Snowstorms & Sleigh Bells: A Stitch in Time holiday novella

by Kelley Armstrong

  I should have loved to bring my sword, but I fear they are quite out of fashion in Victorian England. I wonder if it is different in the twenty-first century? One can only hope. Although, I suppose, any world that requires such weaponry also implies a great deal of danger, which would be . . . I know I ought to say “distressing” but the word that keeps coming to mind is “exhilarating.”

  No matter. I am ready, with both pen and blade, which is all one really needs in the world.

  I lift my chin and march into what is clearly an office. When I glimpse a notebook on the desk, I must steel against the temptation to read it. I have a purpose, and it is—for once—far more exciting than reading.

  I am Miranda Hasting, also known as Randall Dash, to the literary world. All right. “Literary” world may be an exaggeration, given the snide remarks I’ve had the misfortune to read in reference to my novels, but they sell well enough that my fifty pounds was pocket change, left lying in my drawer at home.

  So, let me try that again.

  I am Miranda Hasting, aka Randall Dash, writer of adventurous tales of lady pirates with quick swords and quicker tongues, and I am about to dive into the deepest well of creative inspiration.

  The future awaits.

  I stride into the room, head high as I ready myself for the machine . . .

  There is no machine.

  I stop and look about. There is nothing in the room resembling a machine.

  That must be a metaphor. Not an actual “machine” but a device that opens the door into another world. With that, I know exactly where to find it.

  My gaze turns to a shelf stuffed with books. Doors into other worlds, indeed. I take three steps, diverting past an awkwardly placed chest and—

  I smack into the foot of a bed. Which would be far more embarrassing had there been a bed there a moment ago.

  There was no bed in this room. And now there is.

  I have done it. I have crossed into the future.

  The future!

  I take a deep breath and, heart tripping, feet bouncing, I pivot, taking in the wonders of the . . .

  Well, that’s disappointing.

  There’s no other way to put it. I might say devastating, but I am too optimistic to make that drastic a determination yet. I am standing in a room that is just a room. A rather dull room, even.

  It’s a small bed chamber, so I must presume that in the future, either two-year-old Amelia Thorne has moved out of the nursery or this room has been set aside for guests. I hope it is the latter. The girl I know is as cherished by her parents as my sisters and I had been by ours, and the nursery Amelia shares with her baby sister is a perfect doll house. This room is . . . I turn, wrinkling my nose. Drab. That is the best word for it. Not unpleasant or even uncomfortable, but simply drab. A guest room then.

  What is truly disappointing is certainly not that the room is dull but that it is all so very ordinary.

  I have tried to imagine the future, ever since I learned my sister could travel there. To do so, I conducted a mind experiment based on the past. The twenty-first century is approximately a hundred and fifty years from my time. So I must cast my mind back a hundred and fifty years, considering all the ways the world has changed, and I should expect it to change at least that amount for the future.

  Yet, when I look around this room, I see nothing unexpected. There’s a fireplace that has not yet been converted to a coal-burning hearth. There are oil lamps and candles. Whatever became of that marvel known as gas lighting? Did it make houses explode, as people swore it would? Then my gaze stops on one particular item: a basin discretely tucked half under the bed.

  I stare at it in horror. Not all the things I had been so certain would be improved within the next century, personal sanitation sat near the top of the list. I’d dreamed of deep bathing tubs with steaming hot water that flows like magic and the end—surely the end—of the horrors of the water closet. But no, in the future they are still using bed-chamber pots? Tell me it is not so.

  I roll my shoulders and straighten. No matter. There must be a reason why people of the future relieve themselves in chamber pots at night. And why they haven’t converted every hearth to coal. And why they are not yet using gas lighting. All will be explained, and I am certain there are marvels I cannot imagine yet to come. Rosalind and August would hardly travel to this time if it did not hold delights. I simply must discover them for myself, starting with leaving this room.

  I open the door, which looks exactly like the door in my world, right down to the lock.

  Enough of that. It is a house. People do not tear them down and rebuild when fashions change. I have stayed in everything from a modern London flat to one that belonged back in Elizabethan times, right down to the decor.

  I march to the top of the stairs and—

  A clatter from below. A clatter, and then an oath.

  I go still and listen. A muttering sounds after the oath, and while it’s too low to recognize it as more than a man’s voice, I know it is not William Thorne. He does curse, but the muttering is distinctly not his style. Also, William is in London with his family.

  So who is downstairs?

  In my time, the Thornes employ a shockingly small amount of staff for their social station. They are private people, which I can understand. I am often mistaken for being exceedingly outspoken and talkative, but when I am at home, I very much enjoy the quiet, closing my door even against Portia. Only when I am alone can I truly relax and be myself, and the Thornes have fashioned a cocoon where they do employ others—as they should, given their wealth—but they do not have the army of staff one might expect.

  If I am correct, they have a housekeeper, a part-time nanny and a stableboy. What would they employ in the future? Perhaps their twenty-first century housekeeper is male. I should like to think such a thing is possible—the dream of a world where I would not need to write adventure tales under a man’s name and Portia would not need to sneak into medical lectures dressed as a boy.

  While I would adore a future where I could draw a bath at a whim or flick a switch and have a hearth magically ignite, I would happily forgo those creature comforts for one where a man could be a housekeeper or a woman a stable-hand, if they so desired.

  That is, I decide, what has happened in this future. Not industrial advances but social ones. And if anyone were to hire a male housekeeper—or male nanny—it would be the Thornes.

  That does, however, still raise the question of what I am to do about this unexpected resident. I still need to borrow clothing and orient myself in the future world before I leave the house, and yet I cannot remain with someone here.

  I will begin by confirming that it is indeed a member of the indoor staff. Otherwise, if it is a groundskeeper or stable-hand, I need but wait for his departure.

  I take the steps one at a time, all the while tracking the noises, which emanate from the kitchen, further suggesting a housekeeper. He seems to be fixing lunch, the curse coming when he dropped something.

  I consider my routes. Then I crouch down, waddling duck-like into the parlor. Thorne Manor is not overly large. It is, after all, a summer house, though the Thornes have made it their year-round abode. The large country parlor leads into the kitchen at the back of the house, and I position myself behind the sofa and adjust until I am on an angle to see through the open kitchen door and—

  Oh, my. That is a sight.

  2

  Were I to hire a male housekeeper, his appearance would not play into my decision, no more than if I were hiring a stableboy. I know many a lord of the manor who insists on “helping” choose house maids. Even if they do not intend to prey on them, they choose the pretty ones as they might choose a pleasing piece of art. It is pleasant to gaze upon and reflects well on their taste. Some women also take a hand in choosing grooms and valets. That is equating people with possessions, which is undeniably wrong. If I were to choose a male housekeeper, I would do so based entirely on his skills.

 
That is real life. In books, though, there is a place for the handsome groom in tight riding trousers who will ask if there is any other way he can be of service to his lady, and that lady, if she is possessed of my imagination, will know endless ways they might enjoy one another’s company, so long as he is equally enamored of the idea because otherwise . . . Well, I cannot see the appeal of “otherwise”—of a groom who would only offer because he felt obligated. No, in a proper romantic novel, he must be as enthusiastic about the idea as I am. Er, as the lady of the house is, I mean.

  The point is that, if I were to conjure up a fantastical male housekeeper, the man in the kitchen would fill that role in every physical way. Tall and well-built with his sleeves rolled up to show leanly muscled forearms. A perfectly sculpted jawline. I am very fond of jawlines, being more fond only of eyes, and from what I can see, his are the richest brown. Dark curled hair cut very short. His skin is also dark, and I have no fetish about that—I’ve known women who do—but nor do I care what color the covering on such a fine-looking man. It does, however, make me reflect that if the future is forward-thinking enough to cast men in the role of housekeeper, one might also think it would cast darker skinned people in roles other than household staff, but I suppose even the future cannot be perfect.

  While I can see enough of the man to know I would like to keep gazing on him indefinitely, he is still partly cast in shadow, and I can make out only his upper body as he sits, eating his lunch. While something about him seems familiar, I cannot imagine what it is, and I decide he must vaguely remind me of someone I’ve met.

  He is not so much eating his lunch as devouring it with a gusto that makes me hunger for something other than food.

  Enough of that, Miranda. You may indulge in such thoughts later, when seeking inspiration for your next novel. The point is that this man is the Thorne’s housekeeper and . . .

  And why am I so certain he’s the housekeeper?

  That was an arbitrary role I’d assigned him when I first heard noises. Yet now I’m looking upon the man and . . . I don’t see a housekeeper.

  He’s sitting at a work table in the kitchen, where he’s pulled over a stool as a seat. He’s plowing through thick pieces of bread stuffed with meat. There’s a cup at his side and from here I can smell ale. When I glance under the table, I note a remarkable pair of boots, with gleaming coppery buckles.

  Those boots . . .

  Where have I seen—

  The man shoves back the stool with a squeak. When I glance up, I still can’t make him out entirely, but there is something very familiar hanging at his side.

  Is that a sword?

  I blink and pull back. Mere moments ago, I’d been inwardly joking about dwellers of the future carrying swords. Now I see one with a sword?

  I give my head a shake. I’m mistaken. I must be. That is some modern implement at his side where another might carry a sword. Even in my day one hardly sees them outside of a gymnasium.

  I lift my head just as he reaches for something on the table. Something embedded in the table. It’s a bone-handled knife with the tip wedged into the cutting-block tabletop.

  That is not a housekeeper, Miranda.

  It is a . . .

  Well, I’m not certain of the specifics. He is far too well-dressed to be a vagrant, and he does not strike me as a thief. Not a common thief, that is.

  He grabs the knife and flips it, nimble and confident, at ease playing with a deadly weapon. He gives it a twirl and then sticks it into a sheath at his side.

  A well-dressed, well-groomed man, confidently playing with a knife as if it is a mere tool. A tool of the trade.

  Not a common thief, yes, but this is not a common home. One would need to be exceedingly confident to break into a house such as this. And to not only break in but help oneself to lunch.

  A gentleman thief.

  A highwayman.

  My heart does a little flutter even as I hear Portia telling me there is no such thing as a gentleman thief. No real-life Robin Hoods, stealing from the rich to give to the poor. If I ever did meet a highwayman, I’d be vastly disappointed, finding myself in the clutches of a smelly ruffian with filthy fingers plucking at my jewelry.

  Perhaps, but that is in the present. Perhaps in the future, such creatures have sprung from the pages of melodrama and taken shape.

  Either way, the important part here is that this man is not the housekeeper, and he is in the Thorne’s house, with a knife, while they are in London.

  I must drive him out. While there is always the temptation to run at him, a knife in each hand as I snarl in fury, it doesn’t work as well as one might expect, at least not when one is a plump young woman with blond curls and, apparently, an angelic countenance. I have channeled my inner Valkyrie, only to have my opponent dub me “adorably fierce.” He might have meant it as a compliment, but I have never felt so infuriatingly dismissed. Worse yet, he then told me how attractive a quality that was in a woman and asked if he might see me again later, preferably when I was unarmed.

  That experience, while still able to rouse a flare of indignation, taught me a valuable lesson. What I see as defects can become assets, if used to my advantage. If men expect me to be wide-eyed and innocent, soft and defenseless, then that is exactly what I shall be . . . right up until I put my blade at their throat. That is the theory anyway. I have yet to put it into practice. Most men that I need to fend off require a kick between the legs more than a blade at the throat, especially when the blade could inflame the very passions I am attempting to discourage.

  Still, I have honed my feminine charms to as fine a blade as any I might carry. I will employ them here. I will, of course, also employ an actual blade.

  I take my pocket knife from my pouch and instead slide it where it belongs—in a pocket. I design all my own clothing for exactly this purpose. It is no wonder women find themselves at the mercy of predatory gentleman when they have no pockets into which they may secret a defensive weapon. It is a conspiracy, I am certain, one I have learned to thwart. I have even converted Portia to the wonders of pocketed skirts, though she insists on using hers for so-called practical items, such as pocket watches and pocket money. What is a pocket knife if not practical? Sometimes I despair of ever understanding my older sisters.

  The highwayman—yes, I shall call him such, as there is no one to stop me—has risen from the table and moved to a spot I cannot see. There’s a tapping and clattering of dishes that covers any sound of my journey from couch to doorway. Then a sigh and a struck match, as if he’s settling in with a pipe or cheroot.

  All goes quiet as he presumably smokes, and I mentally unspool my performance. I will pretend I have stumbled upon him. Shriek in feminine dismay and horror. Run screaming for the constable. At that, he should also run—in the other direction—and vacate the premises. If he comes after me instead, I will lure him in and then surprise—

  The cold tip of a knife digs into the back of my neck.

  “Do not move,” a voice growls. “I have no wish to harm you but—”

  I swing around, knife raised. Or that is the plan, but he’s too close for a proper “swing” and instead I find myself pressed against the wall with his knife at my throat.

  In theory, this should be an alarming circumstance. While I have been in scrapes before, this one is new, and I have the distinct sense that I ought to be terrified. But I am also suddenly and discomfiting aware of why my own former victim found the situation somewhat more invigorating than one might expect.

  My word, he has gorgeous eyes.

  That is not at all what I should be thinking, and instead, it is all I am thinking. Before I’d seen only that he had dark eyes that were very pretty indeed. Now those eyes are ringed with enviable lashes, and the irises are flecked with gold.

  I have never remotely been mistaken for a poet, but in that moment, I believe I could compose an ode to his eyes, and before I know what I’m doing, I hear myself saying, “You have the most beautiful ey
es.”

  He blinks and pulls back. “What?”

  I drop my gaze. “I am sorry, sir. That was very forward of me, but I could not help notice—”

  I ram my fist into his stomach. I don’t use the hand gripping my knife. That would be wrong. My other fist executes a perfectly aimed blow to his solar plexus.

  He falls back, those gorgeous eyes widening in shock. I hit him again. This time, he dodges the blow. I take a deep breath, as if winded. Then, when he begins to straighten, I charge. I hit him with all my might and he flies backward over a footstool. His knife clatters to the floor, and I launch myself on him like a cat, landing on his chest, with my own blade at his throat.

  I’m tensed, ready for him to throw me off. Instead, he only looks down at the knife against his throat and says, “I suppose I deserve that.”

  I’d heard his voice earlier, but I’d been too busy staring into his eyes to really hear it. Now that I do, it’s beautiful, a light contralto with a French accent, made even more melodious by a wry lilt to the words.

  “Yes, you do,” I say. “Now—”

  He bucks under me, legs flying up. I only press the knife in a little harder.

  “I used a distraction trick myself moments ago,” I say. “Do you really think I’d fall for it myself?”

  He sighs and thumps his head back to the floor. “All right. You have bested me, fair maiden. There are five pounds in my jacket pocket, which I left in the kitchen. It is yours. But then you must leave.”

  “No,” I say. “It is you who must leave.”

  I propel myself up, my free hand wrapped around the pommel of his sword. Yes, it’s a sword. I’d noticed that in taking him down. Now I’m up and dancing away with the sword in hand.

  He only sighs and shakes his head as he rises. “Put that down, child.”