A Christmas Keepsake

by Janice Bennett

  What did he write? The word “pistol” stood out for one moment, then vanished into a hazy blur. She didn’t remember anything about guns in the printed book, at least not until she reached Chapter Ten and the tale of the rioting. A chill crept through her that refused to be banished. Had they begun on the sequence of events which would lead, ultimately, to bloodshed and death?

  She had to stop him from recording more of his danger, from recording anything having to do with violence, lest that version become the permanent one! She shoved the book into the reticule which hung at her wrist, grabbed up her candle, and shielded it as she ran from her room, down the stairs to the study where the crackling of a fire and the warm glow of light indicated someone worked within. She pushed wide the partially open door, then stopped on the threshold.

  James Holborn sat at the writing desk, quill in hand, his brow creased in a frown as he studied the page before him. Her gaze fell on his scrawling copperplate.

  “What are you writing?” she demanded.

  He looked up, and his eyebrows rose in polite inquiry. “I am finishing a chapter of my book.”

  “I know that, but—”

  “You do?”

  She bit her lip. “I mean, I saw you weren’t quite done with it. Naturally you’re polishing it a bit.”

  His gaze rested on her face. “What has distressed you?”

  “Why are you writing about pistols?” she blurted out.

  All expression faded from his face. “How did you know I was?”

  She closed her eyes, aghast. How could she have been so dumb as to say that? But it was all she could think about.

  He rose and came around the side of the desk and positioned himself directly in front of her. “I asked you a question, Miss Campbell.”

  “It—” She broke off, not able to come up with a single explanation, believable or otherwise. She clutched the ribbons of her reticule, then glanced down at it. She shouldn’t have brought the book with her...

  “What have you in there?” He caught the cloth bag.

  She tried to pull it back. “Nothing. It—it’s just a book. Your earlier one.” He met her frantic gaze with a penetrating one of his own, and she looked away, desperate. She couldn’t let him see it.

  “May I?” He dragged it from her wrist and pulled it open.

  “No!” She caught at it. Or did part of her want him to see the book, to end the pretences between them, to warn him of the dangers that threatened ahead?

  He pulled the bag free of her grasp and drew out the thin leather volume. “It is certainly a eaten-up copy, isn’t it?” He turned it over, and his expression froze. “Life in London,” he said at last. “That was not the title of my first book. Rather, it is the one I have considered for the manuscript on which I currently work.”

  For one long, heart-stopping minute, his gaze rested on her stricken face. At last he lowered it to the book, and leafed through the pages. Silence filled the study, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Then he looked up once more at her, and she fell back a pace under the force of the anger in his flashing eyes.

  “I think, Miss Campbell,” he said, his tone rigid, “it is time for those explanations you avoid so well.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  This time, James determined, he would not be put off, not be distracted by Miss Campbell’s taking ways or her lovely eyes and enchanting smile. This time, he would force the truth from her.

  Slowly, as if compelled against her will, she looked up to meet the challenge of his gaze. She looked away at once, her shoulders slumping. For a long minute she stared into the fire, and seemed to draw courage from the glowing coals. “You’re not going to believe what I have to say,” she said, her voice so soft he could barely hear.

  “Very probably not,” he agreed. “I have never met anyone like you, before. And this”—he tapped the book—”this, my dear Miss Campbell, defies logical and reasonable explanation.”

  A slight smile twisted her lips. “You’re not kidding.”

  “Do you have any idea how it feels to leaf through the pages of a published book that isn’t published—let alone finished—yet? This is impossible.”

  “I’d noticed. The whole situation is impossible.”

  He sat back on the edge of the desk. “I’m very much looking forward to what you will have to say about it.”

  “Right.” She drew a deep breath. “Just for a moment, consider the possibility I come from a time two hundred years in the future. How does that hit you?”

  “Do you want the truth, Miss Campbell?”

  She grimaced. “No. I just need you to believe me.”

  “I’m listening, let’s leave it at that.”

  She crossed to the fireplace and stared into the flames. “I really do come from the future. I’m a rare book and antiquities dealer, which is how I got into this mess.” She spun about to face him. “I flew to England, Major Holborn. On a ship that travels through the air. It’s powered by engines that—oh, damn, you don’t even have steam engines yet. How am I going to explain gasoline? Never mind, but it only takes hours, rather than weeks, to cross the Atlantic.”

  “Indeed.” He folded his arms and allowed his lip to curl. “Are you certain you are not a writer of lurid novels, Miss Campbell?”

  “Only if you’re the writer of ones that shift their lines,” she shot back. “I came to England for a purpose—for an auction at Sotheby’s. I bought that book—” she gestured toward it—”as part of a lot. The first nine chapters stayed solid. The rest shifted back and forth between two very different versions. From Chapter Ten on—the part you’re about to start writing. The part that’s blank now.”

  His fingers whitened on the volume. Pointedly, he glanced at the mantel clock. “It grows very late for fairy stories, Miss Campbell.”

  “Fairy tales? Look at your book again, Major. Is that a fairy tale? The type is shifting, isn’t it? Isn’t it?”

  He gritted his teeth, then unclenched his fingers and leafed once more through the pages. It wasn’t possible, it simply wasn’t logical yet the letters altered themselves, forming different words and sentences. The basic content remained the same, except one version read in a more polished form, as if he had cleaned up his notes...

  Hell and the devil confound it! If he weren’t careful, he’d find himself believing this nonsense. “What do you claim the rest of the book is about?” With an effort, he kept his voice even.

  “Neither version ever got clear enough for me to really read it. I only caught glimpses of them.” She hesitated, then plunged on. “One described a Christmas house party, at which a number of government officials were present.”

  “And the other?”

  She paced to the chairs, and clutched the back of one. “The other spoke of riots and bloodshed in the streets, and a revolution like the one the French had.”

  “This is nonsense.” He surged to his feet and started to slam the book onto the table, only to stop himself with it halfway down.

  “I knew you wouldn’t believe any of this. That’s why I’ve avoided your questions.” She brushed the dark curls from her eyes in a frustrated gesture. “Remember how crazy I acted on that first day when you met me? How would you feel if you suddenly looked around and found yourself transported back to Sixteen Hundred, and the buildings and landmarks you knew had vanished, and everyone dressed and talked differently?”

  He crossed to the fire and stared at it for a long moment, then turned back to her. “Have you any explanations about why this should have happened?”

  “Only a pretty scary one. I checked other books written at this time, and none of them shifted like this. And I showed your book to other people, and they only saw the tale of the house party. The words only changed for me, and only in your book.”

  “And your conclusions?”

  “As far as my time is concerned—and for that matter, as far as all other books from this time are concerned—no revolution takes place. I can only assume som
e action on your part—and possibly on mine—either causes or prevents the rioting. History seems to be in our hands.”

  “That is quite a responsibility you choose to place upon my shoulders, Miss Campbell.”

  “I didn’t make the choice. I wish I’d never gone to that damned auction—or seen your stupid book. Then history could have just gone on without me.”

  “History.” His lips twisted into an ironic half smile. Was that the way she thought of him? Some ancient relic from the distant past? The devil, she had him doing it, almost believing this ridiculous story of hers.

  His gaze strayed back to the book, and his frown deepened. There might almost be some justification for that belief. He raised his gaze to her once more. “If you’re really from the future, how did you get here?”

  ‘That snowdome you made.”

  “That—” He broke off. “Do you mean snowball? What you would make if you pack a handful of snow for throwing?”

  “I wish. Don’t you remember, I described it to that man in the curio shop? The place where I bought it—except that was two hundred years in the future? It’s a glass ball, filled with a liquid, usually with a scene inside and little flecks of something white. When you shake it, the flecks drift down on the scene like snow.”

  “And?” he prodded.

  “This one showed a man and woman ice skating, with a carriage and gray horse in the background. As I looked at it, the couple danced—the same dance you showed me today.”

  “And what did you mean about my making it?”

  She drew a shaky breath. “It had your signature on the bottom. The figures were cast from silver and enameled, to keep them from tarnishing in the liquid.”

  He set his jaw. “I do cast in silver, and I sometimes enamel the pieces. Jewelry making is a hobby of mine. Anyone could have told you that. I have never, though, made such an object—indeed, I have never heard of such a thing before.”

  “Well, you’d better get to work on it. You dated it Eighteen-Ten, which gives you only a couple of weeks to complete it.”

  “And what makes you think I intend to do anything of the kind?”

  “If you don’t, it won’t exist in the future to bring me back through time.”

  “Which is the best argument I ever heard for not carving any wax for the next month,” he shot at her.

  She shook her head. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  He strode to the window and gazed out at the snow falling in the narrow alley behind the house. “If I don’t make it, what happens to your history, then? What happens to you?” He glanced over his shoulder at her.

  She sank onto the chair. “I don’t know. Maybe you have a revolution instead of a house party. It’s the book, though, not the snowdome, that shows the potential disaster. What if you don’t finish it, so it’s never published?”

  His gaze fell on the manuscript pages scattered on the table, then transferred to the volume he still clutched. No, it was his work, what he believed in. Only his death would prevent him from finishing it. Only his death...

  Icy tentacles crept through him. Only his death, which someone seemed very determined to bring about.

  He dragged open the book, watched the shifting type, studied the blank pages at the end. Nothing was settled. It was true, he didn’t yet know what he would write in this section. He had no plans, though, to attend a house party—and certainly no intention to witness a revolution in the streets.

  A revolution in the streets. Some part of him feared that possibility already. A chance existed, a very real chance. Sir Oliver Paignton, Lord Farnham, Viscount Brockenhurst—their comments at St. Ives’s dinner party returned to haunt him. If Prinny, with his spendthrift ways, became regent, would the poor of the city rise up in protest, demand a portion of that vast fortune he wasted on frivolities to obtain the basic necessities for themselves?

  A revolution, like the one in France.

  And somehow, he was involved, or it would not be his book alone which altered its words.

  “Rioting,” he repeated aloud, and turned to face her.

  “Something is going to happen within the next couple of weeks, and I don’t know what it is,” she declared. “That regency bill?”

  He shook his head. “I have nothing to do with that. I have no influence in government circles—much to my regret. My sole influence rests with the people who have read my writings on civil reform. If, as you suggest, this matter hinges on me, then it must be these writings that are responsible.” His fingers clenched on the book. “I will do everything in my power to prevent such a bloodbath in England.”

  “Got any bright ideas?”

  He drew a deep breath, considering his options. “I think,” he said at last, “we will do best to speak to Saint Ives.”

  “Your cousin? Why?”

  “He takes a considerable interest in government policies, gathers about him men of influence. All of the people at the dinner party—except us—were important in the government.”

  “Then you think these are the men who might cause—or prevent... Her voice trailed off as she sat up, her eyes sparkling, animated. “Could they be induced to prevent problems? To possibly pass a bill—”

  “Or not pass one,” he interrupted her. “Confound it, I have been blind! My writings on social reform combined with Prinny’s taking the regency will be the destruction of England! Come on.” He grabbed her hand and started for the door. “Get your bonnet and pelisse.”

  “Where are we going?” She hurried after him, barely keeping up with his long strides.

  “To Saint Ives. I want a word with him, and I want you to listen.”

  He threw open the door, propelled her down the hall, and took the stairs two at a time. By the time he’d fetched his greatcoat and beaver, she had only just reached her chamber. He waited while she collected her things, then helped her into the pelisse.

  “Will he still be up?” she asked.

  He gave a short laugh. “Knowing Saint Ives, he will be entertaining again this night. He rarely seeks his couch before three in the morning.” He started down the stairs, then realized she wasn’t following.

  “Is this safe?” Lines of worry creased her lovely brow, her features so expressive of concern—for him.

  “It’s a chance I’m prepared to take,” he said. “Are you coming?”

  For answer, she followed him.

  The icy night air chilled him to the bone as he stepped onto the front porch. What it did to Miss Campbell in that flimsy gown he didn’t want to think. At least her pelisse was of sturdy wool.

  It wasn’t going to be easy finding a hackney, despite the fact it lacked only twenty minutes before eleven. No jarvey with any respect for his life lingered on Golden Lane—or anywhere in St. Luke’s, for that matter.

  He quickened his stride, then slowed as her ragged breathing reached him through the muted stillness of the snow-filled darkness. He strained his ears for the sound of pursuit, but none came. He cut down Barbican Street, and at last they emerged onto Aldersgate. Here, a number of carriages—some of them hackneys—passed.

  The fourth he signaled stopped for them. He bundled Miss Campbell inside, then gave the direction of his cousin’s house. The driver raised an eyebrow at this exalted address, cast a speculative eye over the major, then jerked his head for his passenger to enter.

  “Not on his usual route, I should imagine,” Miss Campbell said.

  James acknowledged this, then fell silent, staring out the window. What a devilish situation. He couldn’t abandon his life’s work, yet to pursue it might result in a far worse situation than existed now. Should he act—or do nothing? Which course led to the preservation of England—and the betterment of the lower classes? This remarkable—and possibly mad—young woman couldn’t tell him.

  At last the driver pulled up in Portman Square and let them down. James paid him, then strode up the stairs, drawing Miss Campbell with him. He knocked, then waited, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other
about her elbow, and wished it weren’t so damnably cold.

  At last the door opened. Doring stared at him, surprise flickering across his normally impassive countenance. “Major Holborn!” He stepped back and gestured for them to enter. “His lordship is entertaining this evening.”

  James nodded. “I expected as much. Might I have a word with him alone, please?”

  “Certainly, sir.” Doring escorted them up the stairs and into a small salon at the front of the house.

  A sudden burst of laughter sounded from down the hall, and several deep voices rose in a jovial exchange, then faded to silence. Miss Campbell crossed to the fireplace and held out her hands to warm them. After a moment, James joined her.

  The welcome heat reached his fingers, relieving their numbness. “We could have picked a better time of year for this adventure,” he said.

  She smiled, but shook her head. “Oh, no, you wouldn’t want to take all the challenge out of it, would you?”

  “Of course not.” Somehow, she made it all seem not quite as bad. His gaze rested on her face, on the lock of curls which hung over her forehead in delightful disarray. Normally, he liked extreme neatness in a lady. But Miss Campbell defied all the rules.

  She wasn’t exactly a beauty, he decided. Just breathtaking. No cool ice maiden this, not at all the sort of female toasted by the ton. She vibrated with passion, vivacity, and a depth of emotion he could barely comprehend. Not to mention a reprehensible sense of humor.

  Desire for her surged through him with an intensity that drove all from his mind except its unexpectedness, its unfamiliarity in his dealings with ladies of virtue, and its incredible strength. Stunned, he gazed into her huge, luminous eyes.

  They met his in a look half startled, half rueful, which faded into a yearning that mirrored his own. Against his will, against his better judgment, he stepped toward her, his hand reaching out to brush that stray curl from her forehead. His finger trailed to her cheek, then traced her lips. They parted, and her soft breath fanned his flesh. Such very kissable lips. Why had he not yet availed himself of their promise?