Page 13 of Christmas Wore Plaid

Chapter 3

“Why, that’s Brady MacInnes,” Clara said from across the room as she breezed into Emerson’s parlor for tea, still bundled in her cloak and muff. “Odd for him to be in town.”

Emerson put down her needlepoint and stood to greet her friend.

“He’s looking over here…sakes, he won’t take his eyes off your front door!” Clara continued. “He must know you’ve returned, which is why he’s come this way. What if he calls upon you?”

Emerson rolled her eyes. “Clara, I can always count on you for lively conversation. If he came to call, like a lady I would receive him for refreshments.”

They embraced each other and Emerson kissed her cheek, then stood back.

“He’s become so stern,” Clara continued as she removed the pins from her bonnet and handed them to Kate, the housekeeper. “Never a smile, never a kind word.” Clara handed off her muff and cloak, too, and lifted her babe out of his basket. “Still quite gentle on the eyes, though his hands are roughened from labor. He’s fallen quite a few rungs in the world.” Clara shook her head, as if genuinely concerned.

That will be the day, when Clara Ellsworth stops finding new ways to spin hunches into rumors. Clara hadn’t changed a bit. Emerson stifled her smile, then took Clara’s baby to plant a kiss upon his forehead, swallowing the tiny knot of grief that always snuck up on her when she least expected it. Her own babe had never had a chance.

“Look at this wee darling,” Emerson said, holding the wiggling bundle and returning to her seat by the window to hold him upon her lap. “Why, he’s gained a stone in just a few days!”

“I know, he eats like a champion wrestler—Goodness me, what is that filthy creature?” Clara gasped, pointing.

Emerson glanced at the street urchin she had brought home, now sleeping on the nearby settee with a blanket draped upon her. It must be the first time the child had felt warm and cozy in some time, if ever.

“A child begging alms at St. Fillan’s this morn,” Emerson said. “I brought her home to feed her.”

Clara shook her head again. “Emerson, I know you’ve become a respected philanthropist, but I never took you as a fool. What if she’s dangerous?”

“Dangerous?” Emerson chuckled. “Clara, she’s a child. How could she be dangerous?”

“Don’t be naïve, my dear,” Clara warned, reaching out to take her babe when he began to fuss. “She could be a thief, rob you blind. Look at your aunt’s fine things. Why, just one of those candlesticks could feed a creature like her for a month on the coin she could get from it.”

Emerson inhaled sharply to bite her tongue, but she’d always been told she could argue like a barrister, and sometimes, she said things she oughtn’t. “I’ll take the risk.”

“What will you do with her?”

“Give her a bath, I suppose, and dig out my old frocks from the attic, for she could use a decent dress,” Emerson shrugged. “What else should I do?”

“Give her a bath and dress her? Are you planning to keep the child?” Clara asked, baffled. “I just don’t understand, though you always did have a bleeding heart. But when she steals the silver and disappears, don’t say I didn’t warn you. What’s her name?”

“She cannot speak.” Emerson picked up her needle again.

“Cannot? Or will not?”

She dropped her needle to her lap once more. “Clara, she’s a tiny lass, not a criminal. She hasn’t known a single kindness. And since this is now my house, I shall offer my charity as I see fit, and honor my aunt’s memory in doing so. It’s the least I can do, and what many more ought to do, too.” She leveled a poignant look at her friend.

Clara glanced up at heaven and sighed once more, then resigned herself to stroke the downy wisps of her son’s golden hair with her palm.

“I had the pleasure of meeting Brady in town today.” Emerson changed the subject, daring to pick up her needlepoint again and resisting the urge to glance out the window.

Clara’s grin returned, for she never remained cross when there was something new to chat about. “Crawl under your skin, did he?”

Emerson gave into her curiosity and craned to peer around the wall and out the front window, ignoring Clara’s satisfied smile. Brady was nearly all the way up the road, looking at her house. Indeed, it’s as if he looks straight at you. For a moment, she couldn’t take her eyes off of him. He solved her problem and faced forward again, disappearing down the horizon.

“Maybe he did,” Emerson said. “What happened to him?”

“His parents died during his eighteenth year in a tragic carriage accident. He inherited the farms, the tenants, and the acreage just like that.” Clara snapped her fingers. “His plans to go to London were quashed. The laws saw him old enough to claim the inheritance without requirement of a guardian, but he had no idea what to do, and his father left him saddled with debts no one knew about. His betrothal to a Perthshire lass fell through after that, for he no longer had means. He grew up quickly.”

“I imagine he did,” Emerson croaked, her chest aching for him.

Poor Brady, his dreams dashed. No wonder he’d seemed so work-worn, though the proud, cold man she had met on the footpath would certainly hate to know he’d earned her pity.