Page 49 of The Virtues of Christmas
Dougal tried for a dignified exit, but Miss Friendly tore off a bite of cinnamon heaven and popped it into her mouth as he passed her.
“You don’t care for a crumpet, Mr. MacHugh? They’re very tasty.”
“I’ll have a half.”
The rest of the afternoon went the same way, bickering and sweets, then the occasional philosophical argument, followed by a heated difference of opinion over the placement of a comma.
All quite invigorating, and yet the disagreement over the gin widow’s letter left a sour taste in Dougal’s mouth.
“Has Miss Friendly driven you from your own office?” Harry asked as the clerks began packing up. “I can still make a run to the chophouse if you’re going to demand more work from her.”
Dougal eyed the closed door to his office, which sported his name—Dougal P. MacHugh, Publisher—in shiny brass letters. An hour ago, that door had opened enough for a disgruntled King George to be shoved into the clerk’s room, but Miss Friendly hadn’t emerged or demanded more crumpets.
“She’s working,” Dougal said. “You lot go get the greenery, and mind you, don’t overspend. We’ve a budget in this office.”
“We’ve a budget even for a frolic,” Harry retorted. “Is it any wonder the Scotsman has a dour, miserly reputation?”
“Hear, hear,” old Detwiler chorused from his desk.
“Traitor.” Dougal pushed a few coins into Harry’s hand. “Stand the lads to a pint when you’re finished outside. Detwiler must buy his own, though.”
The office emptied, save for Dougal, King George, and the literary force of nature who’d taken over Dougal’s office.
Miss Friendly had said she wanted to be the employer, an unusual ambition for a woman her age. Widows could own entire networks of coaching inns, breweries, and all manner of establishments, but a single woman of Miss Friendly’s age—a spinster—could dream of managing only her own household.
“Rrrlf.”
George stropped himself against Dougal’s boot. Dougal considered shoving the cat back through the door, a sort of reconnaissance maneuver, but decided on safety in numbers instead. He picked up George, did not knock on his own door, and entered the office.
He faced a writer’s version of a battlefield. A dictionary lay open on the table. The remains of a bag of crumpets sat beside it. Foolscap had been crumpled and tossed toward the hearth, and more sheets covered with scrawling penmanship were scattered over the table.
Miss Friendly sat at Dougal’s desk, her arms crossed on the blotter, her cheek pillowed on her forearm. Dougal set the cat on the mantel and crept closer, for his most popular author was apparently fast asleep.
“Miss Friendly?”
Her breathing continued in the slow, mesmerizing rhythm of exhausted sleep. A quill pen lay beneath her right hand. At rest, her features were more elegant, more delicate than when animated with her endless opinions.
Dougal slid the quill from beneath her grasp, and still she remained asleep. George paced back and forth on the mantel, as if waiting for a laggard minion to build up the fire.
Instead, Dougal lit a candle from a spill and took the candle to the desk. Better light didn’t change what he’d observed when he’d first approached his sleeping beauty.
Miss Friendly was tired—her eyes were shadowed with fatigue, and her sleep was sound. She had also been upset, apparently, for in her left hand she clutched a lace-edged handkerchief, and her cheeks were stained with tears.
* * *
Patience dozed in that half-dreaming state where sounds from the waking world had no significance and thoughts drifted freely.
At least she hadn’t cried in front of Dougal MacHugh. He wasn’t exactly dreadful anymore, but he was disappointing, which was worse. On Monday, he’d acknowledged that even a young female might have a nimble mind. Today, he’d gone right back to parroting hidebound attitudes merely because they’d keep his business from offending the good clergy of London.
Let the women keep silent in the church, indeed.
“Miss Friendly.”
Patience wasn’t feeling very friendly. Other snippets of Scripture floated past, none of them useful when a child’s belly was empty. The cat rustled about the office, and Patience had the odd thought that she liked having George underfoot.
“Madam, wake up. The lads will say I worked you to exhaustion.”
That growling burr was familiar, and not.
