A Wreath of Snow Page 7

  A nervous shiver ran down her spine, but she shook it off, refusing to entertain such fears. Nothing to be done but dress for the day and prepare her heart for whatever might come.

  “Shall we see if it still fits?” Meg slipped her arms into the separate bodice, with its boned seams and darts, then began fastening the myriad tiny hooks that held the garment together. An endless process, especially with her fingers trembling from the cold.

  Clara helped her step into the skirt, then tied the silk sash into a neat bow at her waist. “You look lovely, miss. The light gray suits your coloring.”

  Meg thought the bodice a bit snug, and one gilt button was missing from her cuff, but she’d not be ashamed when she went downstairs. In a matter of minutes Clara styled her hair, brushing it into a smooth chignon and pinning it at the nape of her neck.

  Pleased with the girl’s work, Meg caught Clara’s eye in the mirror. “I don’t suppose I could coax you into going back to Edinburgh with me?”

  Clara smiled at the compliment, but Meg knew she would never leave home. Clara’s entire family lived in Stirlingshire. For her, the capital was another world, best seen from a distance.

  Both women were soon tiptoeing down the stairs, trying not to wake the sleeping household. Clara returned to her duties in the kitchen while Meg stepped into the parlor, where a fire burned brightly, and the lamps gave the room a warm glow.

  She breathed in the familiar scent of evergreens and beeswax, then looked up to admire the spruce, which nearly touched the ceiling. The tree was trimmed with garlands of berries, delicate glass ornaments, and small white candles clipped onto the branches. An angel perched on top, brass trumpet in hand.

  Around the base of the tree lay a swath of red fabric with a cluster of mysterious packages waiting to be opened. They’d not been there last evening. Bless you, Mum. How many Christmas Eves had her mother slipped into the parlor to wrap gifts in brown paper and twine long after the rest of the household lay snug in their beds?

  Blinking away tears, Meg knelt by the few gifts she’d placed under the tree the night she’d arrived. None were expensive, yet she’d chosen them with care. As she picked up each one, making certain its tag was still in place, she thought of Gordon spending Christmas morning with strangers and not having a single present with his name on it.

  She eyed the two items she’d purchased for her brother, running her fingertip across the rough twine, weighing what might be done. As a boy, Alan would have gladly shared one of his gifts with a child who had none. Did she dare remove the tag and give the present to Gordon instead? She felt guilty even considering the idea, yet it seemed unfair for him not to have even one small gift to open.

  Wait. Meg was on her feet in an instant and hurrying up the staircase. Mr. Forsyth’s scarf. When Meg pulled open the bottom drawer, the strong scent of cedar wafted out. She reached inside, then smiled. Aye. Still there. She buried her nose in the soft wool, inhaling the spicy aroma, and held up the scarf to the lamplight for closer examination. The small blocks of cedar, freshly sanded each month, had kept the moths away just as she’d hoped.

  Gordon Shaw need not know the history behind his gift. But he did need a scarf.

  As Meg stepped into the upstairs hall, she heard a door close. Instinctively, she hid the scarf behind her back and turned toward the sound. “A happy Christmas to you, Mr. Gordon.”

  “And to you.” He started toward her. “Clara tells me there’ll be no train to Edinburgh this morning.”

  Was he disappointed or relieved? Meg couldn’t be certain, not by his tone of voice or by his expression. “You are welcome to stay as long as necessary.”

  “For your family’s sake I hope that won’t be more than a few hours.” Gordon walked closer, his gaze now alight with curiosity as he inclined his head, making an exaggerated effort to see what she was holding out of view. “Do you always rise this early?”

  “I do.” She pressed her back to the wall. “Especially when I have presents to wrap.”

  “Oh.” He stopped an arm’s length away. “I hadn’t … That is, I didn’t …”

  Even in the dim lighting, Meg could see the ruddy color in his cheeks. “Mr. Gordon, you’ve no need …”

  He was already halfway to the guest room. “I’ll be down shortly, Miss Campbell.”

  She watched the door close, his scarf still tucked behind her back.

  Chapter Eleven

  God looks not to the quantity

  of the gift,

  but to the quality of the givers.

  FRANCIS QUARLES

  Gordon scattered the contents of his traveling bag across the guest room bed. What sort of presents could he hope to find among wrinkled clothes and folded newspapers? Nothing of real value, to be sure. Still, the Campbells might appreciate the gesture, especially Margaret. And if his meager offerings served as a silent apology, if his gifts softened their hearts even a little, would that not be a good and godly thing?

  He smoothed out Monday’s issue of the Stirling Observer for wrapping paper and employed his pocketknife to turn one length of twine into four. Then he set aside the few items that showed promise. All were new, purchased in Glasgow before he left. Practical things, useful to a traveling newspaperman.

  The neatly rendered map of Stirlingshire might suit a bank clerk’s penchant for details. Mrs. Campbell would surely enjoy his small clothbound edition of Queen Victoria’s Leaves from the Journal of Our Life in the Highlands, which he’d planned to read during his quiet Christmas in Edinburgh.

  Alan’s present would require the greatest sacrifice, and rightly so—a mahogany fountain pen from a stationer on Argyle Street with twenty leaves of fine writing paper. Of course, whatever the quality, paper and pen were no substitute for a heartfelt apology.

  Forgive me, Alan. He would never have the chance to say those words. Not if he honored his promise to Margaret.

  Gordon reached for the last present, an item he seldom traveled without—pure white candles. When gaslights failed and lamp oil could not be found, candles saw him through. He rubbed his thumb across the surface of each one, feeling for nicks and dents. An inexpensive gift but well suited for a woman who wanted candles in every window on Christmas Eve.

  Would she see only wax and wick? Or might she grasp a deeper meaning? Light is better than darkness, Margaret, and the truth is better than lies.

  On their long walk through the snowy countryside, when she’d bared her soul to him, Gordon had caught a glimpse of Margaret at fourteen. Vulnerable. Innocent. Fragile. However polished and grown-up her appearance this morning, he still saw a brokenhearted young lass with tears in her eyes.

  I’m sorry, Margaret. He not only understood her pain; he shared it many times over.

  On a small square of stationery, Gordon wrote out the traditional shopkeepers’ blessing, offered whenever tapers were given to customers at yuletide. Then he added a verse that was particularly meaningful to him. He tucked the paper between the candles, rolled up the lot in newspaper, and bound it with twine.

  His turn as Saint Nicholas done, Gordon drew a long, slow breath. The aroma of freshly baked bread filled his nostrils. Breakfast would not be long in coming.

  Working quickly, he packed his clothes and other belongings so he’d be ready to leave at a moment’s notice when the railway reopened. After consulting the mirror over the washstand once more, he collected his packages and slipped downstairs, hoping he could deposit them under the tree without anyone noticing.

  But when he turned the corner, there was Margaret, seated beside the parlor window, her gray skirt fanned around her.

  Her eyes widened when she saw the packages in his hands. “Sir, I must assume you’ve raided the drawers of our guest room.”

  “A fine idea.” He smiled a little and was pleased when she did the same. “As it happens, I’d been carrying your gifts with me all along.” He bent to add his presents to the growing pile, then looked up at her. “My traveling bag is packed, Miss Ca
mpbell. Rest assured, I’ll not overstay my welcome.”

  Her smile faded. “But you will join us for Christmas breakfast?”

  “Oh, aye.” Had he sounded eager to depart?

  “Later we’ll walk to church for the carol service.”

  Gordon looked across the street to the public halls, completed the year he’d left Stirling. The arched windows and rounded stone urns were barely visible through the heavy snowfall. “I thought you might have tramped through enough snow.”

  “I have indeed.” Margaret stood as the mantel clock began to chime the hour. “I’ve also missed too many worship services of late.”

  “Then we shall remedy that this morning,” he said lightly, not wanting her to feel scolded. He walked with her across the entrance hall and into the dining room, where the family was gathering for breakfast.

  Gordon looked at the sparkling table—the polished glasses, the gleaming silver, the flickering candles—and thought of all the twenty-fifths of December he’d spent alone, grieving the loss of his parents and wishing he had a true home. It was all he could do to say, “Happy Christmas.”

  Mrs. Campbell hurried over, her hands aflutter. “And a happy Christmas to you, Mr. Gordon. Come and break bread with us.” She guided him along the sideboard with its array of baked scones and yeast rolls, plump sausages and thick-sliced bacon, boiled hens’ eggs and porridge. “Eat your fill, for we’ll not dine again until two.”

  Gordon covered every inch of his plate, hoping no one could hear his stomach growl. When he took his seat, Clara stepped forward to pour his tea. Margaret soon joined him at the table, but Alan’s place remained unoccupied.

  A brief lull in the conversation followed while knives and forks stayed busy. Finally Mrs. Campbell put her napkin to the side and took up her duties as hostess. “We’re fortunate to have Mr. Campbell home with us today and tomorrow,” she said, smiling at her husband. “Every year on Boxing Day our family attends the curling matches in King’s Park.”

  Gordon froze, a spoonful of porridge halfway to his mouth.

  “That is where our dear Alan was injured years ago,” Mrs. Campbell said, her gaze landing on her son’s vacant chair. “Even so, he bravely faces those difficult memories.”

  Gordon slowly put down his spoon. “I see.”

  Mr. Campbell crooked his finger in Clara’s direction, summoning more tea. “Does that mean you don’t agree with our taking him there?”

  “N-no, sir.” Gordon looked at him. “I would never presume … He is … your son.”

  “So he is.”

  Breakfast suddenly lost its appeal. Gordon wanted one thing only: to speak the truth. At once. He turned to Margaret, silently pleading with her. I must tell them. Now. I must. He saw the fear in her eyes and knew she understood what he was thinking. Please, Margaret?

  She shook her head ever so slightly, then mouthed the words Not yet.

  How much longer did she think he could bear it? Pretending to be someone else. Hiding behind his Christian name. When he pushed aside his plate in determination, Clara whisked it away as if the food had caused some offense.

  “I see you’ve had enough,” Mrs. Campbell said cordially. “If you’ll not object, we’ll open our presents.”

  Gordon shot to his feet. “Of course, madam.” Gift giving? How could he possibly sit through the yearly ritual now? The endless shaking of boxes. The careful unwrapping. The feigned surprise when a package that felt like a book was, in fact, a book.

  Enough, Gordon. Once he broke his vow to Margaret and told them who he was, the joys of this day would end. Could he not allow them a few happy moments? He waited for the others to rise from the table, then followed them into the parlor, silently exhaling to ease the tension in his body. A half hour, no more, and he would tell them.

  Margaret sat on a round piano stool drawn close to the Christmas tree while her mother perched on an upholstered chair with short legs and a fan-shaped back. After a bit Mr. Campbell escorted his son into the parlor from an adjoining room—Alan’s bedchamber, by the look of it.

  Gordon had to remind himself that Alan was twenty-two. With his stooped posture and shuffling gait, he appeared far older. Once he was seated, Alan brushed back a shock of dark hair from his brow and fixed Gordon with a cold stare.

  Take a long look, Alan. Gordon stayed where he was, standing in the doorway, waiting for an opportunity. If Alan named him, the truth would come to light without any broken promises. But he saw no hint of recognition in Alan’s dark eyes.

  Rather than claim a chair, Gordon moved toward the tree. “May I bring you each a gift?”

  Mrs. Campbell clapped her hands together. “You dear man! However did you manage?” She opened her gift at once, tearing away the newspaper like an eager child. “Oh, I’ve been meaning to read this for many years,” she assured him. “Ever since our Margaret was born.”

  Mr. Campbell showed little emotion when he pulled off the twine. But appreciation shone in the man’s eyes when he unfolded the map. “Very nicely done,” he said.

  Gordon was glad he’d chosen well yet felt certain the map would be torn to shreds the moment he revealed his name. Had he ever known such a Christmas? When he placed Alan’s gifts in his lap, he feared the young man might brush them onto the floor.

  “You’ve no need to shower me with presents,” Alan said gruffly.

  Was he insulted? Or embarrassed? Gordon said nothing, merely watched as Alan gave the pen a cursory glance and ignored the writing paper altogether. No thanks were offered, for which Gordon was almost relieved, knowing what was to come.

  One present remained. “This is for you, Miss Campbell.”

  She dutifully patted and squeezed the lumpy package. “Is it … hmm.” When Margaret finally opened it, she held out her gift for the others to see. “Candles.”

  “How lovely,” her mother said, though her tone was not convincing.

  “There’s a note,” Gordon explained, already sorry he’d given Margaret something so trivial.

  She read it aloud, her voice softening with each word. “A fire to warm you by, and a light to guide you.”

  Gordon nodded. “I believe I wrote something else.”

  She looked down at the bottom of the paper. “By his light I walked through darkness.”

  “The words aren’t mine.” Gordon waited until she looked up, praying she might understand. “Even so, they speak the truth, Miss Campbell. As I must do now.”

  Chapter Twelve

  I am not what I once was.

  HORACE

  Gordon implored her with his eyes, with his heart. Please, Margaret. I must tell them the truth.

  “No,” she moaned. The candles spilled from her lap.

  He quickly retrieved them, leaning as close to her as he dared. “I beg of you, Miss Campbell. Twelve years is long enough.”

  “Long enough for what?” Alan asked sharply.

  “The gentleman was not speaking to you, dearest,” said Mrs. Campbell, her tone kind but firm.

  Gordon placed the candles back in Margaret’s lap, then lightly rested his hand on hers, longer than was proper. He merely wanted to comfort her, to assure her that he would take all the blame upon himself.

  Then he straightened and faced the others, praying for strength far beyond his own. Fear not, for I am with thee. The words rang in his heart so loudly they seemed to fill the room.

  “I am not who you think I am,” he began, turning first to Margaret’s parents and then to Alan. “You know me as Mr. Gordon, but that is a half truth.”

  Mrs. Campbell frowned, a deep crease in her brow. “When Margaret introduced you to us, she said … she …”

  “I know.” Gordon looked down at her bowed head and the soft knot of hair at the nape of her neck. “Mr. Gordon is the name I gave her.”

  “Out with it then,” Mr. Campbell urged. “What is your name, sir?”

  Gordon squared his shoulders, preparing for the worst. “I am Gordon Shaw.”

&n
bsp; A beat of silence followed. And then a roar.

  “You!” Alan screamed.

  “Aye.” Gordon faced him squarely. “I am the one who injured you twelve years ago. And I cannot apologize enough—”

  “No, you cannot.” Alan’s countenance was a storm cloud, dark and menacing. “How dare you! How dare you come into this house!”

  The young man’s fury crashed over Gordon like a wave. “I never should …” Gordon swallowed and started again, turning toward Mrs. Campbell, whose look of anguish nearly undid him. “Forgive me, madam. I never should have accepted your hospitality—”

  “And yet you did.” Mr. Campbell was standing now.

  “Sir, I only wanted—”

  “You rode in our carriage. You ate at our table. You slept in our guest chamber. And you let our servants do your bidding.” The man’s voice was low and as taut as a hangman’s rope. “You looked at our Alan, our only son, and still you said nothing?”

  Gordon felt sick. Every word was true. “Indeed, I did all those things.” And I deceived your daughter when first we met. As her father drew closer, Gordon held his ground, remembering what had brought him to this moment. Speak forth the words of truth and soberness.

  “I’d had a belly full of whisky that night,” Gordon told them. He tasted it still. “I had no business being on the ice, let alone holding a granite curling stone. What I did was foolhardy and utterly wrong. I tried to apologize the next day, but—”

  Alan cut him off. “Then or now, your apology changes nothing. I am still in this chair.”

  Gordon made himself look at the lad. At his face lined with pain. At his broken body. “I never imagined …” Aye, you did. Gordon started again. “That is, I hoped with all my heart that you had recovered from your injury.”

  Alan’s dark eyes narrowed. “As you can see, I did not.”