A Wreath of Snow

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  When other passengers began closing in from behind, he lengthened his stride, and she did the same. Their shoulders were a hand’s-breadth apart—a necessity if they meant to stay between the rails. It also allowed them to converse without being overheard by the entire group. She sensed the gentleman wanted that.

  “Business, you say?” she prompted him.

  After a long pause he said, “I write for the Glasgow Herald.”

  Meg hid her surprise. A newspaperman? She would not have guessed that. A respectable occupation, at least in most circles. Certainly the Herald was above reproach.

  “That’s why I was in Stirling today,” he explained, “interviewing the new editor of the British Messenger.”

  Meg nodded with approval. The Drummonds, one of Stirling’s most respected families, published the monthly magazine. She pictured the three-story building on Dumbarton Road with its impressive bank of windows. “You were quite near my parents’ house.”

  “On Albert Place,” he affirmed, then began stumbling over his words. “You said … That is, I believe Mr. McGregor mentioned your address.”

  Aye, and my name too. He missed very little, this tall newspaperman from Glasgow.

  Meg looked about, taking in what she could of their surroundings. How quiet and still their frozen world had become! The snow fell in utter silence, and the air sounded hollow, as if they were standing in the midst of a great cathedral, its vaulted ceiling stretching toward heaven.

  “Christmas Eve,” she said on a sigh, her warm breath visible. “I shall miss all the candles in Edinburgh’s windows.”

  “At least we have light.” He nodded toward the bobbing lanterns carried by laborers and gentry alike. “Once we reach Stirling, I imagine you’ll see plenty of candles burning around King’s Park.”

  Meg heard a coolness in his tone at the mention of her neighborhood. Did he think less of her family for living in the fashionable part of Stirling? She didn’t entirely approve of it herself, and not just because the move was Alan’s idea. Her father was a middling bank clerk—a stable position but not a highly lucrative one. Purchasing even the smallest house in King’s Park had taken all his earnings and every penny of her mother’s inheritance.

  I could have helped them if I’d sold Aunt Jean’s house.

  She pushed aside the nagging thought. “Our cottage has only two windows facing the street,” she told him, “but the villas on Victoria Square will have a glittering array of candles.”

  Though he merely nodded, she saw something flicker in his brown eyes, as if he’d formed one opinion and now was discarding it for another.

  “I imagine your family will be surprised to see you,” he said.

  Her throat tightened. Surprised wasn’t the word that came to mind. Alan would gloat over her being forced to return. Her parents would be relieved yet upset with her for leaving. “They certainly are not expecting me,” she admitted.

  He said nothing for a moment, as if he were listening to his boots crunch the snow. “Will your family be home this evening?”

  An odd question, Meg thought. Was he concerned about her returning to an empty house?

  “Aye, they’ll be there,” she said, imagining the Campbells at their oblong dining table—her father at the head, her mother at the foot, and Alan seated on his usual side of the table with an extra cushion on his chair, meant to make him more comfortable. Even with the gas chandelier overhead, beeswax candles would be flickering on the mantelpiece.

  “Our family dines at eight. My mother prides herself on serving a fine meal on Christmas Eve,” Meg told him as vivid recollections of past holidays swept over her. “Roasted pork with apples. Carrots, potatoes, and turnips. Fresh bread tied in a thick braid and drenched in butter …” Her voice trailed off into a melancholy silence. Her place at the table would be empty tonight.

  The gentleman beside her said, “No wonder you return home each Christmas.”

  “But I don’t.” The words poured out before she could stop them. “At least, I haven’t, not in years.” Was she proud of that fact? Or ashamed? “My home is in Edinburgh now. My work is there. My dearest friends are there. But my family …” She fought to regain her composure. “My family is …”

  “I understand, Miss Campbell. More than you know.” His shoulder lightly brushed against hers as they quietly walked in tandem. “Tell me why you’ve stopped coming home.”

  Could she do so? The temptation overwhelmed her. To speak honestly without the fear of hurting anyone. To open her heart to a stranger who knew nothing of her family and would leave town in the morning, carrying her secrets with him.

  Meg drew a long, steadying breath and looked straight ahead, convinced if she gazed into those warm, chestnut-colored eyes, she would feel exposed and stop at once. Whatever she found the courage to tell him, it would be easier if she saw nothing but the steady snowfall and the backs of two passengers, now several yards ahead.

  She shivered, suddenly more aware of the cold, and tugged her hat firmly on her head. “I have a brother named Alan.” That seemed the place to begin. He was at the heart of the issue, wasn’t he? “I was four when he was born.” Even as she sought the right words, she wondered if this gentleman could possibly grasp how a single event had the power to alter a family forever.

  For most of her young life, Meg had been her father’s favorite, though she’d tried not to notice. But Alan had. As he grew, so did his resentment. Then everything changed on that January afternoon.

  In the end Meg simply said, “When my brother was ten years of age, he was badly injured.”

  The gentleman frowned. “What happened?”

  “An accident. My parents weren’t there, but I was.”

  As Meg described the scene at the curling pond, her walking companion leaned closer, his expression strangely intent. “An inebriated young man began swinging his curling stone,” she explained. “When it slipped from his grasp, the stone struck my brother in the back.” She could still recall the awful thud as the stone fell to the ice.

  After a moment he asked, “Did you learn the man’s name?”

  “Gordon Shaw,” she said without hesitation. “I was only fourteen, so I recall little else about him. But I could hardly forget the name of someone who ruined my brother’s life.”

  His response was slow in coming. “I am … sorry, Miss Campbell.”

  Meg shook her head, knowing the truth. “It was my fault too.” How she hated putting that into words! “I was the older sister, meant to watch Alan. If I’d paid closer attention … If I’d kept him off the ice …”

  She pressed her lips together, trying to stem the painful memories. Alan’s head resting on her lap, tears streaming down his cheeks. Her father’s grief. How could you let this happen? Her mother’s sorrow. My boy, my poor boy. Meg had cried herself to sleep that night and many nights thereafter. Blaming a stranger for being careless. Blaming herself as well.

  “Your brother’s injury,” the gentleman prompted her. “Was it serious?”

  “At first Alan couldn’t stand. Couldn’t move, really. A neighbor took us home in his sleigh. Dr. Bayne was summoned at once and deemed my brother stricken with paralysis.”

  For a stranger, his dismay was marked. “Your brother is bedridden, then.”

  “Not entirely. With assistance he can stand, but he cannot walk on his own.”

  Meg was reluctant to say more on the subject for fear of sounding uncharitable. Still, over the years it seemed Alan had made the most of his affliction, seeking sympathy from every quarter. Mum waited on him hand and foot. Father showered him with presents and required nothing of him. Her brother did no work of any kind but simply sat in his favorite chair and ordered their parents about—

  Forgive me, Alan. Her assessment, however accurate, was unkind. Even though he had been more difficult than usual today, he deserved her compassion.

  “Of course I feel sorry for my brother,” she said, “and guilty as well. Of the two of us, I
am the healthy one.”

  The gentleman beside her nodded as if he grasped what she was saying. “When you’re not the one injured, that can be a burden too.”

  “Aye, it can.” Meg was so relieved to find someone who understood that she spilled out the rest. “Sadly, Alan has grown more disagreeable with each passing season. The year I turned twenty, I moved to Edinburgh to care for my aunt Jean. In all honesty, I could not escape my brother’s company quickly enough.”

  There. She had put the awful truth into words.

  When the gentleman did not respond, Meg’s heart sank. He surely thought less of her now that she’d spoken so frankly. If he had no siblings of his own, he’d not likely comprehend how it was with Alan and her. A certain measure of love, aye, but not always loyalty or affection. At least not since his accident.

  She braved the question. “Do you have brothers or sisters?”

  “I have no family at all.” His words were void of emotion. “My parents moved south to England and died of pneumonia one cold, wet spring.”

  Meg turned to him, aghast. “Here I am, filling your ears with my troubles when you’ve suffered far more.”

  “You have no need to apologize, Miss Campbell. Not to me.”

  Looking into his eyes, she saw a well of sadness that touched her deeply. “We’ve made a grave error, you and I.” She lightly rested her hand on his forearm. “It’s time we were properly introduced. I am Miss Margaret Campbell. Might I be so bold as to ask your name, sir?”

  “My name?” His gaze no longer met hers.

  Chapter Six

  I watched her face to see which way

  She took the awful news.

  EMILY DICKINSON

  Gordon lifted his head, forcing himself to look at her. “I am Mr. Gordon …” His surname stuck in his throat. Say it, man. She deserves to know. “Mr. Gordon …”

  “Gordon?” A smile lit her countenance. “Is that so? I knew a Gordon family once. They lived near our old house on Spittal Street.” She tipped her head, eying him more closely. “Black haired, all of them. Not relatives of yours, I imagine.”

  “No … no, I’m …” He hesitated one second too long.

  Margaret Campbell was facing forward now. “Pardon me, Mr. Gordon. I should have inquired about your surname long before this. Rather an awkward situation, I’m afraid.”

  Awkward? Gordon’s limbs felt so weak he feared Tam might slip from his grasp. Mr. Gordon. How had such a thing happened? Foolish question, Shaw. He’d let it happen. Let her think he was someone else. A stranger worth knowing instead of someone her family despised.

  Do something. Say something. “Forgive me, but—”

  A woman’s voice called out, “Miss Campbell, if I may?”

  When she turned to respond, Gordon had no choice but to do the same.

  The men carrying Mrs. Reid lumbered up. Both were red faced and breathing hard with their patient sagging between them.

  She peered at them from her wool hammock. “I fear my kind stretcher-bearers are in need of a respite.” When the men protested, she offered a faint smile but would not be dissuaded. Instead, she looked fondly at her son, then at Gordon. “Sir, might you find two other men willing to take a turn? It is a great deal to ask—”

  “Not at all, madam.” He took off at once, needing time to think, to find a way to undo what he’d done. More to the point, what he’d not done.

  The best solution was the simplest one. The instant he was alone with Margaret Campbell, he would tell her the truth: My name is Gordon Shaw. He said those words every day of his life. Surely he could say them now when it truly mattered.

  She’d shared her name, hadn’t she? Margaret. Though he was not free to use her Christian name, he preferred to think of her that way. Margaret. A traditional name. It suited her.

  Your name suits you as well, Shaw. Say it.

  His face hot, Gordon stamped up the line thirty yards until he located two fresh recruits willing to help. He led them back toward Mrs. Reid, trying not to jostle the child up and down as he went. But by the time they reached her, the boy was fully awake and crying for his mother.

  Well done, Shaw. It seemed he couldn’t even look after a small child without making a hash of things. Gordon gently lowered the boy so his mother might comfort him face to face.

  “I cannot hold you just now, dear lad,” she told him, cupping his pudgy cheeks with her hands. “But you are being well taken care of by Mr.… ah …”

  When he didn’t answer quickly enough, Margaret said, “His name is Gordon.”

  The Reid woman beamed up at him. “Thank you again, Mr. Gordon.”

  He smiled through clenched teeth. Shaw. My name is Shaw. He could hardly state so now with a dozen people standing about. Margaret might be embarrassed, thinking the mistake was hers, and the others would surely be confused. Once the group dispersed and everyone was out of earshot, he would put things right.

  But Gordon hadn’t counted on little Tam Reid.

  Duly rested after his nap, the child bounced up and down in Gordon’s arms, then tried to capture snowflakes between his tiny mittens, all the while babbling away.

  “What a darling boy.” Margaret smiled at him as they walked, clearly enchanted.

  Gordon, meanwhile, was trying to keep his tweed cap out of the child’s reach lest he send it flying into the night. Minutes later when Tam nearly leaped into a snowdrift, Gordon decided the child needed to stretch his legs. He lowered him to the ground, then used a bag in each hand to corral the lad as they walked between the rails.

  The attempt was not entirely successful.

  After the boy stumbled several times and landed face-first in the snow, Margaret finally said, “Mr. Gordon, this will never do,” and swept Tam into her embrace. She brushed away his tears and soon had him giggling again. “My students are a few years older, but I believe I can manage one toddler. Isn’t that so, Tam?”

  Gordon groaned inwardly. However charming the lad, his presence made a serious conversation difficult, if not impossible. But that was no excuse. The truth could not wait a moment longer.

  He matched her stride, walking as close as he dared. “Miss Campbell, I have not been entirely honest with you.”

  “Oh?” She looked up at him expectantly. Then a distant church bell began to toll, and she counted the hours under her breath. “Is it only nine o’clock? I thought surely it must be midnight.”

  Gordon cared little about the hour. What mattered was they were halfway to Stirling, and he was running out of time. Make haste to help me. A short prayer and a desperate one.

  He gripped their bags, strengthening his resolve. “I too have stayed away from Stirling. Far longer than you, Miss Campbell, and for good reason.”

  Her eyes widened. “Is Stirling your home as well?”

  “It was, until I was seventeen.” He cleared his throat. “Then I … hurt someone without meaning to. A young boy of ten.”

  The slightest intake of air. “Just like my brother.”

  “Exactly like him, Miss Campbell.”

  There was no going back now. Gordon slowed to a stop, then turned to her, wanting to see her expression when the truth sank in and the punishment he so richly deserved would be meted out. “It was your brother, Alan, whom I injured. On a curling pond in King’s Park twelve years ago.”

  She wrinkled her brow. “But your name is …”

  “Mr. Gordon Shaw.”

  The pain etched on her face was worse than he’d imagined. Almost more than he could bear. Her chin trembled, and her blue eyes glistened with tears as she tried to speak but could not.

  “Aye, Miss Campbell. As you rightly said, I am the man who ruined your brother’s life.”

  “And mine,” she whispered.

  Chapter Seven

  Disappointment tracks

  the steps of hope.

  LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON

  Why did you not tell me before? Why?” Meg turned away. She didn’t want an answer
. Not from Gordon Shaw.

  “Miss Campbell, if I may ask—”

  “You may not.” Meg buried her face in Tam’s soft woolen bonnet. To think she’d unburdened her heart to this man! Taken him into her confidence. Shared how her brother’s injury had affected the family, affected her. This man, of all men, had let her talk on and on yet kept his identity a secret.

  She lifted her head and promptly strode off, her steps more resolute than graceful. She dare not stumble, not with Tam in her arms. But she would not stay and hear Gordon Shaw justify his duplicity.

  Why had she not put the pieces together and realized who he was before he confessed it? Because I didn’t wish to. Because I was enjoying his company. She stopped in her tracks as the truth heated her cheeks afresh.

  A moment later Mr. Shaw was beside her. “I am grateful you waited—”

  “I did nothing of the kind.” Meg shifted Tam in her arms. The line of passengers now stretched some distance up and down the rails. Just as well, or they might get an earful if Mr. Shaw did not leave her alone.

  Had she looked more closely and listened more carefully, she might have recognized him. True, he’d not had a beard all those years ago. But his hair was the same bright shade, not easily forgotten. She should have known him. She should have known.

  “Miss Campbell, I do not expect—”

  “Then you’ll not be disappointed.”

  Meg hated the harshness in her tone, but she couldn’t help it. Gordon Shaw. How dare he endear himself to her! For years her family had spoken this man’s name with contempt. Did he think their heartache could be swept away with a simple apology? She was glad for the darkness, for the cold, for the snow. Even with Mr. Shaw walking right beside her, she could pretend he wasn’t there.

  Unfortunately, he kept talking. “I am entirely to blame for your brother’s condition, Miss Campbell. Discard any notion that you were responsible.”

  She glared up at him. “In the same manner you discarded your curling stone? Tossing it across the ice without considering where it might land?”