A Wreath of Snow Read online

Meg paused by the hallway mirror to pat her hair into place and pinch a bit of color into her cheeks. Then she smoothed her damp hands across her skirt and walked into the parlor. Though it was empty at the moment, she could hear her father in the next room helping Alan stand, assuring her brother he had a firm grip on him.

  Since visits from Alan’s few friends had dwindled over the years, her brother often spent most of the day in his bedchamber, which adjoined the parlor and was situated across from the kitchen. It was a large room fitted with low shelves he could reach without assistance. Alan filled them with stacks of playing cards, wooden figures he’d whittled from fir or pine, chess and backgammon boards, and all the mechanical gadgets and curious trinkets Father could bring home for him.

  When the adjoining door opened, Alan had a wary look on his face. “You wish to speak with me?”

  “I do.” Meg exchanged glances with her father. She saw hope in his eyes and apprehension as well. He seated Alan in the most comfortable chair, then drew another close to it, meant for her. She waited until he closed the door before she sat across from Alan. Only the small end table, perched on its spindly legs, stood between them.

  “I am so pleased with your Christmas gift,” she began, lifting her glass snow globe and watching the particles drift onto the miniature cottage.

  Alan’s gaze was even, his voice flat. “Mum thought you would like it.”

  Meg nodded absently, at a loss where to begin. She could hardly say, “I forgive you for being difficult.” Alan would rightly be offended. Then she remembered what she most wanted him to hear. “Alan, you must know I care for you. Very much.”

  He scoffed, “Is that why you summoned me here? To tell me that?”

  “As a matter of fact—” She stopped before the scolding tone of a teacher crept into her voice. Love one another. Aye, only love. Perhaps if she confessed some mistake or shortcoming of her own and asked his forgiveness, her honesty would demonstrate how much she cared for him.

  Meg moistened her parched lips and considered the various flaws in her character and the many errors she’d made of late, searching for one that would matter to Alan.

  Mr. Gordon of Glasgow. Her spine stiffened. No, no. She couldn’t possibly tell Alan that. He would never forgive her. But her conscience would not be silenced. Alan is the one you wronged most.

  No! If she told her brother, the whole household would soon know that she’d blatantly lied to them, allowing the one man to cross their threshold whom none of them wanted to see. Please. Meg was finding it hard to breathe, so tight was her chest. Please, I cannot.

  Alan was leaning toward her now, indifference giving way to mild concern. “Meg, are you all right?”

  “No.” Meg hid her face in her hands. “Alan …” She didn’t know where to start, how to explain. “I’m … so sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?” He sounded more like himself now.

  She lowered her hands, knowing she must look him in the eyes and speak the truth. “Alan, when Gordon Shaw came home with us from the railway station, I knew who he was.”

  Her brother’s dark eyes turned to pinpricks. “You knew? And said nothing?”

  “Aye … no.” She eased back in her chair, putting some distance between them. “I called him Mr. Gordon at the railway station, trying to stop him from coming here.” How foolish that sounded! She held out her palms, a silent plea for mercy. “Don’t you see—”

  Alan banged the end table with his fist. “You knew?”

  “I did,” she whispered. “I never dreamed that Mum would invite him to come home with us. That you would meet him—”

  “Meet him? I took a gift from that man!” Alan shouted, every word laced with pain.

  She reached toward him, thinking only of the little brother who once lay across her lap. “Oh, Alan, Alan, I’m so sorry—”

  “Stay away from me!” He thrust out his arm to block her, then grabbed the edge of the small table and flung it across the floor, sending everything flying.

  “Alan, no!” Meg covered her face as a cluster of porcelain figures crashed against the wall and landed in pieces.

  The silence that followed was even more frightening. Meg looked down in time to see the remains of her snow globe roll to her feet. The black ceramic base was crushed, the seal broken. A pool of water was seeping into the carpet.

  Meg began to weep. “Alan, what have you done?”

  Their mother burst into the parlor. “Whatever is going on? I heard …” Her eyes darted around the room, widening. “Alan, you did not … You cannot have done this on purpose.”

  He jabbed his finger at Meg. “She is the one you should be angry with. She knew who Gordon Shaw was all along.”

  “Mother …” Meg stood with trembling knees, wanting to go to her, to hold her hand, to apologize, but the floor between them was littered with debris.

  “She lied to you,” Alan snarled. “To me. To all of us.”

  The rest of the household stood in the doorway now, their expressions as shattered as her mother’s cherished figurines.

  Her father spoke, his voice calm, distant. “Margaret, is this true? Did you deliberately mislead us?”

  She sank back into the chair. “I did. I did. And I cannot even remember why.”

  No one spoke. No one moved.

  Finally Mrs. Gunn said meekly, “Will you be having dinner at two then?”

  Meg watched through dull eyes as her mother turned to her servants and shook her head. “Go home, Mrs. Gunn. And you as well, Clara. Spend Christmas with your families. Perhaps tomorrow we will enjoy your fine feast. But not today.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  A good conscience is a

  continual Christmas.

  BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

  Gordon poked at the limp slice of mutton on his plate, then dissected the lukewarm potatoes. Food, aye, and served on Christmas but nothing like a true Christmas dinner.

  He glanced toward the inn’s windows facing King Street, now black with night. At least the snowfall had stopped, which boded well for stranded travelers like him, hoping to catch an early morning train to Edinburgh.

  From across the Golden Lion’s dining room, a male voice boomed, “If you’re not Gordon Shaw, I’ll toss my hat in the cook’s broth and call it supper.” A moment later a middle-aged man, easily Gordon’s height and half again his weight, strode up to the table and dropped into the vacant seat opposite him.

  Gordon blinked at him in astonishment. “Sir, have we met?”

  “We have, though you were too young to remember.” The fellow thrust out his hand. “Archibald Elder.” He dispatched a waiter to fetch a plate of soup, then tucked a napkin in his shirt.

  The stubble on his chin and the frayed edges of his clothing pointed to an unmarried man leading a frugal life, without wife or valet to look after his grooming. Permanent ink stains on the man’s fingertips marked him as a printer by trade, and he sounded like a Son of the Rock, raised in Stirling. Still, Gordon couldn’t place him.

  “How is it you know me, Mr. Elder?” he finally asked.

  The man’s jovial expression grew more sober. “You are the spitting image of your father.”

  Stunned, Gordon put down his fork. “You knew Ronald Shaw?”

  “I did, God rest his soul.” Archibald leaned forward, his bald pate shining in the lamplight. “You were a wee lad when Ronald and I started working together in the printing shop at the Stirling Observer. Exceedingly fond of you, he was. Took you everywhere he went.”

  Gordon swallowed. “Aye, he did.” Vivid memories, long held at bay, washed over him. Going to his first lantern slide show with his father. Sharing a sack of candied orange peel from the confectioner’s. Visiting the Corn Exchange together on a busy fair day. “When did you last see him?”

  “Two months before he died.” Archibald straightened in his chair as the waiter delivered an aromatic plate of cock-a-leekie soup. “I had business in Carlisle and happened upon him on the street. You were
all he talked about, Gordon.”

  “Oh?” His stomach began to churn.

  “Ronald told me you were living in Glasgow and had made something of yourself.” Archibald picked up his spoon. “Your father was mighty proud of you.”

  Gordon couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Proud? Of a son who’d fled in shame?

  Archibald started on his soup, his spoon moving in a circular motion, plate to lip to plate. Between mouthfuls, he said, “He kept all your letters. Knew about your university studies. About your position at the Herald. Said you were a fine writer.”

  Gordon could bear it no longer. “But my parents left Stirling because of something I did.”

  His dinner companion’s face reflected utter confusion. “Is that what they told you?”

  Gordon shrugged, wishing he’d not mentioned it. “They never confessed it in so many words, but—”

  “Well, I know the truth of it.” Archibald jabbed the air with his empty spoon. “Your father lost his position at the Observer. Not because of anything you did. Or anything he did either.”

  The news struck a blow Gordon could not deflect. “How is that possible? No one worked harder than my father.”

  “Mr. Jamieson, the owner, hired one of his cousins, which put your father on the street without any means of supporting his family. He was ashamed, but not on your account.”

  Gordon shook his head, trying to take it all in. “By then I’d left for Glasgow.”

  “Aye, I suppose you had, after that unfortunate incident with the Campbell boy. When your father found work in Carlisle, off to England he went and your mother with him.”

  Gordon sank back in his chair, dumbfounded. “I never asked them why they moved. I just assumed … I thought …”

  “Och.” Archibald pushed aside his soup. “Your father didn’t want to worry you. He knew you had enough troubles of your own.” His mouth broadened into a smile. “Looks to me like you’ve put them well behind you.”

  Not as far back as you might think, Mr. Elder.

  “Has the Lord blessed you with a wife? A wee bairn or two?”

  Gordon shook his head, the skin beneath his shirt collar growing warm. “The newspaper trade can be hard on a marriage. Long hours. Frequent travel. In Glasgow I’ve four rooms in a lodging house. Most ladies would think it confining.”

  “Not a lady who loves you.” Archibald fished out a handful of coins for his dinner and plunked them on the table. “When the right one comes along, all those fine reasons not to marry will go straight up the chimney.” He stood, then pulled a woolen cap over his bald head. “A happy Christmas to you, lad.”

  With that, Archibald Elder took his leave, departing as unexpectedly as he’d come.

  Gordon was still watching his retreating form when the waiter reappeared. “Will you be having anything else, sir? The cook made a fine plum pudding.”

  Gordon declined, then reached for his money.

  “No need, sir.” The waiter held out the coins Archibald had set by his plate. “He left enough for both of your meals. Generous fellow, eh?”

  “Aye.” But not half so generous as my father.

  Gordon squinted at his pocket watch, lit by a single oil lamp on the low dresser, and willed the slender hands to move. Five minutes after five. The morning train for Edinburgh would not depart for another two hours. And the sun would not show her wintry face for two hours beyond that.

  Seated on the edge of the bed, he dragged a weary hand across his beard. He’d slept poorly, though not from his tasteless meal or a lumpy mattress. Rather, his mind was spinning, thinking of all that Archibald Elder had told him. Your father was proud of you. The cadence of Archibald’s voice when he said it and the honest expression on the man’s craggy face would be etched in Gordon’s memory forever.

  Clearly, he’d not crossed paths with Archibald Elder by chance. Man’s goings are of the LORD. Last evening’s conversation was a gift from the Almighty—and on Christmas of all days. No present wrapped in paper and twine would ever match it.

  Gordon exhaled into the shadowy room, thinking of another gift—the one Margaret Campbell had placed under her family’s tree. Merely a polite gesture? Or was it something more? He’d seen the flat package with his name on the tag and a smaller one next to it, addressed by a flowery hand. Her mother’s, Gordon had guessed.

  Would he never see the Campbells again? Never see Margaret again?

  He’d known her for all of a day, yet he could not stop thinking about her. Aye, she was bonny, but her appeal went far deeper than those blue eyes of hers. She had a fine intellect and a broad streak of independence that matched his own. Margaret also was not afraid to speak her mind. Go. She’d made her wishes clear, if not her feelings.

  Still, she’d wrapped a gift for him. He’d not soon forget that.

  Ronald Shaw had also given him many gifts, Gordon reminded himself. His father had blessed him with his name, his earthly possessions, and his money. Gordon reached into his traveling bag for several pieces of unopened mail, including his statement from the Royal Bank, which showed the balance of his inheritance, untouched since the day he’d received it.

  He unfolded the paper and considered the sum. What would you have me do with it, Father? The question was not directed at a man buried in Carlisle but at his heavenly Father, whose answer was immediate and undeniable. He that giveth, let him do it with simplicity.

  Gordon stood and began to pace in front of the window as if gazing at the dark sky might prompt the sun to rise earlier. The banks would be closed on Boxing Day, but the shops in town would be open and bustling by ten—the same time he imagined the Campbells would start for King’s Park. By then the curling pond would be crowded with players and ringed with spectators eager to make the most of the few daylight hours.

  Go. This time it wasn’t Margaret urging him out the door but a stronger, more insistent voice. Go.

  His chest tightened. The Campbells would not be expecting him—Margaret least of all. And though he’d visited King’s Park many times in his imagination, he’d not been there since the accident. Dare he make an appearance at the start of the curling matches? And offer Alan his long-neglected inheritance as a means of restitution?

  I would have you be proud of me still, Father.

  Gordon paused by the window, his breath steaming the icy panes. Aye, he would do it. He would tarry at the inn through breakfast, then arrange to take a later train to Edinburgh and leave his traveling bag with the booking clerk. The walk to King’s Park would require little more than a half hour. Once there, Gordon decided, he would seek out Alan—

  No. Margaret first. Lest she think he was trying to buy her affection or her parents’ approval with this gift for her brother, he would take Margaret aside and bid her farewell. Better to close that door gently than to bang it shut.

  But is that what you mean to say to her, Shaw? Good-bye?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Who listens once will listen twice;

  Her heart, be sure, is not of ice.

  GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON

  Meg stood alone near the frozen edge of the curling pond, absently watching the men sweep the surface with their brooms in preparation for the first match. The air was dry and still but bitterly cold. Before leaving the house, she’d wrapped her head and neck in every woolen scarf she could find—save a heathery blue one in the bottom of her dresser.

  If she appeared less than fashionable, what did it matter? Gordon was almost certainly in Edinburgh by now. She could hardly fault him for honoring her request. Go.

  Meg’s throat tightened. Gordon Shaw hadn’t ruined their Christmas. She had. Though she’d apologized repeatedly, nothing could alter the fact that she had lied to the people she loved most.

  Forgive me. She’d said it over and over and meant it sincerely, yet her words could not undo her thoughtless actions. Her mother was sympathetic but still hurting. Her father’s quiet disappointment was even harder to bear. Alan, however, m
ade her suffer the most.

  “What kind of sister are you?” he’d growled. “How dare you say that you care for me after doing such a heinous thing?”

  When their words and tears were spent, the Campbells had retreated to nurse their wounds. Father had gone for a long walk, and her brother had hidden in his bedroom, while Mum had spent the afternoon in the kitchen, putting away their uneaten Christmas dinner.

  With Clara gone, Meg had straightened the parlor on her own. She’d picked up the bits of porcelain and swept the floor, then knelt on the carpet to press a linen towel into the damp spot left by her broken globe. As she’d worked, she’d sought forgiveness from the One who never failed to offer it. His mercy endureth for ever.

  When the family had reconvened well past sunset, they had dined on cold mutton in silence and sought their beds early. Mrs. Gunn had returned in the morning to cook their breakfast, though much of it remained untouched on the sideboard. Perhaps after the curling match they might regain sufficient appetites to enjoy their belated Christmas dinner, though Meg could not imagine it.

  She looked at her family, who’d joined the line of spectators gathered near the tee—a circular area on the ice where each curler would soon attempt to place his stone. Alan was seated between her parents in a light wooden chair they’d brought for his comfort. As frigid as it was, she doubted the Campbells would remain at King’s Park more than an hour or two. Soon after dinner Meg would leave for Edinburgh and pray never to have another Christmas like this one.

  When the men on the ice began shaking hands and wishing one another “Good curling,” a hush fell over the crowd.

  Meg inched a bit closer. The effortless movements of a seasoned curler never failed to steal her breath. She watched as the first man lowered his right knee toward the sheet of ice to begin his delivery. Holding a long-handled straw broom in his left hand for balance, he thrust his granite curling stone forward, then glided across the ice, his stone leading the way. Slowly, gracefully, he released the handle and rose, his attention glued to the rotating stone. Time would tell whether he’d given the stone a proper turn of the wrist.