Page 78 of The Virtues of Christmas
“No, thank you,” said Miss Megan Windham. “We have come here for answers, Mr. MacHugh. You have wronged our friend, and we will hold you accountable.”
Dougal stashed the parcel in a drawer. “Ladies, you needn’t hold me accountable. I hold myself accountable.”
“Pretty words,” Elizabeth Windham snapped. “What will youdo, Mr. MacHugh?”
“I’m a publisher. I publish words.”
George left Miss Megan’s lap and took up residence two sisters down the row, on Miss Elizabeth’s lap.
“They had better be the right words,” Miss Megan said.
An idea came to Dougal as he surveyed these gorgeous, fierce women. They were what Patience should have become—secure in the knowledge of wealth and station. Before these women—before all of London—Dougal could assure Patience of his regard, and his remorse, and perhaps that would be enough.
“I’d thought I’d start with, ‘I’m sorry,’” he said, “and repeat it thousands of times. Ten thousand times, at least.” The printer would have a fit, but he’d find the means to fill the order.
Miss Megan flicked a cat hair from her sleeve. “That’s rather a lot of apologizing. Quantity of sentiment alone is merely melodrama. Whatqualitieswill these words convey?”
* * *
Patience had sent the mother and baby on their way, the loaf of stollen with them. The woman had refused coin, saying she had enough, thanks to Patience.
Christmas Eve arrived after a sleepless night—not quite sleepless, because Patience had dreamed of Dougal returning to Scotland, George silently reproaching Patience all the way up the Great North Road.
Christmas Eve dawned, a bright, drippy, un-merry business, though Patience’s housekeeper filled the kitchen with more chatter than a flock of newsboys discussing the next special edition.
“The coal man showed me his copy of the professor’s column,” Mrs. Dingleterry said. “I read it twice to be sure, then ran right out and bought us our copy. You must be very pleased, Miss Patience.”
The professor’s last column had come out yesterday.
Patience was not pleased. She wanted bacon, toast, and coffee, hot from the chophouse. She wanted to hear Wilkens and Harry arguing about what the words to a Robert Burns poem implied about young women who sang down by the burnie-o, and she wanted… she wanted badly to see Dougal.
Which was ridiculous. Dougal had wronged her. Period. The end. Stop the press.
Patience left off staring at the teapot. “What did you say about the professor’s column?”
“There it is, right there,” Mrs. Dingleterry said, setting a broadsheet down by Patience’s elbow. “He wishes Mrs. Horner a fine holiday and thanks her for all of her wisdom. Poor man’s in love, and all of London will be waiting on the reply from our Mrs. Horner, though her column today is just more of her usual good sense. I’d give anything if his letter were real, Miss Patience. Believe me, I would. I know how hard you work and how much your readers mean to you.”
Patience pulled the paper closer, her teapot forgotten.
To my dear readers,
I wish you all a Happy Christmas, but confess that my own holiday cannot aspire to joy, or even to contentment. I have wronged somebody whom I esteem greatly, and thus my yuletide is beclouded by remorse.
Mrs. Horner’s words are no stranger to this page, and yet, as you well know, I quote that good lady only to take issue with her advice. Her place in your regard was firmly established, and then, several months past, I decided to insinuate myself into the conversation you and she enjoyed. I advised, I commented, and were that the limit of my presumption, I might wait upon Mrs. Horner’s generous forgiveness for my poor manners.
I undertook to criticize, though, and to argue with a lady, and not because I genuinely disagree with her sound wisdom. In many cases, I was guilty of playing devil’s advocate, because I knew discord would earn your notice, and I coveted that notice and the coin it would earn me.
I envied Mrs. Horner your loyalty and saw a way to turn her diligent efforts to my advantage. I am ashamed of the course I set and can take only the smallest comfort in the knowledge that Mrs. Horner’s wise words may have seen greater circulation as a result of my ploy.
Renown and its attendant benefits, however, can never replace trust or respect, and I respect Mrs. Horner so very much. I humbly apologize to her for my conduct and hope she will receive my words in the wise and compassionate spirit for which we all esteem her so greatly.
Mrs. Horner, if you look with any favor at all upon the author of these words, please accept my thanks for all of your efforts and my sincere wishes that you should prosper in the New Year in all that you undertake. With humblest apologies, I remain faithfully,
Your most sincere admirer,
Prof. D. Pennypacker
“That wretch!” Patience shot to her feet. “That fiend. He’ll sell twenty thousand copies of this. Callow swains will study it as a perfect apology, and the readers will deluge him with letters. Where is my cloak?”
