Page 48 of The Virtues of Christmas
“Have you given up so easily on that dream of sharing knowledge, Mr. MacHugh? Your publishing house is not quite three years old.”
He took off his hat and dusted a few snowflakes from the brim. “I’d planned to be the publisher who brought enlightenment to the masses, you see. Science, languages, tales of faraway lands, all for a reasonable price. No Gothic novels, scandal sheets, or fashionable nonsense for me. It hasn’t worked out that way.”
Half the elderly women who dwelled across the street were probably peering out their parlor windows, horrified that Patience was having discourse with a man on her very doorstep.
Warmth blossomed in her heart nonetheless, because Dougal MacHugh was not quite the pinchpenny taskmaster she’d thought him to be. He had dreams, he’d known disappointment. He’d not been above instructing little girls or noticing their intelligence.
“If this project goes well,” Patience said, “you’ll have some latitude, some room to put a bit of knowledge before the masses and see if they like it. That will be my holiday wish for you, Mr. MacHugh, that your dream can come closer to reality.”
He tapped his hat back onto his head. “Give the professor a sound drubbing, Miss Friendly. That’s all I ask. I’ll bid you good evening.”
Patience made her way up the steps, while, like a suitor, Mr. MacHugh waited for her to safely enter her home. She closed the door behind her and, before she undid her cloak and scarf, peered out the window.
Mr. MacHugh was already in motion, his stride confident, his dark cloak flapping against his boots. He hadn’t scoffed at Patience’s dreams, and he had dreams of his own. Watching him make his solitary way down the street, Patience considered she might have something else in common with Mr. Dougal MacHugh.
Perhaps he was lonely too.
* * *
“You canna tell the woman to leave her husband,” Dougal shouted. “You’ll put me oot t’ business, ye daft woman. I’ll have preachers six deep on m’ doorstep citing Scripture, and a bunch of harpies quoting that Wollstonecraft woman in response.”
For the space of a day, Dougal had pondered his walk through the snowy evening with Patience Friendly. From his perspective, their dealings had subtly shifted as a result of that walk, the shared meal, and the long afternoon spent shaping the details of their holiday project.
He’d given her a piece of his past, something none of his competitors knew. The schoolteacher from Perthshire aspired to commercial success, and Patience Friendly had not mocked his ambition.
Now, he aspired to turn her over his knee.
“The poor woman’s husband is gambling and drinking away coin needed to feed her child,” Miss Friendly retorted, marching across the office. “If she stays with him, she and the child will die, or worse.”
“Such drama over a man enjoying a wee dram or two. What could be worse than death?”
She aimed a glower at him, magnificent in its ferocity. Up close, her eyes were storm gray rather than their customary blue, though she still bore the fragrance of lemons and spices.
“Must I spell it out for you, Mr. MacHugh? You’ve lived three years in London. Are you still in ignorance of the Magdalene houses and foundling homes?”
“Don’t insult me, Patience Friendly.”
“Don’t ignore a woman whose child’s life is imperiled, Mr. MacHugh. I say my reply to the letter stands. If a man is fonder of his pint than he is of his own child, he’s a menace to the child. A father’s first obligation is to protect his young.”
“Find me Scripture to back up that position, and I’ll let you quote it, but that’s as far as I’ll go.”
“You arrogant varlet.” Miss Friendly’s voice cracked like a tree trunk sundered by gale-force winds. “Scripture iswritten bymen,interpreted by men,translated by men,and preached by men.What would a man know of a lady’s plight in this situation? The mother—a countrywoman from your benighted Scotland—didn’t write to the all-knowing professor, she wrote tome.”
The staff was accustomed to Dougal raising his voice, and heated arguments among the clerks were not unusual. Dougal wasn’t above dressing down a printer who failed to deliver on time, and some of the other authors—the male authors—could be colorful in their choice of words.
To have provoked Miss Patience Friendly to shouting felt like both an accomplishment and a disgrace. A violation of some natural order that stood above even Scripture.
“She’s right,” Harry said, sauntering through the open door with a bag of crumpets. “‘Let the women keep silent in the church,’ for example. Why wouldn’t God want to hear from half his children? Doesn’t make any sense to me, and yer auld mum would agree, Dougal.”
“There you have it,” Miss Friendly snapped, snatching the bag of crumpets from Harry. “From the mouths of babes, or in this case, strapping youths coming into the full glory of their intellectual powers.” She tore open the bag and passed Harry a crumpet.
Harry accepted the sweet, bowed, and smirked his way out the door.
“We’ll set the letter aside for now,” Dougal said. “Plenty of others remain, and we needn’t tackle that one first.”
Miss Friendly held her crumpet as if she were considering pitching it at him. “We can set the letter aside for now, but the misery of poor children ought to be a suitable topic for the holiday season. You will not convince me otherwise.”
For them, this was a compromise. A show of diplomacy was in order. “Convince you to change your mind once you’ve formed an opinion? Daft I might be, but I’ve no desire to end my days prematurely. Enjoy your crumpets.”
