against metal filling the frosty air.
Meg paused at the bookstall next to platform three, thinking a novel might offer a welcome distraction. She quickly made a selection, then approached the rosy-cheeked cashier dispensing tea and coffee. A whirl of snow blew across the railway platform and around Meg’s calfskin walking boots. The weather definitely was not improving. Some Decembers in Stirling were snowy, others merely cold. The winter she had turned fifteen, they’d had flakes the size of shillings and had measured the snow in feet.
She ordered tea with milk and sugar, eying the currant buns and sweet mincemeat tarts displayed beneath a bell jar. Later, perhaps, when her appetite returned. At the moment, her stomach was twisted into a knot.
“Anything else for you?” the cashier asked as she handed over the tea, steaming and fragrant.
Meg was surprised to find her fingers trembling when she lifted the cup. “All I want is a safe journey home.”
“On a day like this?” the round-faced woman exclaimed. “None but the Almighty can promise you that, lass.”
Chapter Two
I’ve that within—
for which there are no plasters!
D AVID G ARRICK
G ordon Shaw stood at the far end of the railway platform beyond the roof, his footprints hidden under a fresh layer of snow. He grimaced at the irony.
Covering your tracks, eh?
No one had noticed him slip into Stirling early that morning, as dark as it was. He’d exited the train, pulled his tweed cap low over his brow, and walked with purpose to Dumbarton Road.
Even after twelve years, Stirling was quite as he’d remembered: an overcrowded hill town filled with endless regrets.He’d not wanted to return, not even for one day. But what could he tell his newspaper editor without raising suspicion? Best to do the work and keep his wretched past to himself.
By noon he’d finished his assignment and had stuffed a sheaf of notes into his traveling bag. Last Thursday a photographer from the
Glasgow Herald
had captured a fair likeness of his interview subject. Nothing remained but writing the article itself. That could be easily handled once he arrived in Edinburgh, where another interview awaited him after Boxing Day.
“Surely you’ll not spend Christmas at the Waterloo Hotel,” his editor had said with an incredulous look on his face.
Gordon had shrugged, pretending not to mind. “Clean sheets, hot meals. As good as home, though don’t tell Mrs. Wilson I said so.” His housekeeper tidied his four rooms each weekday afternoon, then left a warm supper for him in the oven and the table set for one. He usually read the
Scotsman
while he dined, too absorbed with the rival newspaper to dwell on how quiet it was in his parlor.
As for the holidays, they were best spent elsewhere, keeping his mind off all that he’d lost and could not regain. In his lodging house he was surrounded by furnishings that had once belonged to his parents—the oak sideboard, the brass and copper table lamps, the blue-and-white china lining the picture rail, the upholstered sofa with its rich fabric and deep buttoning, the corner whatnots with their many shelves. Though he’d notspent a penny of his inheritance, Gordon was grateful to use the household goods he’d known so well. On most days they were a comfort to him. But not at Christmastide.
Last December he’d found an excuse to head for Dumfries. This year it was Stirling, then Edinburgh. Leaving Glasgow for a few days provided another benefit: Mrs. Wilson would celebrate the Lord’s birth with her family rather than fret over him.
He peered down the tracks, listening intently, his gloved hands fisted inside his coat pockets, the
Stirling Observer
tucked under one arm. Though the southbound train was due any moment, the heavy snow made it difficult to tell if the engine was approaching. As other passengers began moving onto the platform, he turned his back toward them and hunched his shoulders closer to his ears, willing the train
Meg paused at the bookstall next to platform three, thinking a novel might offer a welcome distraction. She quickly made a selection, then approached the rosy-cheeked cashier dispensing tea and coffee. A whirl of snow blew across the railway platform and around Meg’s calfskin walking boots. The weather definitely was not improving. Some Decembers in Stirling were snowy, others merely cold. The winter she had turned fifteen, they’d had flakes the size of shillings and had measured the snow in feet.
She ordered tea with milk and sugar, eying the currant buns and sweet mincemeat tarts displayed beneath a bell jar. Later, perhaps, when her appetite returned. At the moment, her stomach was twisted into a knot.
“Anything else for you?” the cashier asked as she handed over the tea, steaming and fragrant.
Meg was surprised to find her fingers trembling when she lifted the cup. “All I want is a safe journey home.”
“On a day like this?” the round-faced woman exclaimed. “None but the Almighty can promise you that, lass.”
Chapter Two
I’ve that within—
for which there are no plasters!
D AVID G ARRICK
G ordon Shaw stood at the far end of the railway platform beyond the roof, his footprints hidden under a fresh layer of snow. He grimaced at the irony.
Covering your tracks, eh?
No one had noticed him slip into Stirling early that morning, as dark as it was. He’d exited the train, pulled his tweed cap low over his brow, and walked with purpose to Dumbarton Road.
Even after twelve years, Stirling was quite as he’d remembered: an overcrowded hill town filled with endless regrets.He’d not wanted to return, not even for one day. But what could he tell his newspaper editor without raising suspicion? Best to do the work and keep his wretched past to himself.
By noon he’d finished his assignment and had stuffed a sheaf of notes into his traveling bag. Last Thursday a photographer from the
Glasgow Herald
had captured a fair likeness of his interview subject. Nothing remained but writing the article itself. That could be easily handled once he arrived in Edinburgh, where another interview awaited him after Boxing Day.
“Surely you’ll not spend Christmas at the Waterloo Hotel,” his editor had said with an incredulous look on his face.
Gordon had shrugged, pretending not to mind. “Clean sheets, hot meals. As good as home, though don’t tell Mrs. Wilson I said so.” His housekeeper tidied his four rooms each weekday afternoon, then left a warm supper for him in the oven and the table set for one. He usually read the
Scotsman
while he dined, too absorbed with the rival newspaper to dwell on how quiet it was in his parlor.
As for the holidays, they were best spent elsewhere, keeping his mind off all that he’d lost and could not regain. In his lodging house he was surrounded by furnishings that had once belonged to his parents—the oak sideboard, the brass and copper table lamps, the blue-and-white china lining the picture rail, the upholstered sofa with its rich fabric and deep buttoning, the corner whatnots with their many shelves. Though he’d notspent a penny of his inheritance, Gordon was grateful to use the household goods he’d known so well. On most days they were a comfort to him. But not at Christmastide.
Last December he’d found an excuse to head for Dumfries. This year it was Stirling, then Edinburgh. Leaving Glasgow for a few days provided another benefit: Mrs. Wilson would celebrate the Lord’s birth with her family rather than fret over him.
He peered down the tracks, listening intently, his gloved hands fisted inside his coat pockets, the
Stirling Observer
tucked under one arm. Though the southbound train was due any moment, the heavy snow made it difficult to tell if the engine was approaching. As other passengers began moving onto the platform, he turned his back toward them and hunched his shoulders closer to his ears, willing the train
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