A Christmas Keepsake

by Janice Bennett

  “James.” Christy tugged at his arm and gestured toward the door with her head.

  After a moment he nodded, and led the way out. “They don’t care.” His voice sounded dull.

  She leaned her cheek against him. “Why should they? They’ve got their own world here, and it has nothing to do with yours.”

  “I could change that!”

  She looked up into his drawn face. “Do you really think they want you to?”

  About them, out of the darkness, drunken voices rose in a Christmas carol. Other sounds emitted from darkened doorways, but James stopped Christy from investigating.

  “But I saw a woman—” she protested.

  “Where else is she to take a man?” he demanded.

  Christy fell silent and kept her eyes straight ahead after that.

  They visited two more gin houses and a public house, where the denizens reiterated the comments voiced by their brethren in varying degrees of profanity and hostility. In the last, the Stuart name provoked a brawl, from which James barely extricated Christy before the watch arrived.

  They returned to their mean lodging in silence. Christy bolted the door behind them, and James sank onto a chair and lowered his head into his hands. She touched his shoulder, but he didn’t seem to notice. After a moment, she left him to think while she prepared for bed.

  By the time she returned, he hadn’t moved, except now he stared out the window at the snow which had once more begun to fall. From below, voices drifted up with snatches of carols as the nightlife of London went about its varied business still in a festive spirit.

  “James?” Christy caressed his arm, and repressed a shiver at the chill temperature of the room.

  “Go to bed,” he said, his voice hollow.

  She hesitated, then did as he asked. He needed time. She fell asleep in the narrow bed, still waiting for him to join her.

  Sunlight, filtering through her makeshift curtain, fell across her face and awakened her at last. She rolled onto her side and indulged in a luxurious stretch—There was too much room. She sat bolt upright, her eyes flying open. James...

  The room stood empty. He hadn’t come to bed... Dear God, when had he gone out? She threw aside the bedclothes, dragged on her gown, then stopped, having no idea where to search for him. She could only wait.

  A partly stale roll served as her breakfast, along with several of the so-called chocolates she had purchased the day before. Still, James didn’t return. She paced the inadequate chamber, cursing herself for a fool for falling asleep and leaving him alone. Of course he’d go out to ask more questions. He was a fighter. A Stuart.

  She couldn’t just stay here, doing nothing. In another minute she’d start screaming in frustration—or was that in fear? If he’d gone back to those gin houses alone, started another fight over the Stuart name...

  The assassins might find their job done for them.

  She ran her hands through her hair, her fists clenching in the thick curls. If he’d been killed or hurt, where would he be? She didn’t know enough about London at this time. She didn’t even know whom she could ask—

  Mr. Runcorn.

  She sank down on the chair before the table James used as a desk. Grabbing a sheet of paper and one of the awkward quills, she dashed off a note to him, asking him to meet her at the Boar’s Head. She splattered ink every other word, but it remained legible enough to do its job. She folded it, then went outside and found a youth willing to carry the message for her, for a promise of a shilling up front and two more when he returned with an answer.

  She paced the length of the winding alley, then back again. James couldn’t be dead. He hadn’t finished the snowdome yet. He had to be somewhere, possibly in a hospital, possibly in some dark, evil-smelling alley, bleeding...

  Almost half an hour of worry passed before the boy returned with Mr. Runcorn’s promise to meet her as soon as they could both get to the inn. Christy hurried along the now-familiar twisting route until she reached a street where she flagged a hackney. In a very little while, she entered the Boar’s Head.

  Mr. Runcorn sat in the inglenook, a mug before him, staring into the fire. An absurd desire to cry welled in her at sight of his familiar ruff of silvery hair and rosy complexion. She wended her way through the tables, bumping into chairs in her hurry.

  He looked up, then rose to greet her, catching her hands as she reached his side. “James—?” His strained gaze sought hers.

  “I don’t know. He went out last night, while I was asleep, and he hasn’t come back. I don’t know how to go about finding him.”

  She related the tale of their evening’s expedition, and their disturbing gleanings of public opinion.

  Mr. Runcorn’s jaw tightened, but the hand he laid on her shoulder was gentle. “There is nothing you can do, my dear, and there is always a chance he may return at any time. Go back to your lodgings and wait. I will send a message to you the moment I learn anything.”

  Numerous arguments sprang to Christy’s mind, only to be rejected. She could do little to help, and as Mr. Runcorn said, he might return to his temporary home. In the meantime, she would cling to the fact he had yet to complete the snowdome.

  With that thought in mind, she went next to the jeweler in the City to pick up the newly cast figurines. They were indeed ready, and she ran her finger over the couple, arms entwined, locked forever in the skating steps of the country dance. How she would love to join James in it again. At least she would have this memory to last her through the long years, to remind her...

  “Are you all right, miss?” The shop’s proprietor eyed her with concern.

  Christy sought in her reticule for a tissue and found instead one of James’s large handkerchiefs. She wiped her eyes and managed a falsely bright smile for the man. “Yes. How much do I owe you?”

  She paid him, then also purchased a piece of ivory to be whittled into snowflakes for the scene. For a very small additional sum, the proprietor offered to go ahead and enamel the pieces and place them inside the glass ball filled with water as she described, and even attach the wooden base. After a moment’s rapid reflection, Christy agreed. James’s signature would not yet be in place. He would—he must—remain safe until then.

  After handing over the ivory, she went out into the street. Yesterday was the unluckiest day, she reminded herself. Today was the Twenty-Ninth, St. Thomas of Canterbury’s Day. Of course, St. Thomas hadn’t been all that lucky, either.

  Tears again filled her eyes, and she blinked them away, angry with herself. What did James call it, behaving like a watering pot? An apt expression. Instead of doing anything so patently useless, she had better get home. He might be there...

  She hailed a hackney, gave the direction, told the jarvey not to argue, and climbed in. Apparently, her distracted manner worked, for without a single remonstration they set forth through the streets.

  Blindly, she stared out the window. What more could she do? She had turned the search over to immensely capable hands, she had—A chill crept through her, numbing in its awful intensity. She had met with Mr. Runcorn, and been so upset she had done nothing to conceal or confuse her movements after that. If the clergyman had been followed, he had led James’s enemies directly to her. And she even now led them to the one place James believed to be safe.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Panicking, Christy swung about in her seat to lean out the window and search the faces of the people behind her. Did one of them follow her? She called to the jarvey to slow, which produced a surge of traffic passing them. No one lingered, matching his pace to hers.

  She couldn’t take chances. Calling to the driver once more, she ordered him to take several quick turns, which he did. She held her breath, biting her lip, scanning the passersby for anyone familiar, anyone suspicious...

  Her heart stopped, then resumed with a lurch. That frieze-coated figure on the chestnut, with his hat pulled so low over his face she couldn’t see his features...

  No, he
rode by them without so much as a glance at her hackney. She slumped back against the squabs, trembling with reaction. Apparently, no one followed her.

  Still, she had the driver stop, and she got out of the carriage. After paying him off, she hurried to the corner, turned right, then right again. She found herself on a busy thoroughfare, and ducked into the first shop she reached.

  The proprietor looked up, startled. A quick glance informed her she had entered an establishment specializing in gentlemen’s hats.

  “Just looking.” She offered him her most engaging smile.

  After a moment, the man bowed to her and returned his attention to the brim he steamed. Christy pretended to browse, all the while searching the street for signs of pursuit. No one. Still...

  “Do you have another entrance?” she asked.

  He looked up in surprise. “Yes, miss. It lets out onto naught but an alleyway, though.”

  “Fine. Where is it?”

  His dubious gaze rested on her.

  “Please. There’s—there’s a man—” She cast a glance out the window, then batted her lashes at the man in her best impersonation of a helpless female in distress.

  Enlightenment—and anger—flashed across the man’s face. “Certainly, miss. And if anyone comes in here, he’ll have me to reckon with.” Squaring his shoulders, he escorted her through a curtained opening into a supply room, and bowed her out the door.

  She thanked him, then set off she knew not where. When she reached another large street, she flagged down a hackney and had it take her to Jermyn Street. There she changed to another vehicle, and, at last convinced no one could have kept track of her, she returned to their dingy lodgings.

  She mounted the creaking stairs with dragging steps, tired both from her exertion and the strain of worry. Without James waiting for her ... How could she face that bleak, freezing little room?

  Unless, of course, he had returned.

  Clinging to that hope drove her up the last flight. She ran down the hall, anxious, yet dreading to find the room empty as she most likely would. She reached the door, and her hand hesitated on the handle as she gathered her courage to face disappointment.

  It turned beneath her fingers, and she jumped, heart pounding, as if it had shocked her. The door swung open.

  A gruesome face towered above her. She shrank back, a strangled cry catching in her throat; then relief flooded the man’s expression, and her fear evaporated.

  “James?” She barely got out his name as he caught her in his arms. Half laughing, half crying, she clung to him. “I’ve been so scared! What happened?” She extricated one hand, and brushed a gentle finger over the ugly purple and red bruise that covered his left eye and cheek.

  “Another brawl.” He drew her inside and bolted the door once more.

  “Thank heavens it wasn’t worse.” She released him, though with reluctance, and stepped back to view the damage. “You need an ice pack.” Gently she probed the broken, swollen skin. “In my time, we call that a shiner.”

  “In mine, we call it having one’s daylights darkened.”

  She giggled, mostly in relieved tension. “How appropriate. What does the other guy look like?”

  His lips twitched into a rueful smile. “A lot worse.”

  She shook her head. “Men. Your knuckles are all bruised, too, aren’t they? I’m glad I’m having the jeweler finish the snowdome. You’d never be able to paint with the enamels. Where did you spend the night?”

  The lines of tension returned to his face. “In the streets. I think I was followed.”

  “You were—How?”

  He strode to the window and drew aside the towel that covered the hole. Chill wind whipped inside, but he didn’t appear to notice. For a long minute, he stared into the narrow alley.

  “If I was, I seem to have lost him,” he said at last. He looked back at her. “I don’t know where I picked him up. Perhaps they anticipated my haunting the gin houses. It might have been sheer bad luck. Or I might have been wrong and spent a damned uncomfortable night for nothing. But it was a chance I couldn’t take. I started the fight—”

  “You started it?” She sank down on the edge of the bed. “Dear, gentle James?”

  At her shocked tone, he smiled. “It seemed the best way to occupy the man I thought followed me. I couldn’t get any information out of him—he kept denying anyone set him after me.” He brushed a hand over his bruised knuckles, reminiscently. “He might have been telling the truth, but I didn’t think it advisable to take him at his word. The fight gave me an excellent opportunity to give him a leveler.”

  “A-level, as in horizontal?” She shivered. “At least you’re safe. A black eye is a reasonable exchange for your life. Why didn’t you come back at once, as soon as you’d laid him out?”

  “He might not have been alone. I ducked through a few alleys, then found a shelter. I’d meant only to stay for a half hour or so, but I fell asleep.” He crossed to her and took her hands. “Now, what have you been about?”

  “I—” Memory of her earlier fright flooded back. “Oh, James, I nearly ruined everything! I was so worried, I sent for Mr. Runcorn.”

  “The devil you did. He came here?”

  “No, the Boar’s Head. I had that much sense, at least. But not much more. I wasn’t careful when I left. It’s all right,” she hurried on as his jaw tensed. “When I left the jeweler’s, I realized how stupid I’d been, and I went to the most ridiculous lengths to shake pursuit. I don’t think anyone followed me, though. But we’ll have to let the Runcorns know you’re all right.”

  With that, he agreed. He strode to the table, and for the first time she noted the papers scattered across the surface. He had been working on his book...

  Quickly he scribbled a note to his friend, then Christy carried it down to the alley where she found another boy more than willing to run the errand. When she returned to the room, James once more sat at the table, writing. She waited until he paused, then interrupted him.

  “Have you come to any decisions?” she asked.

  Slowly, he swiveled his gaze to rest on her, his expression closed. “I don’t want to inflict internal war on this country when Napoleon remains a threat. But I have only your word, your version of history, to indicate I might cause a revolution. That could alter. The world you know could change—and for the better. There is every reason to believe it could all be done peacefully.”

  She drew a shaky breath. “Then why did I come back through time, if not to influence your decision?”

  He regarded her, all sparkle gone from his dark eyes. “To torment me.”

  She hugged herself. “The people don’t seem to care who rules.”

  “I could make life better for them! They do care about that.”

  “So maybe you do bring about social equality.” Christy stood and paced to the broken window. “Maybe it’s the rich who riot in the streets, demanding back their privileged status.”

  He waved that aside. “I would take nothing from anyone, only make it fashionable to provide for the lower classes, see to their comfort and education.”

  “You’d be the first person in recorded history to manage it.”

  “Maybe I am.” He held her gaze for several seconds, then returned his attention to his book.

  She watched him in silence until she couldn’t stand it a moment longer. She had to know if he recorded one of the versions she had read, or a different one entirely. History, as she knew it, might very well hang on the end of his pen.

  Silently she moved up behind him and read over his shoulder. The house party. She released the breath she held in a ragged sigh. The government officials out to further their own ends during the Christmas season.

  And what did they do now? Search for their recalcitrant pretender to the throne? Accuse one another of attempting to assassinate him? She would dearly love to see into what confusion she and James had thrown them by running away like that. Almost, she could pity Sir Dominic. The elderly
man had devoted the greater portion of his life to the Stuart cause. Too bad he hadn’t been more careful in his choice of confederates.

  James’s quill scratched on, his fingers clutching it with an awkward determination. His swollen and bloodied knuckles didn’t stop him from continuing his work. Christy curled into a corner with a copy of The Castle of Otranto, which someone—probably the considerate Mrs. Runcorn—had slipped into her valise.

  James still worked when hunger at last drove Christy to a nearby inn. She brought back a couple of meat pies, the ingredients of which she made a point of not inquiring about. James grunted his acknowledgment, absently took a bite, and went on with his writing.

  He worked with a feverish intensity that defied interruption. At this rate, he would be finished very soon, probably before New Year’s Eve, only two days away.

  New Year’s Eve...

  Christy swallowed, but it didn’t relieve the sudden dryness of her throat. New Year’s Eve. What more appropriate time for her return to her own world, if that was to be her fate? The snowdome would be finished, James’s book would be complete ... and for good or ill, his decision would probably be made. Unless someone killed him in the next couple of days.

  She watched him in silence, her heart aching. She could burn the book, then he’d have to live long enough to write another. Or would he die anyway, and history merely change, his book disappear? Then it wouldn’t exist in her own time, with its shifting type and terrifying versions. She would never hear of him, never try to learn more about him, never come back through time, never know him or experience his love.

  She wouldn’t exchange so much as one moment with him to remove all the suffering she would know if he died.

  At last, the late hour and the guttering candles forced James to lay down his pen. He joined her in the narrow bed, and for a little while Christy lost herself in the wonders of his love. For this hour and more, time—that terrible barrier—ceased to hold any meaning.