Page 52 of The Virtues of Christmas
Chapter Three
The previous evening, Dougal had prosed on for the duration of three quiet snowy streets, regaling Patience with the writings of a woman either ahead of her time or bent on destroying the social order, depending on the critic’s perspective. All the while, Dougal had been rearranging his emotional budget where Patience Friendly was concerned.
She was, indeed, a lady fallen on hard times. Very hard times, very much a lady, and her contrariness was a result of betrayed trust rather than arrogance. No wonder she argued every comma, demanded a say in which letters she answered, and had thrown herself into this project.
On Thursday morning, the office was tidy and neat—unlike Dougal’s thoughts—thanks to Harry’s efforts, though Dougal had enjoyed seeing the battlefield where Patience had thrashed her next deadline into submission.
“Shall I buy more crumpets?” Harry asked, shuffling through the door. “I can take them with me when I fetch Miss Friendly’s column for tomorrow.”
“I’ll fetch her column,” Dougal said. “You can take down the mistletoe, my lad. This is a respectable establishment.”
“I’m not tall enough to take it down—yet. Mind you don’t be pinchin’ the lady’s sweets, Dougal. I’d hate to have to peach on you to Cousin Hamish.”
Cousin Hamish was head of the Perthshire branch of the family, a former colonel who owned two breweries and considerable acreage. His brother, Cousin Colin, owned a distillery, while their sisters, Rhona and Edana had yet to settle on a single enterprise. In England, the ladies might be discouraged from commercial ventures. In Scotland…
Family supported one another. Hamish had been the one to talk Dougal into trying his hand at publishing, for example.
“Cousin Hamish is hundreds of miles to the north,” Dougal said, “and he likes it up in Perthshire. Be gone with ye, and don’t be telling tales that reflect on a good woman’s name.”
Harry folded himself into one of the chairs facing Dougal’s desk. “Are you thinking of offering for her?”
“Areyou, Harold Bruce Sylvester MacHugh?”
Harry’s ears turned red, but his grin was pure MacHugh. “I haven’t sown my wild oats yet, or she’d succumb to my legendary charm in a thrice, and you’d have no one to write Mrs. Horner’s Corner. Speaking of writing, what’s that you’re working on?”
Dougal picked up the page and poured the sand from it back into the tray. “None of your business, but it’s almost ready for the printer. Fetch Miss Friendly’s completed column from Detwiler, give it a final read, and you can take this with you when you make the morning run to the printer.”
“I don’t fancy running anywhere today, Dougal,” Harry said, rising and holding his hands out toward the hearth. “That sky is getting ready to snow from now until Christmas. Mr. Detwiler’s sacroiliac is acting twinge-ish, and you know what that means.”
“It means when we need him most, Detwiler will take a day off, claiming his back has laid him low. It’s winter, Harry. The sky looks like a winter sky. See to Miss Friendly’s column, please.”
Harry left off petting King George and went about his assignment. He was indeed growing out of his trousers—again—and would need new boots before too long as well.
Dougal read over the page he’d written, looking for mistakes or even a comma out of place. In his dreams, he’d give this piece to Patience to tear apart, edit, and refine, but that way lay a war Dougal wasn’t prepared to fight.
Not yet, possibly not ever.
* * *
“That scoundrel!” Miss Friendly cried, boots thumping on the office floorboards as she stalked about like King George in a taking. “That dastardly, underhanded, pestilential, infernal—oh, I wish I were more proficient with foul language.”
“Scurrilous dog?” Mr. MacHugh offered. “Varlet?”
“Too trite, but certainly in the right direction. How did he know, Mr. MacHugh? How did the professor know we were starting a day early?”
Patience stood at the front window, one floor above a familiar scene. On the nearest corner, Jake, the newsboy with the loudest voice, hawked the MacHugh and Sons broadsheets to the Friday morning crowd.
“Mrs. Horner solves all your holiday woes! Family squabbles, lack of funds, stains on the tablecloth—no problem for our Mrs. Horner! Disaster avoided, and a happy Christmas from MacHugh and Sons!”
On the opposite corner, a slightly older boy offered the competing product. “Professor Pennypacker packs all the advice you’ll need into one column. Why listen to a nattering old woman when the learned professor has all the answers?”
This had been going on for half the morning, with each newsboy obligingly falling silent when his opponent held forth. A strolling fiddler played holiday tunes on the third corner, and a meat-pie vendor occupied the fourth.
“I have my sources in the offices of the other publishers,” Mr. MacHugh said. “I’m sure Pennypacker’s newsboy occasionally chats with my lads over a pint. I’ve Harry keeping an eye out, but where’s the harm in some friendly competition?”
Mr. MacHugh stood behind Patience at the window, close enough to remind her that they’d embraced, even held each other, for a few moments. The sky hadn’t fallen, King George hadn’t abdicated his place on the mantel, but Patience’s opinion of Mr. MacHugh had shifted—a bit.
He wasn’t ambitious for his own sake. He employed a dozen relations and had sunk his last groat into his business. That took courage, daring, and determination, all of which were admirable qualities.
