When they slowed to turn onto Dumbarton Road, he glanced at the Drummond Tract Depot, home of the British Messenger. Difficult as it was to imagine, he’d been inside that building not ten hours earlier. If someone had told him then where he’d find himself now, Gordon would have laughed at the absurdity of it.
Instead, he looked grimly ahead as each doorway came into view. Soon they would pass Glebe Avenue. Albert Place was next. The carriage would stop, the Campbells would disembark, and the truth would finally be spoken.
My name is Gordon Shaw. A dozen years ago I did an unforgivable thing …
His head throbbed, and his chest ached. By the time they reached their destination, Gordon feared his knees might not hold him. Whatever happened this night, it could not be worse than the last quarter hour.
“Here we are.” Mr. Campbell nodded at the door. “If you would, Mr. Gordon.”
He quit the stuffy carriage at once, needing room to breathe, to think. As Mr. Campbell helped his wife and daughter step out, Gordon waited for them, traveling bag in hand, beside the wrought-iron gate. Their sandstone cottage was smaller than he’d imagined, with a low hedgerow enclosing the front garden and a high-pitched roof. He detected a slight movement at one of the ornamented windows. Was it a servant, anxious to serve their dinner? Or Alan, curious to see who’d come home with his family?
“Accompany our guest to the door, dear,” Mrs. Campbell said, waving Margaret forward.
Gordon fell into step with her as they walked up the shoveled path side by side, much the same way they’d traveled between the rails. He was careful not to brush against her and kept his thoughts to himself. I am very sorry, Margaret, but I must go through with this.
A gaslit globe illuminated the single brass number of the cottage. Just before the door swung open, Margaret whispered discreetly, “We must speak. Soon.”
Disoriented by her nearness, Gordon nearly stumbled over the threshold. She had made her wishes clear earlier. What more was there to say?
Mrs. Campbell sang out from behind him, “Mr. Gordon, this is our Clara.”
The young maidservant ushered him in, her eyes bright, her apron crisp even at that late hour. She helped the ladies with their coats, then slipped Gordon’s off his shoulders.
A narrow hallway ran the length of the cottage, with both a parlor and a dining room in the front. From curtains to carpets, a dizzying array of floral patterns vied for his attention. Tables were draped in linen and lace, the surfaces cluttered with framed photographs, wax fruit, wooden figures, and other curios. Sprays of larch, holly, and ivy decorated the shelves and paintings, and the smell of freshly cut evergreens hung heavy in the air. His senses were not so much engaged as assaulted.
Alan was nowhere to be seen.
Mrs. Campbell removed a long pin from her hat, smiling at herself in the hallway mirror. “Clara, tell Mrs. Gunn we shall dine at eleven. In the meantime, take our guest up to his room so he might dress for dinner.”
As Margaret ascended the staircase a few steps ahead of him, Gordon was haunted by her words: Christmas is meant to be joyful. What would make the day joyful for the Campbells? To remember happier seasons before their lives were changed by the careless act of a stranger? Or to have that stranger come forward and offer a long-awaited apology? Gordon was convinced of the latter—not only for his sake, but also for theirs.
Confess your faults. Aye, he would.
When they reached the top of the stair, Margaret disappeared without a word into a room across the hall. Would she seek him out shortly? Soon, she’d said. Gordon followed the maidservant into a small bedroom tucked beneath the eaves. The muted colors and simple furnishings were most welcome, and the porcelain washbowl even more so.
“I’ll fetch hot water for you straightaway, sir. Is there anything else you’ll be needing?”
Aye. He put his traveling bag on a straight-backed chair. Courage. Strength.
Before he could answer, she resumed her friendly chatter. “You’ll find a shaving mug and soap on the chest of drawers, and the water closet is at the end of the hall. Might I unpack for you? Or press your shirt?”
Gordon opened his bag at once and handed her a fistful of clean but wrinkled linen. “Thank you, Clara.” She bobbed a curtsy and was gone, leaving him to manage the rest.
He quickly retrieved his razor and comb, then took a brush to his gray suit coat. Neither worry nor fear would serve him well this night. Power and love and a sound mind. Aye, that was what was needed. He’d not find them in his traveling bag, but he knew where to turn nonetheless.
Before long Clara reappeared with a steaming pitcher of water, fresh towels, and his shirt, neatly pressed. “Dinner will be served in a quarter hour, sir.”
Gordon bathed, shaved, and dressed, rehearsing the words he intended to say. He would not presume to ask for the Campbells’ forgiveness, but he would offer his apology, woefully overdue.
He was straightening his tie when he heard a soft tapping at the door. Margaret.
Gordon answered her knock, then fell back a step. Gone were her damp clothes, her soiled coat, her limp black hat. She was wearing an evening dress the precise blue of her eyes and had her sand-colored hair swept into a tidy nest of curls.
It took a moment to collect his wits. “Miss Campbell.”
She eyed the staircase before stepping across the threshold. “Forgive me for not addressing you by name.” Her voice was low, her mood serious.
He beckoned her further within, catching a whiff of perfume as she brushed by. Not even a bonny lass in blue could dissuade him from revealing his identity. The only question that remained was when.
Standing before him with her hands clasped at her waist, she said, “I’ve come to ask you—no, to beg you—to say nothing about the incident at King’s Park unless Alan recognizes you. Please?” Her tender voice, her gentle words implored him. “There is little to be gained by opening that door.”
“How can you be so certain?” Gordon frowned, trying not to be irritated with her. “Aren’t we to confess our sins to one another?”
“You would be confessing my sin as well.” Her pale cheeks bloomed like summer roses. “I am the one who told them your surname is Gordon.”
Now he understood.
“I could have corrected you then and there,” he reminded her, though they both knew he would never have done so in the middle of a crowded railway station. “In any case, you did not lie. My name is Gordon.”
“So it is.” She inched closer. “Please, Gordon.”
Her bold use of his Christian name caught him off guard. “But I—”
“Please don’t tell them.” Her eyes shimmered in the lamplight. “Share our Christmas. Then go your merry way with my family none the wiser. Promise me, Gordon? For my sake?”
He wanted to step away from her, to argue with her, but his feet wouldn’t move. “I need to do this …” He swallowed. “Margaret, I will never have another chance like this to make things right.”
“But what if it makes things worse?” Her voice was as soft as a child’s. “You have apologized to me. Is that not enough?”
“You weren’t the one I injured. Not physically, at least.” He dared to take her hand. She did not pull away. “I looked at his face that night, Margaret. When you were holding him in your arms, I bent down and saw the anguish in that little boy’s eyes.”
“I saw it too.” A tear spilled down her cheek. “The years have changed him, Gordon, and not for the better. You cannot heal my brother.”
“I know.” He eased back, releasing her hand. “Let us be agreed, then. If Alan recognizes me, I will tell your family everything and see that none of the blame falls on you.”
She looked away as if considering that possibility. “And if Alan doesn’t identify you?”
Gordon knew what she wanted him to say. “Then we will enjoy a fine Christmas Eve dinner, and I will leave town on the morning train.”
But that was not what Gordon wished
for. He’d chosen his words for her family with care and was prepared to say them, even eager to say them. To lay them down like a heavy weight he’d carried long enough. Cast thy burden upon the LORD. He should have heeded such wisdom twelve years earlier.
An unseen clock began chiming the hour.
Gordon followed Margaret downstairs, his heart pounding. Rich aromas wafted up to greet them. However fine Mrs. Gunn’s cooking, he could not imagine eating a single bite.
He followed Margaret into the parlor, where a coal fire burned in the grate, an upright piano stood at the ready, and a Norway spruce claimed pride of place by the window. But he’d not come to hear music or see a Christmas tree.
Gordon looked at the young man seated by the fire, his feet planted on the carpet, his back stiff. Alan. A lump rose in Gordon’s throat. I did this to you. I did. He tried to swallow but couldn’t. How can you ever forgive me?
His carefully planned speech turned to dust in his mouth.
On either side of Alan stood his parents, their posture equally rigid, as if the three of them had posed too long for a portrait.
Mrs. Campbell was smiling.
Mr. Campbell was not. “This is our son, Alan.” A faint lift of his brow dared Gordon or anyone else to think ill of his heir. “Alan, meet Mr. Gordon, the gentleman from the train.”
Alan offered him a curt nod, nothing more. He had his father’s dark hair and eyes, yet he looked nothing like the boy Gordon remembered. His features were hardened, and his brow deeply creased. Not a trace of innocence remained.
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?”
Chapter Ten
In a drear-nighted December …
About the frozen time.
JOHN KEATS
Even 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 si
ghed, 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 Wreath of Snow Page 6
