A Wreath of Snow (15 page)

His mother reached out to him, tears streaming down her face. “Can’t you tell us why, Alan?”

Meg sighed, her face filled with sorrow. “I think I know the reason.” When her brother stopped pacing, Meg rested her hand on his arm. “You have always longed for our parents’ undivided attention. Even before your injury.”

Alan looked at her, his eyes two black slits. “Then I had what I wanted for twelve years. Didn’t I?”

Did you, Alan?
Gordon’s heart sank, thinking of the boy who’d grown up coddled and spoiled by his well-meaning mother and father yet remained trapped in a prison of his own making.

“It seems I didn’t ruin your life after all,” Gordon said quietly. “You did, Alan.”

“Well, I’m a grown man now, aren’t I? Which means I don’t need anyone to look after me.” Alan stormed off, head bent, hands fisted.

When his mother started to follow him, her husband gently pulled her back. “Let him go, dear. We’ve said enough for now.” Mr. Campbell turned to Gordon as if seeing him for the first time. “Forgive us, Mr. Shaw. For blaming you alone when our son … when he …”

“His injury was entirely my fault, sir,” Gordon hastened to say. “I’m only sorry he never truly recovered.” Gordon watched Alan’s solitary form move across the snow. Twelve years of guilt. Twelve years of shame.
Enough
.

The neighbors who’d watched in stunned silence began moving back to their places as a nearby church bell tolled the noon hour. The day’s light was half spent.

“I don’t understand,” Mrs. Campbell whispered almost to
herself. “Why would Alan have hidden such a thing? What possible benefit could there have been?”

Meg took her mother’s hand. “He did not want to grow up.”

“Oh, but—”

“Our daughter is right.” Mr. Campbell said gruffly. “Alan didn’t care for school, had no desire to work, and showed little interest in being independent.” He touched Meg’s shoulder. “His sister, of course, excelled in all three.”

Gordon saw the pride in her father’s eyes and had some inkling of what had kept Alan bound to that chair. He could not earn his father’s approval, so Alan settled for his father’s constant attention, though at a terrible cost.

Uncertain of his place, Gordon took a step backward, thinking to leave the Campbells in peace.

But Meg reached for his sleeve and tugged him closer. “I wonder if we might ask Mr. Shaw to join us for our belated Christmas dinner.”

Food was the last thing on Gordon’s mind. But if it meant a few more hours with Meg, he would gladly sit at their table.

Mrs. Campbell tried to smile, though it did not reach her eyes. “You are welcome to dine with us.”

Gordon looked down at fair-haired young Meg.
Not yet
, she’d told him. In light of all that had happened, perhaps she’d changed her mind. “Are you sure?” he asked her in a low voice.

“Aye,” was her only response. Her eyes said the rest.

The voice of an old friend carried across the pond. “It’s time you tried the ice again, Shaw.”

He turned to find Willie Anderson coming toward him, curling stone in hand. Behind him stood the other players, brooms by their sides, smooth-soled shoes on their feet. Apparently the men had seen and heard enough to know who he was. And what he’d done.

“I’ve not held a curling stone in a dozen years,” Gordon warned them, though he eyed the stone with longing.
The game of all others that most makes men brothers
, or so the song went. Until this moment he’d forgotten how much he’d loved being counted among the knights of the rink. “Are you certain?” he asked.

“We’re between ends,” Willie told him. “Come, show us how it’s done, lad.” He held out the stone, an irresistible invitation.

Gordon ignored the pounding in his chest and clasped the handle, still warm from Willie’s grip. Aye, he would try. And if he made a fool of himself, so be it.

He gingerly stepped onto the ice, taking a moment to get his footing. Along the snowy banks stood old neighbors and old friends. Strangers too, no doubt curious why a man ill dressed for the occasion had been handed a curling stone. Though he sensed their eyes on him, Gordon’s only concern
was his delivery. If he might simply place the stone in the general vicinity of the tee, he would be satisfied.

He breathed a plume of steam into the air, then swung the stone behind him—once for practice, once in earnest. As he followed through, bringing the stone forward, he eased onto the ice as if he’d done so only moments earlier instead of a lifetime ago. He glided along, holding his breath. When his momentum began to wane, Gordon turned the handle clockwise, from ten o’clock to twelve, and released the stone to trace a curved line across the ice.

Two sweepers went into action, brushing furiously, as shouts erupted from the crowd. Gordon could do nothing but watch, though it was hard to see with tears in his eyes. He had done it. He had come back to Stirling, to King’s Park, and had stepped onto the curling pond a free man. Forgiven.

A cheer rang out as his curling stone eased to a stop near the center of the tee. Willie thumped him on the back good-naturedly. “Not bad, Shaw. Not bad at all.”

M
eg tried to be ladylike, but the others were cheering so loudly she had to wave her arms just to be seen, if not heard. Gordon simply
must
know how proud she was and not just because of his well-placed curling stone.

She waited on tiptoe while Gordon moved through the crowd, shaking hands and meeting strangers, until finally the hand he clasped was hers.

“Miss Campbell,” he said warmly.

Meg loved the way he said her name, as if he’d just taken a bite of something sweet. “Will you escort me home, sir?”

He pretended to be shocked. “Home to Edinburgh? Or home to Albert Place?”

“To Albert Place, of course.” They’d not discussed their plans for traveling to the capital. Might they board the late afternoon train together? Meg did not wish to be presumptuous, nor did she care to give Mrs. Darroch all the ingredients for a scandalous rumor. But if Gordon sat across the aisle from her in a second-class carriage, as he had on Christmas Eve, surely no one would object.

Her parents joined them a moment later, their shoulders sagging, their faces lined. Alan had made their morning very difficult indeed. “We should start for home,” her mother said, her voice thin with exhaustion. “Mrs. Gunn expects to serve dinner at two.”

Meg and Gordon walked on either side of the weary couple as they crossed the snow-covered fields. Her father had hired a horse-drawn sleigh to convey them to the curling pond for Alan’s sake—an unnecessary expense, Meg now realized. It was a short distance home on foot—little more than a mile—and the snow on Dumbarton Road was well trampled.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, the air between them charged with regret.

Finally Meg said, “I am sorry Alan kept his recovery well hidden,” not knowing how else to begin. She took her father’s arm, longing to comfort him. “Did you have any inkling—”

“None,” he said.

“None at all,” her mother echoed.

Meg wondered if perhaps Clara or Mrs. Gunn might have something to say. Servants were often more observant than their employers.

“It doesn’t matter how long Alan has been deceiving us,” her father said glumly. “The greater issue is why he would do so.”

Gordon cleared his throat. “I realize this is a private matter, but if I may, sir …”

“By all means,” her father said with a lift of his hand.

Gordon looked at Margaret, then continued. “I know the names of several doctors in Glasgow who might be consulted. There are remedies to be tried and treatments that might be considered.”

Her father sighed heavily. “I am afraid a clerk’s salary—”

“Perhaps you’ve forgotten, Mr. Campbell.” Gordon withdrew the bank statement from his coat pocket. “I meant for Alan to have this. Now I see it is clearly needed.”

Meg swallowed hard.
Oh, Gordon
. She was the only family member who didn’t know the amount. But she’d seen the looks on all their faces and knew it was substantial.

“Mr. Shaw … it’s your … inheritance …,” her father stammered, coming to a full stop. “We cannot possibly accept it.”

Gordon exchanged glances with her. “What if it were a Christmas present? It’s not polite to refuse a gift.”

Though his tone was light, Meg saw how serious he was. “In years to come, Mr. Shaw, might this not create some hardship for you?”

He shrugged, his expression free from concern. “The Lord has asked me to do this. I can trust him to provide for me as well.”

Meg had a great deal to learn about Gordon Shaw, but she knew without a doubt he was a man of strong convictions. Much would be said and done regarding Alan in the days to come. For the moment her parents needed time to rest, to think, and to consider what the days ahead might hold when Alan returned home—
if
Alan returned home.

When at last they arrived at the cottage, Meg peeled off her scarves and stamped the snow off her walking boots. “Come, warm yourself by the fire,” she urged Gordon, escorting him into the parlor while her parents dressed for dinner.

Meg stretched out her hands over the rising heat, and Gordon did the same. His were lightly freckled, long and lean, and covered in fine red hair. The hands of an artist whose medium was words.

Gordon’s eyes met hers. “Which train will you take to Edinburgh?”

“Not the three twenty-six,” she said firmly, “for I hear it is most undependable.”

He smiled. “I plan to take the four forty-three.”

“As do I.” She held his gaze, longing to know what was running through his mind. Would they see each other again? Or would he simply deposit Alan’s money in her father’s account and return to his life in Glasgow?
We understand each other
, he’d said. She prayed that was true and asked the only question she could without risking her heart. “How long will you be staying in Edinburgh?”

His smile faded. “Less than a day, I’m afraid. After my morning interview I must return to Glasgow, or my editor will find another minion to do his bidding.”

Meg looked down lest he see her dismay.
So soon?

Her mother called to them from the parlor door. “Mrs. Gunn is ready for us.”

“I’ll not be long,” Meg promised, then hurried to her bedchamber, needing a moment alone. She quickly bathed her hands and face, then added a sprinkle of perfume before pausing to lift up a silent prayer.
If Gordon is to be mine someday, Lord, please give me patience. And if he is not … oh, if he is not, then give me comfort
.

When she lifted her head, her gaze fell on her tall dresser.
Gordon’s present
. She could at least send him home to Glasgow with something to keep him warm.

He was waiting for her in the dining room, his clothing brushed, his hair neatly combed. Gordon spotted the gift in her hands. “Christmas … again?”

“Aye.” Meg sat so he might do the same, then placed his gift beside his plate. Her parents had already taken their seats. Only Alan’s chair remained empty, though the table had been set for him with dishes, sterling, and glassware.

“Indeed, it is Christmas,” Meg said, admiring her mother’s table decorated with sprigs of holly and berries, gleaming tapers, and cinnamon sticks wrapped in ribbon. On each empty plate was a Christmas cracker, waiting to be pulled apart.

Meg nodded at Gordon’s colorful favor. “Yours first, please.” They each gripped an end of the paper-wrapped tube and yanked, then laughed when the favor popped open with a wee bang. A small harmonica fell out, along with a printed Christmas sentiment and a wrinkled hat made from red tissue paper.

Gordon smoothed out the hat at once and put it on his head, adopting a serious expression to match. “Your turn, Miss Campbell.”

Her cracker was louder than she expected, making her jump. A moment later she was wearing a pointy blue hat. Two more pops at either end of the table and her parents were similarly adorned—a Christmas tradition even in the most sober of households.

“Clara,” her mother said, “I believe we are ready for our soup.”

A dizzying array of plates and dishes came and went from
kitchen to table. Roasted goose with chestnut stuffing—Gordon’s favorite—provided the main course. Her mother ate more than her share of roasted parsnips, and her father enjoyed the sausages in gravy. Meg saved room for the plum pudding with fresh cream, and they each ate a thin slice of Christmas cake, rich with fruit and topped with marzipan.

Without her brother glowering at her across the table and with Gordon by her side, Meg secretly counted this her most peaceful and pleasurable Christmas in recent memory. But she did miss Alan. Whatever had compelled him to pretend he couldn’t walk was a mystery best solved by a doctor. But he was still her brother. And she still loved him.

As coffee was being poured, Meg patted Gordon’s gift. “Kindly open it, Mr. Shaw. Then we’ll make haste to Stirling station.”