Page 92 of Miss Delightful
“If you have any pretensions to gentlemanly manners,” she said, “you will apologize for your display and take your leave of this gathering.”
“And what about ladylike pretensions?” Isaiah shot back. “What about the decorum and virtue expected of a vicar’s daughter? What about temptation wielded like Eve’s sharpest weapon upon the unsuspecting?”
Too late, Dorcas realized that Isaiah’s ambush had been laid with more cunning than she’d seen. He’d goaded her on purpose, setting the stage for disclosures that would appear to be made in the heat of the moment. When he magnanimously offered for her again, to save the good name he himself had ruined, every member of St. Mildred’s congregation would accord him great respect for his forgiving nature.
“Hush,” Dorcas said. “You have bothered me for the last time, Isaiah Mornebeth.” The urge to slap him, hard, repeatedly blossomed like that temptation he’d mentioned. He had wrought such harm, and with complete impunity.
The mood in the hall had shifted, though, from people good-naturedly enjoying a little romantic foolishness to watchful and alert.
“Marry me,” Isaiah said, his tone positively gloating. “Marry me, and be grateful that I’m willing to make the offer.”
Dorcas was grateful—for Alasdhair’s steadfastness, for Melanie’s example, for Michael’s warning.
“You may go to perdition, Mr. Mornebeth. You have lied, manipulated, schemed, extorted, and abused my family’s trust and good name for years. If your falsehoods and slander ruin me, so be it. I am exercising a lady’s power to refuse the servitude you would inflict on me.”
Michael winced, Papa looked dumbstruck, while Mrs. Oldbach—had this ever happened in the history of St. Mildred’s?—was smiling.
A commotion near the door had heads turning.
“Best slink off quietly, laddie,” Alasdhair said. “Miss Delancey was being polite.”
At Alasdhair’s side were a half-dozen women attired in what was doubtless their best finery.
“Who is he?” Mornebeth sneered. “And what arethose womendoing in a house of God?”
“I am Alasdhair MacKay,” said the man himself as the crowd parted to allow him and the ladies to pass. “I am Miss Delancey’s devoted servant, and these ladies claim a prior acquaintance with you, Mornebeth. I believe you know Miss Feeney and Miss Winklebleck, as well as Miss Saunders and Miss O’Keefe, for they areintimatelyfamiliar with you.”
“Nan,” Dorcas said, addressing the tallest of the women, “you are looking well. It’s wonderful to see you again.”
Nan winked at her. “Mighty fine to see you too, Miss Delancey. Major MacKay said the pinchin’ preacher was getting airs above his station. The ladies and I don’t take kindly to that behavior. We don’t take kindly to a lot of his behaviors, if you get my drift.”
She put her fists on her ample hips and glowered at the good folk of St. Mildred’s, who had gone absolutely silent.
“Izzat you, Nanny Winklebleck?” Mr. Bothey called. “I sailed with your pa to the blasted American colonies. You’re all grown up, and you have his nose.”
“I have his fondness for a good meal too,” Nan replied, “but I don’t break bread with weasels.” She turned that magnificent stare on Isaiah, who began sidling away from Dorcas.
“Neither do I,” said Mrs. Oldbach.
“Nor will I,” came from the Widow Merridew, who had emerged from behind the lectern.
“Away with you,” Dorcas said, making a shooing motion. “You heard my friends. The women of St. Mildred’s don’t break bread with weasels.”
Mornebeth bolted for the door.
Somebody—Alasdhair? Mrs. Oldbach? Michael?—began applauding, until the sound of rejoicing shook St. Mildred’s venerable rafters.
* * *
“I might haveto marry Mrs. Oldbach,” Alasdhair said, “after I marry Dorcas, of course. Those buns are magnificent.” Not quite as magnificent as Dorcas delivering a long overdue set-down to the Mornebeth rodent.
“I already proposed to Mrs. O.” Michael hefted his end of the table. “Turned me down flat. Said churchmen are a perishing lot of work, but to look her up when I retire.” He and Alasdhair walked the table from the center of the hall to a place along the wall. “That’s the last of it. Dorcas, am I excused?”
Dorcas had been quiet and busy as the fellowship meal had progressed. She had invited the ladies to stay for supper, and the congregation had risen to the challenge. Mrs. Merridew and Mrs. Oldbach had set the tone, and the rest of the flock had extended a gingerly, curious welcome.
Though Nan and her friends had sat at their own table and had left once their bellies had been filled. That bothered Alasdhair, to see them disappearing into the chilly night, probably returning to business as usual, but Dorcas’s quiet bothered him more.
She gazed about the room with a critical eye. At this late hour, with shadows dancing against the vaulted ceiling, the chamber resembled a medieval great hall.
