A Wreath of Snow Read online

  As the stone continued to travel down the ice, two players on his side kept pace with it, using their brooms to sweep the path clear, allowing the stone to travel farther. Their skip called out instructions from the far end of the tee while the granite roared across the ice, untouched. When the stone came to a stop barely within the outermost circle of the tee, the crowd offered halfhearted praise and waited for the next man’s delivery.

  Feeling the need to defend him, Meg lifted her voice above the din. “He showed fine form.”

  “Aye, he did, Miss Campbell,” a gentleman behind her agreed.

  Gordon. She spun around to greet him, her heart swelling. “You’re still here, Mr. Shaw. I’m so glad.” So very glad.

  Gordon’s nose and cheeks were red from the cold, yet his brown eyes were as warm as ever. He smiled down at her, holding his finger to his lips, then motioned for her to follow him.

  Meg did so without hesitation. Joy and fear and anticipation all welled up inside her. She tried to tamp down her feelings, to think and act like a woman of twenty-six. But the lass of sixteen who’d always longed for a suitor insisted on having her way.

  You stayed for my sake, Gordon. You stayed for me.

  Though he did not take her hand, Gordon remained close by her side as they tramped across the uneven ground, heading toward a copse of evergreens draped in snow. They soon reached the edge of the crowd, choosing a place where they might be easily seen, for propriety’s sake, yet not overheard.

  They turned to each other at last, their breaths mingling in the frosty air. For a moment Meg thought Gordon might kiss her, so intently was his gaze trained on her mouth. She prayed he wouldn’t. She hoped he would.

  Gordon slowly lifted his eyes until they met hers. “I came to say good-bye and find I cannot.”

  His words hung in the gray morning stillness, warming her.

  After a long silence Meg confessed, “When you left yesterday … When my father sent you away …” She looked down, embarrassed to be speaking so freely. But it had to be said. “I couldn’t bear to think of never seeing you again.”

  “We understand each other then.” Gordon touched her chin, tilting it upward. “I also owe you an apology, Margaret, for breaking my promise to you on Christmas.”

  The sincerity in his voice, the honesty in his expression convicted her afresh. “I should not have asked you to lie, to hide your identity … to sin. If you’ll forgive me as well, Gordon, we needn’t speak of it again.”

  In response, he gently took her hands in his. Meg felt her entire body relax as if she’d come home from a long day of teaching and fallen into the softest upholstered chair in her house.

  Gordon’s laughter, low and warm, took her by surprise. “I have never seen you look so peaceful,” he admitted.

  She smiled. “And I have never heard you laugh.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed several people looking at them. Meg stepped back, suddenly aware of how close they were standing. And how long she’d been gone. “Forgive me, Gordon. I would gladly stand here with you for hours, but my family will be wondering where I am.”

  He nodded. “I’ve come to speak with them as well.”

  Meg began to cool from the inside out. “There is nothing else to say.”

  “Oh but there is.” He tugged his sleeves into place, then smoothed the collar of his overcoat. “Margaret, if we—”

  “Meg,” she told him. “That is what my friends call me.”

  When he looked down at her, the twinkle in his eye was gone. “I hope to be more than a friend to you, Meg. But if your parents and Alan will not allow me in their home, we cannot hope for such a future.”

  “I am an adult, and so are you,” she reminded him. “We do not need their permission—”

  “No, but we do need their blessing,” Gordon said firmly. “More to the point, I wish to bless Alan in some tangible way.” He took a step toward the crowd, now cheering for the men on the ice. “You said so yourself, Meg. I ruined your brother’s life. Let me go to him and see what can be done to repair it.”

  When Gordon offered his arm, Meg took it, then struggled to keep up, his stride far longer than hers. Her thoughts, however, raced ahead of them both, desperate to be heard. Please, Gordon. Alan will not wish to speak with you. Please!

  Chapter Seventeen

  That is the bitterest of all—

  to wear the yoke of our

  own wrong-doing.

  GEORGE ELIOT

  Gordon slowed his steps, realizing he was walking too briskly for Margaret. Meg. A simple name for a woman who was anything but simple.

  He’d not come to King’s Park to win her heart, but it seemed he had. Or had she won his? Gordon knew only that when he saw the light of hope shining in her clear blue eyes, he’d wanted to kiss her. Rather desperately. Somehow he’d managed to keep his wits about him, but the impulse was undeniable.

  Meg. He hoped she would approve of what he was about to do.

  As they approached the curling pond, he spotted the Campbells in the crowd. Should he greet them with Meg on his arm? Or might that upset them and derail his efforts to help Alan?

  Gordon inclined his head toward hers and asked in a low voice, “Do you wish your family to know of our mutual … ah, interest?”

  Meg withdrew her hand at once. “Not yet,” she said.

  She seemed cooler toward him now. Had he misspoken? Made a false assumption? He didn’t know her well enough yet to be certain. But he would know her intentions and soon.

  As they drew closer to the ice, to the scene of his crime, Gordon’s memories of that dreadful January day grew sharper. Little had changed in a dozen years. Not the narrow sheet of ice, or the circular rings of the tee, or the fir trees surrounding the pond, or the milky gray sky.

  He picked out the exact spot where he’d careened onto the ice with his curling stone. Over there. And the place where a dark-haired lad had dashed into his path. Right there. Judging by the mist in her eyes, Meg was looking at them too. Remembering, grieving, as he was.

  Gordon touched his fingertips to the small of her back. “I must speak to your family now. Will you come with me?”

  They edged their way through the crowd. Several times Gordon started to take her hand, then recalled her words. Not yet. The curlers on the ice were well in view now. He recognized some of them. Willie Anderson, with his long arms and loping gait, and George Hardie, who moved with surprising ease for his age.

  Three days ago Gordon had carefully avoided seeing anyone he knew in Stirling. Now he hoped people would look his way and see what he was: a changed man. I will trust, and not be afraid. He would repeat that truth in his mind and heart until the words took root.

  Meg’s parents and brother were directly in front of them now. Gordon squared his shoulders, then breathed a prayer before he spoke. “Alan?”

  The young man turned just enough to catch a glimpse of him. “I thought you were long gone to Edinburgh,” he said dismissively.

  Seeing the Campbells’ grim expressions and the neighbors standing all around them, Gordon suddenly wished he’d gone about this differently. Knocked on their door. Posted a letter. Had a solicitor deliver the news. To speak of such things in a public park seemed ill advised.

  But he was here now, by divine leading. I will trust. Aye, he would.

  Gordon moved closer to Alan and dropped to one knee beside his chair, ignoring the cold seeping through his overcoat. He’d prepared his speech and rehearsed it numerous times that morning. But now that he was here, with the curling pond to his back and Alan frowning at him, Gordon realized his practiced words would never do.

  Instead, he spoke from the heart. “Alan, I hope you know how very sorry I am.”

  “So you keep telling me,” the lad muttered, his gaze fixed on some distant spot known only to him.

  Gordon looked across the pond, feeling the icy wind nipping at the back of his neck. “I thought it best to seek your forgiveness here at K
ing’s Park,” he explained. “Where it happened. Where I hurt you.” He pulled the bank statement from his breast pocket, then looked up to be certain Mr. Campbell was listening. “My father was not a wealthy man. But what fortune he had was left to me, his only son.”

  Alan looked at him with something like disgust. “Is this meant to impress me, Mr. Shaw?”

  “No, it is meant to bless you.” Gordon offered the folded statement with a steady hand.

  Alan snatched the paper from him and scanned its contents. Then his dark eyes widened, and for a brief moment his angry expression gave way to pure astonishment. “Surely you don’t mean for me to have all this?”

  “I do.” Gordon stood, wanting to include Alan’s family as well. “As you know, Mr. Campbell, the Royal Bank will not open until tomorrow. But arrangements can be made and the full sum deposited in Alan’s account. Or yours, if you prefer.”

  When Mr. Campbell reached for the paper, Alan yanked it away. “No! I am the injured party, Father. The money belongs to me.”

  “Now, Alan.” His mother nimbly slipped the paper from his grasp. “Have you forgotten your father is a banker? He will know what is to be done.”

  Gordon saw the look on Mrs. Campbell’s face when she noticed the amount. “Mr. Shaw! You cannot … This is … far too much …” She gave the paper to her husband with a trembling hand.

  Mr. Campbell’s reaction was slow in coming, as if he was tempted to accept the offer yet determined to refuse it. Finally he said, “We appreciate your generosity, Mr. Shaw. Truly, it’s a noble gesture on your part.” He pressed the paper into Gordon’s hand. “But our son has no need of your money—”

  “Give me that!” Alan roared. Then he leaped to his feet as effortlessly as a red deer in a Highland glen.

  “Alan!” his mother and father cried out. In shock. In confusion.

  The crowd around them backed away, their eyes riveted to the young man standing defiantly at the edge of the curling pond, where the game had stuttered to a halt. Curling stones skidded across the ice unattended as the players watched from the sidelines, disbelief on their faces.

  Gordon slowly folded the statement and slid it into his pocket, though his actions were done by rote, while his mind reeled. Can it be true, Lord? Alan can stand and move about as easily as I do?

  Mr. Campbell stepped forward, visibly shaking. “How long, Alan? How long have you had the use of your legs?”

  When her brother did not respond, Meg said evenly, “Father deserves an answer, Alan. We all do.”

  Alan glared at her, then began pacing back and forth. Judging by his agility, he hadn’t suffered any ill effects from his injury for some time. “What difference does it make how long?”

  “A great deal to your family,” Mr. Campbell told him. He drew closer, anger and frustration clearly stamped on his features. “Why have you remained in your chair longer than necessary, punishing the people around you, when you could have stood and walked?”

  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 ra
ng 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.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I can never close my lips

  where I have opened my heart.

  CHARLES DICKENS

  Meg 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.