Page 6 of Christmas Wore Plaid

Chapter 2

12 December, 1841—Seven years later

“And one for you…and for you…”

Emerson handed out each coin while the parishioners gave alms, her eyes roving over the faces filling St. Fillan’s churchyard beyond the wrought iron gates. Years had passed since she had stood here as a girl, helping her aunt on Christmas day pass out coats. Now, here she was, passing out alms in dear Bess’s memory.

There was more poverty than she remembered from childhood. The Highland clearances seemed never-ending, having stretched on for decades sending folk into the towns, searching for work and alms. Crieff, an old frontier village known more for its gallows, wasn’t a town swelling with wealth, and there was already so little to give. “A sophisticated port of culture, to be sure…” She’d always known Crieff was a roughened town. But how had she been so sheltered from the extent of it as a lass, frolicking at parties and attending school? Her Aunt Bess had always helped the charities with both her monies and her efforts, and yet, every night, Emerson had gone to bed snug and cozy in the world, shielded from the need.

She shook off the melancholy provoked by thoughts of Brady MacInnes’s words. Brady had never once written her after she had moved to Apple Grove in Oxford. He’d not cared about her nearly as much as she’d thought. She had promised him marriage once upon a time. She’d written him letter after letter, with silence as her response. Heartbroken, she’d listened each day for the butler to deliver her uncle’s correspondences, praying that a letter sat on his silver tray for her. Eventually, she’d given up hope. Then, three years later, Clara wrote and mentioned that Brady was pursuing a courtship with another…and the air had left Emerson’s lungs.

Her uncle had refused to allow her to return home to Scotland. He’d said he’d always thought it improper for a young lady to live with a spinster, with no father figure to ensure her well-being. And because scarlet fever had forever weakened her stamina, she’d been withdrawn from school and given a proper governess. Life had become lonely. Play-acting was out of the question, and she’d been expected to express her artistic whims in the form of embroidery, painting, and music. After reading about Brady’s courtship, she hadn’t been so sure she wanted to return to Aunt Bess anymore.

It’sin the past now. I’ve moved on.

She looked around, refusing to feel saddened by her memories, for it had been a long time ago that she had read Clara’s fateful letter and felt her heart shatter. Life had been good to her since, even if those she loved now rested dead. It had been a shock to arrive here a few days ago and see the state of the town. The pitiful faces and wavering arms begged mercilessly. It had been even more of a shock to see how the gentry and lords looked down upon the paupers and ignored their plight. She looked into her purse. It was already empty, save one final penny. Spindly fingers protruded between the iron bars that protected the parishioners from the throngs of poor, a sea of people she couldn’t possibly help.

“Please, my lady. Only one coin. To buy me wee grandbairn here a pasty.”

Emerson looked at the old woman, her mouth mostly devoid of teeth and what few she still had, grey with decay. She held a scarf around her head as her arm stretched through the bars, clasping Emerson’s sleeve. Beyond her, Emerson saw the façade of the old theatre, a stone building now used as a town meeting hall. An odd pang lurched in her chest. The Dollar Academy’s production of Romeo and Juliet was supposed to have been performed there. So many memories of that play and the lad who was supposed to take the stage opposite her, all of them unrequited. She’d cried when she was pulled from the play. She’d cried when Uncle Frederick informed her that she would remain at Apple Grove. That fateful day as the carriage had pulled away from Aunt Bess’s drive had been the last time she had seen Brady and heard his empty promises shouted so sincerely at her back. It had also been the last time she had seen her Aunt Bess.

Would she see Brady again now that she was back? Would she see his wife and children in town, or at church? No MacInnes had been at church today. Perhaps he had swept his wife off on some rich adventure to see the world, as he had once said he wished to do with her.

Enough about that. She shook herself from the distant memories that no longer hurt, but were bittersweet nonetheless. She’d married Corbin Pritchard. Corbin had been wonderful to her, even if their marriage had been cut short.

Emerson freed her sleeve from the woman’s clinging, and noticed the child in front of her with a raggedy scarf around her shoulders. The bodies heaved against her, pushing her tiny limbs against the bars. Ruddy and smudged, the lass’s ginger hair was matted and her face was gaunt, not nearly chubby enough for good health. Was she four years? Maybe five? The poor street urchin. The poor grandmother.

A coin would do little to steer them off their path of hardship, but it would indeed buy them a moment’s bread to ease their discomfort. And not even a coat? The air in Crieff was icy today, the dirt streets hardened by the freezing temperatures. She had lived a rich life in Oxford after scarlet fever had stripped everything from her. Everything had changed when she’d been bundled into the back of that carriage while the household servants piled her bedlinens into a burn pile in the back garden. Look at what Scotland was coming to.

I will do as my auntie once did, and petition the townsfolk to donate their old coats at the MacInnes’s annual Christmas Party. And I’ll distribute them on Christmas day, just as she always did. Would the MacInnes family invite her this year, now that she had returned? It would be insulting if they didn’t, and Lady MacInnes had always been the epitome of polite. She could bear seeing Brady and his wife, couldn’t she? Of course she could. Their past was long ago and meant nothing, if he’d never bothered to lift a pen and write as he’d vowed to do.

Stop dwelling on this childhood fancy.

There were more pressing things to attend to: selling her aunt’s home, and helping this elderly woman and her miserable granddaughter. Aunt Bess had passed in the autumn, and her estates and house needed management. An appraiser had already been summoned and was writing up his report.

The wind blew in a frigid gust. She shivered. These northerly winters were brutal indeed. She’d forgotten how bitter the temperature. She looked into the old woman’s eyes and pressed the coin into her palm.

“I haven’t any more than this,” she said. “Please buy your granddaughter something to eat—”

The old woman bolted away, abandoning the child.

“Madam!” Emerson called. “Madam!”

The child looked up at her, her brown eyes wide and hollow.

“Wasn’t that your grandmother?”

The girl shook her head, and a wash of anger at being so duped flooded Emerson’s veins as the deacon came outside to shoo the beggars away.

“That’s all!” he yelled, clanking his key in the gate so he might enter the yard and ward off the stragglers. “No more alms today!”

Helpless, Emerson looked around. There was no recourse. The woman had lied and stolen bread right out of the child’s mouth. Disappointed utterances came from the remaining beggars, and they finally began to leave at the deacon’s harping. The child began to cry.

“I’m so sorry, wee one, that was all the money I brought,” she said, bending down. The least Emerson could do was invite the lass home and see that her cook put a warm meal in her belly. “There now. No tears, darling. Come home with me. I’ll see you fed a proper meal. Such would be a boon better than the stale bread a penny would buy, wouldn’t it?”

She pulled loose her kerchief from her cuff and dabbed at the child’s eyes through the bars. Her heart squeezed, for the girl was quite alone and unwanted, and her other hand mindlessly palmed her stomach, feeling her own loss. A child born to Corbin posthumously. A child born still and blue, with a weak heart like her father’s.

“Indeed, come.” She stood and walked through the gate, taking up the child’s hand.