Free A Wreath of Snow by Liz Curtis Higgs Page B

pitcher on Meg’s washstand and the teacup on her bedside table, then gathered up the flannel dress. “I’ll not be long,” Clara promised and left as quietly as she’d come.
    Meg sat on the edge of the bed, sipping her tea, overcome with gratitude. In Edinburgh she had neither a lady’s maid nor a live-in servant, only a housekeeper, who came once a week. Piping hot tea delivered to her room? Ironing done by another pair of hands? Those were luxuries indeed.
    She’d scrubbed herself clean from head to toe by the time Clara returned with her flannel dress and troubling news. “Thetrains are not running from Stirling this morn, not in any direction.”
    Meg peered out the window into the darkened garden behind the house. “I cannot believe it’s still snowing.”
    “Aye, miss.”
    Her thoughts traveled down the hall to the small guest bedroom. It seemed Gordon Shaw would be with them through church, perhaps even for Christmas dinner. Would Alan see him by the light of day and realize who Gordon was?
    A nervous shiver ran down her spine, but she shook it off, refusing to entertain such fears. Nothing to be done but dress for the day and prepare her heart for whatever might come.
    “Shall we see if it still fits?” Meg slipped her arms into the separate bodice, with its boned seams and darts, then began fastening the myriad tiny hooks that held the garment together. An endless process, especially with her fingers trembling from the cold.
    Clara helped her step into the skirt, then tied the silk sash into a neat bow at her waist. “You look lovely, miss. The light gray suits your coloring.”
    Meg thought the bodice a bit snug, and one gilt button was missing from her cuff, but she’d not be ashamed when she went downstairs. In a matter of minutes Clara styled her hair, brushing it into a smooth chignon and pinning it at the nape of her neck.
    Pleased with the girl’s work, Meg caught Clara’s eye in the mirror. “I don’t suppose I could coax you into going back to Edinburgh with me?”
    Clara smiled at the compliment, but Meg knew she would never leave home. Clara’s entire family lived in Stirlingshire. For her, the capital was another world, best seen from a distance.
    Both women were soon tiptoeing down the stairs, trying not to wake the sleeping household. Clara returned to her duties in the kitchen while Meg stepped into the parlor, where a fire burned brightly, and the lamps gave the room a warm glow.
    She breathed in the familiar scent of evergreens and beeswax, then looked up to admire the spruce, which nearly touched the ceiling. The tree was trimmed with garlands of berries, delicate glass ornaments, and small white candles clipped onto the branches. An angel perched on top, brass trumpet in hand.
    Around the base of the tree lay a swath of red fabric with a cluster of mysterious packages waiting to be opened. They’d not been there last evening.
Bless you, Mum
. How many Christmas Eves had her mother slipped into the parlor to wrap gifts in brown paper and twine long after the rest of the household lay snug in their beds?
    Blinking away tears, Meg knelt by the few gifts she’d placed under the tree the night she’d arrived. None were expensive, yet she’d chosen them with care. As she picked up each one, makingcertain its tag was still in place, she thought of Gordon spending Christmas morning with strangers and not having a single present with his name on it.
    She eyed the two items she’d purchased for her brother, running her fingertip across the rough twine, weighing what might be done. As a boy, Alan would have gladly shared one of his gifts with a child who had none. Did she dare remove the tag and give the present to Gordon instead? She felt guilty even considering the idea, yet it seemed unfair for him not to have even one small gift to open.
    Wait
. Meg was on her feet in an instant and hurrying up the staircase.
Mr. Forsyth’s scarf
. When Meg pulled open the bottom drawer, the