A Wreath of Snow (8 page)

Her mother was still pressing him, as any hostess would. “We have a cozy guest room, more than enough food, and plenty of coal to keep you warm. Please say you’ll return home with us, Mr. Gordon. Our Christmas will be all the brighter for your company.”

“If you insist, madam. But I’ll not presume upon your generosity beyond tomorrow morning.”

He was nervous. Meg saw it in his eyes, heard it in his voice. Might he yet change his mind and keep his proper name—and his apologies—to himself? She would hold that possibility close to her heart and, when they had a moment alone, urge him to reconsider.

Her father nodded toward the station door. “To the carriage, then.”

“Come along, Meg.” Her mother slipped her arm around Meg’s waist. “We’ve kept your brother waiting long enough.”

Alan
.

Meg walked toward the doorway with leaden feet. Why had she not thought of this before now? Alan was the one member of their family who had a talent for remembering names. And faces.

G
ordon followed the Campbells into the street, his empty stomach tying itself in knots.

The situation was impossible and entirely of his own doing. He’d deliberately placed himself in their path. Then he’d accepted their offer of hospitality, even with Margaret giving him every opportunity to refuse. What she’d not given him was the chance to claim his own name.
Mr. Gordon
. Did she mean to spare him? Or to punish him?

“I do hope you like roasted pork,” Mrs. Campbell was
saying as they dodged horse-drawn carriages and wagons, all covered with a heavy blanket of snow.

“I will gladly dine on anything you serve,” Gordon replied absently, trying to remember when or what he’d last eaten.

When Mr. Campbell reached their hired carriage—a serviceable model pulled by two Cleveland Bays—he offered a hand to his wife and daughter. Gordon climbed in after them and sat across from Margaret, who would not meet his gaze. He knew she was unhappy with him and no doubt exhausted, as he was. And frozen through.

The bricks at their feet having lost their warmth, the interior felt colder than the outdoors. As the carriage pulled away, Gordon drew his coat tighter around him and leaned toward the window. By morning the town might be reduced to a muddy slush, but at the moment the streets of Stirling were clean and white beneath the fresh snowfall.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Mrs. Campbell said. “The street lamps look like moons hung above the pavement.”

“Aye, they do.” Gordon straightened, trying to think of what else he might say. He’d never been good at small talk. Like most newspapermen, he asked questions, he listened, and he took notes. The only thing on his mind right now was Alan. He’d never expected to see him again. Would he recognize the young boy from long ago?

Mrs. Campbell interrupted his thoughts. “So, Mr. Gordon, suppose you tell us about the accident.”

His head shot up. So did Margaret’s.
The accident?

“We’d like a firsthand account.” Mrs. Campbell looked at him expectantly. “Was the snowdrift truly higher than the engine?”

His heart eased its frantic thumping. “Not quite so high as that, madam, but high enough.” Gordon described the railway mishap in detail while the carriage slowly traveled along the same streets he’d walked that morning. The shops of Murray Place were long closed now, their awnings lowered, their windows dark.

When they slowed to turn onto Dumbarton Road, he glanced at the Drummond Tract Depot, home of the
British Messenger
. Difficult as it was to imagine, he’d been inside that building not ten hours earlier. If someone had told him then where he’d find himself now, Gordon would have laughed at the absurdity of it.

Instead, he looked grimly ahead as each doorway came into view. Soon they would pass Glebe Avenue. Albert Place was next. The carriage would stop, the Campbells would disembark, and the truth would finally be spoken.

My name is Gordon Shaw. A dozen years ago I did an unforgivable thing …

His head throbbed, and his chest ached. By the time they reached their destination, Gordon feared his knees might not hold him. Whatever happened this night, it could not be worse than the last quarter hour.

“Here we are.” Mr. Campbell nodded at the door. “If you would, Mr. Gordon.”

He quit the stuffy carriage at once, needing room to breathe, to think. As Mr. Campbell helped his wife and daughter step out, Gordon waited for them, traveling bag in hand, beside the wrought-iron gate. Their sandstone cottage was smaller than he’d imagined, with a low hedgerow enclosing the front garden and a high-pitched roof. He detected a slight movement at one of the ornamented windows. Was it a servant, anxious to serve their dinner? Or Alan, curious to see who’d come home with his family?

“Accompany our guest to the door, dear,” Mrs. Campbell said, waving Margaret forward.

Gordon fell into step with her as they walked up the shoveled path side by side, much the same way they’d traveled between the rails. He was careful not to brush against her and kept his thoughts to himself.
I am very sorry, Margaret, but I must go through with this
.

A gaslit globe illuminated the single brass number of the cottage. Just before the door swung open, Margaret whispered discreetly, “We must speak. Soon.”

Disoriented by her nearness, Gordon nearly stumbled over the threshold. She had made her wishes clear earlier. What more was there to say?

Mrs. Campbell sang out from behind him, “Mr. Gordon, this is our Clara.”

The young maidservant ushered him in, her eyes bright, her apron crisp even at that late hour. She helped the ladies with their coats, then slipped Gordon’s off his shoulders.

A narrow hallway ran the length of the cottage, with both a parlor and a dining room in the front. From curtains to carpets, a dizzying array of floral patterns vied for his attention. Tables were draped in linen and lace, the surfaces cluttered with framed photographs, wax fruit, wooden figures, and other curios. Sprays of larch, holly, and ivy decorated the shelves and paintings, and the smell of freshly cut evergreens hung heavy in the air. His senses were not so much engaged as assaulted.

Alan was nowhere to be seen.

Mrs. Campbell removed a long pin from her hat, smiling at herself in the hallway mirror. “Clara, tell Mrs. Gunn we shall dine at eleven. In the meantime, take our guest up to his room so he might dress for dinner.”

As Margaret ascended the staircase a few steps ahead of him, Gordon was haunted by her words:
Christmas is meant to be joyful
. What would make the day joyful for the Campbells? To remember happier seasons before their lives were changed by
the careless act of a stranger? Or to have that stranger come forward and offer a long-awaited apology? Gordon was convinced of the latter—not only for his sake, but also for theirs.

Confess your faults
. Aye, he would.

When they reached the top of the stair, Margaret disappeared without a word into a room across the hall. Would she seek him out shortly?
Soon
, she’d said. Gordon followed the maidservant into a small bedroom tucked beneath the eaves. The muted colors and simple furnishings were most welcome, and the porcelain washbowl even more so.

“I’ll fetch hot water for you straightaway, sir. Is there anything else you’ll be needing?”

Aye
. He put his traveling bag on a straight-backed chair.
Courage. Strength
.

Before he could answer, she resumed her friendly chatter. “You’ll find a shaving mug and soap on the chest of drawers, and the water closet is at the end of the hall. Might I unpack for you? Or press your shirt?”

Gordon opened his bag at once and handed her a fistful of clean but wrinkled linen. “Thank you, Clara.” She bobbed a curtsy and was gone, leaving him to manage the rest.

He quickly retrieved his razor and comb, then took a brush to his gray suit coat. Neither worry nor fear would serve him well this night.
Power and love and a sound mind
. Aye, that was
what was needed. He’d not find them in his traveling bag, but he knew where to turn nonetheless.

Before long Clara reappeared with a steaming pitcher of water, fresh towels, and his shirt, neatly pressed. “Dinner will be served in a quarter hour, sir.”

Gordon bathed, shaved, and dressed, rehearsing the words he intended to say. He would not presume to ask for the Campbells’ forgiveness, but he would offer his apology, woefully overdue.

He was straightening his tie when he heard a soft tapping at the door.
Margaret
.

Gordon answered her knock, then fell back a step. Gone were her damp clothes, her soiled coat, her limp black hat. She was wearing an evening dress the precise blue of her eyes and had her sand-colored hair swept into a tidy nest of curls.

It took a moment to collect his wits. “Miss Campbell.”

She eyed the staircase before stepping across the threshold. “Forgive me for not addressing you by name.” Her voice was low, her mood serious.

He beckoned her further within, catching a whiff of perfume as she brushed by. Not even a bonny lass in blue could dissuade him from revealing his identity. The only question that remained was when.

Standing before him with her hands clasped at her waist,
she said, “I’ve come to ask you—no, to beg you—to say nothing about the incident at King’s Park unless Alan recognizes you. Please?” Her tender voice, her gentle words implored him. “There is little to be gained by opening that door.”

“How can you be so certain?” Gordon frowned, trying not to be irritated with her. “Aren’t we to confess our sins to one another?”

“You would be confessing my sin as well.” Her pale cheeks bloomed like summer roses. “I am the one who told them your surname is Gordon.”

Now he understood.

“I could have corrected you then and there,” he reminded her, though they both knew he would never have done so in the middle of a crowded railway station. “In any case, you did not lie. My name
is
Gordon.”

“So it is.” She inched closer. “Please, Gordon.”

Her bold use of his Christian name caught him off guard. “But I—”

“Please don’t tell them.” Her eyes shimmered in the lamplight. “Share our Christmas. Then go your merry way with my family none the wiser. Promise me, Gordon? For my sake?”

He wanted to step away from her, to argue with her, but his feet wouldn’t move. “I need to do this …” He swallowed. “Margaret, I will never have another chance like this to make things right.”

“But what if it makes things worse?” Her voice was as soft as a child’s. “You have apologized to me. Is that not enough?”

“You weren’t the one I injured. Not physically, at least.” He dared to take her hand. She did not pull away. “I looked at his face that night, Margaret. When you were holding him in your arms, I bent down and saw the anguish in that little boy’s eyes.”

“I saw it too.” A tear spilled down her cheek. “The years have changed him, Gordon, and not for the better. You cannot heal my brother.”

“I know.” He eased back, releasing her hand. “Let us be agreed, then. If Alan recognizes me, I will tell your family everything and see that none of the blame falls on you.”

She looked away as if considering that possibility. “And if Alan doesn’t identify you?”

Gordon knew what she wanted him to say. “Then we will enjoy a fine Christmas Eve dinner, and I will leave town on the morning train.”

But that was not what Gordon wished for. He’d chosen his words for her family with care and was prepared to say them, even eager to say them. To lay them down like a heavy weight he’d carried long enough.
Cast thy burden upon the L
ORD
.
He should have heeded such wisdom twelve years earlier.

An unseen clock began chiming the hour.

Gordon followed Margaret downstairs, his heart pounding.
Rich aromas wafted up to greet them. However fine Mrs. Gunn’s cooking, he could not imagine eating a single bite.

He followed Margaret into the parlor, where a coal fire burned in the grate, an upright piano stood at the ready, and a Norway spruce claimed pride of place by the window. But he’d not come to hear music or see a Christmas tree.

Gordon looked at the young man seated by the fire, his feet planted on the carpet, his back stiff.
Alan
. A lump rose in Gordon’s throat.
I did this to you. I did
. He tried to swallow but couldn’t.
How can you ever forgive me?

His carefully planned speech turned to dust in his mouth.

On either side of Alan stood his parents, their posture equally rigid, as if the three of them had posed too long for a portrait.

Mrs. Campbell was smiling.

Mr. Campbell was not. “This is our son, Alan.” A faint lift of his brow dared Gordon or anyone else to think ill of his heir. “Alan, meet Mr. Gordon, the gentleman from the train.”

Alan offered him a curt nod, nothing more. He had his father’s dark hair and eyes, yet he looked nothing like the boy Gordon remembered. His features were hardened, and his brow deeply creased. Not a trace of innocence remained.