Page 54 of The Virtues of Christmas
“So you’ve put out two editions now.” Detwiler tossed half a scoop of coal into the parlor stove, then straightened on an old man’s sigh. “How’s your plan working, lad?”
“You’re wasting coal, Aloysius Detwiler. The lads have left for the day.” Dougal remained perched on Harry’s stool, for it was closest to the fire. Only Detwiler, as the senior editor, merited his own desk.
“But Mrs. Horner remains in your corner, scribbling away.” Detwiler moved about the room, tidying up. Good editors were born to tidy and fuss, and Detwiler was the best. Fortunately, he was married to a MacHugh and had some notion of family loyalty.
“Time I walked the lady home, then,” Dougal said. “She’ll be pleased with today’s sales.”
The clerks came in an hour later on Saturday morning and left at midafternoon, though there had been plenty of time for Jake and Harry to sell out their supplies of broadsheets.
“Miss Friendly wasn’t pleased that the professor followed us to Oxford Street.” Detwiler went around the room, putting all the quill pens at the same angle in their standishes. “She’ll be furious to learn she’s been working for the professor himself.”
“You promised you’d not breathe a word.”
“The door is closed, and as much time as you spend in there with Miss Friendly, I’ll not find you any more alone than you are now. You’re playing a dangerous game, Dougal. What’s to stop Mrs. Horner from going into business for herself? Ladies write entire books when the need for coin is great enough.”
“Patience hasn’t the coin to compete with me.” Not to mention, she was female, of marriageable age, unwed, and without male relations who might mitigate those unfair realities.
“You should tell her, Dougal.”
He should. A woman who’d been played false regarding her entire future would not take kindly to being manipulated, even in the interests of securing greater income.
“I’ll tell her when we’ve put out the remaining editions. She works wonderfully under pressure and has an instinct for battle. She should have been a barrister.”
Detwiler settled onto the cushion in his chair and withdrew a pipe and nail from a pocket. “That, my boy, will be twelve editions too late. For Christmas, you will reveal to Miss Friendly that she’s been lied to, played for a fool, taken advantage of, and exploited without mercy. All to put coin in your pocket.”
“Yours too, and hers.” Especially hers. “I’ve increased the print runs for next week, we’re doing so well.”
The nail scratched across the bowl of the pipe. “If you say so, professor.”
“She might never find out.”
Scratch, scratch, scratch… The world of London newsprint journalism was about the size of a Highland village, and twice as prone to gossip.
She’d find out. “Take yourself off, Aloysius, and my regards to Cousin Avery.”
Detwiler tapped his pipe against his palm and tossed the ash into the bin beside the stove. “You and Harry joining us for Christmas dinner this year?”
For the past three years, Dougal had been the bachelor relation taken in over the holidays as a kindness on the part of his relatives. Where would Patience spend Christmas? With whom? As far as Dougal could tell, she hadn’t even a cat to share her household.
“I’m sure Harry will devour half your goose, but I’ve other plans, thanks very much.”
“More for Harry, then. See you Monday.” Detwiler pushed to his feet, got his coat and scarf, and shuffled out into the gray afternoon. London winters weren’t as dark as their Perthshire counterparts, but an overcast December day was still a glum undertaking.
When a man had a guilty conscience.
“Has Harry left for the day?” Miss Friendly stood in the doorway to Dougal’s office, his glasses perched on her nose, a folded broadsheet in her hand.
“Aye, but we can stop at the bakery when I walk you home.”
Her brows twitched down. “I’m in the middle of a reply, but did you see the professor’s column for today, Mr. MacHugh?”
He’d written it. “What transgression has the old boy committed now?”
Patience stomped across the clerk’s office. “You have remarked that he and I often deal with similar situations, and a general discourse follows regarding who had the better advice.”
A general donnybrook followed, of the literary sort, and the readers loved it. “I’ve wondered if people don’t write to you both, just to see whose advice is superior.”
She paused at Harry’s table and nudged his pen around in a circle. “You think the readers are playing us off each other? Making up situations to pit the professor against me?”
