The Reverend Mr. Runcorn turned his kindly, inquiring gaze on Christy, and warm color rose to her cheeks in response to his scrutiny. The major once more launched into her story.
Christy lowered her gaze, unable to meet the sympathy in all three faces. Guilt surged through her, as if she lied to them for some evil purpose! She’d tell the truth, if she could—or if she could be certain what it really was. Traveling through time ... Her logical mind still fought against the evidence of her senses. Sight, hearing, smell...
Smell. Vividly, she became aware of the plate of cookies on the table before her. How she wanted to try out taste! Unable to help herself, she reached for a golden circle filled with walnuts and raisins.
“A biscuit, my dear?” Mrs. Runcorn instantly picked up the plate and held it out to her.
“Thank you.” Her hand hovered over the selection for a moment, then she gave up and grabbed several. At this moment, she didn’t care what was polite for a lady of this time. She was hungry. Mrs. Runcorn smiled, apparently unoffended, and poured tea. Christy accepted both cream and sugar, which her hostess added with a liberal hand. For several minutes, Christy concentrated on her mini-feast, assuaging the worst of her hunger. With some carbohydrates inside her, the whole world seemed to settle. Unfortunately, it remained a very alien and old-fashioned world. She swallowed the last cookie, and Mrs. Runcorn immediately offered her the other plate filled with cakes. Christy took two.
At least she felt better. With food no longer her major concern, she allowed her attention to focus on other things.
Major Holborn—it still seemed impossible he could really be her James Holborn—sat near the paned window, discussing the problems of the orphanage with Mr. Runcorn. His auburn hair caught the light of the westering sun, and came alive with flame. Every feature of his striking face seemed animated as he leaned forward, gesturing, describing a plan for further renovations. She found herself fascinated against her will.
Damn it, she didn’t need to think about him. She needed to concentrate on getting home, where she belonged.
She turned back to her hostess to find that elegant little lady watching her with a puzzled frown. “I look strange, don’t I?” Christy asked, blunt as always.
Mrs. Runcorn shook her head with more politeness than truth. “I daresay those are your traveling clothes, my dear. Have you indeed lost everything?”
“I have.” She bit her lip. “I don’t like imposing on you, but at the moment, I’m afraid I don’t have any choice.”
“We are delighted, my dear. We are always glad to do a favor for Major Holborn.”
Christy glanced at that gentleman. “You know him well?”
Mrs. Runcorn laughed softly. “Indeed, yes. It is he who is the kind patron of our orphanage.”
“He is?” He must have some money, then, she reflected. “But I can’t let him pay for me,” she added, finishing her thought aloud.
“Now, you mustn’t worry about that, Miss Campbell.”
“But I don’t have any money! I don’t have anything.”
“You will stay here until some other solution has been found for your difficulties.”
Christy drew a deep breath. Going home didn’t seem to be an option at the moment. That being the case, she might as well concentrate on discovering what she was doing here in the first place. And since Major James Holborn lay at the center of that mystery, she’d do best to remain in his vicinity.
She didn’t want to be dependent on him, though. That didn’t seem right. “I’m going to need a few things,” she said slowly.
“I’m sure I can provide—”
“Could you hire me?” Christy broke across her words.
“Hire you? My dear, there is no need, not if the major wishes us to take you in.”
“I want to earn my keep. I’m going to need clothes, and—and a toothbrush. I don’t even have a hair brush.” Or her makeup, or cleanser or anything else she considered essential. The horror of her situation began to hit home: they didn’t have chocolate chips in this era. She was dead!
Mrs. Runcorn patted her hand. “I am sure we can come to some arrangement, my dear.”
Christy turned to the men. “Major Holborn? If I promise to stay here and work as a maid for at least the next week or two, do you think you could advance me a little money for wages?”
“A maid!” For a moment, astonishment flickered in his eyes, then disapproval settled over his strong features. “You are not to be thinking of going into service. That is not in the least suitable for a lady.”
“I’m not a—” She broke off. She wouldn’t try to argue with his notions of class system. At least not while she seemed to be on the winning end of it. “There is so much I need, and I won’t impose on everyone. Please, let me earn it.”
His chin jutted out in a stubborn manner.
She sighed, recognizing a brick wall when she ran into one. “All right, not a maid. But there are any number of things I can do to help around here. If you won’t let me clean, what about cooking?” She read the unyielding set of his jaw, and tried again. “How about if I help with the children? Perhaps I can teach them something?”
The Runcorns exchanged an arrested glance.
It did not escape the major’s notice. “Are you in need of instructors for the boys? Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded.
“We didn’t want to bother you with unnecessary expense ” Mr. Runcorn admitted after a moment. “Elinor and I have been able to teach them well enough, though it has sometimes occurred to us they might respond to a—a younger person.”
Relief rushed through Christy. “It’s settled, then,” she announced before any of them could change their minds. Then the rashness of her offer dawned on her. “How old are they? And how many?”
“There are only eight,” Mrs. Runcorn assured her. “They range in age from nine to thirteen.”
“Nine to thirteen,” Christy repeated, trying to keep the dismay from her voice. Just what she needed, a pack of preteens. Well, it might be worse, though she was more experienced with younger children. Being an aunt came in useful.
“May I ask your salary requirements?” Amusement returned to the major’s dark eyes.
Christy blinked. “I have no idea. What’s the going rate?”
He burst out laughing. “I believe two hundred pounds is a reasonable figure.”
“A week?” she hazarded. That didn’t sound like much, but then she had no idea how much a pound was currently worth.
A puzzled frown creased his brow. “A year,” he corrected, gently.
“A—” She broke off, shocked. “Well, now I’ve got an idea about the exchange rate, at least.” She saw his frowning face, and grinned. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you with an outrageous demand. From what I’ve seen of you, I’ll bet that’s a very generous salary.”
“I am sure you will do an admirable job.” The major turned back to the Reverend Mr. Runcorn, in the manner of one dismissing a matter now settled.
“Have things been quiet for you since we had the pleasure of seeing you last?” The clergyman helped himself to a thick slice of cake and fixed his concerned gaze on his visitor.
The major hesitated. “There has been another occurrence,” he admitted.
Mrs. Runcorn’s delicate hand fluttered at her breast. “How dreadful. What happened this time?”
The major glanced at Christy. “Someone threw a couple of knives at me while I was walking across a small park.”
“Oh, if only they would play off their foolish tricks in the daylight, so you might see who is responsible!” Mrs. Runcorn clasped her hands.
“This time, they did,” Major Holborn said. “It happened just over an hour ago.”
“Did you see anyone?” Mr. Runcorn demanded at once.
The major shook his head. “I’m afraid they got away—again.”
“If only you could have caught one of them,” Mrs. Runcorn cried, distressed. “Then at last you might have d
emanded an explanation.”
“There is no point in repining. Perhaps next time—”
“Perhaps next time,” Mr. Runcorn interrupted, “they will hit their mark, and you won’t be able to ask them.”
“It was because of me, wasn’t it,” Christy said suddenly. “If I hadn’t—stepped—in front of you and tripped you, you could have seen who threw those knives. Couldn’t you?”
“There is no way of knowing that,” came his calm response.
“You should be mad at me instead of being so nice. I’m sorry.”
“Do not distress yourself. It is in no way your fault. Had I been paying more attention to where I was going, I would not have knocked you down. It is I who should apologize.”
Guilt flooded through her. It had been her unorthodox arrival into the past, literally tripping him up, which prevented him from catching, or at least seeing, the knife thrower. If she hadn’t appeared, he might be well on his way to solving his riddles. Or the knife might have hit its mark...
A chill crept along her spine, and she swallowed a mouthful of tepid tea. What had she gotten into? Time travel of all things. And attempted murder.
And possibly a revolution?
CHAPTER FIVE
The cup rattled in her saucer, and Christy stilled her trembling with an effort. Why her? The book with the apse print that changed only for her, the skaters in that ball who moved only for her. And James Edward Holborn himself, providing the link between them. What had he to do with her? And what was she doing in his time?
Mrs. Runcorn rose. “We are being thoughtless, my dear. You have undergone a great ordeal. Allow me to show you to your room, where I make no doubt you will want to rest before we dine.”
“Thank you. I—I think that might be a good idea.” Christy searched for her purse, remembered she no longer had it, and stood. To her relief, her legs held her.
Mrs. Runcorn looked her over, her expression thoughtful. “We are much of a size, I believe. I shall find you a gown and night rail. Tomorrow we shall set about replenishing your wardrobe.”
Amid Christy’s renewed thanks, her hostess led her from the chamber and up the staircase at the end of the narrow hall. As they reached the first landing, children’s voices shouted, laughed, and argued.
“Don’t worry, I won’t show you around our orphanage until tomorrow. And the boys are very good, I assure you.”
A high-pitched wail rose at that moment, followed by Nancy’s sharp reproof to someone named Sammy. Another voice piped up with the information that Alfie always whined, and it didn’t mean nothin’.
“Now, no more mischief from you, Jem,” Nancy declared. “Davey, get your ’ead out of them clouds and ’elp Tom clear the table. And mind, Bert,” she added, her voice fading with her retreating footsteps, “the missus don’t want to see that sullen face at the dinner table.”
“Eight of them?” Christy asked again.
“Poor things. The weather has been so dreadfully cold, they haven’t been able to go outside as much as they would like. There, I’m sure the novelty of having you for a teacher will have them on their best behavior. The schoolroom and the boys’ rooms are on that floor,” she added as they passed it. “And we are all up here.”
Christy emerged into the upper hall and looked about, favorably impressed. The wainscoting boasted a fresh coat of white paint, and flowered paper covered the walls above. The rug might be threadbare, but not a single speck of dust or lint lingered. Polished tables displayed an assortment of china and glass knickknacks, and a bowl of flowers lent a bright touch.
“In here, my dear.” Mrs. Runcorn opened a door at the end of the corridor. “I’ll have Nancy tidy it a bit for you, and remove the Holland covers.”
Christy stepped inside, and shivered at the chill air that greeted her. Slowly, her gaze traveled over the small chamber. It, too, had been recently painted, only this time in a light yellow. Christy’s taste ran to bright, primary shades, but she found nothing at which to complain. A narrow bed stood against the center of the far wall, with a small but adequate fireplace opposite. A window let in faint sunlight, which fell across the white sheets that covered the other pieces of furniture.
“Don’t bother Nancy. It sounded like she had her hands full with the kids. I can fix this up myself.”
“You don’t mind, my dear?” Mrs. Runcorn sounded surprised.
Christy smiled. “You’d be amazed how capable I am. Now, is there a bathroom nearby?”
“A—” Mrs. Runcorn broke off. “Would you wish a tub carried up here?”
Christy blinked. “Oh, no, that’s not what I meant. Where do you wash your hands?”
“There is a basin, over here.” Mrs. Runcorn swept a cover off a small chest, revealing a china basin painted with a delicate rose pattern. On the shelves inside the cupboard stood a matching pitcher and a chamber pot.
Christy swallowed as the real deprivations of her new situation came home to her. “Is the outhouse very far from the back door?” she asked.
“Do you mean the necessary?” Delicate color touched the lady’s cheeks. “Not very far.”
“Well, I always did enjoy an adventure. Now, where can I find towels, soap, and water?”
Mrs. Runcorn assured her these would be brought shortly by Nancy, then after only a few more protests, allowed her unusual guest to pull off the Holland covers, and returned to her own work.
As the door closed behind her hostess, Christy exposed an oak bureau. Next she found a matching dressing table and chair, then an armoire. The bed, when she bounced on it, proved to be comfortable enough. Two pieced quilts lay folded over the foot of the bare mattress. She’d have to add sheets to her list of requirements.
She turned to the last cover, and unearthed an ancient upholstered chair. She sat on it, then leaned back against the padded cushions. Not bad. She stifled a yawn. Maybe she’d just sit here for a few minutes. It had been rather an eventful day. She huddled into her down coat and closed her eyes.
When next she opened them, darkness engulfed the room, broken only by the dancing light from the fire in the hearth. It burned low, and the chill had vanished from the chamber. Christy yawned, stretched her arms over her head to ease her cramped muscles, then froze, suddenly wide awake.
The tiny room, the narrow bed, the chair in which she sat—this wasn’t the Edgemont in Piccadilly. She was at the Runcorns’ orphanage, somewhere in one of the poorer districts of London, almost two hundred years before she’d been born.
There went her last hope this entire impossible situation had been nothing but a bad dream. She’d been asleep now for several hours, at a rough guess, and she was still here. Unsteadily, she rose to her feet.
A small clock stood on the mantel over the hearth, and she peered at it. Nine-thirty? She’d been asleep longer than she realized. If only she’d been able to pull a Rip Van Winkle, and return to her own time.
An extra pillow and two more blankets now graced the bed, which had been made up with mended white sheets. A plate with rolls, cheese, an apple, and a knife stood on the dressing table, and someone—probably Mrs. Runcorn—had laid over the wooden chair a high-waisted gray dress with long sleeves topped by puffs at the shoulders, one of those long wool coats that buttoned to the high-waisted bodice, and a white nightgown. A comb now rested on the bureau, the soap dish held a scented cake, and a linen towel hung over the washstand door.
Christy looked for the pitcher, then finally spotted it on the hearth where the fire had kept the water warm. Touched by this thoughtfulness, she carried it to the washstand and poured some into the basin. She dragged off her coat and high-heeled boots, then pulled the blue turtleneck over her head and slid the wool skirt over her hips. She hung her clothes in the wardrobe as neatly as possible. An iron of some sort she could probably obtain, but dry cleaners were another matter.
She stood at the dressing table in only her royal blue camisole and slip with their black lace trim, and combed out the tangled mass of
her dark brown hair. All she had with which to tie it back was the huge blue clip bow she had been wearing that morning. Next time she went time traveling, she’d have to pack a few things. Like hair pins. And makeup. And more chocolate.
She lit a candle with a spill from the hearth, washed her face, then as an afterthought rinsed out her underthings and hung them by the fire to dry. What she wouldn’t give for a change! She pulled on the cavernous nightdress, climbed into bed, and quickly drifted off once more.
“Coo,” a female voice exclaimed in tones of reverential awe.
Christy dragged open her eyes. Daylight streamed in through the window. By the washstand stood Nancy, holding up the camisole.
The maid eyed Christy with respect. “I ain’t never seen the likes of this, afore. Major ’Olborn’s below, askin’ after you.”
Christy climbed out of bed, feeling ridiculous—and somewhat floundering—in the tent she wore. Normally, she slept in an oversized T-shirt. “I’ll be down in a few minutes. What time is it?”
“Gone on nine, it ’as. You missed breakfast, but I’ve brung you a tray. Are you puttin’ this on?”
Christy took the camisole and slip from her. “I’ll be down as fast as I can,” she repeated.
As soon as the maid took her leave, Christy dragged off the tent, pulled on her underthings, then turned to the wardrobe. She’d better not wear her own clothes today. Major Holborn and the Runcorns had accepted her appearance without comment—so far, at least. If they had a chance to study the garments in more detail, though, it might lead to some ticklish questions. Zippers hadn’t been invented yet. She’d better start conforming to the local—and temporal—standards.
By means of minor contortions, she managed to fasten the buttons at the back of the gray gown. The fact it fit a bit too tight didn’t help any. Christy might be small, but she was generously endowed.
She ran her hands over the seams of the gown, and a new problem struck her. No pockets. And what was worse, no tissues. She’d have to get a handkerchief from somewhere. She dragged on her pantyhose and boots and, still chewing a slice of cold toast, hurried down the several flights of stairs.
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