A Wreath of Snow

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  They walked in silence for a few minutes, the air between them charged with regret.

  Finally Meg said, “I am sorry Alan kept his recovery well hidden,” not knowing how else to begin. She took her father’s arm, longing to comfort him. “Did you have any inkling—”

  “None,” he said.

  “None at all,” her mother echoed.

  Meg wondered if perhaps Clara or Mrs. Gunn might have something to say. Servants were often more observant than their employers.

  “It doesn’t matter how long Alan has been deceiving us,” her father said glumly. “The greater issue is why he would do so.”

  Gordon cleared his throat. “I realize this is a private matter, but if I may, sir …”

  “By all means,” her father said with a lift of his hand.

  Gordon looked at Margaret, then continued. “I know the names of several doctors in Glasgow who might be consulted. There are remedies to be tried and treatments that might be considered.”

  Her father sighed heavily. “I am afraid a clerk’s salary—”

  “Perhaps you’ve forgotten, Mr. Campbell.” Gordon withdrew the bank statement from his coat pocket. “I meant for Alan to have this. Now I see it is clearly needed.”

  Meg swallowed hard. Oh, Gordon. She was the only family member who didn’t know the amount. But she’d seen the looks on all their faces and knew it was substantial.

  “Mr. Shaw … it’s your … inheritance …,” her father stammered, coming to a full stop. “We cannot possibly accept it.”

  Gordon exchanged glances with her. “What if it were a Christmas present? It’s not polite to refuse a gift.”

  Though his tone was light, Meg saw how serious he was. “In years to come, Mr. Shaw, might this not create some hardship for you?”

  He shrugged, his expression free from concern. “The Lord has asked me to do this. I can trust him to provide for me as well.”

  Meg had a great deal to learn about Gordon Shaw, but she knew without a doubt he was a man of strong convictions. Much would be said and done regarding Alan in the days to come. For the moment her parents needed time to rest, to think, and to consider what the days ahead might hold when Alan returned home—if Alan returned home.

  When at last they arrived at the cottage, Meg peeled off her scarves and stamped the snow off her walking boots. “Come, warm yourself by the fire,” she urged Gordon, escorting him into the parlor while her parents dressed for dinner.

  Meg stretched out her hands over the rising heat, and Gordon did the same. His were lightly freckled, long and lean, and covered in fine red hair. The hands of an artist whose medium was words.

  Gordon’s eyes met hers. “Which train will you take to Edinburgh?”

  “Not the three twenty-six,” she said firmly, “for I hear it is most undependable.”

  He smiled. “I plan to take the four forty-three.”

  “As do I.” She held his gaze, longing to know what was running through his mind. Would they see each other again? Or would he simply deposit Alan’s money in her father’s account and return to his life in Glasgow? We understand each other, he’d said. She prayed that was true and asked the only question she could without risking her heart. “How long will you be staying in Edinburgh?”

  His smile faded. “Less than a day, I’m afraid. After my morning interview I must return to Glasgow, or my editor will find another minion to do his bidding.”

  Meg looked down lest he see her dismay. So soon?

  Her mother called to them from the parlor door. “Mrs. Gunn is ready for us.”

  “I’ll not be long,” Meg promised, then hurried to her bedchamber, needing a moment alone. She quickly bathed her hands and face, then added a sprinkle of perfume before pausing to lift up a silent prayer. If Gordon is to be mine someday, Lord, please give me patience. And if he is not … oh, if he is not, then give me comfort.

  When she lifted her head, her gaze fell on her tall dresser. Gordon’s present. She could at least send him home to Glasgow with something to keep him warm.

  He was waiting for her in the dining room, his clothing brushed, his hair neatly combed. Gordon spotted the gift in her hands. “Christmas … again?”

  “Aye.” Meg sat so he might do the same, then placed his gift beside his plate. Her parents had already taken their seats. Only Alan’s chair remained empty, though the table had been set for him with dishes, sterling, and glassware.

  “Indeed, it is Christmas,” Meg said, admiring her mother’s table decorated with sprigs of holly and berries, gleaming tapers, and cinnamon sticks wrapped in ribbon. On each empty plate was a Christmas cracker, waiting to be pulled apart.

  Meg nodded at Gordon’s colorful favor. “Yours first, please.” They each gripped an end of the paper-wrapped tube and yanked, then laughed when the favor popped open with a wee bang. A small harmonica fell out, along with a printed Christmas sentiment and a wrinkled hat made from red tissue paper.

  Gordon smoothed out the hat at once and put it on his head, adopting a serious expression to match. “Your turn, Miss Campbell.”

  Her cracker was louder than she expected, making her jump. A moment later she was wearing a pointy blue hat. Two more pops at either end of the table and her parents were similarly adorned—a Christmas tradition even in the most sober of households.

  “Clara,” her mother said, “I believe we are ready for our soup.”

  A dizzying array of plates and dishes came and went from kitchen to table. Roasted goose with chestnut stuffing—Gordon’s favorite—provided the main course. Her mother ate more than her share of roasted parsnips, and her father enjoyed the sausages in gravy. Meg saved room for the plum pudding with fresh cream, and they each ate a thin slice of Christmas cake, rich with fruit and topped with marzipan.

  Without her brother glowering at her across the table and with Gordon by her side, Meg secretly counted this her most peaceful and pleasurable Christmas in recent memory. But she did miss Alan. Whatever had compelled him to pretend he couldn’t walk was a mystery best solved by a doctor. But he was still her brother. And she still loved him.

  As coffee was being poured, Meg patted Gordon’s gift. “Kindly open it, Mr. Shaw. Then we’ll make haste to Stirling station.”

  He tore off the paper—rather eagerly, she thought—and then sat back with a look of astonishment. “However did you know? I’ve been wishing I had a scarf around my neck since leaving Glasgow. And such a fine scarf too.”

  Meg warmed at his praise. “I hope it’s long enough.”

  “I would almost say it was made for me.” Gordon cocked one eyebrow. “But since you had time neither to shop nor to knit, I can only assume it was made for another man—”

  “And he shall remain nameless,” Mrs. Campbell said pointedly. “It was made for you, Mr. Shaw. Whether or not Margaret was aware of that when she held the needles in her hands, you can be sure the Almighty knew.”

  Meg caught her mother’s eye, then mouthed the words, Bless you.

  Gordon stood, thanking her parents with a sincerity of word and expression that Meg found endearing. “Forgive me for leaving so quickly …”

  When his voice trailed off, Meg followed his gaze.

  Alan waited in the doorway, his hat bunched in his hands, his face chapped and red. Every word he spoke seemed chiseled out of ice. “I have nowhere else to go.”

  His mother was beside him at once. “This is your home, Alan. You are always welcome here.” She ushered him into the dining room, quietly giving instructions to Clara. A wet cloth for his hands and hot soup for his supper were soon produced.

  Meg rose to stand beside Gordon, grateful for his strength at such a moment. “I am glad you came back to us, Alan.”

  He didn’t look up, but his spoon paused for a moment. It was enough.

  Meg was not surprised by her mother’s tender care. But her father’s words were a revelation.

  “We are glad you are home, Alan. But there is much to be done to regain
our trust and restore your good name.”

  Her brother looked up from his plate, clearly taken aback.

  “When you’ve eaten your fill,” Father continued, “we shall discuss how you might seek gainful employment and so contribute to our household.”

  Meg wanted to cheer, to applaud, to kiss the cheek of a quiet father who’d suddenly discovered his voice. Where had he found such courage? Such strength? She knew the answer.

  Time would not allow even a moment of reflection, as the mantel clock reminded her. Minutes later she was standing at the door with Gordon and her parents, preparing to bid them farewell.

  “You will write to me,” her mother said, her lower lip trembling.

  Meg nodded. “And I will visit as often as I can so I might see how Alan is doing.” She looked toward the dining room. “I confess I am more worried about him now than I was when I thought he was still suffering from his injury.”

  “Aye,” her father agreed. “It will be some time before your brother is truly well.”

  Go to him. Meg felt a tugging deep within her. Forgive him, and comfort him.

  She excused herself, then slowly walked back into the dining room. Alan sat alone, his head bent, his plate empty. “Alan.” Her voice broke. “Alan … I’m so sorry.” Meg knelt beside his chair and eased her arms around him. “I wish your life had been different. But it still can be. And with God’s help, it will be.”

  “No one will understand,” he said, his voice strained. “No one will ever forgive me.”

  “I do.” Meg pressed her cheek to his shoulder. “I forgive you.”

  When she lifted her head, Alan looked like a wounded creature, his eyes clouded with pain. She kissed his cheek, then stood, reluctant to leave him in such a state. “Mother and Father will take good care of you. They always have.” She smoothed her hand across his matted hair. “I am your sister, Alan, and I will always love you. Never forget that.”

  When he looked away, she knew he’d heard her.

  Gordon appeared at the door. “Pardon me, but the train …”

  “Aye.” She nodded and followed him out, then bade her parents farewell once more before she and Gordon left for the railway station. By the time they reached Station Road, they were practically running.

  The same wavy-haired booking clerk greeted Meg at the window and exchanged her old ticket for a new one.

  “Sir, I have a trunk—”

  “Aye, you do.” He pointed across the office to a familiar black trunk with brass fittings. “I’ll have it aboard the four forty-three. Make haste, miss.”

  Gordon exchanged his ticket as well, retrieved his traveling bag, then escorted her across the platform and onto the train. “I see our seats are spoken for.” He nodded toward the front of the carriage where a family had claimed the first two rows.

  “No matter,” Meg said blithely. She picked a seat in the middle, making sure the one across from it was vacant.

  But Gordon sat next to her instead and nudged her toward the window with his shoulder. “An excellent choice.”

  Oh my. When Meg looked about the carriage, no one seemed the least bit interested in the unmarried couple daring to sit side by side. “You are sure—”

  “Very sure, Miss Campbell.” He brushed her hand so gently she might not have noticed. Except it was Gordon.

  He lowered his head until it touched hers. “Glasgow to Edinburgh is one hour by rail. That’s all that will separate us. A minor inconvenience, easily swept aside for the price of a return ticket. Aye?”

  “Aye.” Meg closed her eyes, overwhelmed. He made everything seem possible. And indeed it was.

  Gordon squeezed her hand as if he understood and felt just the same. “In the Highlands they say, ‘Christmas without snow is poor fare.’ ”

  “Is that so?” Meg looked up at him. “Then we have enjoyed a rich Christmas indeed.”

  AUTHOR NOTES

  It was winter; the night was very dark;

  the air extraordinary clear and cold,

  and sweet with the purity of forests.…

  For the making of a story

  here were fine conditions.

  ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

  Like many stories, this one began with a book—World Railways of the Nineteenth Century—picked up for a song at a used-book shop, then devoured for months until steam came pouring out. How I do love trains! As for the novella’s title, a wreath is not only something displayed during the festive season; it’s also the Scots word for “a bank or drift of snow.” Once I discovered that juicy tidbit, the story quickly took shape.

  Of all the years of Victoria’s long reign, I chose 1894 because it was exceptionally cold and snowy that December with a twelve-week frost beginning at Christmastide. Two resource books, both published in 1894, proved to be helpful as well: Murray’s Handbook for Travellers in Scotland and Mountain, Moor and Loch, with pen-and-pencil sketches of the West Highland Railway “made on the spot.” Love it.

  We also lost two significant literary figures in 1894, both mentioned within these pages: Robert Louis Stevenson died on December 3 and Christina Rossetti on December 29. The epigraph here was taken from Stevenson’s novel The Master of Ballantrae, which Meg briefly read on the train. Christina Rossetti, whose words appear as an epigraph for chapter 3, wrote “In the Bleak Midwinter” in response to a request from Scribner’s Monthly for a Christmas poem.

  To be certain our yuletide celebration in Victorian Scotland was historically accurate, I turned again and again to Marjory Greig’s wonderful resource, The Midwinter Music: A Scottish Anthology for the Festive Season. If you love that time period as much as I do, the British television production Bramwell might be your cup of tea. Set in 1895 London, the series aired on the PBS show Masterpiece Theatre a century later and is now available on DVD. The young Dr. Eleanor Bramwell served as a fine role model for our independent-minded Meg Campbell.

  It was pure joy to spend a research week in Stirling, Scotland, with my daughter, Lilly, exploring the hilly, crooked streets, snapping photos, watching Downton Abbey, and brainstorming about the Campbells of Albert Place. Those handsome sandstone cottages, built in the early years of Victoria’s reign, are still standing across from the public halls, which became known as the Albert Halls in 1896.

  If you’ve lived in or visited Stirling, you may be familiar with Allan Park South Church on Dumbarton Road, where Meg and her family worship on Christmas morning. Because we have a character named Alan and the Campbells reside in the adjoining King’s Park neighborhood, I chose to shorten the name to Park Church for A Wreath of Snow. The church, built in the mid-nineteenth century, is very much a going concern, and the many-paned rose window is indeed glorious.

  Many thanks go to Simon Dawdry, a talented artist in Scotland, for reproducing our vintage Stirling Railway Station in pen and ink. And to my New Zealand friend Marlene Dunsmore, a heartfelt hug for sharing a family wedding portrait that perfectly captured our Gordon and Meg and inspired me greatly. Such a handsome couple!

  Several editors and encouragers deserve extra kudos for their patience and support: Laura Barker, Carol Bartley, and Sara Fortenberry, your guidance is ever a blessing. My two favorite in-house editors—dear husband, Bill, and our talented son, Matt—kindly put their red pens to the first draft, and my favorite retired Scottish antiquarian bookseller, Benny Gillies, had a go at the second draft.

  Naturally, readers like you are why I do what I do. I hope you’ll visit the special fiction website I’ve created for you: www.MyScottishHeart.com. And if you’d like free autographed bookplates for any of my novels, simply contact me through my website or by mail:

  Liz Curtis Higgs

  P.O. Box 43577

  Louisville, KY 40253-0577

  You’ll find my photos of Stirling on Pinterest at www.Pinterest.com/LizCurtisHiggs and on Facebook at www.Facebook.com/MyScottishHeart.

  This holy season and always, may your heart overflow with the joy of knowing, loving, and ser
ving the One whose birth we celebrate. Until we meet again—whether in person, online, or across the page—you truly are a blessing!

  SCOTTISH SHORTBREAD

  Ingredients:

  ½ cup confectioners’ sugar

  ½ cup cornstarch

  1 cup all-purpose flour

  ¾ cup butter, softened

  1 tablespoon granulated sugar

  Instructions:

  Sift confectioners’ sugar, cornstarch, and flour together in a bowl. Add softened butter, using your hands to knead the mixture into dough. Wrap dough in plastic wrap, and refrigerate for no longer than 30 minutes.

  Press cold dough into the bottom of a greased 8 × 8 pan (round or square; glass is best). Bake at 325° for 30 minutes or until the edges are very lightly browned.

  Sprinkle granulated sugar across the top. Cool completely, then cut into 8 servings.

  At Christmas-tide the open hand

  Scatters its bounty o’er sea and land.

  And none are left to grieve alone,

  For Love is heaven and claims its own.

  MARGARET ELIZABETH SANGSTER

  READERS GUIDE

  I love everything that’s old—

  old friends, old times, old manners, old books.

  OLIVER GOLDSMITH

  1. With her vocation as a teacher and her town house in Edinburgh, our Victorian heroine has clearly embraced her independence, yet she feels an obligation to her family in Stirling as well. How do those two very different worlds impact the choices that Margaret Campbell makes? More than a century later, women are still trying to balance work and home. What tools or methods have you found useful in your life to handle the timeless challenge of multiple priorities?

  2. Gordon Shaw does many things right, yet he is still a flawed hero. What are his strengths, and when do you see them on display? What are his weaknesses, and when do they get in his way? How does the epigraph at the start of chapter 12—“I am not what I once was”—suit Gordon? Ideally, the protagonists of a story will experience some measure of emotional or spiritual growth from first page to last. What growth do you see in Gordon? In Meg? What do you imagine will happen next for them?