Page 51 of The Virtues of Christmas
“Papa said I must have misunderstood. I didn’t misunderstand the viscount’s hands under my skirts. Only a fiancé or a cad takes such liberties.”
She buried her face against Mr. MacHugh’s shoulder, appalled at her own honesty, and even more appalled at how ignorant she’d been ten years ago.
“Losing our innocence is painful, but it’s how we find out what sort of person we are.”
The desk and the chair prevented Patience from stepping back, and yet, she wanted to see Mr. MacHugh’s eyes, wanted to assure herself he brought no judgment of her to this discussion.
Because if he did not judge her, perhaps she might cease judging herself. She’d accused herself of ignorance, while Mr. MacHugh pronounced her guilty only of trusting the wrong man.
She scooted onto the desk, and Mr. MacHugh remained where he was—close enough to hug, his hands at his sides.
“You could have gone into a decline,” he said. “Thrown yourself on your uncle’s charity, embroiled the viscount and your family in worse scandal than a simple reversal of fortune. You didn’t. You soldiered on. You are still soldiering on, and God pity the fool who thinks to take advantage of you ever again.”
Dougal MacHugh’s approval made Patience want to cry all over again, also to smile. To beam, to laugh, to hug him again.
How odd.
“I could not allow my brother to suffer as a result of my situation. Mama pawned her jewels to buy him a commission and found work tutoring bankers’ daughters in elocution, deportment, and French. She wrote pamphlets on the same subjects, and then I took up that occupation when she died.”
Please don’t ask about Papa.She could see the question in Mr. MacHugh’s eyes, could feel it bearing down on her.
“And your father. Did he drink, Patience?”
“Sometimes. Mama said he expired of shame. We moved in with her mother, and that’s the only reason I have a roof over my head. Grandmama left everything she had to me. You mustn’t think my circumstances are pathetic.”
Precarious, yes. Never pathetic. Not as long as Patience had friends and meaningful, paying work.
“I think you are resourceful, resilient, and brilliant at what you do, but it’s time I got you home, Miss Friendly.”
Patience didn’t want to leave, and she didn’t want to beMiss Friendly. She wanted to sort through the remaining letters, eat more of the hot, delicious food from the chophouse, and argue with Dougal until full darkness had fallen.
Except it already had. “Is my first column ready for the printer?”
“We’ll send it over bright and early tomorrow. Three letters, all answered with your signature good sense. Come Friday, the professor will have an apoplexy.”
“Good,” Patience said, scooting off the desk. “He’s certainly given me a few bad moments. The man is insufferable. Thinks he knows everything, and what he lacks in pragmatism he makes up for in long-windedness.”
She was wrapped in her cloak and at the front door when it occurred to her that something about the office had changed. The scent was different, for one thing. Beneath the coal smoke, ink, and paper smell lay the fragrance of pine.
“You decorate for the holidays? Doesn’t that cost a bit of coin, Mr. MacHugh?” The windows were swagged with pine roping, a wreath of pine and holly graced each of the double doors, and cloved oranges hung from the unlit wall sconces.
“The clerks enjoy decorating, the patrons like it, and my competitors do it, so I make a few gestures. It’s in the budget, though I’ll have a word with Harry tomorrow regarding fiscal restraint.”
He pointed a gloved hand upward, to a sheaf of greenery dangling by a red ribbon from the chandelier.
Every spinster’s worst holiday nightmare hung overhead—mistletoe, and plenty of it.
“Come along,” Patience said, wrapping her arm through Mr. MacHugh’s. “Tomorrow will be another demanding day, and we’ve tarried long enough.”
She nearly shoved Mr. MacHugh through the door, and then engaged him in a discourse on the writings of Mrs. Wollstonecraft. Patience wasn’t familiar with the author’s philosophies, but if they had earned Mr. MacHugh’s notice, she’d remedy that oversight posthaste.
