Page 36 of Christmas Wore Plaid

“The child came with a legal parchment, which is kept in my office,” Laird Reginald said. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go to fetch it.”

He heaved up his portly belly and strode from the chamber, returning moments later with a portfolio in hand. He untied the lid and opened it, his expression turning grim. “Colleen Thomson, you say?”

A wash of gooseflesh rippled up Brady’s arms and hope, like he’d felt with Emerson, burgeoned anew. Laird Reginald held it out. Brady took the proffered document, skimming the jargon, until his eyes landed upon a phrase:

“Alexander Thomson, boy. Age: five years.

Mother: Colleen Thomson, formerly of Aberfeldy Manor. Unwed.”

The paperwork had been wrong! It was a lass named Alexandria, not a lad named Alexander. That confusion had likely been the culprit for the rest of the misunderstanding!

“And you let her go?” he growled accusingly at the maid. “Did you see the lass steal food?”

Matilda had enough sense to look ashamed.

“If I recall,” Lady Reginald interjected, “she was quite plain, and thin as a wire as if she hardly ate at all.”

“Maybe she stole food because she hungered,” Brady reasoned, tamping down his distress. “Maybe the other children took her food and left her with nothing and because she couldn’t speak, they made her the scapegoat. Maybe you believed the other children’s accusations. What did she look like?” he demanded.

“Brown eyes and ginger hair, my laird.”

Ginger hair. Brown eyes. Painfully thin. Colleen’s hair had been ginger. Exactly what the mute lass looked like in Emerson’s care. God bless sweet Emerson for taking her in. Excitement coursed through him, knowing he might have solved an unsolvable puzzle as well as anxiousness to see Emerson again. He clamped shut his teeth to further quell his anger at the maid. He needed to confirm his suspicion.

“This child, Alexandria, was born into a brothel, lost her mother, and was dumped in an orphanage. She hungers, and was once again dumped upon a stranger at the sweet age of five when the only home she’d ever known shuttered. Sakes, woman, but she’s been nothing short of shocked. No wonder she cannot speak. And you whipped her?”

Laird and Lady Reginald looked strictly at the maid, who spoke. “My apologies. I’m sorry, but I have my own children’s mouths to feed, too. I couldn’t afford her.”

“Can I borrow a gig?” Brady turned to the laird. “So I might take Matilda to Emerson Pritchard’s house?”

Lady Reginald’s brow crinkled. “Bess Lindt’s niece?”

“Aye. She’s taken in a street urchin, and the child is exactly as Matilda describes in looks and speech. I need to confirm that the child in these documents is the same one Lady Emerson fosters, for if it is, then it means I’ve had a Christmas miracle and will be bringing good news to the child’s grandmother.”

“Indeed, Laird MacInnes.” Reginald turned to the butler who waited patiently along the wall. “Tell the coachman to ready a gig for Laird MacInnes and Tilly.”

Brady drove in silence to Bess Lindt’s home as the afternoon sun descended quickly to twilight. Alighting from the gig and helping down the maid, they entered through the street gates of Bess’s house and walked up the path. Snow sat in pillows upon the eaves. Christmastide candles flickered within the windows and smoke curled invitingly from the chimneys.

He banged the knocker beneath the wreath and waited, taking deep breaths while he rubbed his gloved hands together. The door drew open.

“Laird MacInnes,” the housekeeper said. “A pleasure—and a surprise—to see you again so soon. Do come in.”

“My thanks, Kate,” he greeted, knowing from the housekeeper’s confused expression that she was wondering why a common maid had accompanied him. “May I speak with the Lady Emerson, please? I know the hour grows late, but it’s important.”

“Indeed, sir, let me announce you.”

She disappeared up the main corridor and entered through closed doors into a private parlor. Moments later, she returned and came to him. “May I take your coat, sir?”

“Nay, but thank you. I won’t stay long.”

“Follow me.”

He checked over his shoulder to ensure that Matilda was also following, and strode after the housekeeper, who opened the private doors.

“The Laird MacInnes is here to see you,” she said.

Brady entered, taking in the warm image of Emerson piled upon the floor before the roaring hearth in a heap of skirts. She had kicked her slippers aside, wearing only stockings, as she and the child in question put together a puzzle on the rug with a doll cast on the floor beside her. He smiled. He wanted this woman and the child had brought them together again when his insecurities had pushed them apart. The child was dressed in a lace dress bound in the back by a pink sash, and her hair was curled in ringlets, tied back with a bow.

It was unladylike for Emerson to sprawl upon the floor, but then again, Emerson had never been bound by social constraints. He’d always loved her for it.