A Wreath of Snow (9 page)

Rather than speak down to him, Gordon dropped to one knee, giving Alan a fair chance to recognize him. “I’m honored to speak with you,” Gordon told him and meant it.

A spark of anger lit the younger man’s eyes. “I can only imagine what our dear Meg has said about me.” His voice was laced with sarcasm, and bitterness hung over him like a cloud.

Gordon wanted to say, “I’ve heard only good things,” but that wasn’t true. Margaret had made it clear that her brother’s company had become burdensome. Instead Gordon told him, “She has related very few details, I’m afraid,” to which the lad merely grunted.

One thing was certain: Alan Campbell did not recognize him.

After a moment Gordon stood, trying to shake off his disappointment. He’d wanted more than anything to apologize tonight. But he’d made a promise to Margaret that he would not break.

“Forgive me,” Gordon said. “The hour is late, and your dinner has been delayed long enough.” He turned to the only person there who truly knew him and offered his arm. “Miss Campbell?”

E
ven with the fireplace warming her back, Meg felt a marked chill in the dining room.

She eyed her father at the head of the table, then Gordon seated at her elbow, then Alan across from them. The three men had barely spoken, Alan in particular. If he’d looked in her direction, Meg hadn’t noticed. What she did see were his dark eyebrows so tightly drawn they appeared knitted together and his frown deeply etched on his face.

Her mother did what she could to brighten the mood by sharing the latest news from up and down Albert Place. Mr.
Dunsmore, the watchmaker, had swallowed a tiny spring that dropped from his pocket into his porridge. An elderly neighbor, the sprightly Mrs. Thomson, had climbed all two hundred forty-six steps of the Wallace Monument on a dare. And Mr. Kirkwood had papered the Stewarts’ entire hallway with the floral print upside down.

“Do not think me a gossip,” she cautioned Gordon, “for I report only those stories I know to be true.”

Gordon assured her, “That is my credo as well, madam.”

“Spoken like a true newspaperman,” Meg said, thinking to arouse the interest of her father or brother, both avid readers. But neither responded. The presence of a dinner guest had certainly stifled her brother’s ire, for which she was grateful. But he might yet recognize Gordon, even if she had not.

The sooner they finished dinner, the sooner everyone could retire, and the risk of discovery would quite literally be put to bed. Gordon had promised to leave on the first train bound for Edinburgh. In a matter of hours, she could take a full breath again.

At last Mrs. Gunn emerged from the kitchen prepared to serve the final dish of the night and receive her due appreciation from the family.

“A fine meal, Mrs. Gunn.” Her mother beamed at the cook. “The chestnut soup was especially flavorful.”

Mrs. Gunn bobbed her head in thanks, then circled the
table with her tempting plate of sweets—shortbread dusted with sugar and mincemeat tarts with pastry stars on the crust. Clara followed close on her heels, pouring fresh coffee.

“Every course was delicious,” Meg told the round-shouldered cook. Mrs. Gunn’s silvery hair had escaped from beneath her cap, and her eyes were bleary.
Poor woman
. It was nearly midnight.

When Mrs. Gunn served Alan, he didn’t bother to express his gratitude, yet he’d eaten numerous servings of salmon, pork, and pheasant, of turnips, carrots, and potatoes. Gordon, perhaps to make up for her brother’s silence, warmly commended Mrs. Gunn, though he’d taken only a few bites of her food.

Too tired to eat, Meg supposed. Or upset over seeing Alan.

Or disappointed that she would not allow him to make a full confession.

Meg took a forkful of mincemeat tart, which now tasted like dry, flavorless crumbs, so acute was her shame.
Forgive me, Gordon
. It was pure selfishness on her part, not wanting to upset her father or enrage her brother. Mr. Shaw had honored his promise, an admirable trait in a man. But she shouldn’t have forced him to answer to a name that wasn’t his own.

Thou shalt not bear false witness
. Aye, she knew the commandment and had broken it soundly. Meg burned her tongue on the coffee, desperate to swallow the bit of crust before she choked.

The moment the last empty cup clinked against its saucer, her father stood, signaling the end of the meal. “I’ll see you to your room, Alan.”

Gordon rose as well. “Might I be of assistance?”

Meg heard the earnestness in his voice, the desire to do something, anything, to make amends.

Alan quashed his offer at once. “We’ve no need of your help.”

When Gordon resumed his seat, a defeated look on his face, Meg understood. How many times had Alan snapped at her, chopped off her words, ignored her, or made her feel small?

Father pulled Alan’s chair away from the table, then helped him stand and move forward with halting steps. Though her brother wore a pronounced frown, his expression seemed more practiced than genuine.

Meg looked down, ashamed of her thoughts. Yet sometimes she wondered if Alan might be more capable than he let on. When she’d lived at home, on two occasions she’d walked past Alan’s ground-floor bedroom and spied him standing by the window. She’d said nothing to Alan or to their parents. How could she without seeming heartless? If her brother had discovered some way to stand for a moment on his own, was that not a blessing?

By the time Meg lifted her head, Alan and her father were gone from the room.

Meg sighed into the morning darkness of her cold bedchamber, convinced she could see her breath if the lamp on her bedside table were lit. Even burrowed underneath three woolen blankets, she was shivering. The coals in her fireplace needed to be stirred to life. But her warm slippers were in her trunk. On the train. In a snowdrift.

Daybreak would not come for two hours or more. Yet in homes scattered across Edinburgh’s New Town, her students would be well awake by now, curled up by the hearth, waiting for the rest of their households to appear so the day’s festivities might commence. Stockings would be emptied into laps and the contents exclaimed over. An orange, round and fragrant. A monkey on a wooden stick. Crayons made of colored wax. A handkerchief printed with a scene from a fairy tale. And deep in the toe of the knitted stocking, a shiny new penny.

Meg sighed, remembering how she and Alan enjoyed their stockings when they were children. She always made him wait his turn while she slowly pulled out her gifts one at a time, cherishing each trinket and toy from Saint Nicholas. Such happy years, when Mum’s laughter rang through the house, and Father took young Alan sledding at the King’s Knot in the old royal gardens below the castle.

But those days were gone forever.

Throwing back her bedcovers, Meg vowed to make the most of her brief time at home. She poked at the coals until they glowed again, then turned up the nearest lamp and began searching through her chest of drawers for something clean to wear. The striped skirt and blouse she’d worn on the train were still drying by the fire, and last night’s blue dress would never do for church.

Meg pulled out a gray flannel day dress she’d not worn since she was twenty. The narrow sleeves were patently out of fashion, but with a bit of pressing, the dress might serve. She spread the skirt across the bed and was hunting for a pair of silk stockings when Clara announced herself with a light tap on the door.

“I heard you up and about, Miss Campbell. Here’s your hot water for bathing and a cup of tea.” She placed the pitcher on Meg’s washstand and the teacup on her bedside table, then gathered up the flannel dress. “I’ll not be long,” Clara promised and left as quietly as she’d come.

Meg sat on the edge of the bed, sipping her tea, overcome with gratitude. In Edinburgh she had neither a lady’s maid nor a live-in servant, only a housekeeper, who came once a week. Piping hot tea delivered to her room? Ironing done by another pair of hands? Those were luxuries indeed.

She’d scrubbed herself clean from head to toe by the time Clara returned with her flannel dress and troubling news. “The
trains are not running from Stirling this morn, not in any direction.”

Meg peered out the window into the darkened garden behind the house. “I cannot believe it’s still snowing.”

“Aye, miss.”

Her thoughts traveled down the hall to the small guest bedroom. It seemed Gordon Shaw would be with them through church, perhaps even for Christmas dinner. Would Alan see him by the light of day and realize who Gordon was?

A nervous shiver ran down her spine, but she shook it off, refusing to entertain such fears. Nothing to be done but dress for the day and prepare her heart for whatever might come.

“Shall we see if it still fits?” Meg slipped her arms into the separate bodice, with its boned seams and darts, then began fastening the myriad tiny hooks that held the garment together. An endless process, especially with her fingers trembling from the cold.

Clara helped her step into the skirt, then tied the silk sash into a neat bow at her waist. “You look lovely, miss. The light gray suits your coloring.”

Meg thought the bodice a bit snug, and one gilt button was missing from her cuff, but she’d not be ashamed when she went downstairs. In a matter of minutes Clara styled her hair, brushing it into a smooth chignon and pinning it at the nape of her neck.

Pleased with the girl’s work, Meg caught Clara’s eye in the mirror. “I don’t suppose I could coax you into going back to Edinburgh with me?”

Clara smiled at the compliment, but Meg knew she would never leave home. Clara’s entire family lived in Stirlingshire. For her, the capital was another world, best seen from a distance.

Both women were soon tiptoeing down the stairs, trying not to wake the sleeping household. Clara returned to her duties in the kitchen while Meg stepped into the parlor, where a fire burned brightly, and the lamps gave the room a warm glow.

She breathed in the familiar scent of evergreens and beeswax, then looked up to admire the spruce, which nearly touched the ceiling. The tree was trimmed with garlands of berries, delicate glass ornaments, and small white candles clipped onto the branches. An angel perched on top, brass trumpet in hand.

Around the base of the tree lay a swath of red fabric with a cluster of mysterious packages waiting to be opened. They’d not been there last evening.
Bless you, Mum
. How many Christmas Eves had her mother slipped into the parlor to wrap gifts in brown paper and twine long after the rest of the household lay snug in their beds?

Blinking away tears, Meg knelt by the few gifts she’d placed under the tree the night she’d arrived. None were expensive, yet she’d chosen them with care. As she picked up each one, making
certain its tag was still in place, she thought of Gordon spending Christmas morning with strangers and not having a single present with his name on it.

She eyed the two items she’d purchased for her brother, running her fingertip across the rough twine, weighing what might be done. As a boy, Alan would have gladly shared one of his gifts with a child who had none. Did she dare remove the tag and give the present to Gordon instead? She felt guilty even considering the idea, yet it seemed unfair for him not to have even one small gift to open.

Wait
. Meg was on her feet in an instant and hurrying up the staircase.
Mr. Forsyth’s scarf
. When Meg pulled open the bottom drawer, the strong scent of cedar wafted out. She reached inside, then smiled.
Aye. Still there
. She buried her nose in the soft wool, inhaling the spicy aroma, and held up the scarf to the lamplight for closer examination. The small blocks of cedar, freshly sanded each month, had kept the moths away just as she’d hoped.

Gordon Shaw need not know the history behind his gift. But he did need a scarf.

As Meg stepped into the upstairs hall, she heard a door close. Instinctively, she hid the scarf behind her back and turned toward the sound. “A happy Christmas to you, Mr. Gordon.”