Read Online A Wreath of Snow by Liz Curtis Higgs - Free Book Online
Authors: Liz Curtis Higgs
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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 wassaying 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
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 wassaying 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
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