Patience for Christmas

by Grace Burrowes

  She’d taken a break to read the morning paper and seen an engagement announced. Not just any engagement, but the one that ten years ago should have been hers.

  A callused male thumb stroked her cheek. “I see the evidence of your tears. If somebody needs a beating, I’ll gladly do the honors.” In his way, Dougal MacHugh claimed a certain rough charm.

  “He’s a viscount now. He’d see you put out of business and laugh about it with his friends.”

  Mr. MacHugh brushed an errant lock of hair back from Patience’s brow. “I liked teaching little children their letters, sums, and history. I’d like teaching a viscount his manners more. I take it your papa wasn’t in a position to hold the bastard accountable.”

  Bastard was such a vulgar, appropriate word. “Papa was the reason the viscount went on his way, even though the engagement had been all but announced.”

  This was ancient, entirely irrelevant history. The Windhams knew all the details and had stood by Patience through it all, though the rest of her acquaintances had dropped her flat. Used goods. A jilt. A jade. Patience was no stranger to vulgar words, though she had denied herself use of them regarding the viscount.

  “Was there a disagreement, lass?”

  Small children had likely confessed all of their troubles to Dougal MacHugh when he put questions to them so gently.

  “There was a predictable melodrama,” Patience said, “though I was the only one not given the script. Papa, like many younger sons, lived beyond his means. He had a falling out with his older brother, and the debts began to pile up. Papa realized that he couldn’t afford more than one Season for me, but for that one Season, he spared no expense.”

  Mr. MacHugh turned and perched with his back to the desk drawers. “And when the viscount realized you were not an heiress, not even in possession of good settlements or on good terms with the head of your family, away he went. He broke his word, and he broke your heart.”

  “Well put.” The first mattered more than the second, in hindsight.

  “Your uncle was no help?”

  “My uncle was determined to teach my father a lesson, my father was intent on the same exercise where the baron was concerned, the title has since gone to a cousin I’ve never met. I think Scottish families must be different.”

  “Scottish families are poorer, for the most part. We can’t afford such meanness to one another.”

  Meanness, another appropriate word. “The viscount proposed to me. Not down on bended knee, but sitting in the pergola. He proposed, and I accepted. I know now why a young man is left alone to propose to his lady.”

  “Because men can’t bear to have witnesses when they’re rejected?”

  “That too, but also so they don’t have witnesses when their proposal is accepted. He later claimed I’d misconstrued his words, I’d read into friendship a regard that hadn’t been tendered.”

  Mr. MacHugh rose straight to his full height. “Patience Friendly, if ever a woman had a fine command of the language, and the many subtleties thereof, you are that woman. You misconstrued nothing, and the viscount was never your friend.”

  He tugged Patience to her feet, and because she’d been sitting so long—surely that was the reason—she wobbled and clutched at the nearest stable object.

  Her arms found their way around Mr. MacHugh’s waist, and—later was time enough to wonder why—his enfolded her.

  “Nobody has ever said that to me.” She gave him her weight, and he obliged with a genuine embrace. “My parents questioned me endlessly. What had he said? Was I sure? Could I have misheard him? What words did he use? It’s as if they wanted him to be right and me to be a witless ninny.”

  “You were right, they were wrong. You are not a witless ninny. Your parents’ first responsibility is to protect their young—I have this on the best authority—and they failed you.”

  A queer feeling came over Patience, part sadness, because her parents had failed her spectacularly, but also part relief. No witnesses could verify the harm done to her by a faithless young man, and thus doubt had assailed her, even from within.

  Had she misheard? Was she exaggerating? Did she misconstrue words intended to convey only general esteem?

  “Papa said I must have misunderstood. I didn’t misunderstand the viscount’s hands under my skirts. Only a fiancé or a cad takes such liberties.”

  She buried her face against Mr. MacHugh’s shoulder, appalled at her own honesty, and even more appalled at how ignorant she’d been ten years ago.

  “Losing our innocence is painful, but it’s how we find out what sort of person we are.”

  The desk and the chair prevented Patience from stepping back, and yet, she wanted to see Mr. MacHugh’s eyes, wanted to assure herself he brought no judgment of her to this discussion.

  Because if he did not judge her, perhaps she might cease judging herself. She’d accused herself of ignorance, while Mr. MacHugh pronounced her guilty only of trusting the wrong man.

  She scooted onto the desk, and Mr. MacHugh remained where he was—close enough to hug, his hands at his sides.

  “You could have gone into a decline,” he said. “Thrown yourself on your uncle’s charity, embroiled the viscount and your family in worse scandal than a simple reversal of fortune. You didn’t. You soldiered on. You are still soldiering on, and God pity the fool who thinks to take advantage of you ever again.”

  Dougal MacHugh’s approval made Patience want to cry all over again, also to smile. To beam, to laugh, to hug him again.

  How odd.

  “I could not allow my brother to suffer as a result of my situation. Mama pawned her jewels to buy him a commission and found work tutoring bankers’ daughters in elocution, deportment, and French. She wrote pamphlets on the same subjects, and then I took up that occupation when she died.”

  Please don’t ask about Papa. She could see the question in Mr. MacHugh’s eyes, could feel it bearing down on her.

  “And your father. Did he drink, Patience?”

  “Sometimes. Mama said he expired of shame. We moved in with her mother, and that’s the only reason I have a roof over my head. Grandmama left everything she had to me. You mustn’t think my circumstances are pathetic.”

  Precarious, yes. Never pathetic. Not as long as Patience had friends and meaningful, paying work.

  “I think you are resourceful, resilient, and brilliant at what you do, but it’s time I got you home, Miss Friendly.”

  Patience didn’t want to leave, and she didn’t want to be Miss Friendly. She wanted to sort through the remaining letters, eat more of the hot, delicious food from the chophouse, and argue with Dougal until full darkness had fallen.

  Except it already had. “Is my first column ready for the printer?”

  “We’ll send it over bright and early tomorrow. Three letters, all answered with your signature good sense. Come Friday, the professor will have an apoplexy.”

  “Good,” Patience said, scooting off the desk. “He’s certainly given me a few bad moments. The man is insufferable. Thinks he knows everything, and what he lacks in pragmatism he makes up for in long-windedness.”

  She was wrapped in her cloak and at the front door when it occurred to her that something about the office had changed. The scent was different, for one thing. Beneath the coal smoke, ink, and paper smell lay the fragrance of pine.

  “You decorate for the holidays? Doesn’t that cost a bit of coin, Mr. MacHugh?” The windows were swagged with pine roping, a wreath of pine and holly graced each of the double doors, and cloved oranges hung from the unlit wall sconces.

  “The clerks enjoy decorating, the patrons like it, and my competitors do it, so I make a few gestures. It’s in the budget, though I’ll have a word with Harry tomorrow regarding fiscal restraint.”

  He pointed a gloved hand upward, to a sheaf of greenery dangling by a red ribbon from the chandelier.

  Every spinster’s worst holiday nightmare hung overhead—mistletoe, and plenty of it.

>   “Come along,” Patience said, wrapping her arm through Mr. MacHugh’s. “Tomorrow will be another demanding day, and we’ve tarried long enough.”

  She nearly shoved Mr. MacHugh through the door, and then engaged him in a discourse on the writings of Mrs. Wollstonecraft. Patience wasn’t familiar with the author’s philosophies, but if they had earned Mr. MacHugh’s notice, she’d remedy that oversight posthaste.

  Chapter Three

  The previous evening, Dougal had prosed on for the duration of three quiet snowy streets, regaling Patience with the writings of a woman either ahead of her time or bent on destroying the social order, depending on the critic’s perspective. All the while, Dougal had been rearranging his emotional budget where Patience Friendly was concerned.

  She was, indeed, a lady fallen on hard times. Very hard times, very much a lady, and her contrariness was a result of betrayed trust rather than arrogance. No wonder she argued every comma, demanded a say in which letters she answered, and had thrown herself into this project.

  On Thursday morning, the office was tidy and neat—unlike Dougal’s thoughts—thanks to Harry’s efforts, though Dougal had enjoyed seeing the battlefield where Patience had thrashed her next deadline into submission.

  “Shall I buy more crumpets?” Harry asked, shuffling through the door. “I can take them with me when I fetch Miss Friendly’s column for tomorrow.”

  “I’ll fetch her column,” Dougal said. “You can take down the mistletoe, my lad. This is a respectable establishment.”

  “I’m not tall enough to take it down—yet. Mind you don’t be pinchin’ the lady’s sweets, Dougal. I’d hate to have to peach on you to Cousin Hamish.”

  Cousin Hamish was head of the Perthshire branch of the family, a former colonel who owned two breweries and considerable acreage. His brother, Cousin Colin, owned a distillery, while their sisters, Rhona and Edana had yet to settle on a single enterprise. In England, the ladies might be discouraged from commercial ventures. In Scotland…

  Family supported one another. Hamish had been the one to talk Dougal into trying his hand at publishing, for example.

  “Cousin Hamish is hundreds of miles to the north,” Dougal said, “and he likes it up in Perthshire. Be gone with ye, and don’t be telling tales that reflect on a good woman’s name.”

  Harry folded himself into one of the chairs facing Dougal’s desk. “Are you thinking of offering for her?”

  “Are you, Harold Bruce Sylvester MacHugh?”

  Harry’s ears turned red, but his grin was pure MacHugh. “I haven’t sown my wild oats yet, or she’d succumb to my legendary charm in a thrice, and you’d have no one to write Mrs. Horner’s Corner. Speaking of writing, what’s that you’re working on?”

  Dougal picked up the page and poured the sand from it back into the tray. “None of your business, but it’s almost ready for the printer. Fetch Miss Friendly’s completed column from Detwiler, give it a final read, and you can take this with you when you make the morning run to the printer.”

  “I don’t fancy running anywhere today, Dougal,” Harry said, rising and holding his hands out toward the hearth. “That sky is getting ready to snow from now until Christmas. Mr. Detwiler’s sacroiliac is acting twinge-ish, and you know what that means.”

  “It means when we need him most, Detwiler will take a day off, claiming his back has laid him low. It’s winter, Harry. The sky looks like a winter sky. See to Miss Friendly’s column, please.”

  Harry left off petting King George and went about his assignment. He was indeed growing out of his trousers—again—and would need new boots before too long as well.

  Dougal read over the page he’d written, looking for mistakes or even a comma out of place. In his dreams, he’d give this piece to Patience to tear apart, edit, and refine, but that way lay a war Dougal wasn’t prepared to fight.

  Not yet, possibly not ever.

  * * *

  “That scoundrel!” Miss Friendly cried, boots thumping on the office floorboards as she stalked about like King George in a taking. “That dastardly, underhanded, pestilential, infernal—oh, I wish I were more proficient with foul language.”

  “Scurrilous dog?” Mr. MacHugh offered. “Varlet?”

  “Too trite, but certainly in the right direction. How did he know, Mr. MacHugh? How did the professor know we were starting a day early?”

  Patience stood at the front window, one floor above a familiar scene. On the nearest corner, Jake, the newsboy with the loudest voice, hawked the MacHugh and Sons broadsheets to the Friday morning crowd.

  “Mrs. Horner solves all your holiday woes! Family squabbles, lack of funds, stains on the tablecloth—no problem for our Mrs. Horner! Disaster avoided, and a happy Christmas from MacHugh and Sons!”

  On the opposite corner, a slightly older boy offered the competing product. “Professor Pennypacker packs all the advice you’ll need into one column. Why listen to a nattering old woman when the learned professor has all the answers?”

  This had been going on for half the morning, with each newsboy obligingly falling silent when his opponent held forth. A strolling fiddler played holiday tunes on the third corner, and a meat-pie vendor occupied the fourth.

  “I have my sources in the offices of the other publishers,” Mr. MacHugh said. “I’m sure Pennypacker’s newsboy occasionally chats with my lads over a pint. I’ve Harry keeping an eye out, but where’s the harm in some friendly competition?”

  Mr. MacHugh stood behind Patience at the window, close enough to remind her that they’d embraced, even held each other, for a few moments. The sky hadn’t fallen, King George hadn’t abdicated his place on the mantel, but Patience’s opinion of Mr. MacHugh had shifted—a bit.

  He wasn’t ambitious for his own sake. He employed a dozen relations and had sunk his last groat into his business. That took courage, daring, and determination, all of which were admirable qualities.

  In a man.

  Necessary qualities in a woman without means.

  “Is Jake the best choice?” Patience asked. “He’s smaller than Pennypacker’s boy. Younger. The cold might be harder on him.”

  “Because his family is from Jamaica? Jake was born in London—he knows our winters—and he’s good at what he does. I thought we might move him to Oxford Street when he sells out this lot.”

  “Oxford Street?” Patience turned from the window. “The great houses of Mayfair don’t need Mrs. Horner’s advice.”

  Mr. MacHugh perched against his desk and folded his arms. That gesture usually signaled an opinion cast in granite. It also accentuated the breadth of his shoulders.

  “Think about it, Miss Friendly. The great houses of Mayfair sit in Mayfair, but the day help, the merchants, the clerks, shopgirls, and not-so-great all come and go between Mayfair and the rest of London. Oxford Street sees much of that traffic, and the professor’s not distributing his wares there.”

  A week ago, Patience might have spent half an hour arguing: Jake would waste at least thirty minutes getting to Oxford Street, but he could sell a few copies along the way. Pennypacker’s boy might simply follow Jake and stand him to one of those pints Mr. MacHugh had mentioned. The entire lot of papers might end up in the ditch if young Jake took a tumble on the snowy streets.

  Courage, daring, and determination were not the exclusive province of a man in business.

  “Oxford Street,” Patience said. “A different block every day, so Pennypacker has to chase us. One of the other boys can bring Jake a fresh lot on the hour, so Jake doesn’t have to waste time coming and going from here every time he runs out. If it’s a war Pennypacker wants, it’s a war he shall get.”

  “We’ll have Harry take Jake’s place out front, and send Jake out the back.”

  “Oh, that is diabolical, Mr. MacHugh. I take back everything I ever said about you—well, some things. The parts about being—”

  He took off his glasses and polished them on his sleeve. “Time for crumpets?”

&
nbsp; Patience was tired of crumpets. The treat that had loomed beyond her means had lost its appeal in a few short days.

  “Lemon tarts. This calls for lemon tarts, and then I must apply myself to the next set of letters.”

  “Harry!” Mr. MacHugh called. “To the bakery, and tell Jake to come in when he’s sold the last of his stack. Lemon tarts for Miss Friendly today.”

  “And a lemon tart for Jake if he sells out in fifteen minutes!” Patience called.

  A cheer went up from the clerks, along with promises to take newsboy duty for the next week, for the next year, if fresh tarts were part of the compensation.

  Patience not only understood the ribaldry, she delighted in it. “What are you smiling at, Mr. MacHugh?”

  His smile transformed him, from a sober and somewhat ruthless man of commerce, to a buccaneer of business, a pirate prince of the publishing world. A quantity of alliterative excesses occurred to Patience, but they all came down to the fact that when Mr. MacHugh smiled at her, he was as attractive as a plate of fresh lemon tarts.

  Delicious, complicated, spicy, tart, with just the right amount of sweetness too.

  “I’m smiling at a general forging of a path to victory. Pennypacker is no match for you, Patience Friendly, and I think his good fortune has turned against him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re selling more copies because he came out a day early, just as you did.”

  The newsboys called back and forth to each other, exchanging taunts and jibes. “So is Pennypacker.”

  “He won’t be on Oxford Street.” The smile came again, along with a lifted eyebrow that promised doom to the presuming professor.

  Patience smiled back and got to work on the next column.

  * * *

  Patience Friendly was gorgeous when she smiled. Full of mischief, plans, and energy. When she smiled, she sparkled like moonlight on snow. To see her illuminated with joy was like imbibing a fine dram on a cold night. Every particle of Dougal’s soul was warmed and cheered by the sight, just as he delighted to watch her hurling thunderbolts of advice in active voice.