A Wreath of Snow (12 page)

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
.

H
ave 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.

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.

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.

“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.”

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?”