A Wreath of Snow Read Online Free

had he not noticed such details earlier?
    Her mouth was not shaped in an anguished O, nor were her blue eyes filled with tears as they had been on the curling pond twelve winters past. But Gordon had no doubt of her identity.
    The young woman seated across from him was Alan Campbell’s sister.

Chapter Three
    Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter, long ago.
    C HRISTINA R OSSETTI

M eg clasped her hands so tightly her fingers ached.
Spend the night in Stirling?
She could only imagine what her brother would say if she reappeared on Albert Place. Whatever the hour, whatever the weather, the train had to reach Edinburgh tonight.
    While many of the passengers collected their luggage and abandoned their seats, Meg smoothed her plaid wool scarf around her neck and settled in for the duration. She tried not to think about the mincemeat tarts at Stirling station. At least she’d had a cup of tea. And in one of her coat pockets was anapple that had traveled with her yesterday. She might be grateful for it by journey’s end.
    The second-class carriage grew decidedly quieter. Colder too. Beyond the slender glass windows, the wind howled down the tracks, pushing the snow like a plough. Only the mother with her small child remained aboard, along with the attractive bearded gentleman sitting across from Meg.
    When they’d exchanged glances earlier, Meg thought she’d noted a hint of interest on his part, so she’d responded in kind. But now he was merely staring at her, a look of distress on his face.
    When she could bear it no longer, Meg asked, “Is something wrong, sir?”
    He straightened at once, a tinge of red rising above his collar. “No, miss. I beg your pardon.” With a dutiful lift of his cap, he turned away.
    Meg sank back against the seat, wishing her tone had been gentler. Instead, she’d sounded like the teacher she was, questioning him as if he were a disruptive student.
    No wonder men kept their distance! Hadn’t they always, even before she went to university? Over the years her quick tongue and independent spirit had driven away the few suitors who’d knocked on her door. Most of the time she’d been relieved, but once or twice she’d been very sorry indeed.
    Inside the chest of drawers in her bedroom on Albert Place was a scarf she’d knitted years ago for a promising fellow named Peter Forsyth. After they’d walked out together several Sundays in a row, she’d made the handsome blue scarf for him, convinced they would be engaged by Martinmas. Later that autumn, when Mr. Forsyth stopped calling, the woolen scarf was hidden away, along with her disappointment.
    Then there was Mr. Wallace, who’d grown weary of her correcting his grammar and told her so. And Mr. Alexander, who’d briefly courted her until she admitted her fondness for tidy desks and freshly sharpened pencils. And provincial Mr. Duff, whose ardor waned when she confessed her longing to explore the world beyond Stirlingshire.
    If this red-haired gentleman’s interest in her was genuine, Meg feared she’d already put a stopper in it. Would she never learn?
    Meg sighed, then unbuttoned her coat long enough to consult the round silver watch pinned to her bodice.
Four thirty
. If Mr. McGregor was right, it could be more than an hour before they were under way. Only then did she remember the book she’d purchased at the station—
The Master of Ballantrae
, a slim, clothbound volume by the late Mr. Stevenson. Meg reached into her coat pocket to retrieve it, glad for the company of a story.
    But even Lord Durrisdeer’s century-old secret couldn’t hold her attention on such a night. After a few pages she slipped the novel into her satchel. Too much weighed on her heart—the endless snow, the uncertain delay, and most of all the painful conversation with her brother.
Grievous words stir up anger
. However long ago Meg had learned that proverb, she’d witnessed the truth of it this day.
    She shifted in her seat,