A Wreath of Snow

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  “I’m so glad.” With a lighter heart Meg returned to her seat, reminding herself it was a simple gesture. Nothing to be proud of. But she was, a little.

  Meanwhile, the other passenger was buried in his newspaper again, though he never moved his head or turned the page. Meg sympathized with the gentleman. Hadn’t she also tried reading, to no avail? He looked to be a few years older than she was. Slender yet muscular, he was no doubt a sportsman. And a bit untidy. His bag was unbuckled, with papers sticking out at all angles. Newspapers, mostly.

  Beyond the safe confines of their carriage, the snow was hidden by the darkness except when a lantern posted on the line briefly illuminated a portion of the stark, white landscape. Fir trees bowed low beneath the weight, the branches leaning perilously close to the tracks.

  Their progress was slow and halting, as if the engine were dragging the carriages over a bed of rocks rather than along smooth steel rails. Each time the train abruptly paused, then lurched forward, Meg gripped the wooden armrest lest she careen into the aisle. After a few minutes the gentleman across from her put away his Stirling Observer and pressed his traveling bag hard against his side.

  Larbert station was six miles down the line, with at least one deep cutting in the terrain between here and there. Meg eyed the ice-shrouded window next to her. None of the familiar landmarks would be visible en route. Even the tunnels would be more felt than seen.

  As the minutes ticked by, the train seemed to pick up speed. Nothing close to its usual pace but somewhat faster. Meg reached for her satchel, hoping her lesson plans for next term might distract her. When the gentleman glanced in her direction with an inquiring look on his face, she offered a slight nod in return. I am well, sir. Kind of you to be concerned.

  Meg looked at her watch again. She’d be home no later than seven, maybe half past—

  Her bag suddenly toppled into the aisle as she was thrown against the seat in front of her, shoulder first. The train shuddered. A terrible sound, like iron meeting ice, reverberated through the carriage, then silence. Stunned, Meg slumped forward, aware only of a searing pain and a little boy crying for his mother.

  Chapter Four

  A hero is a man who

  does what he can.

  ROMAIN ROLLAND

  Gordon shook his head, dazed for a moment. How had he ended up on his knees, halfway into the aisle?

  Then he remembered the train coming to a violent stop and his fleeting awareness of their having hit something. He took his time standing, wanting to be sure he’d fully recovered his balance, then looked about the dimly lit carriage to see if the other passengers had fallen as well.

  Indeed they had. Judging by the way Miss Campbell was gingerly holding her shoulder, she’d been bruised. Or worse. “Are you quite all right, miss?”

  She nodded slightly. “Might you see to the child?”

  He eased his way down the aisle to where the boy lay on his back, limbs flailing. Gordon rescued him at once and deposited the wriggling lad onto the seat beside his mother. “How else might I help, madam?”

  She winced as she tried to sit up, one leg pinned beneath the seat at an awkward angle. “I’m afraid—”

  “Yes, I see,” Gordon said evenly, not wanting to alarm her.

  Miss Campbell was now on her feet and moving toward them. “If you will, sir, please locate the conductor while I tend to Mrs.…”

  “Mrs. Reid,” the woman offered, her voice thin. “And my boy, Tam.”

  Gordon made a hasty exit before either of them inquired after his name. It seemed Miss Campbell had yet to recognize him. How old had she been? Thirteen? Fourteen? If she learned his surname, would it likely stir her memory?

  No point worrying about such things now. Whatever had happened to the train, the news would not be good.

  Gordon opened the carriage door, then cautiously stepped down onto the railway bed. The night wind flapped his coat about his legs like a flag on a pole. Snow as sharp as icicles stabbed every area of exposed skin—the back of his neck, the narrow gap between sleeve and glove, the upper half of his face. He fought his way forward, chin pressed against his chest, as he grasped the outer handrails for support, keenly aware of the steep drop-off less than a foot to his right.

  When he reached one of the small first-class compartments, Gordon climbed up to the door with some difficulty, then yanked it open, sending snow cascading down from the roof and onto his shoulders.

  “Come, man!” A well-dressed gentleman motioned him inside, clearly unconcerned with Gordon’s disheveled appearance. “Have you a report for us?”

  “We’ve need of a doctor in second class,” Gordon said without preamble. “Two women, one slightly injured, the other more so, I fear.” He looked at the anxious faces of the three passengers. “Do you know what’s happened?”

  “We rather hoped you might tell us,” an elderly gentleman confided. “In the meantime, Dr. Johnstone here could see to the ladies.”

  A bright-eyed fellow, no older than twenty-five, was already buttoning his coat and reaching for the brown medical bag at his feet. The leather sides were unscratched, and the brass buckles gleamed in the lamplight.

  “A Mrs. Reid and a Miss Campbell,” Gordon told him. “You’ll want to see what’s needed in third class as well.”

  Johnstone left at once, his eagerness to be of service palpable.

  “I’m headed for the engine,” Gordon told the rest of them. Seconds later he was covered in fresh snow as he stumbled past another first-class compartment and then the tender heaped with coal. When he reached the cab, neither the engineer nor the fireman was at his station. Moving to the front of the train, he found the men and discovered the problem as well: the front half of the engine was buried in a massive snowdrift.

  A faint shaft of light from the fireman’s lantern made the grim situation clear. The locomotive had entered a deep cutting where the high sides served to trap the snowfall. Strong northerly winds had done the rest, creating a shoulder-high wall of snow that was invisible in the storm.

  Gordon shouted into the wind, “Can it be cleared, sir?”

  “Too soon to tell.” The engineer grunted as he heaved aside another shovelful. “I’ve faced drifts like this before. But not in many years. And not on Christmas Eve, when we’re shorthanded.”

  Gordon looked about for the conductor. “Where’s McGregor?”

  “Third class,” the fireman answered, “looking for laborers to dig us out. A signalman has already left on foot, taking word back to Stirling.” He eyed Gordon over his wire-rimmed glasses. “Will you help us, sir?”

  Gordon knew his dress boots weren’t fit for the task, his calfskin gloves were too thin, and the woolen scarf he’d mistakenly left on the morning train would be sorely missed.

  He reached for a shovel poking out of the drift. “Show me where to start.”

  The combination of wet, heavy snow and bitterly cold winds made for rough going. When help arrived from the other carriages, there weren’t enough shovels, so men dug with metal trays, with coal buckets, with anything they could find to move the snow. The lanterns scattered about were of little use other than to show the men how much had yet to be accomplished.

  Gordon lost all sense of time as he thrust his shovel into the snow again and again, his back protesting, the muscles in his arms and shoulders straining with every load. If they could clear enough snow, they might yet reach Edinburgh that night. Miss Campbell and he could go their separate ways. The past would remain undisturbed and his shame with it.

  But his conscience refused to be silenced. You wanted to apologize twelve years ago. Why not do so tonight?

  The very idea made his face grow hot, causing him to feel the sting of the wind even more acutely. What would he say to the woman after all this time? How would he begin? My name is Gordon Shaw. A dozen years ago I did an unforgivable thing …

  But wasn’t that what he wanted? Forgiveness?

  Gordon heaved a fresh pile of snow in
to the air, wishing he might dispense with the weight of his guilt half so easily. No words, however sincere, could undo what had happened that night. Confessing his sins now would only open old wounds. Had he not done enough damage?

  Fueled by frustration, he jammed his shovel into the snowdrift. What was the point of asking someone’s forgiveness if it changed nothing?

  Gordon labored in stony silence, unwilling to acknowledge the storm that raged within him. Once the engine was freed from its snowy prison, he would be southbound—incentive enough to keep shoveling.

  After two long hours McGregor met briefly with his engineer, then called a halt to their efforts. “You’ve done your best, men,” the conductor informed his weary volunteers. “Alas, I’ve just learned the piston rod did not withstand the impact. We cannot move forward or backward.”

  All their shoveling had been for naught.

  Gordon steeled himself. He knew what was coming next.

  “Carry what bags you can, and leave the others,” the conductor told them. “One of my men is staying behind to guard the train. The rest of us will head for Stirling on foot.”

  Gordon started toward second class, tamping down his fears. He could walk back with some of the men and avoid Miss Campbell altogether. Once he reached Stirling, lodging might be found at the Coffee House at the head of Baker Street. He would manage there for the night, then slip out of town the moment the railway was back in service—

  No. Gordon slowed his steps. That’s not how it’s going to be, Shaw. Not this time.

  He kept walking, though the voice continued to prod him.

  You’ve carried this burden long enough. What are you waiting for?

  He was waiting for the right time. And that time was not tonight.

  Gordon pulled himself up to the carriage entrance with a grunt, then flung open the door harder than he meant to. It banged against the exterior of the carriage, scaring little Tam, who began to wail.

  Gordon quickly closed the door behind him, sorry he’d been so thoughtless. “I didn’t mean to frighten the boy.”

  “Of course you didn’t.” Miss Campbell looked up with a faint smile on her face, then smoothed her hand across Tam’s downy head, settling him at once. “You must be exhausted from shoveling snow.”

  He shrugged, not wanting to admit it.

  It seemed she had things well in hand. Their various traveling bags were tucked back under their seats, and Mrs. Reid was wrapped in one of the blankets from the storage compartment, her heels propped on a foot warmer filled with fresh coals. “Compliments of Dr. Johnstone,” Miss Campbell explained. “Are we leaving, then?”

  “Aye, but not aboard the train.” Gordon hesitated, gauging her reaction. “We’ll be walking back to Stirling.”

  “Oh dear.” Her blue eyes shone with concern. “Mrs. Reid’s injury will not allow it. And her son cannot walk such a distance.”

  “Then I’ll carry him,” Gordon said without a moment’s thought. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked after a child. Surely it wouldn’t be too difficult. “As for you, Mrs. Reid, a large blanket will suffice for a hammock. I daresay the men will vie for the honor of bearing you home.”

  “I’m not so light a burden as my son,” the woman protested.

  He noted her petite frame. “Light enough, madam.”

  Within minutes Gordon had joined the twenty-odd passengers convened on the tracks and had found two able men to carry Mrs. Reid. She tolerated their less-than-gentle handling and seemed comfortable enough cocooned inside her blanket. With his traveling bag and Miss Campbell’s satchel in one hand and a sleepy lad wrapped in his own small blanket and draped over his shoulder, Gordon waited impatiently for the conductor’s signal to start back.

  At least the northerly wind had lost its cruel bite. The dense snow was merely falling rather than blowing in their faces. Though they had perhaps three miles to cover, if they followed the rails, they’d not get lost.

  Miss Campbell seemed fretful about leaving her trunk until McGregor assured her it would be delivered to her door once the train returned to Stirling station. “Your family lives on Albert Place, aye?”

  “They do, but”—she bit her lip—“it might be best to store my trunk at the station. I plan to take the first train bound for Edinburgh.”

  “Hard to say when that might be, miss.”

  The conductor turned to address other needs, leaving Gordon to ponder what he’d just heard. Twelve years ago the Campbells had resided on Spittal Street in a far less prestigious home than the fine sandstone houses of Albert Place, just beyond the town wall. Surely they had room for their daughter. Did she not wish to spend Christmas with her family?

  What are you running from, Miss Campbell? Gordon knew he had no business posing such a question. Not when he was on the run himself.

  Then stop running, Shaw. Gordon looked down at the toes of his boots. Could he do so? Stop fleeing from his past and simply face it? Confess who he was and what he’d done?

  Be strong and of a good courage. A gentler voice this time, stirring deep inside him. Be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed.

  Gordon could ignore his conscience, but he could not disregard the Almighty. He lifted his head, holding little Tam close. You’ll help me, Lord? Show me what to do, tell me what to say? Gordon was not afraid of words; they were his livelihood. But an apology for so great an error would not be easily spoken.

  The LORD thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest. Aye, there was comfort in that. Especially with a long walk ahead of him and a meeting with the Campbells to follow. If they allowed him across their threshold, that is.

  At last the travelers began heading north. On a warm, moonlit evening, it would have been a pleasant walk. Not so on this dark night. Their steps labored, their voices subdued, the group slowly moved forward, no more than two abreast between the silvery rails, which were barely visible beneath the shifting snow. A dozen portable lanterns were scattered up and down the line, though the light they offered was meager at best.

  Gordon concentrated on remaining upright, ever mindful of the child entrusted to his care. The boy was lighter than expected and warm. With Tam’s arm circling his neck, Gordon no longer missed his scarf. The child’s mother was directly behind them, snug in her makeshift hammock.

  Miss Campbell fell into step beside him—wanting to be near the boy, he imagined. Or close to her satchel. She was shorter in stature than he’d first thought. The brim of her hat barely reached his shoulder. “Pardon me for not offering my arm, Miss Campbell.”

  She lifted her head and gave him a tentative smile. “I believe we can overlook such courtesies tonight.”

  No sooner were the words spoken than she lost her footing. With a startled cry, she grabbed his coat sleeve, nearly pulling him down with her, the sharp incline on either side of the tracks dangerously near.

  Hugging the boy tightly to his chest, Gordon dropped both bags and reached for her other hand. “I have you, miss!” He jammed his boot against the inside of the steel rail, determined to keep all three of them from tumbling down the icy embankment.

  She clung to his arm until she regained her balance, then slowly let go of him, gratitude in her eyes. “Now I must beg your pardon, sir.”

  “Not at all,” Gordon said, holding her gaze.

  It is your forgiveness I must seek, Miss Campbell. And your family’s. Tonight.

  Chapter Five

  No one knows the weight

  of another’s burden.

  GEORGE HERBERT

  Meg’s cheeks grew warm beneath her scarf. How boldly this gentleman looked at her! As if he knew her, though their paths had not crossed before this afternoon. He’d overheard Mr. McGregor address her, then took the liberty of using her name without offering his own. An oversight? Or was it intentional?

  She should be offended. Refuse to speak with him.

  But he’d been so helpful to Mrs. Reid and to the railway and had just spared her from a nasty f
all. Who could think ill of such a gentleman? In time he would realize he’d neglected to share his name. Why embarrass him further by pointing out his mistake? She was certainly grateful to have him within arm’s reach, for the going was hazardous, and Stirling was a long way off.

  Holding her arms out a bit to keep her balance, Meg studied him as they tramped through the snow together. His gray wool suit gave no solid clue regarding his profession, though his neatly trimmed beard and polished boots marked him as a gentleman. And a handsome one, with his fine, long nose and strong chin.

  He was not a civil servant, she decided, or a clerk who handled money, like her father, who had been employed by the Royal Bank since before she was born. Rather, this man depended upon his intellect for his income. She was certain of it. Something about his eyes, his high forehead. Was he a solicitor, perhaps? Handling wills, estates, conveyances, and the like?

  Meg’s curiosity got the better of her. The gentleman might be a stranger, but in such circumstances one was permitted to speak a bit more freely.

  “Tell me, sir, are you from Stirling or Edinburgh?” she asked, thinking one end of the line or the other would likely be his home.

  He didn’t answer immediately. “Glasgow,” he finally said.

  Not the answer she’d expected, yet the industrial town suited him. Lean. Energetic. Maybe if she revealed something of her life, he would follow her lead. “Stirling is my childhood home,” she told him, “but I’ve lived in Edinburgh for the last six years.”

  A good bit of information. Your turn, sir.

  When he didn’t respond to her volley as swiftly as she wished, Meg pressed on, throwing propriety aside as if it were a soiled pair of gloves. “Might you have business in Edinburgh? Or do you have family there, awaiting your arrival for Christmas?”

  “I have …” He slowed his steps to look at her. “I have no family in Edinburgh, but I do have business there, aye.”