A Wreath of Snow Page 8

  Gordon sighed. “I am sorry for that most of all.”

  “And yet you came bearing gifts?” Mr. Campbell’s face was mottled with red as he gestured toward Gordon’s presents, now scattered about the room. “Did you mean to earn our regard and therefore soften the blow when you made your confession?”

  “No, I meant …” The truth, Gordon. “Aye. Perhaps I did, a little.”

  The room fell silent, the air as cold as the snow falling outside the parlor window.

  After a lengthy pause Mrs. Campbell said in a subdued voice, “Your presents were very nice, Mr. Shaw.”

  Her husband frowned at her, then said to Gordon, “I turned you away when you came to our door twelve years ago. And I would have turned you away last night had I known who you were.”

  When Margaret lifted her head, Gordon realized what she was going to say. I knew who he was. He saw it in her eyes, saw her mouth begin to form the words. I knew …

  No, lass. Gordon quickly stepped between Margaret and her parents. “You have every right to be upset—”

  “Upset?” Mr. Campbell shook his head. “You underestimate the situation, Mr. Shaw. Nothing you might say or do will repair the damage you’ve done.”

  “I know that, sir—”

  Alan bellowed, “You know nothing!” He leaned forward as if he might leap from his chair if he were able. “Father, shouldn’t this man be arrested for his crime?”

  “Now, Alan.” His mother hastened to his side, her taffeta skirt rustling, her expression tender. “We all agreed, and so did Constable Wilson. What happened that night was an accident. Terrible, regrettable, but still an accident.”

  Gordon closed his eyes, only for a moment. God bless you, madam.

  Margaret was standing now, quite close behind him. Near enough he could feel her warm breath on his neck. “Go,” she said in a low voice.

  Gordon turned and found tears pooling in her blue eyes. “I am sorry, Miss Campbell.” For misleading you. For breaking my promise. For ruining your family’s Christmas. “For everything,” he finally said.

  Margaret shook her head so faintly he might have imagined it. “Good-bye,” she whispered, then stepped back, giving him room.

  Go.

  Gordon bowed to his hostess, then walked past Mr. Campbell and took the steps up to the guest bedroom two at a time. Indeed he would go and as quickly as possible. He shoved his arms into his wool overcoat, grabbed his traveling bag, and hurried down the stair, trying to button his coat with one hand. Though his bag was lighter, his heart was not. He had spoken the truth and confessed his sins. But Alan was right. Even an earnest apology had changed nothing, least of all Alan himself.

  Gordon caught a glimpse of Margaret standing in the parlor, the candles on the tree twinkling all around her. Perhaps if things were different, the two of them …

  No. Impossible even to consider.

  He pulled on his tweed cap, wishing again for a scarf to warm his neck. No one stood between him and the front door except Clara, who opened it, then gave him a slight curtsy as he passed by. “Good day to you, Mr.… Good day, sir.”

  The door closed firmly behind him as the snow welcomed him back into its icy embrace.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Early impressions are hard

  to eradicate from the mind.

  SAINT JEROME

  Through the parlor window Meg watched Gordon struggle to push open the wrought-iron gate against the drifting snow.

  Go. A small word, hardly more than a breath, yet it had to be said. Meg knew her brother’s temper and wanted to spare Gordon the worst of it. But now that she’d urged him to leave, now that she’d bidden him farewell, Meg felt something inside her crack like ice submerged in hot water.

  Gordon Shaw was a changed man. She understood that now. Though he’d revealed who he was to her family, he’d kept his word not to tell of her subterfuge. And when he said, “Mr. Gordon is the name I gave her,” it was the truth but not the whole truth, withheld for her sake.

  Meg knew she should be grateful, even relieved. Instead she was heartsick. You weren’t the only one who deceived my family, Mr. Shaw. She stared into the snow, a wintry blur of white blowing in every direction. Gordon had already disappeared from view. He was probably bound for the railway station, seeking news. Or headed for the Golden Lion, seeking shelter.

  “Meg.” Her mother’s small hand touched her shoulder. “I wonder … is there something you haven’t told me, dear?”

  Her breath caught. She knows. Meg couldn’t bring herself to turn and look at her mother’s face. Mr. Gordon from Glasgow. Did she think her mother couldn’t tell when her own daughter was being less than truthful?

  Meg clasped her hands, pressing them against her stomach, hoping to keep her breakfast down. “What … what do you mean, Mum?”

  “Mr. Shaw is a handsome man,” her mother said softly, “with a keen mind and a good heart. I cannot fault you for being drawn to him.”

  Meg spun around, her mouth agape. So this was what her mother meant. “Surely you don’t think … I could never …”

  Her smile was bittersweet. “I suppose not, since he is the one who … well …”

  Meg glanced toward her brother’s empty chair, relieved Father had already escorted him from the room. “I could not do that to Alan,” she finally said. “Besides, I have no special attachment to Mr. Shaw. He is a gentleman I met on a train. Nothing more.”

  “Is that so?” Her mother nodded toward one of the presents under the tree. “I didn’t wrap that one. And the tag has his name on it. In your handwriting.”

  Heat flew to her cheeks. “Aye, well … it’s … Christmas.”

  “Indeed.” Her mother reached for the gift wrapped in plain brown paper earlier that morning and picked up another package next to it. “I found something for him too,” she admitted. “No one should celebrate the Lord’s birth with empty hands.”

  Meg was touched by her thoughtfulness. “Aye, Mum.”

  “Find a safe place for these.” Her mother deposited the two presents in Meg’s arms. “They’ll serve no useful purpose now and would infuriate your brother.”

  Moments later Meg knelt beside her dresser and pulled out the bottom drawer. Once again her knitted scarf had not found a home. The heathery blue would have been a fine complement to Gordon’s striking red hair, and the wool would have kept him warm. She’d imagined tying the scarf around his neck and seeing a smile appear above his bearded chin.

  Forgive, and ye shall be forgiven. Meg chafed at the gentle reminder. Whom did she need to forgive? Alan. The answer came so swiftly Meg could not deny it. Or accept it. Forgive her brother, whose belligerence had driven her from home years ago?

  No. Meg shoved the drawer shut, venting her frustration, then marched down the stair. The family was convening in the parlor once more, behaving as if nothing had happened. As if a man had not been swept out the door into the cold, snowy morning like dust on the end of a broom.

  Her mother waited by the Christmas tree, holding out her hands. “Come, dearest. We have gifts to open.”

  Meg paused by the parlor door. Christmas. Could she truly celebrate after everything that had happened? She already missed Gordon. Though they’d met a mere twenty-four hours ago, he’d made a deep impression on her, like a thumb pressed into soft clay.

  When she looked about the room, Meg realized the presents Gordon had given them were missing. Her mother had no doubt hidden them in the kitchen to be put to good use another day. But Meg was sorry not to have the candles to remember him by, along with his note, a bold scratch of ink across the paper.

  By his light I walked through darkness. The loss of his reputation, the death of his parents, the difficulty of starting a new life in Glasgow, with its seven hundred thousand souls—dark days indeed for a man who followed the Lord’s leading. Gordon had come to Albert Place seeking forgiveness. Had she extended even a small measure of mercy to him? Had any of them?

  Meg rec
laimed the piano stool, then inched closer to her brother, vowing to be kind to him, as Gordon had tried to be. She and Alan had cared for each other as children. Perhaps they might be civil to each other for one day.

  Alan looked askance at her. “I recognized him, you know. The instant I saw him.”

  Meg knew better. Had Alan even suspected Gordon’s true identity, her brother would have shouted down the rafters. To appease him she said, “There was something familiar about his eyes.” And let that be an end to it, Alan.

  “Christmas,” her mother reminded them both, then filled their laps with presents.

  The candles on the mantel gleamed, the fragrance of cinnamon filled the air, and for a brief time Meg put aside the many hurtful words that had been spoken in this house and opened her heart to the season.

  She unwrapped a pair of lambskin gloves from her father, then a brooch made of tiny seed pearls from her mother, and finally, from Alan, her first snow globe. Even knowing that her mother had chosen it and her father’s income had purchased it, Meg still thanked Alan profusely as she upended the lead glass dome, then turned it over to watch the tiny bits of porcelain swirl around a ceramic cottage that looked very much like their own.

  “My students will be enchanted with it, as I am,” she told her brother, placing it carefully on a nearby end table so everyone might admire it.

  By the time the Park Church bell began to peal, their discarded wrapping paper had been added to the fire, the twine was rolled up for another year, and Clara had the parlor set to rights.

  Meg slipped her coat over her shoulders, thinking how her brother might brave the snow. “Shall we send Father for your sled, Alan?”

  “No,” he grumbled. “I have no use for sleds and even less for Christmas carols.”

  The light faded from their mother’s eyes, however briefly. “Very well,” she told Alan, patting his shoulder. “Clara will see to your needs while we’re gone.”

  Meg wanted to pinch her brother’s ear in passing as she often had when they were young. Be nice, Alan. It’s Christmas, after all.

  On an ordinary day Park Church was only a few minutes from their door. However, this day was anything but ordinary. Meg huddled between her parents as they started toward Dumbarton Road, lifting coats and skirts to plunge their boots in and out of the snow, hailing neighbors along the way.

  Jubilant cries of “Happy Christmas!” rang through the air as children of all ages threw themselves into snowdrifts with abandon.

  Seeing them, Meg missed her students keenly. In a fortnight she would welcome back a classroom full of boys and girls, all under age twelve. She taught them not only reading, writing, and arithmetic but also grammar, history, and geography. Taxing work, yet she reveled in it and loved the children, however often they tried her patience. Surely by this evening the snow would end, the trains would resume, and she could return to Edinburgh and prepare for the next term.

  Though she was content to spend the afternoon with her parents, Gordon Shaw was never far from her mind. Had he found lodging? A warm room? A hot meal? She hated to think of him being alone on Christmas Day.

  Meg gazed in the direction of King Street. Was it only last evening they’d walked between the rails together carrying little Tam?

  Alas, Gordon had taken her at her word. Go.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The more we know,

  the better we forgive.

  MADAME DE STAEL

  Have you ever seen so much snow, Father?” Meg eyed the drifts piled high against the town wall as she climbed up the steep road leading to the Corn Exchange.

  “Aye. The year they finished this church, when you were a wee girl.” He turned toward the Gothic gables and soaring belfry of Park Church. “We had snow over the windowsills and halfway up the door.”

  As they neared the broad entrance opposite the town wall, she looked up at the rose window in the north gable and recalled sitting in the pew each Sunday counting the stained glass panes that fanned out from the center like a carriage wheel. I’ve missed too many worship services of late. So she’d confessed to Gordon, but the truth was, she’d not been to church in months.

  Remember the sabbath day. Meg had not forgotten, but she had been neglectful. She touched the stone around the arched doorway, deciding this was the perfect day to begin anew. I will remember thy wonders of old.

  “We’re in time for the bidding prayer,” her mother whispered. They crossed the threshold with due reverence and moved into the sanctuary.

  Amid the plastered walls and cast-iron columns, a hundred familiar faces waited. Edith Darroch and Johnny were there. Mr. Dunsmore, the watchmaker, with his plump wife and four roly-poly children claimed an entire pew.

  Mrs. Corr made a brief appearance, sitting at the far end of the Campbells’ pew before joining her family. Pushing her spectacles into place, she began filling Mum’s ear with the latest from Stirling station. Meg picked up every other word. Snowbound trains all up and down the Caledonian line. Their own train still sitting where they’d abandoned it last eve. Mr. McGregor taken ill. No good news from that quarter, then.

  Whatever heat the church had to offer was little match for the weather. The parishioners shivered in the pews, coats buttoned to the chin, teeth chattering as they nodded at one another in greeting. When Reverend Duncan bade them pray, a hush fell over the sanctuary, and his petition carried forth, first pew to last.

  Meg bowed her head and drew in a quiet breath. The stillness reminded her of standing in the quiet countryside last evening. She listened, eyes closed, as the words fell on her like fresh snow.

  “Heavenly Father, we gather to celebrate the birth of your Son, our Savior.”

  The tension inside her slowly began to unwind. She heard the minister’s voice but deeper still, another voice, even more tender. I have loved thee with an everlasting love. Tears welled up, threatening to spill onto her lap. Meg knew this voice, these words, their meaning. On any other day she might have resisted his love, knowing herself to be unworthy. But on Christmas morning in a candlelit sanctuary she’d known since childhood, Meg could not refuse him. And did not wish to. With loving-kindness have I drawn thee. Her breathing deepened, and a sense of warmth moved through her, despite the frigid temperature.

  When Reverend Duncan said, “Amen,” Meg lifted her head and her heart as well, prepared to worship the Christ born this day. I am glad to be here, Lord.

  Lessons were read from Genesis and Isaiah, telling the stories of Adam and the Son of God, of sin and redemption. Carols from centuries past were sung without hymnal or organ, the lyrics pouring forth with all the joy of the season.

  Good Christian men, rejoice

  With heart, and soul, and voice;

  Give ye heed to what we say:

  News! News!

  Jesus Christ is born to-day.

  When the lessons moved to the gospels of Luke, then Matthew, then John, the ancient story came alive once more. A handmaid of the Lord said, “Behold,” and Joseph learned there was no room for them in the inn, and the angels sang, “Glory to God in the highest,” and the wise men saw the star and rejoiced with exceeding great joy.

  Meg was overcome, just as the shepherds and the angels and the wise men had once been. News! News! She’d never sung with more conviction.

  Hark the herald angels sing,

  “Glory to the newborn King!

  Peace on earth and mercy mild,

  God and sinners reconciled!”

  After the last note had rung out and the congregation had begun moving toward the door, the words of the carol prodded at Meg—two in particular, and rather sharply. Peace. Mercy. She frowned as Alan came to mind again. Ye ought rather to forgive him, and comfort him. Even if he didn’t offer peace to anyone around him? Even if he didn’t ask for mercy? Aye, even then.

  When the door of the church swung open, Meg looked up to find the snowfall had stopped. The wind too. A faint wash of sunlight shone in the pale gray sky.
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br />   “Will you look at that?” Mrs. Corr exclaimed, tipping back her head to take it all in. Her hat promptly fell off and landed in the snow. Within seconds her children ran off with her brown felt bonnet, squealing and tossing it in the air. “Now look what I’ve done.” She started after them, then called over her shoulder, “Mr. Corr is at the railway station. I’ll send word when the trains are running.” She nodded at Meg. “I know you are eager to return to Edinburgh.”

  Meg saw the disappointment on her mother’s face. Would another day at home be so difficult? “I plan to remain in Stirling through Boxing Day,” Meg announced, surprising herself and her parents as well.

  Her mother was smiling once more. “You’ve been most helpful, Mrs. Corr.” She linked arms with her husband and with Meg. “We’d best go. Alan will be anxious to see us.”

  As they slipped and slid their way home, Meg turned over in her mind what she might do or say to mend things with her brother. I care for you. Aye, that was the most important thing he needed to hear. If she pictured Alan at ten—happy, laughing, carefree—those words would come more easily.

  Clara welcomed them home with a pot of hot tea. “Mrs. Gunn is preparing dinner for two o’clock.”

  Meg looked down at her gray flannel bodice with its many tiny pleats and lifted the watch pinned there. Almost noon. Time enough to sit down with Alan and talk things through. If he had no response—or a bitter one—she would take refuge in her bedroom until dinner was served.

  When her father started up the stairs, Meg caught her mother by the elbow and pulled her aside, taking advantage of the quiet entrance hall. In a low voice she explained, “Mum, I must speak with Alan before dinner. We’ve been estranged for too many years.”

  Her mother clasped her hands, a tender expression on her face. “I have long wished for the two of you to be reconciled. Meet your brother in the parlor, and I’ll see that you’re not disturbed.”