Page 64 of The Virtues of Christmas
Marriage. Good old, traditional, happily-ever-after marriage. The notion, worthy of the learned Pennypacker himself, left Dougal feeling so rosy and replete, he started humming Christmas carols.
* * *
A rough, warm sensation against Patience’s wrist woke her.
“George.”
The cat paused in his licking, squinted, then resumed taking liberties with Patience’s person. In the darkness, the beast’s eyes glowed like nacre, giving him a predatory beauty he lacked when lounging above the hearth.
The fire had burned down to little more than coals, and outside, all was darkness.
“Oh dear. I suppose I must thank you. The columns are complete.” Very good columns they were too. Patience put them in Dougal’s top drawer, King George having proven himself a menace to paper, if not to mice.
The next challenge was extricating herself from Dougal’s chair. Her back protested, her feet were cold, and her eyes gritty. She detected neither light nor sound from beyond the office door. Dougal would never have left her alone on the premises, and yet, business hours had apparently ended.
Patience lit a carrying candle and went to the clerk’s office. The air was noticeably cooler, and because the heat source was a parlor stove, the room was without illumination other than her candle. Dougal sat at Detwiler’s desk, his feet propped on one corner, a book open in his lap. His arms were folded, and his chin rested on his chest.
“Oh, you poor dear.” Patience took a moment to memorize the sight of him, the ambitious publisher asleep amid the trappings of his empire. His weapons were the quill pens and foolscap neatly stacked on each clerk’s high table, his mission to relieve ignorance and boredom at a reasonable price.
She gently lifted the book from his lap—a dictionary, of course—and then unhooked his spectacles from his ears.
As a younger woman, she would have pitied the lady whose lot was to be courted by a man in trade. A merchant or professional was all very well for those born to that strata, her papa had claimed, but better families could look higher.
“What higher purpose is there,” she murmured, “than to enlighten and enliven the lives of those who do the actual work in this life?”
Dougal’s eyes opened. “Is that a quote?”
Patience handed him his spectacles. “We can make it the MacHugh and Sons business motto.” His gaze was tired—this project had demanded quite a bit from him too—but even weary, he was attractive.
He sat up and rubbed his eyes, then put his glasses back on. “Patience, why didn’t you wake me? It’s dark out.”
“I fell asleep too. George woke me, probably to tend his personal fire. Are we alone here, Dougal?”
He rose and stretched, hands braced on his lower back. “But for George, I suppose we are.” He flipped open a pocket watch, the gold case gleaming by the light of the single candle. “God in heaven, Patience, it’s nearly nine o’clock.”
Patience rummaged around in her emotions for dismay, alarm, some vestige of the young lady’s fear of ruin, and found only anticipation. Ruin lay ten years in her past, but to be alone with Dougal at such an hour inspired all manner of fancies.
He was at the window, scowling down at the street. “There’s two feet of snow on the ground and more coming down. It will take ages to get you home in this mess.”
“Dougal, don’t be daft. Nobody has shoveled the walkways at this hour, and the only people abroad are those preying on the unwary. I wouldn’t let you walk me home tonight for all the crumpets in London.”
“You’ve grown bored with crumpets,” he said, letting the curtain drop. “This is not a good situation, Patience. If anybody learns that we’ve been alone for this long, under these conditions, your good name is compromised beyond recall, and so is mine.”
“Your safety matters more to me than my good name, Dougal, and so does my own welfare.”
She expected him to argue, and looked forward to it, in fact. Lately Dougal had passed up every opportunity for confrontation, and she’d missed his logic and his unshakable confidence in his own perspective. He was a worthy opponent and thus a worthy ally.
“Your safety matters to me more than my own,” he countered. “I haven’t seen a storm like this since coming to London. After this much snow, the temperature can plunge drastically. The Thames will likely be frozen by morning, or very nearly.”
While Patience’s heart was melting. Tired, worried, and rumpled, Dougal was ten times the man the viscount had ever aspired to be. Happy Christmas, Happy New Year, happy rest of her life.
“You’re often the last one here at night, aren’t you, Dougal?”
“Aye. I own the place. If it fails, I own that too. Are you hungry?”
Starving. “A bit, also chilly. I should keep a shawl here.”
He looked at her, a direct, considering gaze, the first in many days. “I can get you warm. Let me see to the fire in the office, and we’ll asses our situation over a pot of tea.”
