Page 84 of Miss Delightful
“That isallshe asked of me. All she ever asked of me.”
“She was still wrong, Dorcas. She should have been lecturing Papa on the need to spend as much time with his children as he did with his sermons, and warning me not to be such an arrogant dunce. I’m taking a chill.” He rose and offered her his hand. “Let’s get back to the vicarage and cajole Mrs. Benton into making us some hot chocolate. I learned to love hot chocolate up north.”
“No hot chocolate for me,” Dorcas said, taking his hand. “Tea will do.”
“Mama was wrong,” Michael said, leading Dorcas through the wedding gate, “Mornebeth is an ass, and I am done with Yorkshire winters. Are you ready for tomorrow’s fellowship meal?”
Dorcas did not give a heartyGlory Befor the fellowship meal. She’d known Isaiah was a snake. Michael’s revelations only confirmed that knowledge with bitter certainty. She could also accept that she’d given Mama’s dying wishes too much weight for too long.
What she did not know was how to find a way forward that freed her and her family from more years of indentured servitude to Isaiah Mornebeth’s vile brand of piety.
* * *
Alasdhair leftPowell’s house feeling the heavy-limbed weariness of a soldier who’d survived a battle. For some, that was a joyous, celebratory moment. For Alasdhair, an end to battle had brought relief and gratitude and the tearing need to assure himself his cousins yet drew breath.
Then began the aftermath, the hastily dug graves, the visits to the wounded and dying in the infirmary, the letters a commanding officer owed a fallen soldier’s family.
Powell and Goddard had clearly been carrying their own memories of the war, though Powell had made a sort of peace with Badajoz. Treat men as if they’re expendable for long enough, subject them to enough brutality and abuse, and they become abusive brutes.
For Powell, the barbarity had been a predictable result of Dunacre’s brand of leadership, though in no way excusable.
Alasdhair had no stomach for debating a philosophy of war, and yet, he’d been reassured, too, to know that his cousins were as haunted as he was. They had understood the origins of his preoccupation with safeguarding the women on London’s streets. Maybe Alasdhair understood it a little better himself for having explained his experiences to Powell and Goddard.
Alasdhair was walking past the tea shop—too many ghosts in that quiet back corner to tempt him inside—when he noticed a woman standing by the tea shop door. She held a bundle tied together at the corners, laundry perhaps.
Not Dorcas. He looked for her everywhere and saw her nowhere, save in his dreams.
Of course, not Dorcas. “Aurora, good day.” She wore a decent cloak and had buttoned it up to her chin.
“MacKay. D’ye have a moment?”
No. No, he did not. Alasdhair was out of moments. He needed to go somewhere quiet and think—or weep—or think and weep and drink. He needed sleep. He needed Dorcas, and he could not have her. Worse yet, Mornebeth would yoke himself to her for life, and Dorcas intended to allow that.
“Of course I have a moment. I like the cloak.”
“Pawned your gloves. Got a good price for ’em.” She dipped her head in an uncharacteristically bashful gesture. “I got a letter, MacKay, from Katie. She sent it to the Drunken Goose, and I haven’t been there much.”
“You haven’t been able to afford their prices.” The Goose had a strict policy against loitering, as well as rooms to rent by the hour.
“Mother Goose kept the letter for me. Katie and her Duncan got married before Christmas. Duncan has the chandler’s shop now. Has it from his pa, who died of the influenza at Michaelmas. The old man thought he was going to live forever, and he forbade Duncan to marry. Nobody lives forever.” She was fiercely pleased to point that out.
“I hope this Duncan is a good sort.”
“Katie says he waited for her. He knew the Old Smoke wouldn’t hold her for long. She’s happy, MacKay. She’s happy, and she wants me to come work in the shop with her and Duncan. I can live with them, so I won’t have to go back to my pa’s house.”
Well, thank God for village lads with true hearts and a chandler’s skills. “You need coach fare home.”
Her chin came up. “I’ll pay you back. Katie will too. I mean it.”
“You will not,” Alasdhair said. “You will come across some other girl whose father has a bad temper, and you will explain to her what really happens to young women abroad in London without means. You will show her the chandler’s trade, or help her learn her letters. You will share your good fortune with her as Katie is sharing hers with you.”
Alasdhair gave them all the same lecture. That Katie might have heeded him was a small comfort.
“Katie said I was to ask you for coach fare. I don’t want to. I don’t want to be in any man’s debt.”
God spare me from female pride.And yet, Aurora had been surviving on the strength of pride alone for months.
“Then pay off the debt by helping another, Aurora. You are clever, determined, tough, and you’ve learned much here in London. Spare another girl those lessons if you can, and we’ll call it even.”
