A Christmas Keepsake

by Janice Bennett

Finally, as his breathing slowed and deepened into sleep, she clung to him, and her fears rushed back like a wave returning to the shore. Possibly only one more full day remained to them, one day in which to ensure the safety of England, in which to experience a lifetime of love. Then he might be killed. Or she might be dragged back to her own time, and nearly two hundred years might separate them forever.

  She must have drifted off to sleep at last, for she awoke to the feel of his arms about her. She snuggled close, burying her face in the curling hair of his chest, and tried to memorize the smells that were so uniquely him. “Is it morning?” she murmured, praying it was not.

  “Almost. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “Fine with me.” That meant a few more minutes to share with him, a few more memories to treasure...

  No, she wouldn’t go maudlin and spoil what little time they might have left. “I suppose today is another saint’s day?” she asked, hitting on what seemed to be a non-depressing topic.

  “As a matter of fact, it isn’t.” His lips brushed her hair. “Yesterday was devoted to wassailing, and today is devoted to seeking cures for excesses.”

  She nodded in approval, and her cheek rubbed against his chest. “Sounds good to me.”

  “Are you never serious?” A touch of amusement crept into his voice, then faded at once. “Dear God, Christy, how am I to face the future without you?”

  She froze, then tilted her head back to stare up into his face, still shrouded in the darkness of early morning. “You sound as if you knew, for certain...”

  “Not for certain, but don’t you feel it, too? Everything—at least your part—is drawing to a close. My dear love, I’d give anything to keep you with me.”

  “I’m staying. If there’s any possible way—”

  “The choice may not be yours.” He caressed her arm. “I deposited a considerable sum for you with the Bank of England yesterday morning, before I came back here. They were rather uncertain about the complicated arrangements I made, but I fixed it so you can collect it in your own time. With the accumulated interest, you will be extremely wealthy.”

  She tried to swallow the constriction in her throat, but it had too firm a hold. “James—”

  He kissed her forehead, then her eyes. “My book is finished.”

  “Is it?” She struggled up in the bed and reached for her coat where it lay at the foot. She shivered as the icy air caressed he bare skin, and she dragged the chill nylon of the coat over them as she searched the pocket. From it, she drew forth the printed copy of Life in London.

  “Well?” He took it from her and flipped to the last section which had been blank when she showed it to him before. Now blurring words appeared on each of the pages.

  “You still haven’t made your decision,” she said. “It can all be changed.”

  He studied the lines with care. “I can’t make out the word with any clarity. I think there are more than just two versions here, though.”

  “Which means—”

  “We’ve discussed it as a possibility, and this may confirm it. Perhaps that is why you came back to me. To set my regency on the proper path. Your warning to me just might prevent the revolution which the Stuart name otherwise might have started.”

  She blinked. “You mean—we really are changing history and for the better? Eliminating poverty here, so in my time—”

  The possibilities staggered her. A world, in her own time where no social injustice would be tolerated, perhaps where the environment hadn’t been trashed and polluted. Dear God what a Christmas present that would be for the whole planet

  And perhaps she could stay with James. She could tell him about the problems of the future, and he could demand legislation from Parliament that would control industrialization and encourage conservation. Everything would be all right they could remain together ... A hope she hardly dared acknowledge dawned in her.

  They breakfasted in a different inn, to avoid any possible pursuit. James spoke little, concentrating instead on his plat and tankard. Christy refrained from conversation, knowing too many matters still lay unsettled, uncertain. Being with him, being able to see him, was enough. Neither of them, she noted, seemed eager to bring the meal to a close.

  At last, James stood. “To the jeweler’s?”

  “Are you coming with me?” She hesitated. “Are you sure you should?”

  “I cannot remain in hiding forever. No,” he held up his hand, stopping her from speaking. “I’ve done with this slinking about, skulking in dark alleys. I wish to consult with Mr. Runcorn, and I will do so at his home, in the light of day.”

  One glance at his determined, bruised face warned her argument would be to no avail. With a muttered comment about pigheaded obstinacy, which he appeared to ignore, she wended her way through the tables and out into the overcast day.

  A hackney set them down before the jeweler’s in the City, and Christy, nerves on edge, led the way inside. No dangerous figures awaited them; apparently, she had not been followed the day before. She let out a shaky breath and approached the proprietor.

  He beamed at her. “Miss Campbell. I have it ready for you.” He disappeared into his back room, only to emerge a minute later holding the finished snowdome before him.

  A sense of helplessness settled over her, as if her threads of control slipped away, leaving her unable to struggle against the flow of events. She reached out, her hand trembling, and for one frightening moment time swirled about her. Her heart jerked painfully, and the room settled once more.

  James took the ball from the jeweler and weighed it consideringly in his hands. “What do you think?” he asked Christy.

  “It—it’s exactly as I re—” She broke off. “It’s everything I imagined it would be.” Her gaze rested on it in a mixture of longing and loathing. It brought her back to James, and the conviction grew in her it would take her from him, as well.

  James cast her a sharp glance. “It’s missing only one thing.” He turned to the jeweler. “Do you have a pen?”

  “No!” Christy breathed.

  James ignored her. The jeweler handed him a quill and an ink stand, and James signed the bottom with a flourish, addling the date.

  The jeweler smiled. “Only two more days of the year. We have it finished just in time.”

  “You have done an excellent job.” James paid him, above the agreed-upon price, then took Christy’s arm and led her toward the door.

  “Two more days.” Christy’s fingers tightened on his arm, stopping him. “Couldn’t you have waited to sign it until midnight, tomorrow night?”

  James shook his head. “What if something does still happen to me? I couldn’t take any chances on never having known you.” He held the ball out to her.

  “No!” She drew back. “I don’t want to touch it.”

  “We don’t know you’ll be taken from me,” he said softly. “I keep hoping, but—no, I don’t want to risk it. Just seeing it—”

  She shook her head. “It will take me home. James—”

  “I thought that was what you wanted, to be with your family, the people you love.”

  “I love you!”

  “And the choice between times is tearing you apart.” He gazed at her for a long moment. Abruptly, he stepped outside.

  Christy followed, and ran into his back as he stopped short. She looked around his shoulder, and caught her breath on a cry of alarm.

  The elegant, dapper figure of Sir Dominic stood directly in their path. He inclined his head toward Christy. “Thank you for leading me to the shop, my dear. I knew it would be only a matter of time before you came back. Sir.” He awarded James a bow of deference. “I believe we have much still to decide.”

  “Such as whether I am to become regent, or be forced into exile like my father—or be killed?”

  “At the moment, I believe the most important decision concerns your safety. You would not seem to have fared well since I saw you last.” His frowning gaze rested on James’s bruised
face. “I believe it will be best if I accompany you while you collect your valises, and escort you back to Briarly.”

  “If you think—” James broke off.

  Three men, who had been standing a short distance away, came to stand at Sir Dominic’s back. One glance at their grim expressions proved sufficient to warn Christy of the danger of refusing. She slid her hand into James’s.

  “This is an invitation, of course.” An apologetic smile just touched Sir Dominic’s lips. “I cannot permit you to come to further harm. You must see that.”

  “And how do you hope to ensure that? With the assistance of your friends here?”

  Sir Dominic shook his head. “My other guests have all left my home. You—and Miss Campbell, of course—will be quite safe.”

  “Christy?” James raised a questioning eyebrow.

  She hesitated. “I suppose you will be safer there. And how can we refuse such a gracious invitation?”

  Sir Dominic’s smile slipped awry. “Believe me, my dear, it pains me to be reduced to such measures. If you will enter my carriage?” He gestured toward the street, and a town coach drew up before them.

  One of Sir Dominic’s henchmen stepped forward and opened the door. James bowed Christy inside, then followed. Sir Dominic took the forward seat.

  “What, are your watchdogs not accompanying us?” James regarded their host with a set smile.

  Sir Dominic shook his head. “There is no need. They will follow in another carriage. Where shall I tell my driver to take us?”

  “Golden Lane.”

  Sir Dominic’s eyebrows rose. “Do you mean you have remained in hiding at the orphanage? Remarkable.”

  “We have not. I wish to assure the good reverend of my safety. Under the circumstances, I do not believe a message would prove sufficient.”

  Sir Dominic smiled. “Perhaps not.” He called his orders to the driver, then leaned back once more.

  Christy clenched her hands in her lap. This whole setup bothered her, but she supposed Sir Dominic was right. James would be safer at Briarly now that none of the other guests remained. They would certainly be more comfortable, too.

  They’d escape the everlasting cold of that room and feel warm once more. Still, she’d be sorry to leave it; it was the nearest thing to being an idyll she would ever share with James.

  St. Luke’s Parish hadn’t changed much in the few days they’d been absent. The snow might be a bit thicker—and dirtier—but in this desperately poor quarter of London, few candles or laurel wreaths decorated the windows and doors to, mark the joyous season.

  They turned off Golden Lane, and the carriage pulled up before the orphanage. James jumped down at once and extended his hand to help her. Sir Dominic descended more slowly.

  Nancy opened the door to them, and so far forgot herself as to embrace Christy. “That worried, we’ve been, miss. And Major.” She clasped his hand and sniffed. “There, I’m forgetting me trainin’, and won’t Wickes be fit to bust his buttons.”

  “Mr. Wickes?” Christy asked, smiling.

  Nancy nodded, her smile coy as faint color crept into her cheeks. “Down in the kitchens, ’e is, fixin’ things up.”

  “Wickes? Here?” James looked from Nancy to Christy. “I’ll be devilish glad to see him myself.”

  “I’ll just go tell ’im you’re ’ere, and ’e’ll fix you up somethin’ for your face, ’e will. I—” She broke off as Sir Dominic left his coachman and came up the steps. “Sir.” She bobbed him a curtsy, but her gaze, rife with suspicion, rested on him.

  “It’s all right, Nancy.” James gestured for her to go. She cast him a dubious look, and hurried off.

  Soft, hurrying steps sounded on the stairs, and Elinor Runcorn appeared, leaning over the banister to catch a glimpse of the hail. “It is you!” she exclaimed, and ran down the remaining flight. “You’re safe!” She embraced Christy, then turned to James. “I—” She broke off, staring at his bruised face in horror.

  “A slight difference of opinion, that is all,” he assured her. “This is Sir Dominic Kaye.”

  Mrs. Runcorn stiffened, and acknowledged the introduction with reserve. “Will you not come into the sitting room? My husband will be here at any moment, I make no doubt.” She escorted them into the front apartment.

  James followed her. “Nancy tells me Wickes is here, and has gone to fetch him.”

  “Yes, he has spent a great deal of time with us over the last couple of days. We are very grateful to you, James, for sending him.”

  James’s eyebrows rose a fraction. “Did I?” he murmured, and cast Christy an amused glance. Aloud, he said: “He likes to make himself useful. I have long felt you stood in need of a manservant.”

  “Indeed, sir.” Wickes’s chilled tones sounded from the doorway. James turned, and a shudder passed over the valet’s normally imperturbable expression. “If you will be seated, sir?”

  “I am pleased to see you have carried out my instructions so well.” James settled in the large chair before the blazing hearth.

  Wickes didn’t bat an eye. “I endeavor to give satisfaction, sir.”

  “Yes, your presence here has made it quite unnecessary for me to worry about the Runcorns,” James went on, smoothly.

  “Indeed, sir.”

  Christy bit back her smile. Under that polished exterior, she would swear the ever so proper gentleman’s gentleman actually blushed in embarrassment at having been caught out in his ; subterfuge. At least he had made good use of the time gained by those tactics. Nancy’s manners and speech showed the influence of his presence and teaching.

  Wickes probed the inflamed skin and muttered to himself, and Christy settled on the sofa opposite James to watch. Sir Dominic took a chair near the fire, and laid his cane on the floor at his side.

  “Wickes is the greatest treasure.” Elinor Runcorn seated herself beside Christy and spoke softly. “He has taken over so many of the organizational tasks from dear Thaddeus, and he is a positive genius with the boys. I don’t know how we shall get on without him, now.”

  Christy glanced at the valet. He should stay at the orphanage, where he could do so much good, but he would never willingly leave James. And if James were forced into exile, Nancy, too, would find herself torn between conflicting loyalties. What an awful mess it would be for all of them.

  Mr. Runcorn pushed wide the door of the sitting room. “Nancy says—” he began, then broke off as James turned in his chair to face him. For a long moment, the clergyman stood in silence, staring at his old friend. “Have just your questions triggered violence?” he asked at last.

  “Upon occasion,” James admitted, not elaborating.

  Mr. Runcorn nodded, his expression sad. “I, too, have spoken with a number of people. I have discovered a general anger among them toward our prince and his people, but also an indifference toward doing anything about it. You see, James, the poor might not like things the way they are, but they have had no influence for so long, they are willing to accept what fate throws at them with nothing more violent than grumblings.”

  Sir Dominic waved that aside. “It is because they have no hope. Once the major is regent, all of England will rally to his call.”

  Christy cast a worried glance at James. His expression remained blank, unreadable. What went on in his mind?

  James winced at something his man smeared near his eye. “Do you not fear that if I step forward to claim the throne, the country will be divided with hotheaded factions out for blood on either side?”

  “Only if you claimed it directly. By being declared regent first, you will be eased into the position. The people will be prepared.”

  Christy swallowed. That made sense. Perhaps history really could be changed, and in a variety of different directions. James might be able to make a better England, a better world, eliminate poverty...

  A violent banging on the front door interrupted her thoughts. Nancy’s footsteps ran along the hall to answer the furious summons, and the creakin
g hinges barely preceded a man’s frantic voice demanding to be shown to Mr. Runcorn upon the instant.

  James stiffened. “Saint Ives,” he said, and met Christy’s dismayed gaze.

  The sitting-room door burst open, and that exquisite dandy paused on the threshold, hat askew, greatcoat imperfectly buttoned. His gaze fastened on James, and he took an unsteady step forward. “There you are!” he breathed. ‘Thank God!”

  James’s lip twitched. “I am, of course, delighted to see you as well, Cousin.”

  “And Sir Dominic.” The earl dragged his beaver from his sandy brown hair and cast it on a table. “What the devil did you mean, James, by disappearing from Briarly like that?”

  “Since one of my fellow houseguests appeared intent on killing me, it seemed the safest course of action.”

  “Safe for you, perhaps. Good God, man, had you no thought for others? That you could so heartlessly endanger the life of an innocent woman—”

  “I kept Christy safe,” James snapped.

  “Not her.” The earl ran an unsteady hand through his disordered locks.

  “Whom, then? I endangered no one”—his gaze strayed to Christy “—at least, no one who was not willing.”

  “And what of my wife, and the child she carries?”

  “Margaret?” James’s brow furrowed. “Explain yourself.”

  From his inner coat pocket, St. Ives dragged a folded piece of paper and held it out with a trembling hand. “This. She found it a little while ago in her evening reticule—the one she carried last night. It never left her wrist, and both she and her woman swear the note wasn’t there when she left our house.”

  James took it, and his scowl deepened as he scanned the sheet. He crumpled it, and for a very long minute he stared in thunderous anger at the fire.

  “James?” Christy ventured at last.

  He looked up. “Hell and the devil confound it.” He spoke so softly she could barely hear, but murder lurked in the depths of his voice.

  “What—?” She reached out, just touching his hand.

  “It says Margaret could have been abducted last night, instead of this message being given to her. And she will be—and killed—if I do not present myself at a certain warehouse on the docks alone at noon, New Year’s Eve. Tomorrow.”