A Christmas Keepsake (2 page)

“It’s hallucinatory,” Christy breathed. She stared at the page. This time, Holborn’s relating of Christmas Eve dinner blurred into an account of a mob storming the mansions of the aristocrats on Grosvenor Square. Elegant ladies, their dinner gowns stained with their own blood, screaming in anguish while angry hordes garbed in rags looted their houses and dragged gentlemen into the street where they were beaten and stabbed...

The type shimmered, and the tale of the dinner party returned.

Christy closed her eyes.
Why didn’t anyone else see this?
What was it about this book? And why only her?

She glanced at the clock. Eight; still an hour before she had to meet Amanda Trent for breakfast. She’d spend the time gathering a few more opinions.

With the book firmly tucked under her arm, she took the elevator to the lobby. The first person she encountered was a bellhop, and she handed him the volume.

“Is there anything odd about the type?” she demanded.

The young man looked at her in bewilderment, then glanced at the page. “No, miss. Should there be?”

She clenched her teeth. “Do the words blur?”

“No, miss.” Of that, at least, he sounded certain. “If you need the direction of a good optometrist, the desk clerk can help you, miss.”

“Thank you.” She closed the book and walked on. That made two votes for it being all right. A few more, and she’d be convinced the problem lay with her.

She got them, one right after the other. A second bellhop, the desk clerk, two waiters and a chambermaid all agreed with Amanda Trent. Not one single thing was the matter with the type in the book. Which meant there was something whopping wrong with her.

Or did it? She wasn’t one to suffer from pink elephants. She prided herself on her logical approach to life and business. Well, all right, she was a bit too impulsive, but that couldn’t have anything to do with
this.
Nor had her breakup with Ryan unsettled her that much. She’d been more angry than hurt, and finally just glad to be rid of the rat.

She turned the volume over, studying the spine, then the back cover. This was creepy. Apparently, whatever the problem, it was between her and this book.

Or the writer.

James Edward Holborn. She weighed the name in her mind, searching her memory. No, it meant nothing to her. She’d never heard of him before. If this was his only book...

It might not be, though.
Life in London
was no amateur bit of social propaganda. The man knew his way around the written word, and how to use it for the best effect. He must have written others.

She opened the volume, this time to the eleventh chapter, and the words shifted before her eyes. Almost, the book smiled at her, as if challenging her to solve its mystery.

For one moment, a prickle of fear danced through her. A prudent person would sell the thing at the earliest opportunity, get rid of it and forget all about it. Her saner self whispered that would be the wisest—and safest—course.

But she wouldn’t.

She would call the book’s bluff and investigate it.

CHAPTER TWO

At a lobby phone, Christy dialed Amanda’s room. “Look,” she said as soon as her friend came on the line, “would you mind if I meet you somewhere for lunch, instead? I’ve got some research I need to do this morning.”

Dead silence indicated Amanda considered this statement. “You’ve still got a pink elephant dancing around?”

“Whole herds of them, and they’re rehearsing Swan Lake. Amanda, the type is
still
changing on me, and no one else can see it! If it was
everything
I read, I might think I was going crazy, but it’s just that one book, just that one section!”

Amanda caroled out the “Twilight Zone” theme.

“Very funny. But
why
is it happening? And why to me? And why just this book? I’ve got to find out who this James Edward Holborn is.”

For a moment, Amanda said nothing. Then: “Sure you aren’t just stressed out?”

“Who
couldn’t
use a vacation?”

“Well, take a break, then. I’m staying here until after Christmas. Have BritRail pass, will travel, that’s me. Going to take up brass rubbing and learn to play darts in some old pub.”

Christy smiled.
“And
check out book stores.”

“Of course. Think of it, three whole weeks to play. Want to come along? I’ve got a spare pass.”

“That’s right, Karen was supposed to come with you this time. What happened?”

“She went and got herself pregnant. The poor kid’s sick all the time, but her husband’s thrilled. God, can you see me as a grandmother?”

“No,” came Christy’s blunt response. “More like an Auntie Mame.”

Amanda chuckled. “Well, what about it? Want to go for a train ride?”

“Sounds like heaven, but I’m going home for Christmas. I haven’t seen my mom or the rest of them for eighteen months.”

Amanda laughed. “Kids. You’re all alike. Mine only call when they need money for something.”

“Oh, no.” Christy grinned. “I call. My phone bill is horrendous every month. But with them in Connecticut and New York, and me in San Francisco, we just never seem to
see
each other anymore. So I’m going directly there when I leave London and staying there until Twelfth Night, which gives us four whole weeks. After that, they’ll probably be glad to kick me out for another eighteen months. At least I bet my sisters will.”

“Undoubtedly. Now, if I know you and your research—
and
I do, remember—you’ll never quit by lunch. How about later, say three-thirty? Remember that funky old pub across the street from the map shop in Bloomsbury?”

Christy did. With reassurances she would be there on time, or at least no more than a quarter hour late, she rang off.

Good old Amanda, she thought as she turned away from the phones. A couple of weeks gallivanting around England with her would be exhausting—but fun. She missed the warmth of her family, though. And she missed making snowmen and snow forts and going for sleigh rides and caroling and decorating the eight-foot tree her father—and now her brother Jon—always cut. No, she wanted to go
home
for Christmas, and Jon’s wedding, so soon after. Nothing would make her miss that.

A quick walk through the chill morning air brought her to the Green Park Underground Station, and from there, the rail swept her through dark tunnels to the familiar stop for the British Library. The icy wind whipped about her as she emerged onto the street, and she hurried, half running, to reach her destination.

She at last pushed through the doorway, and warmth and shelter wrapped about her like a well-loved blanket. She knew the Reference Division well; she haunted it every time she managed to come to London. She drew a deep breath, and the mustiness of aged leather filled her lungs: a comfortable, soothing smell. She could never grow tired of books.

A search through the card catalogue proved her suspicions correct; the mysterious Mr. Holborn
had
written another, earlier, book on social reform. Armed with its number, she searched the stacks.

She found it easily, amid the towering shelves crammed with their aging volumes—then stood with her hand on it, mustering her courage to pull it from the shelf. What if it, too, shifted its words, said things it should not? She swallowed. There was only one way to find out.

Eyes closed, she opened it quickly, at random, then forced herself to study the page. The section described squalid living conditions for a family of seven sharing a single room. The print didn’t shift.

From that she gathered a measure of encouragement, and turned the page. His words horrified her—but only their meaning, not their behavior. They remained just as they ought, firmly printed in black ink on the sheet yellowed with age.

Slowly, she leafed through the remaining pages. Not a single change, not so much as the slightest blur interrupted her scanning. She found herself reading long passages, caught up into the power of his writing, appalled by his vivid accounts of deprivation. But there were no alterations, no shifting letters.

At last, frowning, she replaced the book on the shelf. From her pocket, she brought forth
Life in London.
It opened to Chapter Ten, and at once the letters danced before her eyes, blurring, beginning their metamorphosis...

She slammed it shut and gripped it tightly, afraid to open it again, as if the words might fly from the page and wing their way about the library to infect the other volumes with their peculiar madness. It still did it! Yet James Holborn’s other book did not.

She shoved
Life in London
back into the pocket of her down jacket. Her fingers encountered the plastic sack of chocolate chips, and she slipped a couple into her mouth. What was different about his two books? They both advocated social reform. Yet one dealt with the poor, while the other addressed the rich and their callous attitude...

No, from Chapter Ten onward in
Life in London,
Mr. Holborn wrote about a specific event, a Christmas house party, not conditions in general.

She leaned back, and the metal rim of the shelf pressed through her coat into her spine. A specific event, something that actually happened—at least in one version. In the other, something else entirely happened. Mob riots—possibly even a revolution.

She shivered, feeling as if her fingers had turned to icicles. She was getting too fanciful! What did she think, that something happened at that house party that had the potential to change history—in effect, bring about a social revolution...

“...
unspeakable horrors, after the manner of their brethren in France
.”
The words, glimpsed so briefly as they shifted across the page, returned to haunt her. Dear God, a revolution, in London, in 1810...

This was ridiculous. Twilight Zone time, just like Amanda suggested. Something pretty darn peculiar was going on, with that she couldn’t argue. What she needed was more information about the time. Christmas, 1810, to be exact. If other books behaved strangely, altering their accounts of this particular period, she would know she was onto something. If they didn’t, she’d take the book to an optometrist and find out if anything was wrong with her eyes that might pick up some unstable quality in the printer’s ink. Perhaps the page had been bleached, erasing earlier words, then the new ones printed over the top.

If that were the case, then she should see both versions at the same time, not the later changing into the earlier, and back again.

She ran her fingers along the shelf, and pulled out another volume on the social history of England. It covered a longer period, several hundred years, and spoke in general terms rather than specifics. The Luddites rioted in fear of losing their mill jobs to the new industrialization, but that was far from London, though they did begin in 1811. The words remained crisp and clear, easy to read.

Maybe she needed a book written at the time, as Mr. Holborn’s was. She studied the shelves once more, and this time selected five different volumes. Surely, if something indeed happened over that Christmas, one of these must mention it. She carried them to a long table, seated herself in one of the slat-backed wooden chairs, and set to work.

Some three hours later, the words began to dance once again, but this time she found nothing peculiar in it. She took off her reading glasses, massaged her forehead where it began to ache, and stretched her stiff back. With a slight frown creasing her brow, she contemplated the volumes before her. From the plastic bag in her coat pocket she drew out another chocolate chip.

All five books mentioned the Christmas period of 1810. Parliament met in long sessions during that season, and finally passed the long-awaited regency bill in February 1811. Yet the populace seemed to have greeted this with indifference. The new regent made no sweeping changes in the Tory government, despite his Whiggish friends, and for some time the old king actually appeared to be in better health. Not one of the volumes mentioned so much as a single riot or protest.

Christy drew a dark curl from behind her ear and chewed the end, lost in thought. That regency bill had been the subject of the letter she’d come over here to buy, too. It must have been a major issue at the time. It might, in fact, have been the subject of discussion at the house party chronicled by Mr. Holborn.

But why should that make the type change in that damned book?
She rubbed weary eyes, knowing herself too tired to make sense out of any of this.

She glanced at her watch. One o’clock. She had two and a half hours before she was to meet Amanda in Bloomsbury. She could do with some lunch, though.

She reshelved the books, then paused, looking back at the rows of aged volumes. Maybe she needed to learn more about the man, not just the time. Maybe it all had something to do with
him.

A consultation with the librarian set that obliging gentleman searching records. At last, he shook his balding head, and reported that nothing whatsoever seemed to be known of the mysterious Mr. Holborn. Christy thanked him and turned away.

“Holborn is the family name of the earls Saint Ives, miss,” the man added. He offered his most helpful smile. “But whether or not our James Edward belonged to that branch, I’m afraid I can’t say. You might try Somerset House.”

Christy rocked back on her high-heeled boots, considering. She
might
find something among the records there. She thanked him again and left the building.

She shivered as the icy wind slammed into her face, but trudged on, lost in thought, mulling over the disturbing lack of progress she’d made. Should she go to Somerset House at once? And if she did, what should she look up? Maybe she should get in touch with the Holborn family and ask to see old records. And just what would she tell them? Excuse me, one of your ancestors wrote a peculiar book, and only I have trouble reading it?

A chill gust whipped her thick, unruly curls about her face and she shoved her hands into her pockets. She’d come out without her gloves and hat. A scarf wouldn’t come amiss, either. The clouds that darkened the sky hovered low. A feathery white flake drifted past her cheek, followed by another, then several more.

Snow. She raised her face toward the sky. She loved December, she loved Christmas. The special time spent with her family, the decorated shops, the colored lights, the carolers, that general feeling of goodwill which existed among strangers like at no other time of year...

Oh, it was cold. She huddled deeper into her coat. She’d buy gloves at the first shop that sold woolen goods. She glanced at the frosted window panes, then up and down the street. She had no idea where she was. She must have been wandering, lost in thought. She was lucky she hadn’t crossed a street looking in the wrong direction. Ah, the joys of British traffic, with their driving on the “wrong” side of the road.

She continued along the sidewalk, growing colder by the minute. White flakes gathered on her hair and shoulders, not melting. A light blanket now covered the cars parked along the road. Only early December, and already the promise of a—picture-book Christmas.

Across from her, beyond a hedge, she glimpsed the knit-capped heads of children gliding in small circles. There must be a tiny pond—or at least a surface covered with ice—in the little park. Smiling, she continued her search for woolen wear.

Apparently, she had wandered into an area of antique and art shops. A number of etchings, with holly draped over their frames, greeted her at one window. In the next, a display of small statuettes and—

She stopped, delighted. Before her, on a round wooden base, stood a glass ball about six inches in diameter, filled with liquid. Within, someone had created a beautiful scene from a Regency-era Christmas, cast in silver and enameled—a man and woman ice skating, with a horse and carriage on sleigh runners behind them. At their feet lay tiny flakes of ivory “snow.”

As she stared at it, the figures moved. First the man pushed forward in a sliding motion, then the woman joined him, skating through the steps of what must be a country dance. Enthralled, Christy watched until the mechanical couple completed their circuit.

On impulse, she entered the shop, then stopped, bemused by the array of objects that met her fascinated gaze. Antiques of every description lined the walls and filled tables and display cases, taking up every available inch of space in the crowded room. At the far end, behind a counter, an elderly man in a heavy overcoat and cap tinkered in the back of a clock with a long, slender instrument. Over his eyes he wore magnifying glasses.