A Christmas Keepsake

by Janice Bennett

  He brought with him another cloak and bonnet, and Christy changed into these. Sammy duly delivered her to the Cat and Fiddle tavern in another street, where a Mr. Withern already awaited her arrival. Again, she changed outer garments. Mr. Runcorn, it appeared, had attended to every detail of James’s plan to perfection.

  “Where to, this time?” Christy asked as they set forth once more.

  “Boar’s Head,” replied her new escort, the first—and last, as it turned out—words he spoke to her.

  The Boar’s Head. That meant James. Her heart beating rapidly with nerves, she walked quickly at his side.

  They hurried through dark streets, passing others into whose business, at a shrewd guess, it would be best not to inquire too closely. She really wouldn’t mind not putting her self-defense class to the test. At last they entered a noisy inn, rancid with foul odors and packed with people.

  They hesitated in the doorway, scanning the crowd. After a minute, her companion grunted in satisfaction and led her up to a rough character in a frieze coat, with a patch over one eye. A small woman hovered at his side. The man smiled, and with a sense of shock, she recognized James.

  He raised the greasy tankard he held in a toast to her. “I told you I’d be here.”

  With a soft cry, Christy flung herself into his arms. They wrapped about her, holding her close.

  “ ’Ere you go, love.” The woman dragged off her cloak and bonnet and held them out to Christy.

  Within a minute, they completed the exchange. Mr. Withern bowed to them and departed with the girl, leaving Christy staring at James, bemused.

  “You don’t look at all like yourself,” she whispered.

  A slight smile relieved the tension in his face. “Nor do you. Elsie has found us a room. Shall we go?”

  He led her out a back door, down a maze of dark alleys, then up a flight of rickety steps and into a dilapidated building. A chill breeze whistled through the hall.

  Christy shivered. “How delightful. Are you sure the local ghosts go home after Christmas Eve?”

  A soft chuckle escaped him. “She assures me it will get better, still.”

  Christy threw him an amused look. “You have no idea how I’m looking forward to it. Lead on.”

  They climbed three flights to the accompaniment of crying children, two voluble arguments, and a variety of creaks and groans from the stair boards. Finally, they reached a windowless corridor lit only by one smoking, guttering candle. An uneasy quiet gripped the floor, as if a storm were about to descend with a thundering crash at any moment. Christy slipped her hand into James’s.

  He drew a taper from his pocket and lit it from the one near the steps. This provided sufficient illumination to keep them from tripping over the threadbare patches of what had once passed for a carpet. He unlocked the third door they reached and threw it wide.

  Christy stepped inside and repressed a shudder. If possible, the temperature had dropped ten degrees. But that was probably only due to the hole in the windowpane. The snow on the floor beneath it could be mopped up readily enough.

  Slowly, she turned about, her gaze touching the wooden chair with the broken leg, the uneven floorboards, and the single bed with its soiled bedspread. Home.

  “Well, the surroundings might convince you to make your decision fast,” she said, the only positive comment that sprang to her mind.

  “You know my options as well as I.”

  She nodded, her heart sinking. If he remained in England, his only chance for survival lay in publicly declaring himself to be a Stuart, and a pretender to the throne. He had to gain the support—and protection—of the masses. If they didn’t rally to his call, he hadn’t a chance for survival.

  “Hold me.” She wrapped her arms about him and buried her face in his disreputable frieze coat.

  He smoothed back her hair, and his lips brushed her forehead. “No more doubts, my love?”

  “None. My objections before just don’t matter anymore. I realized that last night.” Between assassins and the possibility of her own time reclaiming her ... She shuddered and held him tighter. “Let’s just live for now. It’s probably all we’ve got—at least together.”

  For a long moment, he didn’t speak. Then: “God help us,” he breathed, without the least trace of irreverence.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Christy held aside the towel she had used to cover the hole in the glass pane and gazed out onto the filthy alley. She would have expected snow to make everything clean and pristine, lending an air of crisp beauty to any environment. Not here. Soot and a variety of filth she’d rather not contemplate tinged the white to various shades of brown and gray.

  She closed her eyes. At least James was safe, if only for the moment. She could be thankful for that. And he had yet to finish the snowdome, too. That meant—she hoped—he could not be murdered, not while his signature wasn’t yet in place on the wooden base. A few days, at least, must remain to them in which to share their love. She warmed at the memory of last night, of the two of them together in the too small bed, which had proved more than large enough.

  She gazed at his auburn head, bent over the figurine he carved of the horse. The tiny gig with its sled runners stood on the table at his side, complete except for the shafts which would connect it to the animal. How she loved James.

  But what if her own time dragged her back? How could she exist without him, centuries away from being able to protect him, possibly never knowing his fate? If he were murdered before it became known he was a Stuart, the history books would have no reason to mention either him or his death. Nor would the poor of England have any reason to riot, nor the factions divide in bloody revolution...

  She shivered and reached into her coat pocket for her plastic bag of chocolate chips. Empty. A shaky sigh escaped her. James looked up from his work. “Is something wrong?”

  Managing a joking grimace which she hoped hid her fears, she held the bag upside down and shook it. “I’m all out.”

  He chuckled. “Poor Christy. How appropriate, though.”

  “Why?” She crossed to the bed and tried to sit cross-legged on it. With a muttered oath at the tightness of her skirt, she curled her legs under her instead.

  “It’s the Third day of Christmas. Holy Innocents’ Day. Also called Childermass, and known to be the unluckiest day of the year.”

  “Darn, I suppose that means I won’t be able to find anymore ” She inhaled the lingering scent from the bag.

  Smiling, he shook his head. “For St. John’s Day—yesterday—the old almanacs specifically say to beware of eating too much Christmas chocolate.” He switched tools and warmed the new knife over the oil lamp.

  She groaned and fell back on the blankets. “Maybe it’s time I went home. Did you know the first chips won’t be made until Nineteen Thirty-Nine?”

  “You certainly know a great deal about it.”

  “It’s a subject dear to my heart.” She rose, restless, and strode about the room. Her gaze fell on the wax he held. “How much longer?”

  “This is the last. The figures are not as refined as I would like, but they should do. What do you think?” He held out the horse to her.

  She took it and ran a finger over the clean wax lines. Not refined, perhaps, but—Her heart gave an uncomfortable lurch. It matched her memory of the figure in the snowdome. It only needed casting in silver and enameling. She handed it back, wordless, and returned to the window.

  Below, a couple of ragged children threw snowballs at each other. An elderly man sat slumped in a doorway, watching them with the hopelessness of one who had nothing else for which to live. Christy turned away, unable to see such utter dejection, knowing at this moment there was nothing she could do to help the man. “Doesn’t anything ever change?” she demanded.

  James looked up. “In what way?”

  “The poor. There’s someone out there, he reminds me of the people who come to the homeless shelter where I work. Hungry, with nowhere to sleep,
no one to turn to.”

  He lowered the delicate knife. “How can a future that offers the wonders you’ve spoken of still permit social injustice?”

  A derisive laugh escaped her. “You think you need to crusade here! We need someone to wake up a few overfed congressmen in my time.”

  “Your own time.” His solemn gaze rested on her.

  Her own time... Longing seeped through her, followed almost at once by a bleak emptiness. Her own time, the people she loved, a work worth doing. Everything, in fact, except her beloved James.

  “There’s a very good chance you’ll go back.” His voice sounded hollow. “You might only be here for just one reason, to help decide a turning point in history. Once it is settled—” He broke off.

  “Or I might be here to stay.” But was that realistic? She didn’t belong here, while he did. Two worlds, two times, two separate lives.

  He set the wax shafts of the gig about the horse and heated his knife once more to seal the join.

  Her throat constricted. “No one has ever heard of you in my time. What if—” She broke off, unable to voice the obvious.

  His lips twitched into a wry smile. “I have no intention of dying. It will not mean the end of the world, as you know it, if history undergoes a few subtle changes. It might, even, mean no poverty in your time, if we eliminate it in mine. Here.” He held out the carved figures to her. “It’s time to take them to the jeweler. I want you to be able to come to me.”

  But what if it took her away, as well...?

  Keeping that thought to herself, she helped him wrap the wax pieces in cloth, then accepted the purse he pressed into her hands.

  “I don’t like your going alone.” He adjusted her bonnet to cover the bandage she still wore, then tied the ribands beneath her chin.

  “I’ll be all right. I told you, I’ve taken self-defense. And we can’t run the risk of you being seen until you’ve come to some decisions.”

  He dropped a gentle kiss on her forehead. “Hurry back.”

  After ordering him to barricade the door after her, she eased her way down the rickety steps and emerged into the icy alley, only to stop short. All well and good, her assuring him she’d be fine. She should have asked him for a map, to get her to a main street where she could find a hackney.

  James’s directions, though, proved sufficient, and within twenty minutes she climbed into a closed carriage bound for a jeweler in the City, whom James had never before frequented. She sank back against the cushions and closed her eyes as they jostled through the narrow streets.

  The shop, when she stepped inside a half hour later, impressed her favorably. No ostentatious displays met her gaze, only neat showcases filled with quality workmanship. And no other customers.

  A thin little man with sandy hair and neat attire emerged from behind a counter and cast a shrewd glance over her, as if he assessed her potential value to him. Apparently she passed muster, for his smile broadened and he greeted her with marked warmth.

  Christy brought out the wax figures. “I need these cast.”

  The jeweler examined each piece, and nodded to himself. With only a little haggling, he agreed to cast the pieces at once. She could return for them the following afternoon, he assured her, and escorted her to the door.

  The first hackney she flagged stopped for her. She strode up to it and fixed the jarvey with a determined eye. “I want a confectioners,” she said. “Someone who understands chocolate.”

  The man rubbed his neatly trimmed beard with a considering hand. “Well, now, miss, I thinks I knows just the place. You just climbs in and leaves the rest to me.”

  Christy did, and a short while later found herself in front of an elegant little shop on Jermyn Street. Within these portals she discovered an array of visual delights to please all but the most finicky of tastes. The quality, though, she feared would be another matter. Still, desperate times called for desperate measures, and at the moment she was desperate. She purchased a selection of what the proprietress assured her were the most excellent chocolates available, and stowed all but one in her reticule.

  Barely waiting until she was outside, she bit into her prize and closed her eyes to savor the flavor. The texture might be coarse and grainy, the taste both bitter and sweet at the same time where the bits blended imperfectly with the sugar, but it would do. Oh, how it would do.

  So much for the unluckiest day of the year.

  The next jarvey she hailed seemed reluctant to carry her to the quarter of town she indicated, but she at last convinced him she did indeed wish to enter the seamier alleys of London. Muttering about the odd ways of the Quality, which she took to mean herself, he set his horse forward. She settled comfortably on the ancient seat and turned her avid attention to another of her chocolates.

  In a surprisingly short time, she found herself once more before the disreputable house where they had taken lodgings. She hurried up the broken stairs and tapped on their door.

  James dragged it open. “Where have you been?” he demanded, drawing her inside.

  “You should have checked to see who had come. What if it had been Sir Dominic—or worse, your cousin?—instead of me?”

  “I saw you from the window. What took you so long?”

  Guiltily, she drew forth her purchase.

  He stared at it for a moment, then chuckled and shook his head. He drew her close. “I should have known.”

  “Well, of course you should. You didn’t think I could survive without it, did you?” She studied his lined face. “What’s wrong?”

  His chin jutted forward. “I’m going out tonight.”

  “Oh?” She folded her arms before her. “Where are we going?”

  “To places I have no intention of taking you.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “Christy—”

  “Haven’t you learned yet you can’t dictate to me? If you go, I go, and that’s final. Now, where are we going?”

  He ran his fingers through his dark auburn hair, then nodded as if coming to a decision. “All right, it might not be a bad idea to have someone to watch my back. I intend to visit a few inns and gin houses.”

  “Is this what the British call a ‘pub crawl?’ I always thought that was a very evocative term.”

  He turned a pained look on her, “I don’t intend to drink. I want to talk to people.”

  “But—” She broke off.

  “I have to, Christy.” He placed his hands on her shoulders, his thumbs caressing her throat. “I must know what the people think of Prinny, about social reform.”

  “And revolution.” She gazed into his dark eyes and read the determination in their depths. Nothing she could say would change his mind, and she wasn’t fool enough to embark on useless argument.

  When the early darkness shrouded London in safe anonymity, they donned their disreputable borrowed clothes and set forth for the nearest gin house. As they walked through the doorway, Christy clung to James’s arm, looking about the dingy interior in a mixture of fascination and revulsion. She wouldn’t want to meet any of these people in a dark alley—and the neighborhood consisted of nothing else. Men in the meanest garments, women whose dresses and lewd behavior left no doubt as to their calling or inclinations, even ragged children mingled in the smoky fug of the room. She had the distinct feeling at least three different men in their vicinity had already sized up the potential worth of their wallets and planned approaches.

  James ordered gin. A rough man with a cauliflower ear and broken nose started at the sound of his voice, cast an appraising eye at him, then backed away. Christy’s mouth went dry. She waved away the drink James held out to her, and he smiled.

  “It’s not the best, but I doubt it would kill you.”

  “I think it would put me under the table, and one of us had better be alert.”

  “I think I stood in more danger at Briarly.”

  Christy glanced about the room, then drew closer to him. “You’re sure about that?”
>
  James cast her a considering look, then addressed a comment to the man with the cauliflower ear. He received a grunt in response. Hardly encouraging.

  He tried another opening, only to be cut off by the murmur of disapproval coming from the door. The crowd separated, giving wide birth to a young clergyman who strode in with Holy zeal, Bible in hand. He claimed a stool and stood on it, addressing the assembled company with resounding voice. Some listened, most raised their own voices and continued their various conversations.

  James waited for an opening, then turned once more to the man who determinedly ignored him. “Some of us try to alter the government, not the people.”

  The man snorted into his empty gin.

  James handed him Christy’s untouched glass, and for the first time since his initial assessment, the man cast him a suspicious glance.

  “If the government is to be reformed to help people,” James said, “we have to know what’s needed.”

  “None of them nosy redbreasts to interfere with a man’s gainful employment,” his companion declared.

  Another man standing nearby laughed, a harsh, grating sound.

  “What do you think of Prince George being made regent?” James pursued.

  “Won’t ’ave no effect on me,” the first responded, and the second man agreed.

  James’s hand tightened on his glass. “What if a Stuart returned to the throne instead of a German George?”

  The first man guffawed. “What difference would it make to the likes of us?”

  The other spat on the floor. “Me granddad died at Culloden Moor. Them Stuarts have caused enough trouble. We don’t want none of them back in England.”

  “If someone with your interests at heart, someone who would look after your concerns—”

  The man pressed his face close to James’s and exhaled a gusty mixture of garlic and onion. “I looks after meself. Me and Bessy, ’ere.” He pulled aside his heavy frieze coat to reveal the handle of a horse pistol. “Them royals can go do what they like,” he said and added an obscene suggestion as to what that probably was. “Long as they don’t go tryin’ to makes us fight for ’em. ’Cause we won’t do it.”