A Wreath of Snow (5 page)

The conductor turned to address other needs, leaving Gordon to ponder what he’d just heard. Twelve years ago the Campbells had resided on Spittal Street in a far less prestigious home than the fine sandstone houses of Albert Place, just beyond the town wall. Surely they had room for their daughter. Did she not wish to spend Christmas with her family?

What are you running from, Miss Campbell?
Gordon knew he had no business posing such a question. Not when he was on the run himself.

Then stop running, Shaw
. Gordon looked down at the toes of his boots. Could he do so? Stop fleeing from his past and simply face it? Confess who he was and what he’d done?

Be strong and of a good courage
. A gentler voice this time, stirring deep inside him.
Be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed
.

Gordon could ignore his conscience, but he could not disregard the Almighty. He lifted his head, holding little Tam close.
You’ll help me, Lord? Show me what to do, tell me what to
say?
Gordon was not afraid of words; they were his livelihood. But an apology for so great an error would not be easily spoken.

The L
ORD
thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest
. Aye, there was comfort in that. Especially with a long walk ahead of him and a meeting with the Campbells to follow. If they allowed him across their threshold, that is.

At last the travelers began heading north. On a warm, moonlit evening, it would have been a pleasant walk. Not so on this dark night. Their steps labored, their voices subdued, the group slowly moved forward, no more than two abreast between the silvery rails, which were barely visible beneath the shifting snow. A dozen portable lanterns were scattered up and down the line, though the light they offered was meager at best.

Gordon concentrated on remaining upright, ever mindful of the child entrusted to his care. The boy was lighter than expected and warm. With Tam’s arm circling his neck, Gordon no longer missed his scarf. The child’s mother was directly behind them, snug in her makeshift hammock.

Miss Campbell fell into step beside him—wanting to be near the boy, he imagined. Or close to her satchel. She was shorter in stature than he’d first thought. The brim of her hat barely reached his shoulder. “Pardon me for not offering my arm, Miss Campbell.”

She lifted her head and gave him a tentative smile. “I believe we can overlook such courtesies tonight.”

No sooner were the words spoken than she lost her footing. With a startled cry, she grabbed his coat sleeve, nearly pulling him down with her, the sharp incline on either side of the tracks dangerously near.

Hugging the boy tightly to his chest, Gordon dropped both bags and reached for her other hand. “I have you, miss!” He jammed his boot against the inside of the steel rail, determined to keep all three of them from tumbling down the icy embankment.

She clung to his arm until she regained her balance, then slowly let go of him, gratitude in her eyes. “Now I must beg
your
pardon, sir.”

“Not at all,” Gordon said, holding her gaze.

It is your forgiveness I must seek, Miss Campbell. And your family’s. Tonight
.

M
eg’s cheeks grew warm beneath her scarf. How boldly this gentleman looked at her! As if he knew her, though their paths had not crossed before this afternoon. He’d overheard Mr. McGregor address her, then took the liberty of using her name without offering his own. An oversight? Or was it intentional?

She should be offended. Refuse to speak with him.

But he’d been so helpful to Mrs. Reid and to the railway and had just spared her from a nasty fall. Who could think ill of such a gentleman? In time he would realize he’d neglected
to share his name. Why embarrass him further by pointing out his mistake? She was certainly grateful to have him within arm’s reach, for the going was hazardous, and Stirling was a long way off.

Holding her arms out a bit to keep her balance, Meg studied him as they tramped through the snow together. His gray wool suit gave no solid clue regarding his profession, though his neatly trimmed beard and polished boots marked him as a gentleman. And a handsome one, with his fine, long nose and strong chin.

He was not a civil servant, she decided, or a clerk who handled money, like her father, who had been employed by the Royal Bank since before she was born. Rather, this man depended upon his intellect for his income. She was certain of it. Something about his eyes, his high forehead. Was he a solicitor, perhaps? Handling wills, estates, conveyances, and the like?

Meg’s curiosity got the better of her. The gentleman might be a stranger, but in such circumstances one was permitted to speak a bit more freely.

“Tell me, sir, are you from Stirling or Edinburgh?” she asked, thinking one end of the line or the other would likely be his home.

He didn’t answer immediately. “Glasgow,” he finally said.

Not the answer she’d expected, yet the industrial town suited him. Lean. Energetic. Maybe if she revealed something
of her life, he would follow her lead. “Stirling is my childhood home,” she told him, “but I’ve lived in Edinburgh for the last six years.”

A good bit of information.
Your turn, sir
.

When he didn’t respond to her volley as swiftly as she wished, Meg pressed on, throwing propriety aside as if it were a soiled pair of gloves. “Might you have business in Edinburgh? Or do you have family there, awaiting your arrival for Christmas?”

“I have …” He slowed his steps to look at her. “I have no family in Edinburgh, but I do have business there, aye.”

When other passengers began closing in from behind, he lengthened his stride, and she did the same. Their shoulders were a hand’s-breadth apart—a necessity if they meant to stay between the rails. It also allowed them to converse without being overheard by the entire group. She sensed the gentleman wanted that.

“Business, you say?” she prompted him.

After a long pause he said, “I write for the
Glasgow Herald
.”

Meg hid her surprise. A newspaperman? She would not have guessed that. A respectable occupation, at least in most circles. Certainly the
Herald
was above reproach.

“That’s why I was in Stirling today,” he explained, “interviewing the new editor of the
British Messenger
.”

Meg nodded with approval. The Drummonds, one of Stirling’s most respected families, published the monthly magazine.
She pictured the three-story building on Dumbarton Road with its impressive bank of windows. “You were quite near my parents’ house.”

“On Albert Place,” he affirmed, then began stumbling over his words. “You said … That is, I believe Mr. McGregor mentioned your address.”

Aye, and my name too
. He missed very little, this tall newspaperman from Glasgow.

Meg looked about, taking in what she could of their surroundings. How quiet and still their frozen world had become! The snow fell in utter silence, and the air sounded hollow, as if they were standing in the midst of a great cathedral, its vaulted ceiling stretching toward heaven.

“Christmas Eve,” she said on a sigh, her warm breath visible. “I shall miss all the candles in Edinburgh’s windows.”

“At least we have light.” He nodded toward the bobbing lanterns carried by laborers and gentry alike. “Once we reach Stirling, I imagine you’ll see plenty of candles burning around King’s Park.”

Meg heard a coolness in his tone at the mention of her neighborhood. Did he think less of her family for living in the fashionable part of Stirling? She didn’t entirely approve of it herself, and not just because the move was Alan’s idea. Her father was a middling bank clerk—a stable position but not a highly lucrative one. Purchasing even the smallest house in
King’s Park had taken all his earnings and every penny of her mother’s inheritance.

I could have helped them if I’d sold Aunt Jean’s house
.

She pushed aside the nagging thought. “Our cottage has only two windows facing the street,” she told him, “but the villas on Victoria Square will have a glittering array of candles.”

Though he merely nodded, she saw something flicker in his brown eyes, as if he’d formed one opinion and now was discarding it for another.

“I imagine your family will be surprised to see you,” he said.

Her throat tightened.
Surprised
wasn’t the word that came to mind. Alan would gloat over her being forced to return. Her parents would be relieved yet upset with her for leaving. “They certainly are not expecting me,” she admitted.

He said nothing for a moment, as if he were listening to his boots crunch the snow. “Will your family be home this evening?”

An odd question, Meg thought. Was he concerned about her returning to an empty house?

“Aye, they’ll be there,” she said, imagining the Campbells at their oblong dining table—her father at the head, her mother at the foot, and Alan seated on his usual side of the table with an extra cushion on his chair, meant to make him more comfortable. Even with the gas chandelier overhead, beeswax candles would be flickering on the mantelpiece.

“Our family dines at eight. My mother prides herself on serving a fine meal on Christmas Eve,” Meg told him as vivid recollections of past holidays swept over her. “Roasted pork with apples. Carrots, potatoes, and turnips. Fresh bread tied in a thick braid and drenched in butter …” Her voice trailed off into a melancholy silence. Her place at the table would be empty tonight.

The gentleman beside her said, “No wonder you return home each Christmas.”

“But I
don’t
.” The words poured out before she could stop them. “At least, I haven’t, not in years.” Was she proud of that fact? Or ashamed? “My home is in Edinburgh now. My work is there. My dearest friends are there. But my family …” She fought to regain her composure. “My family is …”

“I understand, Miss Campbell. More than you know.” His shoulder lightly brushed against hers as they quietly walked in tandem. “Tell me why you’ve stopped coming home.”

Could she do so? The temptation overwhelmed her. To speak honestly without the fear of hurting anyone. To open her heart to a stranger who knew nothing of her family and would leave town in the morning, carrying her secrets with him.

Meg drew a long, steadying breath and looked straight ahead, convinced if she gazed into those warm, chestnut-colored eyes, she would feel exposed and stop at once. Whatever
she found the courage to tell him, it would be easier if she saw nothing but the steady snowfall and the backs of two passengers, now several yards ahead.

She shivered, suddenly more aware of the cold, and tugged her hat firmly on her head. “I have a brother named Alan.” That seemed the place to begin. He was at the heart of the issue, wasn’t he? “I was four when he was born.” Even as she sought the right words, she wondered if this gentleman could possibly grasp how a single event had the power to alter a family forever.

For most of her young life, Meg had been her father’s favorite, though she’d tried not to notice. But Alan had. As he grew, so did his resentment. Then everything changed on that January afternoon.

In the end Meg simply said, “When my brother was ten years of age, he was badly injured.”

The gentleman frowned. “What happened?”

“An accident. My parents weren’t there, but I was.”

As Meg described the scene at the curling pond, her walking companion leaned closer, his expression strangely intent. “An inebriated young man began swinging his curling stone,” she explained. “When it slipped from his grasp, the stone struck my brother in the back.” She could still recall the awful thud as the stone fell to the ice.

After a moment he asked, “Did you learn the man’s name?”

“Gordon Shaw,” she said without hesitation. “I was only fourteen, so I recall little else about him. But I could hardly forget the name of someone who ruined my brother’s life.”

His response was slow in coming. “I am … sorry, Miss Campbell.”

Meg shook her head, knowing the truth. “It was my fault too.” How she hated putting that into words! “I was the older sister, meant to watch Alan. If I’d paid closer attention … If I’d kept him off the ice …”

She pressed her lips together, trying to stem the painful memories. Alan’s head resting on her lap, tears streaming down his cheeks. Her father’s grief.
How could you let this happen?
Her mother’s sorrow.
My boy, my poor boy
. Meg had cried herself to sleep that night and many nights thereafter. Blaming a stranger for being careless. Blaming herself as well.

“Your brother’s injury,” the gentleman prompted her. “Was it serious?”

“At first Alan couldn’t stand. Couldn’t move, really. A neighbor took us home in his sleigh. Dr. Bayne was summoned at once and deemed my brother stricken with paralysis.”

For a stranger, his dismay was marked. “Your brother is bedridden, then.”