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Authors: Liz Curtis Higgs
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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 bythe 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 waswhat 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
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 bythe 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 waswhat 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
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