A Christmas Keepsake

by Janice Bennett

  The footsteps paused, and Christy cringed back, willing herself to disappear. She held her breath, desperate to make no noise, then the soft crunch of snow receded as the man continued on his way. Her heart resumed beating with a painful jerk.

  Limp with reaction, she sagged against Major Holborn. His arm circled about her, supporting her, comforting in his mere presence. Far too comforting. She’d be happy to stay there for a very long while. Corny clichés about safe harbors drifted through her mind, and she allowed her cheek to rest against the smooth wool of his cloak.

  Her breathing had almost slowed to normal when his arm slipped from around her and he caught her hand once more. Again, his voice barely reached her. “I think it’s safe to go now.” She stood on tiptoe, one hand on his shoulder to reach his ear to whisper back: “Will you finally admit someone is trying to kill you? Those men weren’t muggers, and they certainly weren’t playing games.”

  He hesitated a moment, then returned a very unsatisfying: “Possibly.”

  Couldn’t that exasperating man get it through his thick skull he was in serious danger? He persisted in considering these assaults on him mere harassment! Whether he believed it or not, someone wanted Major James Edward Holborn dead. And Christy desperately didn’t want that to happen.

  She cast a sideways glance up at his tall, broad-shouldered figure in the heavy cloak covering his elegant evening dress. No, she didn’t want anything to happen to him; she would do everything in her power to prevent it. She looked around, then hugged herself in frustration. “I feel so darned vulnerable.”

  An unexpected touch of amusement crept into his voice, and his warm breath misted as it hit the icy air. “Arm yourself. There should be plenty of weapons at hand.” He peered through the darkness. “Hard to see, though. Which under the circumstances is lucky. Our footprints would be all too visible in the snow.” Christy stooped, but no projectile of a comfortable size met her searching fingers. She wouldn’t mind a little bit of light. The major inched forward, still holding her hand, and perforce she followed.

  Two steps later, a bruised toe led her to a brick fragment of the right size. She tucked it into the pocket of her down coat, encountered the plastic bag, and fished out one more of the precious chocolate chips. She needed the energy. She shied from considering what she’d do when she ran out of them. She couldn’t survive thirty-eight years without her favorite fix. She found several more chunks of stone and brick, and crammed them into her pockets. The major paused at the corner to check both ways, then drew Christy after him.

  “Which way?” she whispered.

  He shook his head, a gesture barely visible in the darkness of the narrow alley. Again, they wended their way through a maze of short turnings, and emerged at last onto a wider street. Before them...

  Christy came to an abrupt halt. Directly in front of them stood two men in heavy dark coats, their faces in deep shadow, their eyes completely obscured by masks.

  Christy gasped. For one moment the men stared at them, as startled as they, then one raised his pistol. The major caught Christy’s hand, and as they turned, the pistol fired with a resounding explosion.

  A sharp exclamation escaped the major, and he clasped his upper arm. Frantic, Christy caught his good elbow and thrust him ahead, then swung back as she pulled a brick piece from her pocket. With all her energy, she heaved it, only to miss the man by a bare inch. His companion raised his pistol.

  Steadying her rising panic, she hurled another chunk, this time hitting their assailant in the shoulder as he released the hammer. A spark flickered from the pan, pale smoke puffed from the barrel, and the ball whined past her ear. It hit the side of a brick building, and buried itself harmlessly in the snow.

  She heaved the last of her limited arsenal, then grabbed the major’s arm and pulled him once more through a crazy maze of rapid turnings, down more dark alleys and mews, until the sounds of pursuit once more faded away. She collapsed against a wooden fence, it gave way behind her, and she fell backward.

  A gate. The major followed her through, shoved it shut, and crouched against it.

  Christy picked herself up and brushed off the snow. For a long minute she huddled there, until her breathing steadied enough for her to speak. “How bad were you hit?”

  He remained silent. She could feel his tension, the tautness of his muscles as he leaned against her. She covered his hand which gripped his arm, and warm blood oozed over her fingers. She swore softly.

  Startled, he stared at her, and a soft chuckle escaped him.

  “You have taken the words out of my mouth, Miss Campbell, but I assure you, they would have been better left there.”

  She searched for an appropriate response. “Hell and the devil confound it,” she said evenly, borrowing his own phrase.

  His broad shoulders shook, and a spasm of pain flickered across his face. He sobered at once.

  She stood. “Let’s get you home.”

  “I believe we will do best to go to the Runcorns’.”

  His voice sounded tight, forced, so unlike himself it scared her. She located a handkerchief she had stuffed in her pocket, now crumpled from being buried under the broken bricks. It missed by two inches being long enough to tie around his arm. Frustrated, she folded it into a pad. He took it from her and pressed it to his arm.

  “Will you be all right?” Even in the darkness, she could see the strained set of his jaw.

  “Confound it, Miss Campbell, this is not the first time I’ve been grazed by a ball.”

  “Is that all? A graze?” She wished she could believe him. She eased open the gate, gestured for him to pass through, then closed it behind them.

  Cautiously they advanced, and turned the next corner. To Christy’s surprise, they emerged onto a major thoroughfare. Oil lamps burned fitfully at distant intervals, and a number of carriages swept past.

  “Oxford Street.” Satisfaction sounded in the major’s voice. “Very good, Miss Campbell.”

  “Of course,” she said, somewhat hollowly. “I brought us here on purpose, you know.”

  She stepped forward, and spotted one of those covered carriages that looked like the ones they’d ridden in before. “A hackney?” she asked, then hailed it. To her relief, it stopped. She urged the major inside, gave the direction of the orphanage, and followed him within. With a sigh, she sank onto the seat, and the pain in her feet began at once.

  “You seem to be a very capable young lady.” A waver of determined amusement colored his words.

  “You don’t have very great expectations for women,” she countered. He leaned back against the cushions and closed his eyes. As they passed near one of the few street lights, she caught a glimpse of his tense face, his thinned lips—proof of the pain he tried to ignore. Christy watched him closely, wondering how much blood he had lost. He was quite right about being glad for the darkness. Once he had been hit, their assailants would have been able to follow the trail of dripping crimson.

  At last, the hackney drew up before the orphanage off Golden Lane. With a sharp order for the major to stay put, and not leave the carriage under any circumstances, Christy jumped out and ran up the steps. The door was locked, so she applied the knocker with vigor.

  A long minute passed, and Christy cast an uneasy glance about. Then the door opened and Nancy stood there, yawning, a warm shawl wrapped about the shoulders of her dressing gown.

  “They’ve shot Major Holborn in the arm,” Christy said. “Help me get him inside, we’ve got to take care of it.”

  Mr. Runcorn appeared in the lighted hall behind the maid. “What’s this? Miss Campbell? Did you say James—”

  “He’s been shot.” Tears of reaction started to her eyes, and in annoyance she dashed them away.

  “Fetch hot water, Nancy, and alert Mrs. Runcorn.” The clergyman pushed past Christy and started down the steps.

  “Make sure the water boils!” Christy shouted after her, then hurried after Mr. Runcorn.

  The major stoo
d in the street, paying the driver. The hackney pulled away, and he turned to regard them with disapproval. “I am quite capable of walking on my own, Miss Campbell.”

  “You are also capable of being a target.” She positioned herself at his side. “If you think your association with this place is unknown, you’re being naive. Don’t you think your enemies will have someone watching this house as well as your own?”

  He glared at her, but held his tongue as they escorted him indoors, one on either side, using their bodies as shields.

  Mrs. Runcorn met them in the hall, a pile of torn linen strips and a couple of small bottles in her arms. She followed them into the parlor. “Nancy will be back in a few minutes with the water,” she said.

  “Make sure it’s boiling.” Christy cast a pleading glance at the woman.

  “Whatever for, my dear? We don’t want to scald him when we wash the wound, do we?” Mrs. Runcorn set down her supplies. “Now, don’t be in such a pucker. I’ve tended innumerable injuries before. He will be quite all right, you’ll see.”

  Mr. Runcorn helped the major out of his evening cloak, then turned his attention to his ruined coat. “Can you slide your arm free?”

  Christy watched, biting her lip at the strain on the major’s face. Still, he made no concession to his wound, refusing to acknowledge the obvious pain. “Aren’t we supposed to cut the fabric away?” she asked, calling on her knowledge of various low-budget costume films she’d seen.

  “I fail to see the need to further damage my apparel,” Major Holborn informed her coldly.

  Mr. Runcorn eased the heavy cloth off the major’s shoulders, and helped him slide his good arm from the sleeve. Blood soaked the other a deep shade of purple. Crimson drops fell from his fingers.

  Trying hard not to disturb the wound any further, Christy helped inch the velvet fabric down his arm. It had been so elegant, and now it had been reduced to a rag.

  One short intake of breath was all that betrayed the effort this maneuver cost the major. At last, his hand emerged and Christy let out a sigh of relief. She tossed the ruined garment aside.

  “Be seated, James.” Mr. Runcorn pressed him into a chair. “Let’s have a look at this.”

  A hole tore through the once white fabric of his shirt. Now, blood soaked the entire area, even staining the side and front. Mr. Runcorn drew a knife from his pocket, opened it, and sliced through the fabric.

  For some reason, Christy felt no sensation of pleasure at having anticipated this step. Instead, she cringed for the major, who remained frozen, immobile, obviously trying very hard not to react at all. Finally, Mr. Runcorn pulled back the fabric six inches on either side, exposing a nasty tear in the skin from which blood oozed sluggishly.

  “It’s clotting nicely,” Christy managed, hoping her voice didn’t shake too much. A distinct sensation of nausea washed through her. “Can we get him to a doctor?”

  “There is no need.” He kept his voice even. “He would only want to bleed me.”

  “What? You’ve lost enough blood!”

  “My sentiments exactly, Miss Campbell.” He leaned back in the chair, staring fixedly ahead, his jaw set against the pain he refused to acknowledge.

  “Won’t it need stitches?” She looked from one to the other of her companions.

  “I assure you, Miss Campbell, it is not in the least necessary,” the major said through gritted teeth. “I am far more familiar with wounds of this nature than are you. Unless I am much mistaken, the graze is neither wide nor deep. You may examine it for yourself if you do not believe me.”

  “All right, I will. Is there more light?”

  Mr. Runcorn slid a table into position on the major’s left side, and Mrs. Runcorn placed a three-branched candelabrum on its surface. By the flickering illumination provided by the tapers, Christy forced herself to look at the wound.

  When was penicillin developed? She knew the history of chocolate backward and forward, and could provide dates on every major breakthrough, up to and including the production of the first chips. But she hadn’t the foggiest idea when the concept of hygiene was developed. Later than this, though, of that she was certain. Hadn’t she read more people died of infection than of their wounds at this time?

  Nancy pushed the door open and carried in a large kettle between two towels. This she set on the table, then stood back. “Well, guv’nor, you’ve gone and got yourself into a real fix this time, ain’t you?”

  “Haven’t you,” Christy corrected, never taking her gaze from the major’s arm.

  Gently, Mrs. Runcorn set Christy aside, dipped a towel in the warm water, and applied it to the wound. The major winced, and every tendon stood out on his neck. With deft strokes, the woman washed the area.

  The blood started once more, but now Christy saw he had been right, the wound was not as bad as it first appeared. Still, she wished she had some aspirin or ibuprofen or anything to offer him.

  Mr. Runcorn placed a glass in the major’s free hand. His fingers tightened about it, and he swallowed the contents in one gulp. Mr. Runcorn took it back and refilled it.

  The major waved it aside. “I need to keep my wits about me.”

  “You need do nothing of the kind, James. You will stay here tonight ”

  The major made no answer. He gritted his teeth again as Mrs. Runcorn patted the wound, this time with a dry cloth, then sprinkled the contents of a bottle over the area.

  “What is that?” Christy peered over her shoulder.

  “Basilicum powder. It will help it heal.”

  “But will it stave off infection? Don’t you have any antibacterial agents?”

  “Any what?” Mrs. Runcorn didn’t look up from her work.

  “Nothing.” Christy closed her eyes. If she’d only known she was going to wind up two hundred years before her own time, she would have read up on all sorts of things. Time travel, though, was one thing for which she’d never thought to prepare herself. If only she could take him back to her own era, to competent doctors who would give him a good shot of penicillin, who would keep it from getting infected, who might even stitch it closed to minimize the scar. He would bear one, of that she was certain.

  She looked up again to see Mrs. Runcorn had placed a pad over his arm and now wrapped another strip of cloth about it to hold it in place. This she fastened, then stood again, smiling.

  “There, Major. That will hold for now. You are not to move that arm any more than is strictly necessary. Is that understood?” She took another long strip of fabric and slipped it around his lower arm, then about the back of his neck where she knotted it into a sling. “You are to let it rest,” she informed him. “Nancy, have we a bed prepared for the major?”

  “Don’t bother,” he said quickly. “Miss Campbell, I would like a word with you though, before I go. Alone.”

  “Would you?” She glanced uneasily at the others.

  Nancy collected the water and the soiled cloths, and Mrs. Runcorn picked up the clean ones and her basilicum powder.

  Mr. Runcorn handed the major the glass, then held the door for the others to exit. They deserted her, Christy reflected. She crossed to the hearth and stared into the fire.

  “Miss Campbell.”

  The sheer force of his voice and willpower caused her to turn toward him.

  “It is time you answer a few questions.” He held her gaze. “You are obviously not trying to kill me, but I must have some answers before I can trust you.”

  She nodded, but said nothing.

  “I have never met anyone like you, before.” He rose and took several unsteady steps toward her, only to stop a foot away. “I don’t know what to think of you. What the devil is an ‘antibacterial agent?”

  “Something that hasn’t been developed here in England, yet.” Even to herself, her voice sounded feeble.

  “Are you an expert in medicine?”

  She shook her head. “Where I come from, we are a little more advanced in many ways—both socially and scientificall
y.”

  “I see. Is this knowledge you can share?”

  She shook her head. “It has to be learned the hard way.”

  “The way I must learn about you?”

  She stared at her hands. She didn’t want to create a web of lies between them. She wanted—Longing swept through her, intense and terrible. She wanted to know the real James Edward Holborn, to share her fears and hopes with him, to turn over to his capable hands the dreadful burden of the truth. She wanted the impossible.

  “Please,” she said at last. “There’s nothing more I can tell you. What little I know for certain sounds too preposterous to be believed. You’d only think I was lying, and be furious with me for thinking you’d accept anything so bizarre.”

  “And what do you expect me to draw from that?”

  “Only that I would tell you if I could make sense out of it, myself.”

  He extended his good hand, and the liquid sloshed in his glass as he touched the nylon sleeve of her down coat. Bewilderment flickered across his face, only to fade beneath determination. “I am going to find out who you are, where you are from, and what you are doing in my life,” he said. “I give you fair warning. I intend to have answers from you, and I will not be put off.”

  If only she had her purse, some dated identification, some proof ... but she didn’t. She stared at him, helpless. His dark eyes closed in his thoughts, impenetrable, yet coldness emanated from him, chilling her.

  She shook her head. “I would do anything to be able to tell you more. I don’t know how I got here, or even why.”

  “I see.” The two syllables fell like ice. “Good evening, Miss Campbell” He turned on his heel, picked up his cloak, and attempted to slip it over his shoulders.

  “Here.” She helped him wrap it about himself.

  The defiance of his departure somewhat diminished, he gave her a curt nod and stalked into the hall.