A Christmas Keepsake

by Janice Bennett

  “Whole herds of them, and they’re rehearsing Swan Lake. Amanda, the type is still changing on me, and no one else can see it! If it was everything I read, I might think I was going crazy, but it’s just that one book, just that one section!”

  Amanda caroled out the “Twilight Zone” theme.

  “Very funny. But why is it happening? And why to me? And why just this book? I’ve got to find out who this James Edward Holborn is.”

  For a moment, Amanda said nothing. Then: “Sure you aren’t just stressed out?”

  “Who couldn’t use a vacation?”

  “Well, take a break, then. I’m staying here until after Christmas. Have BritRail pass, will travel, that’s me. Going to take up brass rubbing and learn to play darts in some old pub.”

  Christy smiled. “And check out book stores.”

  “Of course. Think of it, three whole weeks to play. Want to come along? I’ve got a spare pass.”

  “That’s right, Karen was supposed to come with you this time. What happened?”

  “She went and got herself pregnant. The poor kid’s sick all the time, but her husband’s thrilled. God, can you see me as a grandmother?”

  “No,” came Christy’s blunt response. “More like an Auntie Mame.”

  Amanda chuckled. “Well, what about it? Want to go for a train ride?”

  “Sounds like heaven, but I’m going home for Christmas. I haven’t seen my mom or the rest of them for eighteen months.”

  Amanda laughed. “Kids. You’re all alike. Mine only call when they need money for something.”

  “Oh, no.” Christy grinned. “I call. My phone bill is horrendous every month. But with them in Connecticut and New York, and me in San Francisco, we just never seem to see each other anymore. So I’m going directly there when I leave London and staying there until Twelfth Night, which gives us four whole weeks. After that, they’ll probably be glad to kick me out for another eighteen months. At least I bet my sisters will.”

  “Undoubtedly. Now, if I know you and your research—and I do, remember—you’ll never quit by lunch. How about later, say three-thirty? Remember that funky old pub across the street from the map shop in Bloomsbury?”

  Christy did. With reassurances she would be there on time, or at least no more than a quarter hour late, she rang off.

  Good old Amanda, she thought as she turned away from the phones. A couple of weeks gallivanting around England with her would be exhausting—but fun. She missed the warmth of her family, though. And she missed making snowmen and snow forts and going for sleigh rides and caroling and decorating the eight-foot tree her father—and now her brother Jon—always cut. No, she wanted to go home for Christmas, and Jon’s wedding, so soon after. Nothing would make her miss that.

  A quick walk through the chill morning air brought her to the Green Park Underground Station, and from there, the rail swept her through dark tunnels to the familiar stop for the British Library. The icy wind whipped about her as she emerged onto the street, and she hurried, half running, to reach her destination.

  She at last pushed through the doorway, and warmth and shelter wrapped about her like a well-loved blanket. She knew the Reference Division well; she haunted it every time she managed to come to London. She drew a deep breath, and the mustiness of aged leather filled her lungs: a comfortable, soothing smell. She could never grow tired of books.

  A search through the card catalogue proved her suspicions correct; the mysterious Mr. Holborn had written another, earlier, book on social reform. Armed with its number, she searched the stacks.

  She found it easily, amid the towering shelves crammed with their aging volumes—then stood with her hand on it, mustering her courage to pull it from the shelf. What if it, too, shifted its words, said things it should not? She swallowed. There was only one way to find out.

  Eyes closed, she opened it quickly, at random, then forced herself to study the page. The section described squalid living conditions for a family of seven sharing a single room. The print didn’t shift.

  From that she gathered a measure of encouragement, and turned the page. His words horrified her—but only their meaning, not their behavior. They remained just as they ought, firmly printed in black ink on the sheet yellowed with age.

  Slowly, she leafed through the remaining pages. Not a single change, not so much as the slightest blur interrupted her scanning. She found herself reading long passages, caught up into the power of his writing, appalled by his vivid accounts of deprivation. But there were no alterations, no shifting letters.

  At last, frowning, she replaced the book on the shelf. From her pocket, she brought forth Life in London. It opened to Chapter Ten, and at once the letters danced before her eyes, blurring, beginning their metamorphosis...

  She slammed it shut and gripped it tightly, afraid to open it again, as if the words might fly from the page and wing their way about the library to infect the other volumes with their peculiar madness. It still did it! Yet James Holborn’s other book did not.

  She shoved Life in London back into the pocket of her down jacket. Her fingers encountered the plastic sack of chocolate chips, and she slipped a couple into her mouth. What was different about his two books? They both advocated social reform. Yet one dealt with the poor, while the other addressed the rich and their callous attitude...

  No, from Chapter Ten onward in Life in London, Mr. Holborn wrote about a specific event, a Christmas house party, not conditions in general.

  She leaned back, and the metal rim of the shelf pressed through her coat into her spine. A specific event, something that actually happened—at least in one version. In the other, something else entirely happened. Mob riots—possibly even a revolution.

  She shivered, feeling as if her fingers had turned to icicles. She was getting too fanciful! What did she think, that something happened at that house party that had the potential to change history—in effect, bring about a social revolution...

  “... unspeakable horrors, after the manner of their brethren in France.” The words, glimpsed so briefly as they shifted across the page, returned to haunt her. Dear God, a revolution, in London, in 1810...

  This was ridiculous. Twilight Zone time, just like Amanda suggested. Something pretty darn peculiar was going on, with that she couldn’t argue. What she needed was more information about the time. Christmas, 1810, to be exact. If other books behaved strangely, altering their accounts of this particular period, she would know she was onto something. If they didn’t, she’d take the book to an optometrist and find out if anything was wrong with her eyes that might pick up some unstable quality in the printer’s ink. Perhaps the page had been bleached, erasing earlier words, then the new ones printed over the top.

  If that were the case, then she should see both versions at the same time, not the later changing into the earlier, and back again.

  She ran her fingers along the shelf, and pulled out another volume on the social history of England. It covered a longer period, several hundred years, and spoke in general terms rather than specifics. The Luddites rioted in fear of losing their mill jobs to the new industrialization, but that was far from London, though they did begin in 1811. The words remained crisp and clear, easy to read.

  Maybe she needed a book written at the time, as Mr. Holborn’s was. She studied the shelves once more, and this time selected five different volumes. Surely, if something indeed happened over that Christmas, one of these must mention it. She carried them to a long table, seated herself in one of the slat-backed wooden chairs, and set to work.

  Some three hours later, the words began to dance once again, but this time she found nothing peculiar in it. She took off her reading glasses, massaged her forehead where it began to ache, and stretched her stiff back. With a slight frown creasing her brow, she contemplated the volumes before her. From the plastic bag in her coat pocket she drew out another chocolate chip.

  All five books mentioned the Christmas period of 1810. Parliament met in long s
essions during that season, and finally passed the long-awaited regency bill in February 1811. Yet the populace seemed to have greeted this with indifference. The new regent made no sweeping changes in the Tory government, despite his Whiggish friends, and for some time the old king actually appeared to be in better health. Not one of the volumes mentioned so much as a single riot or protest.

  Christy drew a dark curl from behind her ear and chewed the end, lost in thought. That regency bill had been the subject of the letter she’d come over here to buy, too. It must have been a major issue at the time. It might, in fact, have been the subject of discussion at the house party chronicled by Mr. Holborn.

  But why should that make the type change in that damned book? She rubbed weary eyes, knowing herself too tired to make sense out of any of this.

  She glanced at her watch. One o’clock. She had two and a half hours before she was to meet Amanda in Bloomsbury. She could do with some lunch, though.

  She reshelved the books, then paused, looking back at the rows of aged volumes. Maybe she needed to learn more about the man, not just the time. Maybe it all had something to do with him.

  A consultation with the librarian set that obliging gentleman searching records. At last, he shook his balding head, and reported that nothing whatsoever seemed to be known of the mysterious Mr. Holborn. Christy thanked him and turned away.

  “Holborn is the family name of the earls Saint Ives, miss,” the man added. He offered his most helpful smile. “But whether or not our James Edward belonged to that branch, I’m afraid I can’t say. You might try Somerset House.”

  Christy rocked back on her high-heeled boots, considering. She might find something among the records there. She thanked him again and left the building.

  She shivered as the icy wind slammed into her face, but trudged on, lost in thought, mulling over the disturbing lack of progress she’d made. Should she go to Somerset House at once? And if she did, what should she look up? Maybe she should get in touch with the Holborn family and ask to see old records. And just what would she tell them? Excuse me, one of your ancestors wrote a peculiar book, and only I have trouble reading it?

  A chill gust whipped her thick, unruly curls about her face and she shoved her hands into her pockets. She’d come out without her gloves and hat. A scarf wouldn’t come amiss, either. The clouds that darkened the sky hovered low. A feathery white flake drifted past her cheek, followed by another, then several more.

  Snow. She raised her face toward the sky. She loved December, she loved Christmas. The special time spent with her family, the decorated shops, the colored lights, the carolers, that general feeling of goodwill which existed among strangers like at no other time of year...

  Oh, it was cold. She huddled deeper into her coat. She’d buy gloves at the first shop that sold woolen goods. She glanced at the frosted window panes, then up and down the street. She had no idea where she was. She must have been wandering, lost in thought. She was lucky she hadn’t crossed a street looking in the wrong direction. Ah, the joys of British traffic, with their driving on the “wrong” side of the road.

  She continued along the sidewalk, growing colder by the minute. White flakes gathered on her hair and shoulders, not melting. A light blanket now covered the cars parked along the road. Only early December, and already the promise of a—picture-book Christmas.

  Across from her, beyond a hedge, she glimpsed the knit-capped heads of children gliding in small circles. There must be a tiny pond—or at least a surface covered with ice—in the little park. Smiling, she continued her search for woolen wear.

  Apparently, she had wandered into an area of antique and art shops. A number of etchings, with holly draped over their frames, greeted her at one window. In the next, a display of small statuettes and—

  She stopped, delighted. Before her, on a round wooden base, stood a glass ball about six inches in diameter, filled with liquid. Within, someone had created a beautiful scene from a Regency-era Christmas, cast in silver and enameled—a man and woman ice skating, with a horse and carriage on sleigh runners behind them. At their feet lay tiny flakes of ivory “snow.”

  As she stared at it, the figures moved. First the man pushed forward in a sliding motion, then the woman joined him, skating through the steps of what must be a country dance. Enthralled, Christy watched until the mechanical couple completed their circuit.

  On impulse, she entered the shop, then stopped, bemused by the array of objects that met her fascinated gaze. Antiques of every description lined the walls and filled tables and display cases, taking up every available inch of space in the crowded room. At the far end, behind a counter, an elderly man in a heavy overcoat and cap tinkered in the back of a clock with a long, slender instrument. Over his eyes he wore magnifying glasses.

  “Excuse me?” Christy advanced with care through the clutter. “Could I see the music box in the window?”

  “Music box?” The man raised his visor and peered at her. “In the window? I don’t believe there is one.”

  “It’s the snowdome. Maybe it hasn’t got music, but the figures dance.”

  He sat back on his stool and regarded her with a frown. “There’s a snowdome there, but the figures don’t dance.” He set down his tools, wiped his hands on a cloth, and came around the edge of the counter. With care, he wended his way to the window. “Is this the one you mean?”

  He leaned over several displayed plates and picked up the glass ball. Christy caught her breath, watching as he lifted it between two Meissen statuettes. The next moment, he held it out to her.

  “Is there a switch—” she began, then broke off. Again, the figurine of the gentleman took the lady’s hand and skated forward. “Oh, they’re doing it again. Are you certain there isn’t music to go with it?”

  “Doing what?” He squinted at her, then at the ball he held.

  “They’re dancing!”

  The man studied the ball, then turned his dubious regard on her. “Are they?”

  Blood flooded Christy’s face, flashing heat through her; then it drained away, leaving her clammy. “They—they aren’t moving, are they?”

  “They never have before. I don’t see why they’d want to start now.” The man smiled at her. “Been a long day shopping, has it, miss?”

  She reached out a tentative hand to touch the glass, and the man tightened his grip on it. “What—what can you tell me about it?” she managed.

  “Well, now, it’s an unusual piece, I’ll grant you that. Must be one of the first ever made. The date on it looks like Eighteen-Ten, but that’s a good sixty years too early. Must be Eighteen-Seventy.” He turned the ball over, and the tiny ivory chips floated through the liquid, so that it “snowed” on the scene.

  Christy’s gaze riveted on the bottom of the wooden base. The number in question certainly looked like a one, not a seven. The piece was signed, too, in neat, flowing copperplate. She swallowed, and felt her throat sinking into her stomach. Even if the date were in question, there could be no mistaking the name. The letters didn’t change before her eyes, they remained clear. James Edward Holborn.

  “It’s his,” she breathed.

  “Who’s, miss?”

  “James Holborn’s. He made it.”

  The proprietor turned the base so he could read the neat lettering. “So he did, miss. Have you heard of him before?”

  “Yes, I bought one of his books.” Excitement filled her. “Do you know anything about him?”

  The man shook his head, dashing her hopes. “Sorry, miss. Can’t say I ever came across him before. A writer, was he? Maybe that’s why he didn’t make more of these.”

  Christy’s gaze returned to the scene. As she watched, the enameled silver figure of the horse stamped his foot and swished his tail against the flakes that drifted over his back. The couple continued their ice dance. “They—they don’t move,” she repeated.

  The man turned once more to the window and started to replace the ball.

  “Wai
t!” She caught his arm. “How much is it?”

  He checked the tag. “Ninety-five pounds, miss. Quite a bargain, even if nothing does move.”

  She managed a shaky smile. “Do you take credit cards?” He did. Christy trembled internally, hoped it didn’t show on the outside. While she watched, he swathed the glass ball in tissue paper, then nested it in a box which he placed in a shopping bag. Christy handed over the plastic, signed the slip, then took her purchase, clasping it to her as if she feared it might evaporate.

  Numb, she went out into the afternoon snow. What did it mean? Why did the figures dance for only her? Why did the words in his book change for only her? Was she going quietly insane? It all had to do with this James Edward Holborn. His book. His snowdome. And her nightmare.

  The flakes continued to drift down from the gray skies. Blindly, she crossed to the park and followed the footpath through the shrubs until she came to the frozen pond. She stared at the skating children, not really seeing them. Who was this James Holborn?

  With shaking hands she drew the ball from its box and unwrapped it. As she watched, the figurines once more began to move, skating in time to an unheard melody.

  She fought her rising panic back under control, and forced herself to study the ball. Mr. Holborn had done a creditable job of carving the figures. They appeared quite lifelike. Too much so, the way they moved with a graceful ease. Even the horse, though not quite in perfect proportion, seemed uncannily real.

  She tightened her grip as the animal once more swished its enameled tail. She wasn’t going crazy. There would be a logical explanation for all this. She just had to find it. Perhaps there was a switch somewhere.

  If one existed, it defied her endeavors to find it. Temporarily stymied, she returned her attention to the figurines. The man was tall compared to the lady, his features regular. A shock of dark red hair protruded from beneath his low-crowned hat, and a long overcoat covered his clothes but revealed a pair of shiny black boots to which his skates were fastened.

  The lady—Christy caught her breath. It might almost be her, with its tightly curling dark hair worn loose about the shoulders, the round face and well-developed figure. Vivid blue eyes gazed back at her, mirroring her own.