A Christmas Keepsake (12 page)

“He’s been shot.” Tears of reaction started to her eyes, and in annoyance she dashed them away.

“Fetch hot water, Nancy, and alert Mrs. Runcorn.” The clergyman pushed past Christy and started down the steps.

“Make sure the water boils!” Christy shouted after her, then hurried after Mr. Runcorn.

The major stood in the street, paying the driver. The hackney pulled away, and he turned to regard them with disapproval. “I am quite capable of walking on my own, Miss Campbell.”

“You are also capable of being a target.” She positioned herself at his side. “If you think your association with this place is unknown, you’re being naive. Don’t you think your enemies will have someone watching this house as well as your own?”

He glared at her, but held his tongue as they escorted him indoors, one on either side, using their bodies as shields.

Mrs. Runcorn met them in the hall, a pile of torn linen strips and a couple of small bottles in her arms. She followed them into the parlor. “Nancy will be back in a few minutes with the water,” she said.

“Make sure it’s boiling.” Christy cast a pleading glance at the woman.

“Whatever for, my dear? We don’t want to scald him when we wash the wound, do we?” Mrs. Runcorn set down her supplies. “Now, don’t be in such a pucker. I’ve tended innumerable injuries before. He will be quite all right, you’ll see.”

Mr. Runcorn helped the major out of his evening cloak, then turned his attention to his ruined coat. “Can you slide your arm free?”

Christy watched, biting her lip at the strain on the major’s face. Still, he made no concession to his wound, refusing to acknowledge the obvious pain. “Aren’t we supposed to cut the fabric away?” she asked, calling on her knowledge of various low-budget costume films she’d seen.

“I fail to see the need to further damage my apparel,” Major Holborn informed her coldly.

Mr. Runcorn eased the heavy cloth off the major’s shoulders, and helped him slide his good arm from the sleeve. Blood soaked the other a deep shade of purple. Crimson drops fell from his fingers.

Trying hard not to disturb the wound any further, Christy helped inch the velvet fabric down his arm. It had been so elegant, and now it had been reduced to a rag.

One short intake of breath was all that betrayed the effort this maneuver cost the major. At last, his hand emerged and Christy let out a sigh of relief. She tossed the ruined garment aside.

“Be seated, James.” Mr. Runcorn pressed him into a chair. “Let’s have a look at this.”

A hole tore through the once white fabric of his shirt. Now, blood soaked the entire area, even staining the side and front. Mr. Runcorn drew a knife from his pocket, opened it, and sliced through the fabric.

For some reason, Christy felt no sensation of pleasure at having anticipated this step. Instead, she cringed for the major, who remained frozen, immobile, obviously trying very hard not to react at all. Finally, Mr. Runcorn pulled back the fabric six inches on either side, exposing a nasty tear in the skin from which blood oozed sluggishly.

“It’s clotting nicely,” Christy managed, hoping her voice didn’t shake too much. A distinct sensation of nausea washed through her. “Can we get him to a doctor?”

“There is no need.” He kept his voice even. “He would only want to bleed me.”

“What? You’ve lost enough blood!”

“My sentiments exactly, Miss Campbell.” He leaned back in the chair, staring fixedly ahead, his jaw set against the pain he refused to acknowledge.

“Won’t it need stitches?” She looked from one to the other of her companions.

“I assure you, Miss Campbell, it is not in the least necessary,” the major said through gritted teeth. “I am far more familiar with wounds of this nature than are you. Unless I am much mistaken, the graze is neither wide nor deep. You may examine it for yourself if you do not believe me.”

“All right, I will. Is there more light?”

Mr. Runcorn slid a table into position on the major’s left side, and Mrs. Runcorn placed a three-branched candelabrum on its surface. By the flickering illumination provided by the tapers, Christy forced herself to look at the wound.

When was penicillin developed? She knew the history of chocolate backward and forward, and could provide dates on every major breakthrough, up to and including the production of the first chips. But she hadn’t the foggiest idea when the concept of hygiene was developed. Later than this, though, of that she was certain. Hadn’t she read more people died of infection than of their wounds at this time?

Nancy pushed the door open and carried in a large kettle between two towels. This she set on the table, then stood back. “Well, guv’nor, you’ve gone and got yourself into a real fix this time, ain’t you?”

“Haven’t you,” Christy corrected, never taking her gaze from the major’s arm.

Gently, Mrs. Runcorn set Christy aside, dipped a towel in the warm water, and applied it to the wound. The major winced, and every tendon stood out on his neck. With deft strokes, the woman washed the area.

The blood started once more, but now Christy saw he had been right, the wound was not as bad as it first appeared. Still, she wished she had some aspirin or ibuprofen or anything to offer him.

Mr. Runcorn placed a glass in the major’s free hand. His fingers tightened about it, and he swallowed the contents in one gulp. Mr. Runcorn took it back and refilled it.

The major waved it aside. “I need to keep my wits about me.”

“You need do nothing of the kind, James. You will stay here tonight ”

The major made no answer. He gritted his teeth again as Mrs. Runcorn patted the wound, this time with a dry cloth, then sprinkled the contents of a bottle over the area.

“What is that?” Christy peered over her shoulder.

“Basilicum powder. It will help it heal.”

“But will it stave off infection? Don’t you have
any
antibacterial agents?”

“Any what?” Mrs. Runcorn didn’t look up from her work.

“Nothing.” Christy closed her eyes. If she’d only known she was going to wind up two hundred years before her own time, she would have read up on all sorts of things. Time travel, though, was one thing for which she’d never thought to prepare herself. If only she could take him back to her own era, to competent doctors who would give him a good shot of penicillin, who would keep it from getting infected, who might even stitch it closed to minimize the scar. He would bear one, of that she was certain.

She looked up again to see Mrs. Runcorn had placed a pad over his arm and now wrapped another strip of cloth about it to hold it in place. This she fastened, then stood again, smiling.

“There, Major. That will hold for now. You are not to move that arm any more than is strictly necessary. Is that understood?” She took another long strip of fabric and slipped it around his lower arm, then about the back of his neck where she knotted it into a sling. “You are to let it rest,” she informed him. “Nancy, have we a bed prepared for the major?”

“Don’t bother,” he said quickly. “Miss Campbell, I would like a word with you though, before I go. Alone.”

“Would you?” She glanced uneasily at the others.

Nancy collected the water and the soiled cloths, and Mrs. Runcorn picked up the clean ones and her basilicum powder.

Mr. Runcorn handed the major the glass, then held the door for the others to exit. They deserted her, Christy reflected. She crossed to the hearth and stared into the fire.

“Miss Campbell.”

The sheer force of his voice and willpower caused her to turn toward him.

“It is time you answer a few questions.” He held her gaze. “You are obviously not trying to kill me, but I must have some answers before I can trust you.”

She nodded, but said nothing.

“I have never met anyone like you, before.” He rose and took several unsteady steps toward her, only to stop a foot away. “I don’t know what to think of you. What the devil is an ‘antibacterial agent?”

“Something that hasn’t been developed here in England, yet.” Even to herself, her voice sounded feeble.

“Are you an expert in medicine?”

She shook her head. “Where I come from, we are a little more advanced in many ways—both socially and scientifically.”

“I see. Is this knowledge you can share?”

She shook her head. “It has to be learned the hard way.”

“The way I must learn about you?”

She stared at her hands. She didn’t want to create a web of lies between them. She wanted—Longing swept through her, intense and terrible. She wanted to know the real James Edward Holborn, to share her fears and hopes with him, to turn over to his capable hands the dreadful burden of the truth. She wanted the impossible.

“Please,” she said at last. “There’s nothing more I can tell you. What little I know for certain sounds too preposterous to be believed. You’d only think I was lying, and be furious with me for thinking you’d accept anything so bizarre.”

“And what do you expect me to draw from that?”

“Only that I would tell you if I could make sense out of it, myself.”

He extended his good hand, and the liquid sloshed in his glass as he touched the nylon sleeve of her down coat. Bewilderment flickered across his face, only to fade beneath determination. “I am going to find out who you are, where you are from, and what you are doing in my life,” he said. “I give you fair warning. I intend to have answers from you, and I will not be put off.”

If only she had her purse, some dated identification, some
proof
... but she didn’t. She stared at him, helpless. His dark eyes closed in his thoughts, impenetrable, yet coldness emanated from him, chilling her.

She shook her head. “I would do anything to be able to tell you more. I don’t know how I got here, or even why.”

“I see.” The two syllables fell like ice. “Good evening, Miss Campbell” He turned on his heel, picked up his cloak, and attempted to slip it over his shoulders.

“Here.” She helped him wrap it about himself.

The defiance of his departure somewhat diminished, he gave her a curt nod and stalked into the hall.

The Reverend Mr. Runcorn awaited him. “You won’t go, will you, James?”

“I will.”

“But there is no carriage,” Mr. Runcorn protested. “I can fetch the cart—”

“There is no need.”

“At least let me accompany you to the corner, until you can find a hackney.”

“And don’t take the first one that stops for you,” Christy said.

The major turned and stared at her for a long moment. “I am not a fool, Miss Campbell, despite what you appear to think.” Over the major’s renewed objections, Mr. Runcorn accompanied him out the front door. Christy leaned against the jamb, eyes closed. She needed to come up with a believable story, anything to drive away that distrust. She still stood there, replaying that uncomfortable scene in her mind, wondering how to make things right between them, when Mr. Runcorn returned.

He stopped in the hall and fixed her with his compelling regard. “They were waiting for you when you came out of his cousin’s house?”

Christy nodded. “It wasn’t chance. The first shot almost hit him in the head—it took his hat off. They mean to kill him.” To her dismay, her voice broke and tears started to her eyes.

“He is a sensible man, Miss Campbell.” He patted her shoulder gently. “He will take care of himself. Come, the hour is late.”

Together, they picked up the candles at the foot of the stair and climbed the several flights to the floor with their rooms.

The evening had started out such fun, Christy reflected as she twisted and contorted her upper body, trying to reach the buttons on her gown. At last, she freed herself and pulled it off. She shivered in the chilly night air; the fire had burned down, so she threw a fagot onto the smoldering coals. What she wouldn’t give for a bit of forced air heating right about now.

She washed her face, then pulled the pins from her hair and let it tumble down below her shoulders. Sitting at the dressing table, she tried to drag a comb through the thick curls. How could the night have ended so badly?

The familiar occupation of untangling her mass of hair soothed her, and the tension ebbed from muscles that began to ache. She could use a hot shower—or half an hour in a Jacuzzi. She wasn’t used to running a marathon practically barefoot over broken bricks through twisting alleyways. She stifled a yawn, then gave up and crawled into bed. Not even her troubled thoughts could compete with the exhaustion that crept through her.

She awoke in the morning to the sound of a herd of elephants descending the steps at breakneck speed. Shouts and laughter emanated from the stairwell, and in a moment her sleep-fog mind cleared. The boys, on their way to breakfast.

She stretched, discovered a few more stiff muscles that had jumped on the bandwagon, and groaned. Given her choice, she would stay right here, snuggled beneath the down comforter. She had to earn her keep though. And she wanted to find out if the major had arrived at his rooms safely.

She swung her bruised feet out of bed, washed with the water Nancy must have brought in while she slept, then dragged on her muslin gown. A few minutes later, she hobbled down to seek her own meal.