A Wreath of Snow (11 page)

“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.”

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.”

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.

T
hrough 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 reclaimed 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.