Page 76 of The Virtues of Christmas
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Megan asked.
“I forgot my common sense,” Patience said, sitting very straight. “Mr. MacHugh has ambitions for his establishment, and my columns figure in those ambitions prominently. I shouldn’t blame him for making the most of the talent he had at his disposal.”
“You’d never heard of Dougal MacHugh three years ago,” Megan said. “How did you manage?”
“I wrote pamphlets on deportment, tutored young ladies in their French and pianoforte, walked Mrs. Hutching’s pug on rainy days, and practiced economies.”
“You didn’t need Mr. MacHugh,” Megan concluded. “You still don’t. Mrs. Horner can write for one of MacHugh’s competitors, she can put out her own broadsheets, she can write a book, or do all three. You have managed, Patience—you, not your settlements, your husband, a kindly uncle, or some dashing swain. You. You have a home, a profession, and a bright future thanks to your own hard work.”
“She’s right,” Elizabeth said. “In some regards—I will deny it beyond this room—I envy you.”
“You envyme?” Patience said. “I reuse my tea leaves. I forego a fire in my bedroom most nights. I tune my own pianoforte rather than pay somebody or allow a man into my home for the purpose.”
“Yourtea leaves,” Charlotte said around the last mouthful of lemon cake. “Yourbedroom,yourpianoforte,yourhome. And you manage all of this with the coin you earn with your wits and wisdom. No wonder Mr. MacHugh is enthralled with you.”
Now there was a lovely word: enthralled.
“He wasn’t honest with me,” Patience insisted. “And he proposed marriage to me.”
“How dare he?” Anwen murmured—with a straight face.
Charlotte hit her with a pillow. “One shouldn’t make light of a man offering marriage.”
“Was the marriage proposal honest?” Megan asked, because that mattered.
“I’ll never know, will I?” Patience replied. “Was he offering marriage to secure Mrs. Horner’s ability to earn coin, or offering himself, in good times and bad? Dougal is very shrewd.”
Heaven help the man if his suit rested on shrewdness. “We are at your disposal, Patience, if you need assistance in any regard.” Megan rose, and her sisters did likewise. Anwen looked preoccupied, Charlotte disgruntled—Charlotte was frequently disgruntled—while Elizabeth’s gaze as she peered around the cozy parlor was wistful.
“We’ll visit again next week,” Megan said. “Perhaps Mrs. Horner will have some advice for you by then that will resolve the situation with Mr. MacHugh.”
“Perhaps,” Patience allowed, seeing her guests to the front door. No butler, no porter, no footman—noman—mediated between Patience and those who called upon her.
What must that be like? The entire street of widows and spinsters likely operated the same way, and Megan guessed they looked out for each other. They gossiped too, but mostly, they looked out for each other.
Patience was handing around scarves and holding cloaks when a knock sounded on the door.
“I have no company for years, and now I’m Piccadilly Circus North,” she said, opening the door.
A young woman stood on the stoop, a baby in her arms, a valise by her side. “I’ve come to call on Mrs. Horner. Is she home?”
“I’m home,” Patience said. “Please do come in. My guests were about to depart.”
“Patience?” Elizabeth murmured, but what harm could a woman and an infant do?
“Thank you very much for the call, my friends,” Patience said, kissing four cheeks in turn. “You’ve given me much to think about, and I’ll look forward to seeing you again next week.”
A farewell, rather than a dismissal. Megan got Charlotte by the arm and steered her sister out to the street. The Windham coach waited at the corner, though none of Megan’s sisters moved in its direction.
“I think we should pay a call on a certain publisher,” Elizabeth said.
“See for ourselves,” Charlotte added. “If he’s a dunderhead, we’ll know it.”
“Even if he’s not a dunderhead,” Anwen said. “He’s probably feeling like one.”
“We’re only three streets away,” Megan said. “Come, ladies. I’ve never paid a call on a publisher before.”
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