Free A Wreath of Snow by Liz Curtis Higgs

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.
    Rather than speak down to him, Gordon dropped to one knee, giving Alan a fair chance to recognize him. “I’m honored to speak with you,” Gordon told him and meant it.
    A spark of anger lit the younger man’s eyes. “I can only imagine what our dear Meg has said about me.” His voice was laced with sarcasm, and bitterness hung over him like a cloud.
    Gordon wanted to say, “I’ve heard only good things,” but that wasn’t true. Margaret had made it clear that her brother’s company had become burdensome. Instead Gordon told him, “She has related very few details, I’m afraid,” to which the lad merely grunted.
    One thing was certain: Alan Campbell did not recognize him.
    After a moment Gordon stood, trying to shake off his disappointment. He’d wanted more than anything to apologize tonight. But he’d made a promise to Margaret that he would not break.
    “Forgive me,” Gordon said. “The hour is late, and your dinner has been delayed long enough.” He turned to the only person there who truly knew him and offered his arm. “Miss Campbell?”

Chapter Ten
    In a drear-nighted December …
About the frozen time.
    J OHN K EATS

E ven with the fireplace warming her back, Meg felt a marked chill in the dining room.
    She eyed her father at the head of the table, then Gordon seated at her elbow, then Alan across from them. The three men had barely spoken, Alan in particular. If he’d looked in her direction, Meg hadn’t noticed. What she did see were his dark eyebrows so tightly drawn they appeared knitted together and his frown deeply etched on his face.
    Her mother did what she could to brighten the mood by sharing the latest news from up and down Albert Place. Mr.Dunsmore, the watchmaker, had swallowed a tiny spring that dropped from his pocket into his porridge. An elderly neighbor, the sprightly Mrs. Thomson, had climbed all two hundred forty-six steps of the Wallace Monument on a dare. And Mr. Kirkwood had papered the Stewarts’ entire hallway with the floral print upside down.
    “Do not think me a gossip,” she cautioned Gordon, “for I report only those stories I know to be true.”
    Gordon assured her, “That is my credo as well, madam.”
    “Spoken like a true newspaperman,” Meg said, thinking to arouse the interest of her father or brother, both avid readers. But neither responded. The presence of a dinner guest had certainly stifled her brother’s ire, for which she was grateful. But he might yet recognize Gordon, even if she had not.
    The sooner they finished dinner, the sooner everyone could retire, and the risk of discovery would quite literally be put to bed. Gordon had promised to leave on the first train bound for Edinburgh. In a matter of hours, she could take a full breath again.
    At last Mrs. Gunn emerged from the kitchen prepared to serve the final dish of the night and receive her due appreciation from the family.
    “A fine meal, Mrs. Gunn.” Her mother beamed at the cook. “The chestnut soup was especially flavorful.”
    Mrs. Gunn bobbed her head in thanks, then circled thetable with her tempting plate of sweets—shortbread dusted with sugar and mincemeat tarts with pastry stars on the crust. Clara followed close on her heels, pouring fresh coffee.
    “Every course was delicious,” Meg told the round-shouldered cook. Mrs. Gunn’s silvery hair had escaped from beneath her cap, and her eyes were bleary.
Poor woman
. It was nearly midnight.
    When Mrs. Gunn served Alan, he didn’t bother to express his gratitude, yet he’d eaten numerous servings of salmon, pork, and pheasant, of turnips, carrots, and potatoes. Gordon, perhaps to make up for her brother’s silence, warmly commended Mrs. Gunn, though he’d taken only a few bites of her food.
    Too tired to eat, Meg supposed. Or upset over seeing Alan.
    Or disappointed that