A Christmas Keepsake (4 page)

As they reached the flagway, she drew ahead, hurrying toward the store. She glanced at the window, and stopped short.

“Is something wrong?” James came level with her.

“The display has changed.”

“Has it? You probably have the wrong shop.”

“I don’t!” She jerked free and glared at him. “This is the spot. Even the name is the same.” She drew an unsteady breath, and the defiance in her expression faded to confusion. “Only there were framed Victorian prints in the window, with holly draped over them. Now there are all those Chinese vases and statues.”

“How long ago were you here?”

“Only—” She broke off. “I
thought
no more than an hour ago. Maybe it’s been longer.”

“Would you care to go in?” He opened the door, and a tiny bell tinkled as he led her, unprotesting, inside.

She stopped again just over the threshold, her startled gaze flying about the large room. “It’s different! Everything’s different.”

“Shall I ask the shopkeeper if he’s recently changed his stock?” he asked.

She nodded, mumchance.

For the moment, at least, she showed no tendency to run away. Leaving her staring about with that blank, lost look on her face—her very pretty face—he approached the middle-aged man who stood behind the counter, polishing silver. With the man’s assurances his displays had not been touched in months, he returned to Miss Campbell.

She listened to him, then shook her head. “This is impossible,” she breathed. “
All
of it. It
has
to be a dream. Oh, God, I wish I could
believe
it’s a dream.”

“Do you recognize the shopkeeper?” he asked.

“No. This one’s much younger, and he’s got sandy hair.” Impulsively, she pushed past the major. “Excuse me?”

The man looked up. “Yes, miss?”

“Is there another man who works here? Older? He was wearing an overcoat and a cap, and he had a fringe of wispy white hair.”

The shopkeeper laid down the spoon he held. “No, miss. There’s only me, the other lad, and the gentleman what owns the shop.”

“Is he older?”

“No, miss.”

“But there was one, he was in here earlier.”

The clerk cast an uneasy glance at the major. “I’ve been in here since opening, miss.”

“What about yesterday?”

James took her arm once more. “It seems you’ve made a mistake, Miss Campbell. There must be several shops that appear similar from the outside.”

“But it’s in the same
place
! On the same corner. And the name’s on the sign. How could I mistake that?”

“It seems you have.” He drew her firmly but gently toward the door. Her confusion appeared genuine. Perhaps he had been too quick with his suspicions. He could see no purpose to such an elaborate charade.

She shook her head, her large blue eyes clouding, and turned back to the shopkeeper. “Have you ever had a snowdome in here?”

The man chewed his lower lip. “Well, miss, it would melt pretty fast, it would. We keep the coal burning. Not stingy, the master. Not stingy at all.”

“I mean a glass ball, filled with liquid. There are figures inside, and flakes of plastic. When you turn the ball over, it looks like it’s snowing inside.”

“Does it, miss?” He regarded her, fascinated. “What’s plastic?”

She opened her mouth, then shut it again. After a moment, she said: “Little flakes of something white.”

The shopkeeper shook his head. “That sounds like a rare treat to see, it does. Never heard of an oddity like that, before.”

Miss Campbell rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. “I bought one here,” she insisted.

“No, miss. Must have been another shop, it must. I’m sorry.”

“And you’ve never seen a snowdome before.” Her voice sounded hollow. Slowly, she pivoted around on her heel, her uncertain gaze seeking out the major. “Where
did
I get it, then?”

Her bewildered, frightened, tone landed him a leveler right to his chivalric instincts. No threatening mystery, but a maiden in distress. He would not let her down. After tilting at so many windmills, it would be a pleasure to embark on so simple a quest.

Dazed, Christy allowed Major Holborn to lead her from the shop. She stood on the sidewalk while he flagged down one of those small horse-drawn carriages. Hansom cabs? No, those were Victorian, and everything around here looked earlier. Regency-era-ish. These would be called hackneys.

He helped her inside; and for a moment she clung to his hand, the one stable element in this freakish world.

“What was the name of your hotel, Miss Campbell?” He waited, one foot still on the cobblestones.

“The Edgemont.” She could hardly wait to get to her familiar room in the familiar hotel. She brought her voice under control. “It’s on Piccadilly, near the Green Park Underground station.”

“The what?”

“The cabby should know.” She leaned over, forcing Major Holborn to step back. “The Edgemont, please,” she called.

“The what, miss?”

“This isn’t funny. Will you just take me to Piccadilly? You can’t miss it, once you’re there.”

Major Holborn swung up into the carriage and closed the door. With a slight jolt, the vehicle moved forward. Christy huddled back on the seat, wishing something—just
one
thing—would make sense.

After a few minutes, they turned a corner and she peered out the window. Once they got away from that little park, maybe everything would return to normal. Seeing a familiar sight—like a car—would do her a world of good.

But though they turned several more corners, not a single automobile met her uncertain gaze. A chill crept through her that had nothing to do with the iciness of the weather. Something was wrong. Something was eerily, crazily, wrong.

Dear God, it was wronger than she thought. There was Hyde Park, and Hyde Park Corner ...
Where was the traffic?
There was no possible way all of London could be cleared of cars! The place was a madhouse, at any hour of the day or night. There should be flashy shop fronts and neon lights and people dressed like
her,
not like this man who sat so calmly next to her.

How could he not be panicky, too? The whole world had gone crazy—or had it only done so for her? After all, he seemed to fit in perfectly, he acted entirely at home.

The carriage drew to a halt, and Christy looked out, anxious. Nowhere did she see the glass facade of the multi-storied hotel. The buildings were old-fashioned, yet not old—like everything else.

“Where to from here, miss?” the driver called.

“Keep going. It’s tall—at least twenty-two stories, I think. And it’s all glass.”

An astonished whistle escaped the man. “Well, now, miss, I can’t say as I’ve ever seen a building like that in London, afore.”

“But it’s
got
to be here!” She pushed past the major and thrust the door wide. Everything seemed familiar, yet not quite the way she remembered it. She jumped to the pavement—the
cobblestones?
She ran forward, only to stop and turn slowly about, searching for any fragment of the modern London she thought she knew.

“Everything’s
wrong
!” she cried.

Major Holborn climbed down from the carriage. Christy stared at him, then turned and ran, blindly, wanting only to escape. People stepped aside, getting out of her way. Strangely dressed men and women stared at her, their expressions shocked. And London remained different, as if it were younger, untouched by the passage of a couple hundred years. Almost, she might have stepped back through time...

An hysterical giggle rose in her throat, and her shoulders trembled with the effort to contain it. Laughter broke from her, and she couldn’t stop. She just stood there, shaking with the humorless spasms.

“Miss Campbell!” The major’s strong hand closed on her shoulder.

She turned toward him and buried her face against his shoulder. He stiffened, then slowly his arms closed about her. “Where
is
it?” she managed to gasp.

“It will be all right, Miss Campbell.” His tone tried to soothe her. “Come, let me take you to a place where you can rest.”

She nodded, too confused to do anything other than accompany him. He led her back to the hackney, which awaited them, and helped her inside once more. He called something to the driver, but Christy didn’t hear. Her ears rang, and a wave of dizziness washed over her. She sank back against the cushions and closed her eyes.

“Are you feeling ill? Do you have a vinaigrette with you?”

“A what?” She looked up. They were moving, they had turned onto a side street, and still everything seemed like she’d walked into a living museum. Everyone wore those antique clothes ... only they looked new. “I—I haven’t got anything. I’ve lost my purse.”

“Sit still, then. I’ll be able to give you into the care of a very kind woman shortly.”

“Thank you.” She managed a shaky smile. “You are the one being kind. You must think I’m crazy. I’m beginning to think so, myself.”

“Just a little disoriented, I expect. You might be taking ill.”

“I hope so,” she murmured. She looked up at his strong, aristocratic profile, the dark eyes, the auburn hair. She was lucky she had run into such a considerate man. He might have turned out to be a real creep. Instead, she’d roused the protective instincts of an extremely good-looking
gentleman
whose manners and bearing made every other man she had ever met seem rough and uncouth. Yes, she liked Major Holborn ... “What is your first name?” she asked suddenly.

His thick auburn eyebrows rose a fraction. “James.”

“James,” she repeated. “Major James ... Edward ... Holborn...” Her voice trailed off.

“That is correct. How did you know about the Edward?”

The hysteria rose within her again. “I—I think I might have read a book you wrote, once.”

“Did you?
Social Injustice
?” He sounded surprised, and pleased.

She shook her head. “
Life in London
.”

He blinked. “You must have it confused with another. I’ve been thinking of using that as the title for the volume I am currently writing, but it is still a long way from being published.”

“Is it?” She slipped her hand into her coat pocket, and closed her fingers about the thin volume that rested there.
His
book...?

Nausea alternated with the dizziness, and she stared out the hackney window, watching the unfamiliar traffic pass by. They turned once again, and even Christy’s untutored eye detected the difference in the neighborhoods. Gone were the stately mansions and elite shop fronts. Now they traveled through narrow, dirty alleys lined with buildings that could do with massive repairs. People no longer dressed with flair or elegance. Ragged children, cripples, men who looked like they knew their way around the inside of a jail, women who plied their age-old trade on the street corners...

Christy shivered. No one would go to this much trouble to create an aura of poverty from an earlier era.

Somehow, incredibly, she really had stepped back in time.

CHAPTER FOUR

Stepping back through time. No, that was impossible. It simply couldn’t be done. Yet how else could Christy explain the evidence of her eyes and ears? Her logical mind insisted all of this had to be an illusion or hallucination, some cruel hoax her imagination had cooked up for her. But
was
it?

Impulsively, she turned to Major Holborn. “What year is it?”

“It is still almost three weeks before the new year.”

“
What
year?”

His frowning gaze rested on her. “Eighteen-Ten.”

Eighteen-Ten. The date on that snowdome. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. She had wanted her fears denied, not confirmed. After a moment, she hazarded: “You aren’t just making this up, are you? For a joke?” She tried to keep the pleading out of her voice.

“I would do nothing to cause you distress.”

“No.” Her lingering hopes faded. “I don’t think you would.” Generally, her snap judgments about people proved accurate. Either he was the greatest actor she had ever encountered, or he was exactly what he appeared to be.

She drew an unsteady breath. “Look, I think I’m in a bit of trouble, here.” Now
there
was an understatement. “I seem to be in London a—a little earlier than I expected” About two hundred years earlier, but at the moment she wasn’t up to explaining that.

“And you have forgotten where you are staying?” Only kind encouragement sounded in his voice.

“It may be worse than that.” Her inventive brain whirled, then hit on an explanation. “I was to join some people, some chance acquaintances I met on the”—not plane—“on the boat. They took my luggage with them.”

“We will insert an advertisement in all the papers. They will be quite alarmed when you do not arrive as expected.”

“I don’t think so. They—they were so very specific about the hotel, its name and description. I think they must have been con artists.”

“Con—?”

How did one describe a con artist? “It was deliberate, to steal my bags.”

His brow snapped down. “Far too much of that sort of thing has been going on. Usually it occurs after the ship has docked, though. A man offers to carry your luggage to your hotel, then simply disappears with it.”

Did that mean he believed her story? For that matter, did she believe the whole situation?

She still sat in a horse-drawn hackney, not a heavy black London cab. The people outside the window still wore those Regency-era clothes, though they looked seedier by the minute. Apparently, it was all real.

But how was she to get home?

“This is not perhaps the district to which I should bring you.” Major Holborn broke the silence that had stretched between them. “It is not the most savory area of London.”

“No, it doesn’t look like it.” She hesitated. “Where
are
you taking me?”

“To some friends. The Reverend Mr. Runcorn and his wife. They operate a small orphanage in Saint Luke’s, off Golden Lane.”

Christy considered this. “I haven’t any money. My purse has disappeared.”

“Do not concern yourself. It will be all right.”

They fell silent again until the carriage pulled up before a dilapidated old building. Not even in its better days could it have boasted any semblance of elegance or grandeur; now it seemed earmarked for a wrecking ball. At least it would, Christy corrected herself, if one had been invented yet.

The major jumped down and paid the driver. Christy descended to the filthy street after him, and looked about with uncertainty. If she’d still had her purse, she would have hidden it under her coat. This was no neighborhood in which to go out either at night or unarmed.

A slovenly woman, with unkempt hair and a tattered shawl which failed to conceal her too-skimpy bodice, swaggered up to the major and smiled at him, inviting. He tipped his hat to her, then offered his arm to Christy and led her up the stairs. From what Christy could see, these must be the only ones on the entire street that weren’t rickety. Someone kept them tended-and swept.

He knocked, and less than a minute later the door opened to reveal a young maid in a high-waisted gray uniform with a white apron, and blond curls of an unbelievable hue protruding from beneath her mobcap. Delight transformed her face as she saw him.

“Well, guv’nor, you’re a sight for sore eyes, and no mistakin’ that. Been days, it’s been. Now, you come in, you don’t want to go temptin’ them as oughts to know better with your flash tattler.”

“My watch stays in my pocket, Nancy.”

“That’s as I was sayin’, guv’nor. I could ’ave it out of there in a twinklin’, meself, I could.”

“But you wouldn’t.”

“No.” She sounded almost regretful. “A right beauty it is, too. Well, you come into the sittin’ room, and I’ll go fetch the missus. Upstairs keepin’ the boys at their lessons, she is.” Her curious gaze fell on Christy.

Major Holborn ushered Christy inside, and she glanced about. Several bright hunting prints covered the newly painted white walls, and a small table, over which hung a rectangular mirror, stood opposite her. Several closed doors led to other rooms, and at the back of the hall a stairway rose to the next floor. The smell of leather mingled with that of lemon oil and wax.

The major led the way into a small room at the front of the house, overlooking the street. Nancy, with a marked sigh, set off on her errand.

Christy stared after her, fascinated. “Who is she?”

“A former pickpocket, but reformed now, I assure you. She serves the Runcorns as a maid.”

“And she’s familiar with your watch?”

A soft, unexpected chuckle escaped the man. “That was how we met, you might say.”

Christy couldn’t help but smile. “Apparently you make a habit of picking up strays.”

He sobered. “Let us say I don’t like to see anyone in trouble. Particularly a young lady of gentle birth, who is alone and far from her own home. London would not have proved kind to you, Miss Campbell.”

“But you have, and I want to thank you. I’m sorry about how I acted earlier. I must have seemed pretty crazy. I’m still confused, but I think I can cope, now.”

His gaze rested on her face. “You Americans have an unusual way of expressing yourselves. Delightfully so,” he amended.

“As incomprehensible to you, as you are to me, I suppose.” Christy advanced another step into the room, and looked around.

The same cheery brightness that characterized the hall greeted her here. Four comfortable chairs stood around a table, and an antique piano rested against the back wall. A faded couch, only slightly patched, faced a hearth in which a merry fire burned. Christy crossed to it and held out her chilled hands.

Her gaze fell on the mantel, and she frowned. “They haven’t decorated for Christmas, yet,” she said. “I expected boughs of holly or something.”

“It’s too early.” The major joined her. “The holly and mistletoe are never brought in before Christmas Eve. Is it different in America?”

“The retailers begin the day after Halloween.” She caught herself. “We start early, to make the most out of it, I guess.”

The warmth of the room enveloped her, making her sleepy. She yawned, surprising herself. After what she’d been through, she should have been keyed up, frantic—if not an out-and-out jibbering idiot. Instead, the tension eased from her muscles, leaving her oddly relaxed.

And hungry. She couldn’t remember when she’d eaten last. She’d only had a cup of coffee in her room that morning before starting out. Nor had she ever gotten around to that lunch she’d promised herself. At the moment, she didn’t even have any idea what time it was—at least in relation to
her
day.

The door opened behind her, and she spun about to see a frail little lady enter the room. Silvery white hair wound in a braided crown about her sweet face, which was dominated by a pair of laughing brown eyes.

“James, how delightful of you to call upon us.” She swept forward, her hand extended.

He bowed over it in that stately manner Christy liked. The elegance that characterized this time charmed her.

“I have come for your kind assistance, Elinor.” He retained his hold on that gentlewoman’s hand, and led her to where Christy remained before the fire. “I have encountered a young lady in considerable distress. May I introduce Miss Campbell? Miss Campbell, this is Mrs. Runcorn.”

An expression of gentle inquiry touched the woman’s lovely eyes. “How do you do, my dear?”

Christy bit her lip. “I’m afraid I’m about to impose on you.”

“Indeed? What may we do to be of assistance?”

Christy cast the major an uncertain glance.

A slight smile touched his firm mouth. “It appears she has been the victim of a cruel hoax, and has been robbed of all her possessions.”

“How dreadful. Are you far from home, Miss Campbell?”

“Very far. I’m an American. I’ve only just arrived in England, and I don’t know anyone.”

Mrs. Runcorn nodded, and wisps of soft, silvery hair fluffed about her face. “You did very right to bring her to us, James. Now, you must not fret, my dear. Take a seat while we decide how best to begin. Would you—Ah, here is Nancy with some refreshments.”

The door opened inch by inch as the maid eased her way in with a tea tray. A large white china pot decorated with little rosebuds, four cups and saucers, a creamer, and a sugar bowl crowded together on one side of it. Christy barely scanned these before her gaze lit upon a plate piled high with cookies. Another held slices of a rich-looking cake. Her mouth watered, and a growling in her stomach reaffirmed how long it had been since she’d last eaten.

Mrs. Runcorn settled on one of the chairs, and Nancy set the tray before her. Christy hesitated by the blazing fire, but the lure of food won out. She joined the other two.

“Will you find Mr. Runcorn and see what is keeping him, Nancy?” Mrs. Runcorn checked the pot, then left it to steep.

“Be along afore the cat can lick ’er ear, ’e will, missus. Little Alfie done gone and stubbed ’is toe. Cryin’ fit to break your ’eart, ’e was,” she added cheerfully.

As Nancy retired from the room, a slender gentleman in his early sixties, garbed in the black coat and dog collar of a clergyman, caught the door for her. His silvery white fringe of hair bordered a lined face dominated by a patrician nose. Nancy grinned at him, and her off-key whistle floated back to the salon as she went on her way.

Mr. Runcorn closed the door, then straightened his spectacles and peered at the assembled company. The warm gaze of his blue eyes rested fondly on his wife, then moved to the major.

“James. How good to see you. Just the man I wanted, at that. You must come with me to view the latest improvements. The attic chambers no longer leak, thanks to you. They have even been refurbished.”

“Then perhaps you will allow me to present a candidate for occupying one of them.”

The Reverend Mr. Runcorn turned his kindly, inquiring gaze on Christy, and warm color rose to her cheeks in response to his scrutiny. The major once more launched into her story.

Christy lowered her gaze, unable to meet the sympathy in all three faces. Guilt surged through her, as if she lied to them for some evil purpose! She’d tell the truth, if she could—or if she could be certain what it really was. Traveling through time ... Her logical mind still fought against the evidence of her senses. Sight, hearing, smell...

Smell. Vividly, she became aware of the plate of cookies on the table before her. How she wanted to try out taste! Unable to help herself, she reached for a golden circle filled with walnuts and raisins.

“A biscuit, my dear?” Mrs. Runcorn instantly picked up the plate and held it out to her.

“Thank you.” Her hand hovered over the selection for a moment, then she gave up and grabbed several. At this moment, she didn’t care what was polite for a lady of this time. She was hungry. Mrs. Runcorn smiled, apparently unoffended, and poured tea. Christy accepted both cream and sugar, which her hostess added with a liberal hand. For several minutes, Christy concentrated on her mini-feast, assuaging the worst of her hunger. With some carbohydrates inside her, the whole world seemed to settle. Unfortunately, it remained a very alien and old-fashioned world. She swallowed the last cookie, and Mrs. Runcorn immediately offered her the other plate filled with cakes. Christy took two.

At least she felt better. With food no longer her major concern, she allowed her attention to focus on other things.

Major Holborn—it still seemed impossible he could really be
her
James Holborn—sat near the paned window, discussing the problems of the orphanage with Mr. Runcorn. His auburn hair caught the light of the westering sun, and came alive with flame. Every feature of his striking face seemed animated as he leaned forward, gesturing, describing a plan for further renovations. She found herself fascinated against her will.

Damn it, she didn’t need to think about
him.
She needed to concentrate on getting home, where she belonged.

She turned back to her hostess to find that elegant little lady watching her with a puzzled frown. “I look strange, don’t I?” Christy asked, blunt as always.