A Wreath of Snow Page 5

  He looked as if he’d just been slapped. “Miss Campbell, I know—”

  “And I know that my brother was innocent and that you were not. Are not,” she amended. “I suppose you recognized me aboard the train?”

  “Aye.” He didn’t flinch or look away. “Even before we left Stirling station, I realized you were Alan’s sister.”

  “And yet you said nothing?”

  “To my great shame, I did not. Not even when you mistook my surname for Gordon.” Though weighed down by their bags, he spread his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Whether from fear or cowardice, I have done you a great disservice, Miss Campbell. Can you possibly forgive me?”

  “Forgive you?” The sincerity of his expression merely heightened her pique. “I cannot think of one reason—” Meg bit back the rest, ashamed of her vitriol. She could at least be civil even if she chose not to forgive him.

  Is forgiveness a matter of choice? She frowned, irritated by the question. “At the moment my only concern is reaching home.”

  When she stamped off, Meg felt a rush of cold air on her neck and realized little Tam had loosened her scarf. “Come, lad, what are you up to?” she scolded him lightly, tucking the woolen fabric back in place. She glanced at Mrs. Reid, well behind them now, then hugged the child to her heart, patently ignoring Gordon Shaw. “We shall have you and your mum safe and warm within the hour.”

  The snowfall at last had eased. Not far ahead the lights of Stirling twinkled like stars, from the castle to the mill lade. However fine the view, her hands were numb, her walking boots were soaked through, and she could not feel her toes.

  Gordon’s voice was low but steadier than she expected. “Miss Campbell, may I ask what you intend to do when we reach Stirling?”

  She spoke plainly. “Knock on my parents’ door and hope they will have room in their hearts for a foolish daughter.”

  “Perhaps I might escort you home—”

  “Certainly not!” Meg stared at him, aghast.

  “But I would very much like to meet them,” he explained. “To apologize—”

  “No!” Meg covered Tam’s ear and pressed him against her lest the urgency in her voice frighten him. “It is too late, Mr. Shaw. You cannot make amends now.”

  “Nonetheless, I mean to try.”

  “Please, it is out of the question,” Meg told him. “I cannot think what my brother would say if you appeared on our doorstep.” Nor what Alan might say to me. “It simply will not do for you to come to our house, Mr. Shaw, and dredge up painful memories best forgotten. Christmas is meant to be joyful, is it not?”

  When he dropped back a step, Meg felt the tension inside her begin to ease. Perhaps he finally understood.

  She pressed on, focusing her thoughts on a warm fire, a plate of food, and a clean bed. Even so, Gordon’s wounded expression was firmly planted in her mind.

  At last the lights of Stirling station came into view. Exuberant cries rang up and down the line. “Almost there, almost home,” Meg whispered in Tam’s ear. She heard the stragglers behind them making an effort to catch up as she found her own steps growing lighter, swifter.

  Then she saw the lanterns and the faces and the open arms. “Look, Tam!” she cried, turning the child so he could see. “Look at all the people coming down the track to greet us.”

  The boy squealed, clapping and waving, as a spirited band of people drew near, lanterns held high, the light reflecting off the snow. Wives welcomed husbands with warm blankets and heartfelt embraces while the railway staff pointed the way to hot tea in the booking office.

  The stationmaster, resplendent in his dark uniform with its gleaming brass buttons, guided Meg up the narrow steps onto the crowded platform, brightly lit and swept clear of snow. “Many apologies, madam,” he said, eying Tam. “You and your boy have had a rough night of it.”

  “Oh, this fine lad belongs to Mrs. Reid.” Meg stepped aside to make room for the two men cautiously lifting the injured mother onto the platform with Dr. Johnstone in close attendance.

  An older woman rushed forward with a cry of alarm. “Emma, my dear girl! Whatever has happened to you?” With the same coloring, the same expressive features, she was certainly Mrs. Reid’s mother.

  Dr. Johnstone, for propriety’s sake, whispered his diagnosis in the older woman’s ear. She listened with furrowed brow, then nodded, looking relieved. “And here’s my wee Tam, come to spend Christmas with his granny after all.” She collected the lad without ceremony, thanking Meg as she did, then directed the small party toward a waiting carriage beyond the station doors.

  Meg watched the child disappear from sight, feeling bereft. Would she ever see Tam again? Emma Reid had intended to surprise her husband in Edinburgh. Instead she’d returned to Stirling with a badly twisted leg and a tired little boy. “Mr. Reid will come home to us on Hogmanay,” she’d told Meg. “We shall celebrate soon enough.”

  For a brief moment Meg imagined what it would be like to have someone who dearly loved her waiting at the end of a railway line. Over the years she’d grown accustomed to arriving at the Princes Street station with no one to greet her, then unlocking the door to her empty house and making tea for one. But it would be lovely to be welcomed home.

  When she turned to see how the other passengers were faring, Meg found Gordon Shaw standing mere steps behind her. His clothes were rumpled, his hair unkempt, but in his brown eyes a spark of hope still shone.

  If he were Mr. Gordon, the gentleman she’d first met, she might extend her hand, warmly wish him a happy Christmas, and anticipate hearing from him in the new year. Perhaps receiving a letter from him in the post. Making plans to have tea together the next time he was in Edinburgh.

  But he was Gordon Shaw, the man who’d earned her trust under false pretenses. She would not be seeing him again. Not this year. Not any year.

  Chapter Eight

  What’s past is prologue.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  Meg wanted to turn around, to walk away, but found she could not. Not without saying good-bye.

  Gordon removed his tweed cap and brushed away the snow, then slowly tugged it back in place, holding her gaze. “Miss Campbell, I will keep saying I’m sorry until you believe me.”

  “I do believe you, Mr. Shaw. I’m just not certain I can forgive you.”

  He dipped his chin in acknowledgment. “Your honesty is refreshing.”

  And yours is disarming.

  Meg saw no point in chastening him further. They would follow separate paths now—she to her parents’ house by carriage, if one might be arranged, and he to wherever newspapermen sought lodging.

  “Good-bye,” she said quietly, then turned before he could offer a parting word in return. It was better that way.

  Damp skirt in hand, Meg aimed for the booking office, drawn by the promised cup of tea. She was chilled to the bone and needed something to fortify her, knowing this night was far from over. She still had to face her brother. And apologize to her parents.

  Tea first, then a carriage, and the moment she arrived home, a fresh change of clothing. Her garments, unfortunately, were in a trunk on a snowbound train three miles south. Was there something at home she might wear, a gown she’d left behind? It would be many seasons old but blessedly dry.

  From across the bustling platform, a familiar voice called out her name.

  Meg lifted her brows. Mum?

  She turned in time to see her mother and father wending their way through the crowd. Had they truly come to meet her even though she’d departed in haste without a kind word to either of them? She lifted her hand, hoping they wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes.

  Lorna Campbell, her fair-haired mother, was looking especially cheery in her red wool coat. If she harbored any hurt feelings, they were well hidden. Her eyes were bright with excitement and her smile genuine as she hurried up to Meg, hands outstretched.

  “Margaret!” Her mother had to stand on tiptoe to kiss her cheeks. “How relieved we a
re to see you! Aren’t we, Mr. Campbell?” When her quiet husband only nodded, she blithely carried on. “You remember Mrs. Corr from Spittal Street? Well! She told us about the frightful accident on the three twenty-six. Frightful. A snowdrift, she said. Taller than the engine, she said. Her husband works for the railway, you know.”

  “Aye, Mum.” Meg squeezed her mother’s hands, exceedingly glad to see her. “I know. And I am sorry that I left—”

  “Oh, tut-tut. We’ve no need to talk about that now.” Her mother was clearly more interested in the evening’s drama. “The instant the signalman appeared at Stirling station, news spread from the Top of the Town to Port Street. You can imagine what a commotion it caused! Twenty or more passengers stranded in the countryside. Since the porter had stopped by earlier for your trunk, we were certain you were one of them.” She looked about, then lowered her voice. “As you can see, the station is filled with curious onlookers. But we came for you, dear Margaret. Just for you.”

  Meg stole a glance at her father, still dressed for the bank in his white wing collar and top hat. Have you also come for me, Father? His expression was blank, as if he’d wiped his features clean with a blackboard eraser. It was his public face, his Royal Bank face. He still loved her; she was certain of it. But Alan’s many needs left their father little time to show his affection.

  Before they could head toward the doors, the stationmaster reappeared, making his rounds on behalf of the Caledonian Railway. “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Robert Campbell.” The older man’s smile was nearly hidden by his drooping mustache. “I see your daughter has been returned to you safe and sound.”

  “And wet and cold,” her father said evenly. “Couldn’t this accident have been prevented?”

  “For he saith to the snow, Be thou on the earth.” The stationmaster splayed his hands. “It would seem the Almighty wanted snow on Christmas Eve.”

  No one could take umbrage with that statement. Not even Alan.

  “Come, ladies,” her father said. “Our carriage is waiting and our dinner as well.”

  Meg glanced at the station clock. “But it’s nearly ten. Have you not—”

  “No, dear.” Her mother slipped her hand into the crook of Meg’s arm. “We delayed our meal until you returned. I think you’ll find your brother is most anxious to see you.”

  So he might have his dinner? Meg discarded the callous thought at once. Perhaps Alan regretted their earlier exchange and wished to mend things between them, though she hated to pin her hopes on so thin a fabric.

  “Miss Campbell?” Gordon Shaw spoke, a mere step behind her. “Beg pardon, but I believe you’ll want this.”

  Meg quickly spun around, realizing he still had her satchel.

  “Thank you,” she murmured as she retrieved her leather bag from Mr. Shaw’s hand. Though his clothes were still badly wrinkled, in a few minutes’ time he’d combed his hair, straightened his tie, and made himself reasonably presentable.

  Oh no. Meg’s hands, already cold inside her gloves, turned to ice. Is that what he expects? That I’ll present him to my parents so he might apologize?

  She turned and found them both looking at him, waiting to be introduced. Of course. Her parents had never met Gordon Shaw and had known him only by reputation: a reckless youth with a thatch of bright red hair and spindles for legs. The man standing before them was neither intoxicated nor gangling, and he had done their daughter a kind service, for which he deserved their warmest courtesy.

  “Mr. Robert Campbell,” her father said with a slight bow. “And my wife, Mrs. Campbell. It seems you’ve already made our daughter’s acquaintance.”

  She implored Gordon with her eyes. Do not do this. Do not tell them who you are.

  “Indeed we have met, sir, on the train.” He returned her father’s bow. “My name is—”

  “Mr. Gordon from Glasgow,” Meg blurted out, desperate to stop him. She would not let this man upset her family with his belated regrets. She would not.

  For a moment no one spoke.

  Her mother, as effusive as her father was taciturn, put an end to the awkward silence. “For whatever assistance you provided our daughter on her difficult journey home, we do thank you, Mr. Gordon.”

  “My pleasure, madam.”

  Meg looked at him, fearing his brown eyes would be filled with contempt. Instead she saw resignation. Because of her, he was Mr. Gordon again. The stab of guilt she felt was well deserved.

  “Will you be spending the night with your family?” her mother asked him.

  “I have no relations in town,” Gordon replied, “so I plan to seek lodging at the Coffee House—”

  Her mother gasped. “At the head of Baker Street? No, no, Mr. Gordon. It is not at all suitable for a gentleman.”

  “You’ll find a respectable inn on King Street,” her father told him. “Suppose we deliver you there.”

  As Gordon murmured his thanks, Meg quietly exhaled. They would arrive at the Golden Lion in a quarter hour, perhaps less. Gordon Shaw would climb out of their carriage and walk out of their lives, and her parents would never know that she’d lied to them.

  In the same way this man lied to me. The very same.

  “My dear sirs,” her mother said with an exaggerated sigh, “where is your Christmas spirit? Hospitality is a hallmark of the season, is it not? Mr. Gordon, you are welcome to come home with us.”

  “No!” Meg’s hand flew to her mouth. “That is … no one would choose to spend Christmas Eve with strangers.” She looked at him, pleaded with him. You cannot come, must not come.

  “Let the gentleman speak for himself,” her mother chided.

  “Your daughter is correct,” Gordon said evenly. “An inn would be best.”

  “Where you’ll dine on cold meat and stale bread?” Her mother made a ladylike sound of disapproval. “Mrs. Corr told me that most of the passengers disembarked before the train left the station. I daresay you won’t find a vacant room in Stirling.” She patted her husband’s arm. “Come, Mr. Campbell, we must convince him.”

  Her father offered a slight shrug. “You’ll find my wife is not quick to surrender.”

  That was precisely what Meg wanted Gordon Shaw to do: give up any notion of coming home with them. But the hope on his face dashed hers to the ground.

  Clearly he intended to go through with it. To walk through their door, see Alan’s paralyzed body for himself, reveal his true identity, and beg their forgiveness—all on a cold winter’s night with nowhere else to go if he was banished from their home.

  Her mother was still pressing him, as any hostess would. “We have a cozy guest room, more than enough food, and plenty of coal to keep you warm. Please say you’ll return home with us, Mr. Gordon. Our Christmas will be all the brighter for your company.”

  “If you insist, madam. But I’ll not presume upon your generosity beyond tomorrow morning.”

  He was nervous. Meg saw it in his eyes, heard it in his voice. Might he yet change his mind and keep his proper name—and his apologies—to himself? She would hold that possibility close to her heart and, when they had a moment alone, urge him to reconsider.

  Her father nodded toward the station door. “To the carriage, then.”

  “Come along, Meg.” Her mother slipped her arm around Meg’s waist. “We’ve kept your brother waiting long enough.”

  Alan.

  Meg walked toward the doorway with leaden feet. Why had she not thought of this before now? Alan was the one member of their family who had a talent for remembering names. And faces.

  Chapter Nine

  Shun delays, they breed remorse.

  ROBERT SOUTHWELL

  Gordon followed the Campbells into the street, his empty stomach tying itself in knots.

  The situation was impossible and entirely of his own doing. He’d deliberately placed himself in their path. Then he’d accepted their offer of hospitality, even with Margaret giving him every opportunity to refuse. What she’d not given him was the chance to
claim his own name. Mr. Gordon. Did she mean to spare him? Or to punish him?

  “I do hope you like roasted pork,” Mrs. Campbell was saying as they dodged horse-drawn carriages and wagons, all covered with a heavy blanket of snow.

  “I will gladly dine on anything you serve,” Gordon replied absently, trying to remember when or what he’d last eaten.

  When Mr. Campbell reached their hired carriage—a serviceable model pulled by two Cleveland Bays—he offered a hand to his wife and daughter. Gordon climbed in after them and sat across from Margaret, who would not meet his gaze. He knew she was unhappy with him and no doubt exhausted, as he was. And frozen through.

  The bricks at their feet having lost their warmth, the interior felt colder than the outdoors. As the carriage pulled away, Gordon drew his coat tighter around him and leaned toward the window. By morning the town might be reduced to a muddy slush, but at the moment the streets of Stirling were clean and white beneath the fresh snowfall.

  “Lovely, isn’t it?” Mrs. Campbell said. “The street lamps look like moons hung above the pavement.”

  “Aye, they do.” Gordon straightened, trying to think of what else he might say. He’d never been good at small talk. Like most newspapermen, he asked questions, he listened, and he took notes. The only thing on his mind right now was Alan. He’d never expected to see him again. Would he recognize the young boy from long ago?

  Mrs. Campbell interrupted his thoughts. “So, Mr. Gordon, suppose you tell us about the accident.”

  His head shot up. So did Margaret’s. The accident?

  “We’d like a firsthand account.” Mrs. Campbell looked at him expectantly. “Was the snowdrift truly higher than the engine?”

  His heart eased its frantic thumping. “Not quite so high as that, madam, but high enough.” Gordon described the railway mishap in detail while the carriage slowly traveled along the same streets he’d walked that morning. The shops of Murray Place were long closed now, their awnings lowered, their windows dark.