Isaiah passed over his hat, walking stick, and gloves. “I’m here to call upon Miss Delancey, as it happens, and much to my delight, I saw her return to the vicarage not five minutes past.”
