Page 18 of Christmas Wore Plaid

Chapter 4

Brady rode across the field, cutting through the cluster of sheep huddled against a rock outcropping. The midday clouds threatened snow, though he had much to do before he quit for the day. His coat hung open and his shirt was loose at the neck, his neckerchief slackened. There was little point in appearing to rights when he faced a typical day of labor. He arrived at an old bothy with a bag of flour for the Widow Thomson resting over his palfrey’s withers.

Dismounting, he heaved down the sack and tossed it upon his shoulder, walking to the door. He rapped upon the wood, then stepped back. A young woman opened to him.

“Good day, my laird.” She bobbed a curtsey.

“And to you.” He could see the old woman sitting upon a chair next to the hearth. A peat slab was burning, and only one more remained beside her. I’ll have to restock her supply. She turned to him, bundled in her husband’s old coat with her cane at her feet.

“Mrs. Thomson,” he said, entering.

Normally, the woman forced a hollow smile and a bow of the head, but finding out that her daughter, Colleen, had birthed a child, had tattered the remains of her grief-sore heart. Her eyes were rimmed red and the woman who answered the door went to kneel beside her and hold her hand.

The widow dragged a rag across her nose. “Laird MacInnes,” she said, her voice warbling. “Have you any news about my grandson from your journey into Crieff yesterday?”

Brady brought his fist to his mouth and cleared his throat, buying a moment’s time to think of an answer before doling out disappointment. He dropped the flour to the floor against the wall.

“The constable had more records from the orphanage. Unfortunately, none of them identified a child either born to a Colleen Thomson or of the correct age.”

The woman looked down, despair slumping her further.

“However, there are a couple of new leads I’m looking into. When the orphanage closed this past autumn, they placed several children with local families to be raised as servants.”

The Widow Thomson looked back up. “So there’s still hope?”

He forced a smile, forced away the hardness furrowing his brow at the inevitable heartbreak that would come. He only had these two viable leads, and the chances of those being fruitful were slim. “There’s an inkling. All isn’t lost yet.”

The woman nodded, smiling with renewed hope, as if he’d thrown her a raft in a turbulent sea.

“If the lad lives, it would be a piece of my Colleen. With my husband gone, the lad is all I have left.”

“I know,” Brady said, unable to console her differently.

He remembered how frustrated his father had been when Colleen refused to come home, swearing that her parents didn’t want to put food on their table with money from such a trade. But still, she’d refused, and died of disease for it. Then came the rumors, that first his father, and then maybe even he, of all people, had sired a bastard child upon her, for why else would his father search so hard for a brothel whore unless she was pregnant with their bloodline? Ridiculous of course. No one had known Colleen was pregnant at the time. He’d been a heartsick lad of sixteen mourning the loss of Emerson Lindt. How could they think he’d do such a thing? Or that his father had been unfaithful to his mother? Of course, they were just rumors, but rumors had a way of stinging, and small towns and hamlets loved to weave tales without any substance to back up the claims.

Let them talk. I stopped caring long ago what people think of me. The odds that one of the children in those portfolios was Colleen’s, sired by some Perthshire gentleman or scourge passing through on the highroad, were poor. Still. They were odds. It wouldn’t be a lost cause until all leads had been exhausted.

“Thank you, sir,” the widow said. “And bless you for taking such good care of us.”

He turned away so she wouldn’t see the grimace settle on his face, but she may as well have gouged his heart with a pick ax. He didn’t deserve such praise when he couldn’t alleviate her pain. He certainly didn’t deserve her gratitude.

The Widow Thomson tried to stifle further crying. “I pray that the lad lives, and that we’ll be reunited. A babe tossed into an orphanage without his mother might have died,” she sniffled. “My poor, poor Colleen.”

“There now, there’s no way you could care for a bairn,” the other woman said. It offered the widow no comfort. “I’m sure the child thrives and has been adopted into a fine home. The babes are always the ones to get adopted first, and the orphanage probably lost the records when they closed.”

Rooted in place, Brady pondered. It was unlikely that Colleen’s babe had even survived but if he had, what if he had been adopted and had a good life now? It would be cruel to demand the child be relinquished to an impoverished life with a decrepit grandmother.

“I’ll look into the matter,” he finally ground out. “Perhaps I’ll uncover some clues as to the bairn’s name and where he ended up.”

He would need a Christmas miracle.

“My thanks.” The widow looked up with such hope in her eyes, he knew he couldn’t fail.

“Of course.” He delivered a stout nod. “I’ll investigate the matter further tomorrow. Hopefully, I’ll learn something useful.”

As he strode to his horse now lipping at dormant grass against a field enclosure, snow flurries dusted down, settling along the edges of the path. He thought about Emerson, so willing to help that child in the churchyard. There were many orphans like her in these rough times, abandoned for various reasons, and no records existed for most of them. Finding Colleen’s lad was like searching for a needle not just in a haystack, but in an entire hayloft. He’d been hard on Emerson before he’d realized who she was, but even now, Emerson remained charitable and kind, even if it did little good—Common sense jarred him: it had done a world of good for that small lass.

Of course she wrote to you like she promised she would. When has she ever been unkind?