A Wreath of Snow (13 page)

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.”

G
ordon 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 L
ORD
.
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?

M
eg 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, made her suffer the most.