A Christmas Keepsake (3 page)

“Excuse me?” Christy advanced with care through the clutter. “Could I see the music box in the window?”

“Music box?” The man raised his visor and peered at her. “In the window? I don’t believe there is one.”

“It’s the snowdome. Maybe it hasn’t got music, but the figures dance.”

He sat back on his stool and regarded her with a frown. “There’s a snowdome there, but the figures don’t dance.” He set down his tools, wiped his hands on a cloth, and came around the edge of the counter. With care, he wended his way to the window. “Is this the one you mean?”

He leaned over several displayed plates and picked up the glass ball. Christy caught her breath, watching as he lifted it between two Meissen statuettes. The next moment, he held it out to her.

“Is there a switch—” she began, then broke off. Again, the figurine of the gentleman took the lady’s hand and skated forward. “Oh, they’re doing it again. Are you certain there isn’t music to go with it?”

“Doing what?” He squinted at her, then at the ball he held.

“They’re dancing!”

The man studied the ball, then turned his dubious regard on her. “Are they?”

Blood flooded Christy’s face, flashing heat through her; then it drained away, leaving her clammy. “They—they aren’t moving, are they?”

“They never have before. I don’t see why they’d want to start now.” The man smiled at her. “Been a long day shopping, has it, miss?”

She reached out a tentative hand to touch the glass, and the man tightened his grip on it. “What—what can you tell me about it?” she managed.

“Well, now, it’s an unusual piece, I’ll grant you that. Must be one of the first ever made. The date on it looks like Eighteen-Ten, but that’s a good sixty years too early. Must be Eighteen-Seventy.” He turned the ball over, and the tiny ivory chips floated through the liquid, so that it “snowed” on the scene.

Christy’s gaze riveted on the bottom of the wooden base. The number in question certainly looked like a one, not a seven. The piece was signed, too, in neat, flowing copperplate. She swallowed, and felt her throat sinking into her stomach. Even if the date were in question, there could be no mistaking the name. The letters didn’t change before her eyes, they remained clear. James Edward Holborn.

“It’s
his
,” she breathed.

“Who’s, miss?”

“James Holborn’s.
He
made it.”

The proprietor turned the base so he could read the neat lettering. “So he did, miss. Have you heard of him before?”

“Yes, I bought one of his books.” Excitement filled her. “Do
you
know anything about him?”

The man shook his head, dashing her hopes. “Sorry, miss. Can’t say I ever came across him before. A writer, was he? Maybe that’s why he didn’t make more of these.”

Christy’s gaze returned to the scene. As she watched, the enameled silver figure of the horse stamped his foot and swished his tail against the flakes that drifted over his back. The couple continued their ice dance. “They—they don’t move,” she repeated.

The man turned once more to the window and started to replace the ball.

“Wait!” She caught his arm. “How much is it?”

He checked the tag. “Ninety-five pounds, miss. Quite a bargain, even if nothing does move.”

She managed a shaky smile. “Do you take credit cards?” He did. Christy trembled internally, hoped it didn’t show on the outside. While she watched, he swathed the glass ball in tissue paper, then nested it in a box which he placed in a shopping bag. Christy handed over the plastic, signed the slip, then took her purchase, clasping it to her as if she feared it might evaporate.

Numb, she went out into the afternoon snow.
What did it mean?
Why did the figures dance for only
her?
Why did the words in his book change for only her? Was she going quietly insane?
It all had to do with this James Edward Holborn.
His
book.
His
snowdome. And
her
nightmare.

The flakes continued to drift down from the gray skies. Blindly, she crossed to the park and followed the footpath through the shrubs until she came to the frozen pond. She stared at the skating children, not really seeing them.
Who was this James Holborn?

With shaking hands she drew the ball from its box and unwrapped it. As she watched, the figurines once more began to move, skating in time to an unheard melody.

She fought her rising panic back under control, and forced herself to study the ball. Mr. Holborn had done a creditable job of carving the figures. They appeared quite lifelike. Too much so, the way they moved with a graceful ease. Even the horse, though not quite in perfect proportion, seemed uncannily real.

She tightened her grip as the animal once more swished its enameled tail. She wasn’t going crazy. There would be a logical explanation for all this. She just had to find it. Perhaps there
was
a switch somewhere.

If one existed, it defied her endeavors to find it. Temporarily stymied, she returned her attention to the figurines. The man was tall compared to the lady, his features regular. A shock of dark red hair protruded from beneath his low-crowned hat, and a long overcoat covered his clothes but revealed a pair of shiny black boots to which his skates were fastened.

The lady—Christy caught her breath. It might almost be her, with its tightly curling dark hair worn loose about the shoulders, the round face and well-developed figure. Vivid blue eyes gazed back at her, mirroring her own.

She stared very hard at the ball, afraid, though she didn’t know why. Slowly, almost against her will, she inverted it. The ivory flakes swirled, enveloping the skaters...

The world about her spun dizzily. Everywhere, white flakes filled her vision. She couldn’t feel the cement beneath her feet, she couldn’t feel anything, not even the icy cold. Only the ball between her hands seemed solid, real...

In slow motion, she toppled over, falling, tumbling through space. The ball slipped from her nerveless fingers, shattering about her on the snow-covered paving. For one disoriented second, it seemed to explode, to envelop her, as if it drew her
into
it and she became part of the scene...

Her world settled. She extended a hand, found she sat on the snow-covered ground, and tried to right herself.

A man cannoned into her, tripped, and sprawled across her, knocking her flat. He rolled off, and something whizzed past Christy’s nose to bury itself in the snow. She gasped, staring at the bone handle of a knife, still quivering from the impact, only inches from where the man’s back had been a moment before.

CHAPTER THREE

The man rolled to a crouch, ready to spring to safety, his gaze darting back and forth. Christy huddled where she lay, staring about in horror. No punks or gang members bore down on them, no men cloaked in an aura of danger. No one, in fact, appeared particularly interested in them at all. The people continued to skate on the pond or—

Christy blinked. Or ride in horse-drawn carriages? And their clothes! Everyone dressed so strangely. Had she stumbled into a Dickens Christmas festival?

Only their costumes dated to an earlier period—like the snow scene in the ball ...The snowdome! She looked about, frantic. She’d dropped it ... The fragments of glass, the wooden base, the enameled figures ... Where were they? She
had
to find them.

She brushed snow aside, searching through the mounds of dirt-encrusted white. The pieces should be there somewhere. They couldn’t have simply vanished...

And her purse. It
wasn’t there.
Could it have been snatched, so fast? But the snowdome...

“Are you hurt, miss?” A deep, well-modulated voice sounded behind her.

Unsteadily, Christy turned to look up into a commanding face dominated by a pair of wide-set eyes so dark as to appear black. Thick auburn lashes ringed them. Her gaze rose to his matching, waving hair.

He extended a hand down to her. “I’m sorry I ran into you. As you may have noticed—”

Another knife, thrown from the opposite direction, landed in the snow barely inches from where Christy sat. With a gasp, she grabbed the offered hand and the man dragged her to her feet. Trembling, she clung close to his side as she stared about, wide-eyed with shock.

“Hell and the devil confound it!” Still holding Christy’s hand, he pulled her to the partial shelter of a shrubbery.

She followed, too stunned to protest. “What’s going on?” she managed.

He positioned himself in front of her, so his body completed the shelter offered by the hedge at her back. “Please accept my apologies for entangling you in this absurd situation.” He didn’t glance at her as he spoke. His frowning gaze scanned the sparse crowd. Apparently nothing threatening presented itself, for the tenseness eased out of his shoulders. “It should be safe for you to go, now. You should be in no danger. I’m very sorry to have involved you.”

“Was someone really throwing knives at you?” she demanded, still not quite believing it.

The lines about his generous mouth tightened, lending his countenance a grim cast. “Jokesters. But it is me they are intent upon annoying, no one else. Had I not been so clumsy as to have run into you, you would not have been subjected to this odious prank.”

“But throwing knives! That goes beyond joking. Someone could get killed. Do you want me to find a policeman?”

“The watch—” he began, then broke off. For the first time, he actually looked at her. A long moment passed as his arrested gaze remained on her face, then slowly traveled over the rest of her.

“A bobby?” she tried. “I’m sorry, I’m an American. I don’t have all the terms down right. Don’t ever let anyone tell you we speak the same language.”

“An American,” he repeated, as if that explained everything. He appeared to be transfixed by her high-heeled boots, the sheepskin that rimmed their top, and the hem of her calf-length black wool skirt.

“
Would
you like me to get help?” she repeated.

He dragged his bemused gaze back to her face. “Is that the fashion in America?”

“Yes. Look, you’re really not worried about this? I mean, someone hurls a couple of knives at you, but you’re just going to pretend it never happened?”

“No one is trying to kill me—at least, not seriously.”

“Not seriously,” she repeated, incredulous. “My brothers and I used to get up to some pretty weird practical jokes, but we never did anything really
dangerous.
Not like this.”

A grim smile just touched his firm lips. He had a very attractive face, it occurred to her. Strong, with a straight nose, high cheekbones, and a jutting chin. Lines of worry etched the brow beneath that thick auburn hair.

She lowered her gaze to the heavy overcoat he wore. It hung open, displaying an elaborately tied cloth about his neck and an old-fashioned green coat. A waistcoat peaked out from beneath. His pants—She’d never seen anything like them, outside of pictures, and as for those gleaming black boots that reached almost to his knee! She caught her breath, intrigued. He must be one of the performers for whatever pageant took place about them.

And that explained the knives. One of his fellow players must have thrown them closer than the script required.

Relief flooded through her. “Is this a mystery or thriller or something?” She grinned, determined to enter into the spirit of the seasonal gaiety. “I’m sorry I got in the way. I hope I didn’t ruin the performance.”

The creases in his brow deepened. “What performance?”

“Isn’t this some Christmas production? All of you wearing those costumes? Aren’t you part of some acting troop?”

“What are you talking about?”

She shoved her hands in her pockets, reeling. The fingers of her right hand encountered the sack of chocolate chips, and she grabbed a couple. “What
is
going on?” she demanded.

He ran a well-formed hand through his hair, looked about on the ground, then picked up a delightfully furry hat with a low crown and curly brim. He placed it on his head and turned back to her. “Perhaps I do owe you an explanation. This harassment began back around October, with a seeming accident. The shaft on my carriage had been tampered with. Since then, I have suffered three more similar accidents. All potentially lethal, yet not one has worked properly.”

“So you’re not worried.”

His mouth compressed. “Last week, the harassment came in the form of someone shooting at me, but missing. And now, the knives. This is the first time, though, anything has been tried when other people are about.”

“Have you any idea why? Or who’s behind it?”

“No. But at a guess, I would say someone wants me scared, but not necessarily dead. I’m afraid I have offended a number of people of late.”

“Have you?” She found his calm acceptance of the absurd situation fascinating.

“I am a writer, you see—at least, I am an advocate of social reform, and I use the written word to further my cause. If you will permit me to introduce myself? Major Holborn, entirely at your service.”

“Holborn—” She broke off, staring at him. In her mind, she again heard Amanda’s cheerful rendition of the “Twilight Zone” theme. Talk about weird coincidences...

He awarded her an elegant bow right out of another era. “Again, forgive me for intruding upon you with my troubles.” He tipped his hat, then paused, his expression altering as he regarded her.

Her confusion must show on her face, she reflected. With tremendous effort, she pulled herself together and managed a shaky smile.

“Is there no one with you?” he asked suddenly. “This is no neighborhood for a lady to be alone.”

“Isn’t it? I—I didn’t realize. I was thinking about something, and just walking, and when I looked around, I had no idea , where I was.” She glanced back at the snow where she had fallen, but neither the fragments of the snowdome nor her purse were anywhere to be seen.

“Allow me to escort you to your destination. If you are
not afraid of my company.” He offered her his arm.

Feeling silly, she took it. It was a sweet gesture, so very—well, old-fashioned. She honestly couldn’t think of another word for it. But it described him perfectly, from his clothes, to the formal way he talked and his charming manners. He seemed perfectly at home that way, too. It was only she who seemed out of kilter.

She shook off the eerie, dizzy sensation. Maybe she’d hit her head when she fell. Or maybe she was coming down with the flu. That would explain why she kept reading strange things in that book. And the fact this man’s name was Holborn—that was one of those freaky little quirks of coincidence. Stranger things happened every day. Just generally not to her.

People milled about them, pausing to watch the skaters, then moving on. The men all wore those same period clothes, she saw, and a number of them swung canes as they walked. The women wore long, high-waisted coats and hats of various shapes and sizes. Some had their hands stuffed into fur muffs.

Christy might have minimal knowledge of historic costumes, but these sure looked authentic to her. There were so many variations on the basic lines, they must have been made from copies of original patterns rather than a store-bought all-purpose one. Whatever was going on, the local people certainly participated to the hilt. She didn’t see a single person in modern dress.

A shiver ran through her and her fingers tightened on the man’s arm. Had the police cordoned off this area, closing it to those who didn’t take part, and she had blundered through without noticing?

“May I know your name?” Major Holborn led her around several people who stood in a small knot, talking.

“Christy. Christina Campbell.”

“You are an American, I believe you said, Miss Campbell? Have you been in England long?”

“No. I only arrived the day before yesterday.”

“Was it a difficult crossing?” He glanced down at her from his imposing height, and his gaze lingered on her face.

“I’m beginning to think it must have been. Look, I’m sorry. I’m feeling a bit disoriented.”

They reached the street, and she stopped dead. “Where are the cars? Where did all those
horses
come from? How could they clear such a large area? What’s—what’s going
on
?”

Gently he pried her fingers loose from his coat sleeve. He retained her hand, holding it in a comforting clasp. “You need have no fear. If you will tell me at which hotel you are putting up, I will convey you there and give you into the care of your woman.”

She nodded. “The Edgemont. It’s on Piccadilly.” But how did he know about Amanda?

His brow furrowed. “I don’t believe I am acquainted with that hostelry. But never mind. I’m sure a jarvey will be able to find it.” He tucked her hand once more through his arm and started forward.

Maybe it wasn’t the flu. Maybe she was just dreaming,
had
dreamed the whole ridiculous situation. She gave her head a brisk shake, setting the thick mass of her tight curls bouncing about her shoulders.

It didn’t help. The impossible scene about her remained the same. So did the man walking at her side. At least she showed excellent taste in men, even if he was an hallucination.

“I’ll probably wake up in a few minutes,” she informed him, her tone purely conversational. “I do have peculiar dreams, but not usually in this much detail. They make about this much sense, though.”

He looked down at her, frowning, but did not respond.

Christy’s gaze traveled from his face to her surroundings. Fascinated, she regarded the variety of horse-drawn carriages that passed. Everything looked too authentic. She had a vivid imagination, she
could
have created all this, but it looked so
real
. Maybe the flu theory was the best, after all. She didn’t feel asleep.

A small, closed carriage approached, pulled by a single horse, and Major Holborn stepped forward. Christy joined him, then stopped in her tracks. Across the street stood
Williams and Sons,
the antique shop where she’d purchased the snowdome.

She had to go back into that shop. It was something familiar, something she recognized. Maybe that man could tell her what happened. She pulled away from Major Holborn, ducked around a husky man in a threadbare coat, and darted into the street.

Miss Campbell lunged away from him, and Major James Holborn, acting out of instinct, darted after her. Catching her arm, he dragged her out of the path of an approaching horse. She struggled, but he retained his grip.

Where the devil did she think she was going? Escaping from him? If so, why?

There was something more than a little peculiar about her, about the way he tripped over her right at the moment someone hurled a knife at him. He didn’t like mysteries, and he intended to solve the riddles this young woman presented before letting her out of his sight.

His frowning gaze rested on the desperation of her expression, and his suspicions wavered. Either she was honestly alarmed and disoriented, or she was the best actress he had ever encountered.

And she herself had mentioned actors. His gaze narrowed.

Again, she tried to free herself. “I’ve got to go in there!”

“Why?”

“It might explain everything. Please, let me go.”

“Permit me to escort you. I would be very glad to hear a few answers, myself. Wait—” He pulled her back once more as she started impetuously forward. “It isn’t safe to run into a street like that.”

“True. You drive on the wrong side of the road.” A laugh broke from her, rising toward the hysterical. “Come
on
!”

“Very well.” Retaining his hold on her arm, he led her across, wending his way between the carriages and carts.