Page 59 of The Virtues of Christmas
Mr. Detwiler was old and slow and couldn’t work the long hours the youngsters could, but he knew everything about London publishing and the English language.
“I’ll give you a week to decide how I can help that woman, but she deserves an answer,” Patience said, petting the cat. King George’s purr was the small thunder of feline contentment, though more than she wanted to pet the cat, Patience wanted to touch Dougal.
Running a business was a burdensome ambition. What she’d realized in the past week was that she enjoyed seeing how Dougal met that burden. Instead of penning her columns in solitude on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, the twelve-edition project meant she was at the publishing house daily, ruminating on columns by night and monitoring sales with an enthusiasm she hadn’t previously.
Having a job could give the day purpose. Having people who shared that job meant forming bonds of a sort. Trade, in other words, could be exciting.
How the other debutantes who’d come out with Patience ten years ago would have swooned at such a notion.
“What are you planning now?” Mr. MacHugh asked. “You’re absorbed with some thought.”
“Do you know how boring it is to be wealthy?”
The cat extricated himself from Mr. MacHugh’s arms and strolled across the table.
“I have no firsthand experience with the condition. My cousins are quite well-to-do, and they don’t strike me as bored.”
“They aren’t pretty little debutantes whose signature accomplishments are parlor French, a sonata or two, and embroidery. How did I stand it, Dougal?”
Mrs. Wollstonecraft bore some of the blame for Patience’s changed perspective, but so did the realization that Mrs. Horner mattered, she made a difference, not only to Patience’s financial situation, but to others.
Did a waltzing debutante know what it was tomatterin any regard except as breeding stock for some titled nincompoop? What could she look forward to, other than a remote sort of maternal involvement in the lives of children raised by nurses, governesses, and tutors?
“I’m guessing you dealt with your boredom by reading a great deal,” Mr. MacHugh said. “I certainly did.”
The cat flopped down among the papers, his front half covering the page of the dictionary beginning withevince. A companionable moment sprang up as Patience stroked George’s furry head.
“I read my papa’s entire library, several times over, and then we sold the bound books. Will you kiss me again, Mr. MacHugh?”
Patience hadn’t intended to ask such a question—a proper lady wouldn’t. But a woman who made her living with words, and presumed to solve problems for others, needn’t be such a ninnyhammer.
“That kiss was by way of argument, Miss Friendly. Not well done of me.”
“I thought it was very well done of you.”
Mr. MacHugh was on his feet and shrugging into his greatcoat. “Back to the profligate holiday shopper with you, madam. I’m for the chophouse.”
Patience scooped the cat into her arms. “Coward.” What a delight to be so honest in her discourse with another, much less with a man whom she’d kissed. But how lowering too, that she couldn’t tempt him to kiss her again.
“Not a coward, but a gentleman,” Mr. MacHugh countered, “in my bumbling fashion. A gentleman making a tactical retreat. I don’t regret kissing you, Patience, but you might one day soon regret kissing me. Shall I stop by the bakery?”
“No more sweets for me. I’ll feast on the knowledge that we’re outselling even your most optimistic projections. I’ll also counsel the holiday shopper to forgive herself for yielding to generous impulses where friends and family are concerned.”
Mr. MacHugh took his leave, though he forgot to don his scarf—a cheerful, bold green and blue plaid.
Patience put George on the mantel and tried to focus on crafting her reply to the shopper who’d disrespected the budget set by her husband. The reply was slow to come and required much revision, for Patience was preoccupied with a question.
Why on earth would she ever, ever regret sharing a wondrous kiss under the mistletoe with Dougal P. MacHugh?
* * *
“You sent Harry along home with your lady?” Detwiler asked, settling on the side of the table nearest the hearth. “Was that wise, Dougal? The boy’s growing, true, but he’s not much protection against thieves or pickpockets.”
“There’s still plenty of light,” Dougal countered, except in his soul, night was falling. Patience wanted more kisses—a fine notion, but for the fact that Dougal wasn’t the man she thought him to be. He was Professor Pennypacker, a braying, useless old nodcock who spouted platitudes and quotes and generally sounded like the retired schoolteacher he was.
“Dougal,”—Detwiler glanced at the closed office door—“you have to tell her.”
“I can’t tell her now. She’s enjoying herself too much.” As the week had progressed, Patience had thrown herself into her work with an energy that put the youthful clerks to shame. The entire office was more cheerful, more productive, andbetter. The lads competed to come up with the cleverest holiday rhymes, Detwiler arrived on time most mornings, and even George was friendlier.
