A Christmas Keepsake

by Janice Bennett

  “No one looks worried about anything except the thin ice. Have they simply ignored the gunshot?” Christy demanded of the major. In her own time, it might have been mistaken for a car backfiring, but not here.

  “They must have thought something happened in one of the stalls.” He helped her onto the bank. “It is amazing what people can overlook.”

  He could have been murdered, and no one would have realized what went on right in front of them ... Cold seeped through Christy’s veins, as if her blood passed through a freezer unit. This attempt had been bolder, better planned ... “It was different,” she blurted out.

  The major touched her lips with one finger and gave a slight shake of his head. He signaled the boys and announced: “Hot chocolate and gingerbread time.”

  The boys cheered and scrambled off the ice, and for some time they all busied themselves removing their skates. The major pressed Christy onto a bench and knelt before her, grasping her foot.

  “This man was different,” she repeated. “He was so confident. He never looked back, he never looked around, he concentrated on you. He never seemed to doubt he could kill you.” She forced herself to say the words.

  “Then he should have taken better care of his weapon. Did you notice the flame from the barrel? He used too much oil.”

  “Will you not take this seriously?” She clasped his hand between both of hers. “Next time, he won’t make that mistake. Or any other, for that matter.”

  He released her foot, rotated his hand so his gloved palm clasped hers, and at last met her gaze. “Then I had better know who it is by then, and why he is after me.”

  She shivered. It didn’t seem possible to be any more frightened or cold, yet she managed it. His enemy came too close, but at least now he openly acknowledged the reality of the danger. If only that could prove enough.

  He rose, and she joined him in collecting the boys’ skates, which they sent back to the cart with Jem and Tom. When the lads returned, they all set forth for the hot chocolate stand.

  Christy glanced about, and spotted a booth of far more interest to her. “There’s one with mulled wine,” she said. “I could use some of that, if you don’t mind.”

  He nodded. “I think we both could.” After paying for the mugs of chocolate, he distributed coins among the boys and told them to buy gingerbread or brandy snaps or fairings, whatever took their fancy. They evaporated like a cloud of mist in the hot sun.

  “James.” Mr. Runcorn caught his arm. “That man on the ice—Sammy said he shot at you.”

  The major nodded. “They have made their attempt for today, we should be quite safe, now.”

  He offered Christy his sound arm, and she took it, her hand closing tightly over it. “Major—” she began.

  “Not now.”

  She bit her tongue to keep back her words of warning, and clung to him for comfort.

  The snow drifted down again as they purchased their hot spicy wine. They wandered through the booths, sipping the warming beverage, and she tried hard to savor the experience. Her thoughts, though, could not stray far from the major’s danger. Her fingers clenched on his sleeve as she glanced about, unable to shed her nervousness. “Don’t you think—”

  “No, I do not,” he interrupted. “If that man was as confident as you think, he will not have provided for a second attempt today.”

  “I’ll feel a lot better when you’re safely indoors.”

  “If you think I intend to spend the rest of my life cowering in fear, Miss Campbell, you are much mistaken.”

  She shook her head, and her lips twitched into a rueful smile. “No, that isn’t like you.”

  They returned their mugs to the booth and found the boys had finished their purchases. One—Ned—showed off his proficiency with a ball and cup toy. The major sent Jem to obtain a container of roasted chestnuts, and went himself to where a bonfire burned. There he purchased several bricks which had been heating in the flames.

  Christy continued to cling to him, knowing she provided inadequate protection, yet unwilling to let go. At last, to her relief, they returned to the carriages and the waiting Kepp. She and Mrs. Runcorn climbed once more into the curricle, the major placed one of the wrapped bricks at their feet, and Mrs. Runcorn fussed with her skirts, settling herself in comfort.

  “So kind, such attentions,” she murmured.

  The major waved that aside. “Nonsense, it is too cold to be without them.”

  The boys, meanwhile, scrambled into the back of the wagon and argued over the remaining bricks. Christy huddled over theirs, glad for its warmth.

  Darkness closed about them, and now she only could make out dim shapes of people and objects. Kepp had brought up the hood against the falling snow, and she hoped it afforded the major some protection—though she greatly feared it didn’t. As they started once more through the streets, she peered from one side to the other.

  “Be still, Miss Campbell,” the major murmured. “Do not alarm Mrs. Runcorn.”

  That lady apparently didn’t hear. She snuggled into her woolen pelisse, her hands clasped in her muff where they held a small heated rock wrapped in cloth.

  “You’ve got to be more careful,” Christy whispered back, and knew she sounded like a broken record.

  They reached the orphanage, and the major assisted Christy and Mrs. Runcorn down. Mrs. Runcorn hesitated, looking up at him with a thoughtful expression in her brown eyes. “I believe you should come in.”

  He nodded. “I left my papers in the study.” He told Kepp to return in fifteen minutes, and accompanied them up the stairs.

  The cart pulled up before the house, and the boys piled out. The two eldest again took charge of the wagon, and drove off to settle the horse for the night.

  Mr. Runcorn mounted to the porch and ushered them into the house. “James,” he said without preamble, “I think you should remain the night.”

  “Just what I was thinking.” Mrs. Runcorn turned in relief to her husband. “It would be the very thing.”

  “There is not the least need.” The major looked from one to the other of them, exasperated. “Do you think I am not capable of taking care of myself?”

  “I think you’re capable of being shot at, James.” Mr. Runcorn led the way into the sitting room. “You escaped this afternoon, but it wasn’t by much. By now, that man will have had time to recover and be ready to make another attempt.”

  Christy clasped her hands before her. “It would be far too easy, while you’re driving. Your carriage is unmistakable. Your beautiful horses—they’re so distinctive.”

  “What do we have to do to convince you?” Mr. Runcorn regarded him, his expression somber. “If you won’t do it for yourself, then do it for us, for we will not be able to sleep a wink all night for worrying whether or not you are safe.”

  The major shook his head. “It would only be to delay the next attack. If indeed someone lies in wait for me tonight, then what is to stop him in the morning when I leave here?”

  “Daylight may prove your friend,” Mr. Runcorn said. “It will be best if you refrain from now on from going out toward evening. A man can hide in shadows even in the dimming light.”

  “He can do that in broad daylight.” The major’s expression remained grim. “Do you think I fear the ghosts? They are said to walk from tonight until Christmas Eve, remember. I can hardly skulk indoors for the next four days.”

  “Please, James.” Mrs. Runcorn laid her hand on his arm. “We have the extra room. I assure you, you will be quite comfortable. You may even send Kepp for Wickes. You need want for nothing while you remain with us. And you will be far safer than at your lodgings.”

  “Your man can bring your night rail and shaving kit,” Mr. Runcorn added.

  The major’s gaze rested on him a moment, traveled to his wife, then settled on Christy. “And you, Miss Campbell? Have you no entreaties to add?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve never yet known a man to take sound advice, so why should I expe
ct you to listen, now?”

  A short laugh escaped him. “It seems I must stay, if only to prove you wrong.”

  Mrs. Runcorn smiled in relief. “How handsomely said, James.”

  “Indeed,” he admitted. He turned his softened gaze on Christy. “Do you, also, think it unsafe for me to go out this night?”

  “This night, especially. Our friend from the rink will be furious with himself for failing. And that means he’s all the more likely to strike again, fast, without due reflection, if the opportunity is presented to him. And that might make him all the more deadly.”

  The major crossed to the fire and stared into it for several silent minutes. “Very well, then,” he said at last. “I accept your hospitality, with thanks.”

  Relief left Christy weak. For this one night, at least, he would be safe.

  Noises in the hall announced the return of the boys. Mr. Runcorn opened the door and called to Jem.

  “Aye, sir?”

  “When Kepp returns with the major’s curricle, will you hold the horses for him while he steps in, please?”

  Jem took off with alacrity, not, Christy noted, delegating the task to one of the younger boys. All of them seemed pleased to do the major the most trifling service. She could understand that. He inspired loyalty.

  Kepp arrived a few minutes later, then took himself off to fetch Wickes. That matter settled, Mrs. Runcorn headed down to the kitchen to see how Nancy progressed with the dinner. Christy followed, wanting to be of assistance. With the major joining them, she felt certain something special would be prepared.

  She was right. Major Holborn, she learned, had a fondness for vacherin, a mixture of strawberry preserves and whipped cream, spooned into meringue baskets. Christy set to work steaming vegetables, and as soon as Nancy finished basting the main course of roasted mutton, she set about fixing the special dessert with Mrs. Runcorn’s aid. Her own task completed, Christy, over their protests, took herself off to oversee the setting of the table by the boys.

  She started back up the stairs from the kitchen, only to stop short at the sight of a strange and very elegant man in his early forties descending toward her. Thinning blond hair receded from his high forehead, and a broad, blunt nose dominated his square face. His black coat fitted smoothly across his shoulders, and the faint spicy scent of a cologne hovered about him. He bowed to her and stepped aside to permit her to pass.

  She hesitated. He seemed too much at home to be an intruder. But who—?

  “Miss Campbell, don’t you go—” Nancy stuck her head out of the kitchen and broke off, “Ifn it ain’t Mr. Wickes. ’Ere, now, don’t you go a-scarin’ miss by creepin’ around. You ups and tells ’er who you is.”

  “It was my intention ” His pained gaze rested on Nancy’s vivid brassy hair, and he permitted himself a slight shudder. Pointedly, he returned his attention to Christy and bowed to her once more. “Mr. Wickes, miss. I have the honor to serve Major Holborn as his valet.”

  “Of course.” Christy held out her hand. “I’m pleased to meet you. And I’m glad you’re here. He didn’t hurt his arm any more today, did he?”

  A muscle twitched in the valet’s cheek, and he stared at her hand. After a moment, he took it. “Thank you, miss. And no, miss. He did not reopen the wound.”

  “Good. Excuse me, I’ve got to go check on the table.” She passed him, aware she had probably just broken every social rule on the book. She only hoped she hadn’t offended him too much.

  The meal proved to be a lively affair, the boys full of their day’s treat. No fear of their hot chocolate and gingerbread affecting their appetites, Christy noted; they ate everything in sight. She leaned back in her chair, listening to their excited chatter, watching their animated faces. This was no normal orphanage. This was more a home. She was very fortunate to have fallen into such hands.

  When they finished eating, Nancy and Mrs. Runcorn directed the boys in their cleanup. Christy tagged along, and stacked dishes on the shelves after Alfie dried them. Mr. Wickes, she noted, tended to the pots and pans, which in no way diminished his supercilious expression.

  “Above ’isself, ’e is,” Nancy informed Christy in an undervoice. Her gaze rested on the valet, and she sniffed. “Keeps to ’isself over there, wont ’ave nothin’ to do with the likes of me ”

  Nancy returned to scrubbing the large wooden table, and Christy glanced over her shoulder to where Wickes hung a frying pan on its metal rack. The valet glanced at the girl, then immediately looked away.

  Christy bit her lip and accepted another damp plate from Alfie. Poor Wickes. He might have convinced Nancy he despised her, but he didn’t seem to have convinced himself. An ever so proper gentleman’s gentleman and an ex-pickpocket? Her smile faded. In this era, that was probably as impossible as a duke and a chambermaid.

  The last cup returned to its place, they put away their scrubbing brushes and hung the towels to dry. Wickes declined Mrs. Runcorn’s invitation to join them in the sitting room, and took himself off to the major’s chamber to arrange his things. The others trooped up the stairs to play a divination game before bed.

  Already, Major Holborn and Mr. Runcorn arranged apples and knives for the boys on the table. The children swooped down on these, jockeying for positions, arguing over who got the largest apple or the sharpest knife. The major silenced this squabbling with a word, and the boys went to work.

  Christy stood in the doorway, her gaze resting on his dark auburn head as he bent toward the youngest of the boys, helping him pare his apple in one long piece. Considering someone tried to kill him just a couple of hours ago, he appeared amazingly relaxed. In fact, she would swear he enjoyed himself. In his position, she’d be terrified.

  She went to his side, unable to stay away, and took the chair next to him, near the hearth. “They are certainly involved in this, aren’t they?”

  He shot her a humorous smile. “We have changed the rules a trifle. The original game supposedly showed the initial of one’s true love. They do it for the first letter of their future jobs or apprenticeships.”

  Alfie finished his spiral, held it aloft for the others to see, then tossed it over his shoulder. “What is it?” He spun around for a better look.

  “A ‘C,’ ” Jem declared. “You’re goin’ to be a chimney sweep, you are.”

  “I don’t want to be,” Alfie cried.

  “Why not a clerk?” Christy suggested. “Or a constable..”

  “Or a corporal,” the major added, joining in the game. “What else can you think of that begins with a ‘C?’ A cook?”

  This diverted the boys, and they became more outlandish in their suggestions for each of the letters. At last, Mrs. Runcorn announced it was past their bedtime, and sent them upstairs. Sammy opened his mouth to protest, but the major cut him short by threatening to pull an inspection on them in fifteen minutes, with dire consequences if they weren’t asleep. Laughing, the boys ran to their preparations.

  “Which is a wonderful change, we usually have at least one straggler,” Mrs. Runcorn said with a sigh.

  “I’ll withdraw also, if you don’t mind.” The major rose. “I cannot neglect my work.” He retreated down the hall to the study.

  Christy watched him go, then mounted the steps to her room and closed the door firmly behind her. Major Holborn planned to work, presumably on his book.

  Curious, she drew the copy of Life in London out of its hiding place in the bottom of her clothes cupboard and unwrapped it from her royal blue sweater. For a long moment she stared at the title page, studying his name in print, then she turned the pages over one at a time, scanning the typeset words. The lines remained clear, the words solid and unchanging—except for a rare, occasional one that blurred.

  She passed sixty-odd pages that way, then turned the next into Chapter Eight. Part of this first sheet remained legible, the rest shifted before her eyes. A light-headed, dizzy sensation swept over her as her fingers traced the letters, trying to force them to hold a single s
hape.

  This must be the section he currently wrote. He had yet to complete it in final form, so the words continued to shift between the possible alternatives. The same held true for those few words in the earlier chapters, which either he or a publisher would change before printing.

  She leafed through the next fifteen pages, and at least half of the words altered. He still had a lot of rewriting to do, she surmised. She turned another, and froze; the type ran out after only three lines. The rest was blank.

  Startled, she flipped through the remaining forty-odd pages of the book, but they remained empty, all the way to the end. She closed the volume and stared at it. The section he had yet to begin. Her history, his future. As yet uncast.

  She hugged herself, cold with more than the icy chill of the December night. St. Thomas’s Eve, December Twentieth, the night of divination. How appropriate. Which course would events take? She had always assumed history was a given, once lived it couldn’t be changed. Yet here she was, knowing events to have occurred one way, and seeing before her the evidence that they could alter.

  If this revolution came about, would that be the reality she knew, the one she tried to preserve, the one all history books would record? And what else would change? The ripple effect through time boggled her mind. How many subtle differences would there be?

  Would she even exist, or would history create different patterns that would prevent her parents—or grandparents, or even great grandparents—from ever meeting? Would she simply vanish? Then would the effect be retroactive, so she never came to this time at all, since she never existed? One little change now, and how very different life could become two hundred years in the future.

  Her gaze returned to the volume she clenched in her hand. During the next week or two, James Holborn would either record a house party he had yet to attend, or riots would break out in the streets. And somehow, his actions, and probably her own, would determine the course of history.

  She opened the book once more, to the last pages with writing. As she watched, several lines ceased their shifting and became solid. She swallowed. He worked on it now, put something in its final form. A shimmering line formed on the almost blank page.