Page 65 of The Virtues of Christmas
“For a cup of strong, hot tea, I would write you an entire column at no charge, Mr. MacHugh.”
“You’ve grown light-headed with fatigue,” he said, moving into his office. “Don’t jest about giving your work away, Patience. When your labor is your sole means of earning coin, then nobody should expect you to part with it in the absence of compensation.”
“Are you sure you were a schoolteacher, Dougal? You sound like a preacher.”
He stopped before the hearth. “You are very calm for a woman who’s in the process of being compromised. This situation is serious, Patience.”
Patience went up on her toes and kissed him. Not a buss to the cheek, but not a declaration of unending passion either. He had a point: Her words were valuable.
So were her affections.
“When the viscount tossed me aside, my name went into the ditch along with my prospects. I don’t know if he saw to that, or if polite society—notice nobody refers to them as compassionate, kind, or tolerant society—did me that favor. My true friends stood by me, Dougal, and they won’t quibble because I had the sense to stay out of a dangerous storm.”
“The lads won’t breathe a word,” Dougal said, tucking a lock of Patience’s hair behind her ear. “Detwiler’s discretion is absolute. I only wish…”
In all of Patience’s dealings with Dougal MacHugh, she’d never heard him use the verbwish. “What do you wish, Dougal? My last columns are complete. Your project has earned MacHugh’s the notice of half of London, and the new year promises success to us both. I wish you’d thought to pit me against Pennypacker like this two years ago.”
He took her hand and led her to the sofa. “The time wasn’t right. You were still finding your balance, and there wasn’t a Pennypacker to pit you against.”
They sat side by side, and Dougal kept her hand in both of his. The moment might have been awkward—last week’s kiss was but a memory, and Dougal had been anything but amorous since—and yet, Patience was at peace.
Hard work had won her a measure of security, and though her feelings might not be requited, she’d found a man she could esteem greatly. Dougal was capable of desiring her, for all he seemed reticent to take any further liberties, and that reassured the part of her rejected so long ago.
The problem wasn’t her—the problem had never been her.
“Patience, I account myself an articulate man, but some words elude capture when I need them most. You know I respect you.”
What was this?“You argue with me.” Nobody else did. Nobody else took her opinions seriously enough to differ with her.
“Arguing with you is a certain sign of my esteem. I think you enjoyed our kiss under the mistletoe.”
“I can barely recall our kiss under the mistletoe, Mr. MacHugh, and you’ve shown no inclination to refresh my memory.”
He kissed her knuckles. “I’m glad you’re making me work for this. The prize is worth every effort.”
“I’m not a prize. I’m a talented writer who has a lot to offer her readers, and—” Patience heard the battle cry in her words, heard how easily she’d taken up the cudgels, even in the absence of any threat. “Dougal, what are you trying to say?”
“I’m bungling this. I’d planned to wait, to see how the finances for the year closed, to have more to offer you, so I could take the next steps when it was prudent to do so, but circumstances have changed, and—”
He slid off the sofa, down to one knee. “Patience Friendly, will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”
Gracious heavens. Perhaps fatigue had made him light-headed. “Dougal, get up. You’ll get cat hair on your trousers.”
He resumed his place beside her, keeping her hand in his all the while. “Is that a yes?”
Douglas was proposing—proposingmarriageto her. As the wind howled outside, and the fire danced in the chimney drafts, Patience savored the moment, and the clasp of Dougal’s hand. This was how a proposal ought to be offered, clearly, calmly,sincerely. Bless Dougal forever, because he’d thrown into high relief the disrespect done Patience by her titled former suitor.
She wanted to say yes, to Dougal, to a future that included love and meaningful work both, to a busy life far from what she’d been raised to expect. The thought that stopped her from giving him the response he sought was:If I marry, I lose my house.
Her grandmama’s legacy, all that had preserved Patience from a dreadful marriage or a life of drudgery. If Patience married, that house became her husband’s. If she married, she gave up even the right to spend her own wages. If she married… if she became Mrs. Horner in truth, then she ceased to be Patience Friendly in any meaningful sense.
“I’ve surprised you,” Dougal said.
Ambushed her, more like. She should have known that his brooding looks and odd distance were symptoms of a scheme afoot.
“I care for you, Dougal P. MacHugh. So much. I hope that’s not a surprise, but I don’t even know where you live. I’ve never met your family, and two weeks ago…”
“Come,” he said, rising and bringing Patience to her feet. “I can show you where I live, and we can talk about the rest.”
