Joan Smith: Delsie

“A few months? Oh, she is young enough to last a few years, Max.”

“I meant years,” he said, with a conscious look at Delsie, who smiled sheepishly.

“Of course you did,” Lady Jane smiled knowingly. “Why should Delsie only require her services for six months, till she is out of deep mourning? Dear me, there could be no reason. None in the world. It is not as though she will be leaving the Cottage.”

“Certainly not,” Sir Harold added foolishly, the only one at the table who had not perceived what was going on before his eyes. His wife turned a withering look on him.

“For, of course, you will not be leaving us,” Jane continued, her irony becoming stronger by the moment.

“Oh, no,” Delsie agreed.

“Or moving to the Hall,” Jane said at last, with a piercing observation of the pair of culprits.

“Miss Haversham would not care for that,” Delsie answered her with an innocent smile.

“Miss Haversham?” Harold asked in confusion. “Why, what is it to her? Nosy old biddy. As to moving to the Hall, it is out of the question, of course. Quite out of the question. Not the thing at all.”

“Harold, you ninny,” Jane said baldly. “They are to be married!”

“Who is to be married?” he demanded in vexation. “Miss Haversham is too old to marry anyone. Old as the stars. Older.”

“Not her, Max and Delsie,” Jane explained.

“Eh? Both of them? Who are they marrying?”

“Each other, Harold,” Jane told him patiently.

“Really? Marrying each other, you say? Well, bless my soul. When did all this come about?”

“Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was about the same time Max started flirting with Miss Haversham,” Jane said with smug satisfaction at her scheme’s success.

“Her again!” Sir Harold fumed. “Max, you haven’t set up a flirtation with that old Tartar. Old enough to be your grandmother, ‘pon my word. I don’t know what this world is coming to. Louise marrying that old slice of a Grayshott, then Delsie marrying him, and now Delsie marrying Max, after he’s taken to throwing his cap at Miss Haversham.”

Their incredulous smiles made even Sir Harold aware that he had been conned, and he laughed at himself. “All a hum, I daresay,” he said, and ate up his soup.

Later, Jane shooed him off to the library to be rid of him while quizzing the two about their plans. When she had discovered what she wished to know, she cautioned them to leave before he came out, or he’d make them listen to his translation of Pliny, when she was sure they had more interesting things to talk about. “Not that you’ll get much talking done, I warrant,” she added roguishly.

Nor did they. Still, they managed to set on June thirtieth for a wedding day, and to agree on a locale for the honeymoon, as Delsie had been gypped out of one the first time around. The young lady was consulted so punctiliously on every point that it was necessary for her to remind her fiancé she had put him in charge of all details of her second wedding before she had contracted her first.

“Since I am in charge of all details,” he said slyly, “I think the bride must have a few lessons in what her groom will like.”

“Several large doses of brandy a day, like her first husband, I collect,” she replied.

“That, of course, and several large doses of love at night. Unlike her first husband.” His arm, already around her waist in the carriage, tightened as he pulled her to him. “Time for my first medication.”

“I have ended up a nurse after all,” she sighed, and administered a light peck to his cheek.

“A very stingy nurse! Several large doses was the prescription,” he reminded her, then proceeded to fill the prescription. “More addicting than brandy,” he murmured.

“You will please to stay sober till June thirtieth, milord.”

“So I shall, but on June thirtieth, Delsie Sommers, I intend to become roaring drunk.”

“I intend to become a little foxed myself on that day,” she promised happily.

Copyright © 1982 by Joan Smith

Originally published by Fawcett Coventry [ISBN 0449502325]

Electronically published in 2012 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads

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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are

fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is

coincidental.