Page 12 of Christmas Wore Plaid

“Pray the young ones were taken in, then?”

The constable nodded. “They tried to place as many babes and youngsters in the other workhouses, but in truth, they had to place many locally with families that agreed to rear the bairns as servant staff.”

“Which families? Do you have the files?” For by now, Brady had looked through all the files in front of him pertaining to children around five years and none of them were valuable leads.

“I think I do. Allow me to check.”

The constable removed himself to a back room, returning several minutes later.

“Here’s what I have. The records, apart from these, will be scant. I’m afraid there’s no other information.”

“My thanks,” Brady said, taking the proffered portfolios.

He sat back down and opened each file in turn upon his knee. Each family had been given a young child in September, three months prior. Only two of them might fit the age range for Colleen’s bastard son. Resolving himself to visit each household during the week, he stood to leave. If neither of them had taken in Colleen’s child, then his search would be at an end, and already he felt distress unsettle his stomach at the thought of disappointing the Widow Thomson. He had promised her he would do his best, but if these trails dried up, there were no other trails to follow.

Taking the two files and bidding the constable a good day, he departed and rounded up his horse from the stable. The days were short at midwinter, but if he left now, he would make it more than halfway home before nightfall. As he rode out of town, he guided his mount down the lane that passed Bess Lindt’s old stone house. Like a moth to a streetlamp, he felt compelled to travel this way. He had passed by it many times over the years. But this time, he couldn’t help staring at it, hoping for a glimpse of Emerson in a window. It was surrounded by a sweeping winter garden. A wreath of evergreens hung upon the door with a festive ribbon adorning it. Candles wavered behind the panes. No doubt, such a home made quite a holiday scene, blanketed in snow as smoke curled from the chimneys.

The idea of Emerson selling it and never returning sat like lead in his gut. He didn’t like the idea. Not at all. Then he got his wish. He saw Emerson’s big blue eyes peer out.

For several seconds, their gazes connected, before he turned to face forward in the saddle again and tapped his mount to trotting. She came from wealth and he could barely keep his peat fire burning. They might have come from the same world long ago, but they were from two different ones now. He’d never even left Scotland.