A Christmas Keepsake

by Janice Bennett

  The Reverend Mr. Runcorn awaited him. “You won’t go, will you, James?”

  “I will.”

  “But there is no carriage,” Mr. Runcorn protested. “I can fetch the cart—”

  “There is no need.”

  “At least let me accompany you to the corner, until you can find a hackney.”

  “And don’t take the first one that stops for you,” Christy said.

  The major turned and stared at her for a long moment. “I am not a fool, Miss Campbell, despite what you appear to think.” Over the major’s renewed objections, Mr. Runcorn accompanied him out the front door. Christy leaned against the jamb, eyes closed. She needed to come up with a believable story, anything to drive away that distrust. She still stood there, replaying that uncomfortable scene in her mind, wondering how to make things right between them, when Mr. Runcorn returned.

  He stopped in the hall and fixed her with his compelling regard. “They were waiting for you when you came out of his cousin’s house?”

  Christy nodded. “It wasn’t chance. The first shot almost hit him in the head—it took his hat off. They mean to kill him.” To her dismay, her voice broke and tears started to her eyes.

  “He is a sensible man, Miss Campbell.” He patted her shoulder gently. “He will take care of himself. Come, the hour is late.”

  Together, they picked up the candles at the foot of the stair and climbed the several flights to the floor with their rooms.

  The evening had started out such fun, Christy reflected as she twisted and contorted her upper body, trying to reach the buttons on her gown. At last, she freed herself and pulled it off. She shivered in the chilly night air; the fire had burned down, so she threw a fagot onto the smoldering coals. What she wouldn’t give for a bit of forced air heating right about now.

  She washed her face, then pulled the pins from her hair and let it tumble down below her shoulders. Sitting at the dressing table, she tried to drag a comb through the thick curls. How could the night have ended so badly?

  The familiar occupation of untangling her mass of hair soothed her, and the tension ebbed from muscles that began to ache. She could use a hot shower—or half an hour in a Jacuzzi. She wasn’t used to running a marathon practically barefoot over broken bricks through twisting alleyways. She stifled a yawn, then gave up and crawled into bed. Not even her troubled thoughts could compete with the exhaustion that crept through her.

  She awoke in the morning to the sound of a herd of elephants descending the steps at breakneck speed. Shouts and laughter emanated from the stairwell, and in a moment her sleep-fog mind cleared. The boys, on their way to breakfast.

  She stretched, discovered a few more stiff muscles that had jumped on the bandwagon, and groaned. Given her choice, she would stay right here, snuggled beneath the down comforter. She had to earn her keep though. And she wanted to find out if the major had arrived at his rooms safely.

  She swung her bruised feet out of bed, washed with the water Nancy must have brought in while she slept, then dragged on her muslin gown. A few minutes later, she hobbled down to seek her own meal.

  By the time she reached the dining room, the boys were just finishing, and Nancy had begun gathering the empty plates. Mrs. Runcorn sat at the foot of the table, papers spread about her, jotting down notes to herself.

  Mr. Runcorn, at the head, stood. “Our chores first this morning, boys.”

  All eight of the orphans rose and filed out without a murmur of protest, winning Christy’s surprised approval.

  Mr. Runcorn smiled at her. “Lessons this afternoon, Miss Campbell. You have the morning free.”

  Christy thanked him. “And Major Holborn?”

  “Everything is fine. He sent a message when he arrived home last night.” With a reassuring nod to her, he followed the boys.

  Relieved, Christy filled a plate and carried it to where Mrs. Runcorn worked. “How may I help you?” she asked.

  The woman sighed. “There is always so much to be done. We need a side of mutton, and I do not know when I am to find the time to go shopping.”

  “I could do it for you.”

  Mrs. Runcorn tilted her spectacles and regarded Christy over their tops. “Could you, my dear? I vow, it would be the greatest help if you could do so, from time to time.”

  “I’d be delighted.” Christy settled at the table. “Where do I go?”

  “For this once, I had better spare Nancy to you. She can show you which stalls have the best meats, and what we need, and how not to be taken in.”

  “It’ll be a pleasure, it will.” Nancy paused in her gathering of dirtied cups and flatware. “I’d like another of them lessons, if you don’t mind, miss.”

  Christy agreed, keeping her reservations about her own suitability to herself, and finished her breakfast. She then joined Nancy in the kitchen and helped with the washing up, over the girl’s protests. Twenty minutes later, they set forth in a rough cart owned by the orphanage for transporting supplies—and occasionally taking the boys on outings. Jem, the eldest, rode in the back to take charge of the horse while they shopped.

  Nancy drove the Runcorns’ aging chestnut mare through the streets with less than expertise, but at last they arrived at a courtyard teeming with people, which she identified as Leadenhall Market. For once, the sky held no threat of snow. Nancy turned the cart over to Jem, who scrambled onto the seat.

  Christy jumped down, fascinated by the activity. Nancy steered her through the first court, filled with leather hides and the people bargaining for them.

  “This is the Greenyard,” Nancy announced as they entered the next. She led the way to a cart, greeted a rough man with a teasing word, and he responded with her name. She entered into lively negotiations for a side of mutton, obviously a familiar routine to both of them.

  This settled to their mutual satisfaction and the money exchanged, the man dispatched two of his assistants to carry her purchase to the waiting wagon, which they seemed to know well.

  With a cheery wave, Nancy then led the way to the shops set into a huge building. “Fish,” she explained.

  Christy nodded, staring avidly about, taking it all in. So much business, so many people...

  She shivered with that eerie sensation of being watched. She looked quickly around, searching for some familiar figure, and to her dismay she focused on a man of medium build in a heavy garment Major Holborn had called a “frieze coat.” The man turned away, but didn’t move off. Something about him seemed all too familiar.

  Forcing herself to remain calm, Christy strolled forward and pretended to examine the contents of the stalls and shops. At least the icy weather kept the meats cold. It would probably make her sick to come here in the summer. She paused, glanced casually to both sides, and found that same man had followed, keeping his distance yet keeping her in sight.

  “Is there another way out of here?” Christy asked Nancy in an undervoice.

  “What’s the matter?” The girl looked up quickly.

  “There’s a man following us.”

  Nancy rolled her eyes. “Is ’e ’andsome?”

  “I think he’s the same one who followed the major before, on horseback.”

  The roguish twinkle faded. “Is ’e, now?” Nancy looked about, and her tiny chin jutted out. “You just show’im to me, miss, and we’ll see ’ow much followin’ ’e does, we will.”

  “That might not be safe. Can we just slip out of here?”

  Nancy bit her lip, her eyes narrowing. “There’re a number of passages, miss, leadin’ to the streets. Lined they are, with various shops. We needs a cheese, anyways. Through ’ere,” she announced, and led the way into a third court and approached a man selling herbs. A few minutes later, armed with a basket filled with lavender, basil, and rosemary, they strolled aimlessly through the other herb stalls.

  “Cast your daylights about, miss. Does you see ’im?” Nancy asked sotto voce.

  “Yes.” Christy stared at the man. He glanced up, met he
r gaze for a split second, then abruptly turned and wandered off a few paces. With exaggerated fascination, he studied an array of hanging garlic.

  “Let’s go,” she breathed. She caught Nancy’s arm and together they darted behind a stall, then worked their way through an assortment of crates until they reached a passageway lined with stalls. Behind them, they heard the crash of someone falling over obstacles.

  Nancy slowed, but Christy clutched her elbow and quickened their pace until they ran. More crashes followed, then silence. Christy risked a glance back and saw her pursuer emerge from the maze of stalls and set off after them.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Christy grasped the basket and ran, heedless. Behind her, Nancy struggled to keep up. And farther back—she didn’t dare think what that man did. She only wanted to reach their cart, return to the orphanage, and send a message to the major telling him what occurred.

  They emerged onto the street, then hurried along this until they neared the entry to Leadenhall Market where they had left Jem. The lad lounged on the seat, hat pulled low over his eyes, arms wrapped about himself to keep warm in the chill wind. Christy tossed the basket into the back and scrambled up.

  Nancy grabbed the reins from the boy. “Come on, you young sluggard.” She shoved him over, sandwiching him between herself and Christy. She released the brake and urged the horse into an ambling trot. “Is this the best you can do, you bone-rattler?” she demanded.

  “What’s ado, miss?” Jem yawned and stared at Christy, wide-eyed.

  Christy looked back the way they had come, but no frieze-coated figure lumbered after them. “I think we lost him,” she said at last.

  “Not for good, you ’asn’t,” Nancy said. “Lord love you, miss, that gave me ever such a fright.”

  “You and me, both.” Christy shivered. “Why would someone follow us?” She met Nancy’s gaze, and knew there was no need for an answer. Someone wanted the major, and she had been marked as one of his companions. Apparently, she, too, would now be watched. That prospect left her ill. “Keep an eye out behind us, will you, Jem?” she asked.

  The boy nodded and scrambled into the back of the wagon, along with the side of mutton, the wrapped fish, and the basket of herbs.

  “If you see a man on a horse who seems to be keeping us in sight, let me know.”

  “I sees several,” the lad offered.

  “Can you take us around a few corners, Nancy?” Christy kept her gaze focused behind them. “Just to see if anyone follows?”

  The girl nodded, her expression grim. At the next corner they turned left, then left again, and at the third they headed right.

  Christy glanced ahead, then back again. “Well, Jem?”

  “That cove there, what’s on the bay prad. Wearin’ the frieze coat?”

  “Thanks, that’s him.” Christy huddled onto the seat, chilled by more than the wind. Why didn’t he approach them? Why only keep them in sight? After the violent attack of last night ... She shuddered.

  She leaned forward, wishing the poor animal between the shafts might be a high-spirited racehorse that could whisk them away from their shadow. They’d probably wind up overturned in the ditch, though, the way Nancy drove. They lumbered along, caught in the slow-moving traffic. Definitely, if she had to stay for any length of time in the past, she was going to learn to drive and ride sidesaddle. She didn’t like being at the mercy of somebody else’s abilities.

  They finally turned onto Golden Lane, then into the narrow alley leading to the orphanage. Christy looked back once more. The man rounded the corner behind them, then reined in, as if keeping a vigil. Her heart beat faster and her nerves screamed.

  Two of the boys came down the steps and hailed Jem. Together, they hoisted the side of mutton from the cart and carried it up the steps. Nancy armed herself with the basket and fish while Jem once more took charge of the cart. Christy cast one last look at the solitary horseman, then ran up the stairs and into the house.

  She slammed the door behind her and leaned against it, breathing hard. Why? What did that man want from her—from Major Holborn?

  She had to warn him—and as soon as possible. She started up the stairs in search of someone, only to encounter Mrs. Runcorn coming down. “Where is Mr. Runcorn?” she demanded.

  The woman regarded her with concern. “In his study, my dear. The major has called. Is something wrong?”

  “Not now.” Relief surged through Christy, only to vanish the next moment. Unwittingly, she had led the major’s enemies right to him ...No, that was ridiculous, they already knew about the orphanage.

  “Well, you are not to worry about the boys this afternoon, my dear.” Mrs. Runcorn’s warm smile flashed. “Since this is already a special day, and it is growing so very close to Christmas, we have decided to combine two traditions into one. But you will learn more about that presently.”

  Christy’s lips twitched into an ironic smile. Finally she was about to experience a truly old-fashioned yuletide tradition, and she was too upset to enjoy it. She thanked Mrs. Runcorn and hurried along the hall to her husband’s study. She burst through the door without knocking, and both men looked up in surprise.

  The major, his complexion too pale and the sleeve of his coat bulging from the bandage beneath, rose. “What has occurred?”

  She resisted the temptation to throw herself in his arms. Damn the man for being so attractive—so calm and reassuring. She drew a ragged breath to bring herself under control. “We were watched in the market,” she managed, “and the same man followed us home. He’s in the street, back at the corner, and—” The major set her away from the door and stormed out. Christy dove after him. He took the front steps two at a time, reached the paving, and strode toward the corner. By the time she caught up with him, though, no sign of the man could be found.

  He turned back, his brow heavy. “Was it the same one who followed us before?”

  “I couldn’t be sure. I think it was, but I never got a good look at his face. There was something familiar about him, which was how I spotted him in the market.”

  He swore softly. Together, they retraced their steps to the orphanage.

  Mr. Runcorn stood just inside the doorway, waiting, his expression anxious. “Nothing, again?” he asked as they entered.

  The major shook his head. “It’s confoundedly cold out there. I can’t blame anyone for not staying around. It seems,” he added, looking down at Christy, “his purpose must have been to discover where you went this morning, and once having followed you back here, perhaps his duty was over.”

  “But why? Why me?”

  “Because as little as you may like it, Miss Campbell, you are now associated with me.”

  Actually, Christy liked that idea quite a bit. Her gaze rested on him, moving across his striking countenance, to his broad shoulders. A slight tremor shook them. “You’re freezing,” she said suddenly. “Or is your arm hurting? You shouldn’t have taken it out of the sling.”

  “I assure you, Miss Campbell, I have sustained far worse injuries and dealt with them with considerably less fuss.”

  “Come.” Mr. Runcorn led the way down the passage. “Let us return to the fire.”

  Christy trailed after them. They entered the study, a cozy apartment lined with books, with a large desk standing in the center of the room. A grouping of chairs had been arranged before the fireplace, with a low table in their midst. Handfuls of papers lay scattered on its surface.

  The men returned to these chairs, and Christy joined them. Her gaze moved over the papers, and with a shock she deciphered some of the words. “Your book—” She broke off, and an eerie sensation rippled through her.

  “Yes.” The major gathered some of his notes. “My last was a scathing attack on society’s heartlessness. As you possibly have guessed, I earned no friends from that, certainly none to my cause. And possibly a few deadly enemies. This time I intend to give the ton what it desires.”

  “Which is?”

  “Some
thing to amuse them.”

  She picked up one of the sheets. “It isn’t easy to amuse someone when you’re pointing out poverty and injustice, is it?”

  A half smile just touched his lips. “If you can make someone laugh, you will gain their attention, and they will remember what you say. If I present members of the ton as social heroes, perhaps I can make helping others into a popular pastime.”

  The Reverend Mr. Runcorn shook his head. “If you do, James, it will be the first time anyone has ever succeeded in softening the hearts of the wealthy.”

  “But it is worth a try.” The major leaned back against the cushions.

  Christy raised her gaze to his face. “Do you hope the publication of this book will stop the attacks on you?”

  His eyes darkened even more, becoming solid pools of black. “I am more concerned with the other effect of this book. Besides hoping to influence society, I anticipate it will earn a fair amount of money.”

  “To fund our orphanage and other such projects,” Mr. Runcorn said. “He has done so much, already.”

  The major waved that aside. “There are benefits from this I enjoy very much. Remember, today is Saint Thomas’s Eve.”

  “What is that?” Christy looked from one to the other.

  Mr. Runcorn latched onto the new topic in relief. “Do you not celebrate it in America? Tonight is a night of harmless divinations. I cannot approve of taking such things seriously, of course, but the boys enjoy it. We have also made this the day for cutting our holly and ivy.”

  In spite of her fears, Christy’s spirits lifted. “How much do we get? And do you decorate the whole house, or just one room?”

  Mr. Runcorn shook his head, and a smile eased the solemnity in his features. “We cannot bring it in until Christmas Eve, my dear. We must store it outside until then.”

  Anticipation for the expedition warmed Christy, until it dawned on her a great deal of her pleasure lay in the prospect of spending the better part of the afternoon with Major Holborn. Trying to cover her consternation, she examined the sheet she held; she remembered this page.