Page 72 of The Virtues of Christmas
Megan considered that suggestion, though as far back as she could recall, Patience had visited them—they did not venture into her neighborhood to visit her.
“Do we have her direction?” Somewhere in Bloomsbury, as best Megan could recall. Not far from Mr. MacHugh’s offices.
“It’s off Holborn, near the museum. I recall visiting her grandmother there, years ago.”
A guilty silence greeted Elizabeth’s admission, but Patience hadn’t been eager to entertain callers. Whether she was self-conscious about a humble dwelling, or too pressed for coin to offer a proper tea tray, the message had come across clearly:Receive me, don’t visit me.
“Patience has been working very hard at a time of year when most of us have less to do,” Megan said, stashing the rolled up broadsheet into the coal bucket. “Mr. MacHugh ought to be ashamed of himself.”
“I think Patience likes her work,” Elizabeth murmured, fingers drifting across the harp strings. “I daresay she likes Mr. MacHugh too—admires his pragmatism, his grasp of mercantile matters. Those broadsheets are selling like hot rum buns.”
Elizabeth was closest to Patience in age, and possibly in perspective. “You think PatiencelikesMr. MacHugh?” Megan asked.
“Lemon cake,” Charlotte said. “This definitely calls for a neighborly delivery of lemon cake.”
Anwen’s knitting needles slowed. “Bloomsbury is halfway across London, and the snow will make traffic difficult.”
Could Patience be smitten with her Scottish publisher?
“It’s not like her to miss a baking day,” Megan observed. “We should bring her a loaf of stollen too, in case she might want to share with her friends at MacHugh and Sons.”
All three of Megan’s sisters smiled at once.
“That’s very seasonal of you, Megan,” Elizabeth said, rising. “We’ll wait until after lunch, so the streets have a chance to clear, and then we’ll pay a holiday call on our good friend.”
“And maybe buy a few broadsheets on the way,” Charlotte added. “See what argument Patience and the professor have got into now. Hard to imagine they have anything left to dispute, the way they’ve gone at each other this past week.”
* * *
Patience remained in bed for long, lovely moments after Dougal had risen. He was off to the chophouse to fetch breakfast or possibly lunch, while Patience was trying to find the energy to move.
When, if ever, had she been this relaxed before? This well rested? This happy? The professor’s last special edition would come out today, and she wished him nothing but success with his sales.
Dougal had made love with her again before he’d left the bed, and while he’d been careful, he’d also been playful.
“I am ticklish about the ribs,” Patience announced to the room at large. “So is Mr. MacHugh.”
One of the many revelations of the past two weeks.
Patience shoved the covers aside, pushed her feet into Dougal’s slippers, and finished the cup of tea he’d brought her before he’d left. Dressing was an awkward undertaking, but Patience did the best she could with her hooks—she’d managed without help on many previous occasions—and made her way downstairs to the office. From the street below came the regular scraping of merchants clearing their walkways. Sunshine poured through every window.
“Good morning,” Patience said to George, who occupied his usual spot on the mantel. “I am in love.”
George squinted at her.
“Try to contain your jealousy, cat. You know all manner of details about my beloved that I do not—yet. You know what hour he comes down every morning, when he goes up to bed, how many meals he’s eaten at his desk, and what his favorite poem is.”
So much she and Dougal had yet to learn about each other, but how lovely to look forward to learning it.
The bell on the front door jingled, and Patience’s heart leaped. She patted old George despite his lack of enthusiasm for the day—he was not in love, poor beast—and went into the clerk’s room.
“Harry, good day.”
“Morning to you, Miss Friendly,” Harry said, stomping his boots. “Amazing how quickly the merchants will shovel out when there’s custom to be had, isn’t it?”
“Did you have far to come?”And will you tell all the other clerks that you found me here alone?
“Not far at all. I live down the street, share a room with Wilkens. Dougal offered to let me bide with him, but a man needs a bit of privacy sometimes—and to get away from this place.”
