A Christmas Keepsake (5 page)

Mrs. Runcorn shook her head with more politeness than truth. “I daresay those are your traveling clothes, my dear. Have you indeed lost everything?”

“I have.” She bit her lip. “I don’t like imposing on you, but at the moment, I’m afraid I don’t have any choice.”

“We are delighted, my dear. We are always glad to do a favor for Major Holborn.”

Christy glanced at that gentleman. “You know him well?”

Mrs. Runcorn laughed softly. “Indeed, yes. It is he who is the kind patron of our orphanage.”

“He is?” He must have some money, then, she reflected. “But I can’t let him pay for me,” she added, finishing her thought aloud.

“Now, you mustn’t worry about that, Miss Campbell.”

“But I don’t have any money! I don’t have anything.”

“You will stay here until some other solution has been found for your difficulties.”

Christy drew a deep breath. Going home didn’t seem to be an option at the moment. That being the case, she might as well concentrate on discovering what she was doing here in the first place. And since Major James Holborn lay at the center of that mystery, she’d do best to remain in his vicinity.

She didn’t want to be dependent on him, though. That didn’t seem right. “I’m going to need a few things,” she said slowly.

“I’m sure I can provide—”

“Could you hire me?” Christy broke across her words.

“Hire you? My dear, there is no need, not if the major wishes us to take you in.”

“I want to earn my keep. I’m going to need clothes, and—and a toothbrush. I don’t even have a
hair
brush.” Or her makeup, or cleanser or anything else she considered essential. The horror of her situation began to hit home: they didn’t have chocolate chips in this era. She was dead!

Mrs. Runcorn patted her hand. “I am sure we can come to some arrangement, my dear.”

Christy turned to the men. “Major Holborn? If I promise to stay here and work as a maid for at least the next week or two, do you think you could advance me a little money for wages?”

“A maid!” For a moment, astonishment flickered in his eyes, then disapproval settled over his strong features. “You are not to be thinking of going into service. That is not in the least suitable for a lady.”

“I’m not a—” She broke off. She wouldn’t try to argue with his notions of class system. At least not while she seemed to be on the winning end of it. “There is so much I need, and I won’t impose on everyone. Please, let me earn it.”

His chin jutted out in a stubborn manner.

She sighed, recognizing a brick wall when she ran into one. “All right, not a maid. But there are any number of things I can do to help around here. If you won’t let me clean, what about cooking?” She read the unyielding set of his jaw, and tried again. “How about if I help with the children? Perhaps I can teach them something?”

The Runcorns exchanged an arrested glance.

It did not escape the major’s notice. “Are you in need of instructors for the boys? Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded.

“We didn’t want to bother you with unnecessary expense ” Mr. Runcorn admitted after a moment. “Elinor and I have been able to teach them well enough, though it has sometimes occurred to us they might respond to a—a younger person.”

Relief rushed through Christy. “It’s settled, then,” she announced before any of them could change their minds. Then the rashness of her offer dawned on her. “How old are they? And how many?”

“There are only eight,” Mrs. Runcorn assured her. “They range in age from nine to thirteen.”

“Nine to thirteen,” Christy repeated, trying to keep the dismay from her voice. Just what she needed, a pack of preteens. Well, it might be worse, though she was more experienced with younger children. Being an aunt came in useful.

“May I ask your salary requirements?” Amusement returned to the major’s dark eyes.

Christy blinked. “I have no idea. What’s the going rate?”

He burst out laughing. “I believe two hundred pounds is a reasonable figure.”

“A week?” she hazarded. That didn’t sound like much, but then she had no idea how much a pound was currently worth.

A puzzled frown creased his brow. “A year,” he corrected, gently.

“A—” She broke off, shocked. “Well, now I’ve got an idea about the exchange rate, at least.” She saw his frowning face, and grinned. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you with an outrageous demand. From what I’ve seen of you, I’ll bet that’s a very generous salary.”

“I am sure you will do an admirable job.” The major turned back to the Reverend Mr. Runcorn, in the manner of one dismissing a matter now settled.

“Have things been quiet for you since we had the pleasure of seeing you last?” The clergyman helped himself to a thick slice of cake and fixed his concerned gaze on his visitor.

The major hesitated. “There has been another occurrence,” he admitted.

Mrs. Runcorn’s delicate hand fluttered at her breast. “How dreadful. What happened this time?”

The major glanced at Christy. “Someone threw a couple of knives at me while I was walking across a small park.”

“Oh, if only they would play off their foolish tricks in the daylight, so you might see who is responsible!” Mrs. Runcorn clasped her hands.

“This time, they did,” Major Holborn said. “It happened just over an hour ago.”

“Did you see anyone?” Mr. Runcorn demanded at once.

The major shook his head. “I’m afraid they got away—again.”

“If only you could have caught one of them,” Mrs. Runcorn cried, distressed. “Then at last you might have demanded an explanation.”

“There is no point in repining. Perhaps next time—”

“Perhaps next time,” Mr. Runcorn interrupted, “they will hit their mark, and you won’t be able to ask them.”

“It was because of me, wasn’t it,” Christy said suddenly. “If I hadn’t—stepped—in front of you and tripped you, you could have seen who threw those knives. Couldn’t you?”

“There is no way of knowing that,” came his calm response.

“You should be mad at me instead of being so nice. I’m sorry.”

“Do not distress yourself. It is in no way your fault. Had I been paying more attention to where I was going, I would not have knocked you down. It is I who should apologize.”

Guilt flooded through her. It had been her unorthodox arrival into the past, literally tripping him up, which prevented him from catching, or at least seeing, the knife thrower. If she hadn’t appeared, he might be well on his way to solving his riddles. Or the knife might have hit its mark...

A chill crept along her spine, and she swallowed a mouthful of tepid tea. What had she gotten into?
Time travel
of all things. And attempted murder.

And possibly a revolution?

CHAPTER FIVE

The cup rattled in her saucer, and Christy stilled her trembling with an effort. Why
her?
The book with the apse print that changed only for her, the skaters in that ball who moved only for her. And James Edward Holborn himself, providing the link between them. What had
he
to do with her? And what was she doing in
his
time?

Mrs. Runcorn rose. “We are being thoughtless, my dear. You have undergone a great ordeal. Allow me to show you to your room, where I make no doubt you will want to rest before we dine.”

“Thank you. I—I think that might be a good idea.” Christy searched for her purse, remembered she no longer had it, and stood. To her relief, her legs held her.

Mrs. Runcorn looked her over, her expression thoughtful. “We are much of a size, I believe. I shall find you a gown and night rail. Tomorrow we shall set about replenishing your wardrobe.”

Amid Christy’s renewed thanks, her hostess led her from the chamber and up the staircase at the end of the narrow hall. As they reached the first landing, children’s voices shouted, laughed, and argued.

“Don’t worry, I won’t show you around our orphanage until tomorrow. And the boys are very good, I assure you.”

A high-pitched wail rose at that moment, followed by Nancy’s sharp reproof to someone named Sammy. Another voice piped up with the information that Alfie always whined, and it didn’t mean nothin’.

“Now, no more mischief from you, Jem,” Nancy declared. “Davey, get your ’ead out of them clouds and ’elp Tom clear the table. And mind, Bert,” she added, her voice fading with her retreating footsteps, “the missus don’t want to see that sullen face at the dinner table.”

“Eight of them?” Christy asked again.

“Poor things. The weather has been so dreadfully cold, they haven’t been able to go outside as much as they would like. There, I’m sure the novelty of having you for a teacher will have them on their best behavior. The schoolroom and the boys’ rooms are on that floor,” she added as they passed it. “And we are all up here.”

Christy emerged into the upper hall and looked about, favorably impressed. The wainscoting boasted a fresh coat of white paint, and flowered paper covered the walls above. The rug might be threadbare, but not a single speck of dust or lint lingered. Polished tables displayed an assortment of china and glass knickknacks, and a bowl of flowers lent a bright touch.

“In here, my dear.” Mrs. Runcorn opened a door at the end of the corridor. “I’ll have Nancy tidy it a bit for you, and remove the Holland covers.”

Christy stepped inside, and shivered at the chill air that greeted her. Slowly, her gaze traveled over the small chamber. It, too, had been recently painted, only this time in a light yellow. Christy’s taste ran to bright, primary shades, but she found nothing at which to complain. A narrow bed stood against the center of the far wall, with a small but adequate fireplace opposite. A window let in faint sunlight, which fell across the white sheets that covered the other pieces of furniture.

“Don’t bother Nancy. It sounded like she had her hands full with the kids. I can fix this up myself.”

“You don’t mind, my dear?” Mrs. Runcorn sounded surprised.

Christy smiled. “You’d be amazed how capable I am. Now, is there a bathroom nearby?”

“A—” Mrs. Runcorn broke off. “Would you wish a tub carried up here?”

Christy blinked. “Oh, no, that’s not what I meant. Where do you wash your hands?”

“There is a basin, over here.” Mrs. Runcorn swept a cover off a small chest, revealing a china basin painted with a delicate rose pattern. On the shelves inside the cupboard stood a matching pitcher and a chamber pot.

Christy swallowed as the real deprivations of her new situation came home to her. “Is the outhouse
very
far from the back door?” she asked.

“Do you mean the necessary?” Delicate color touched the lady’s cheeks. “Not
very
far.”

“Well, I always did enjoy an adventure. Now, where can I find towels, soap, and water?”

Mrs. Runcorn assured her these would be brought shortly by Nancy, then after only a few more protests, allowed her unusual guest to pull off the Holland covers, and returned to her own work.

As the door closed behind her hostess, Christy exposed an oak bureau. Next she found a matching dressing table and chair, then an armoire. The bed, when she bounced on it, proved to be comfortable enough. Two pieced quilts lay folded over the foot of the bare mattress. She’d have to add sheets to her list of requirements.

She turned to the last cover, and unearthed an ancient upholstered chair. She sat on it, then leaned back against the padded cushions. Not bad. She stifled a yawn. Maybe she’d just sit here for a few minutes. It had been rather an eventful day. She huddled into her down coat and closed her eyes.

When next she opened them, darkness engulfed the room, broken only by the dancing light from the fire in the hearth. It burned low, and the chill had vanished from the chamber. Christy yawned, stretched her arms over her head to ease her cramped muscles, then froze, suddenly wide awake.

The tiny room, the narrow bed, the chair in which she sat—this wasn’t the Edgemont in Piccadilly. She was at the Runcorns’ orphanage, somewhere in one of the poorer districts of London, almost two hundred years before she’d been born.

There went her last hope this entire impossible situation had been nothing but a bad dream. She’d been asleep now for several hours, at a rough guess, and she was still here. Unsteadily, she rose to her feet.

A small clock stood on the mantel over the hearth, and she peered at it. Nine-thirty? She’d been asleep longer than she realized. If only she’d been able to pull a Rip Van Winkle, and return to her own time.

An extra pillow and two more blankets now graced the bed, which had been made up with mended white sheets. A plate with rolls, cheese, an apple, and a knife stood on the dressing table, and someone—probably Mrs. Runcorn—had laid over the wooden chair a high-waisted gray dress with long sleeves topped by puffs at the shoulders, one of those long wool coats that buttoned to the high-waisted bodice, and a white nightgown. A comb now rested on the bureau, the soap dish held a scented cake, and a linen towel hung over the washstand door.

Christy looked for the pitcher, then finally spotted it on the hearth where the fire had kept the water warm. Touched by this thoughtfulness, she carried it to the washstand and poured some into the basin. She dragged off her coat and high-heeled boots, then pulled the blue turtleneck over her head and slid the wool skirt over her hips. She hung her clothes in the wardrobe as neatly as possible. An iron of some sort she could probably obtain, but dry cleaners were another matter.

She stood at the dressing table in only her royal blue camisole and slip with their black lace trim, and combed out the tangled mass of her dark brown hair. All she had with which to tie it back was the huge blue clip bow she had been wearing that morning. Next time she went time traveling, she’d have to pack a few things. Like hair pins. And makeup. And more chocolate.

She lit a candle with a spill from the hearth, washed her face, then as an afterthought rinsed out her underthings and hung them by the fire to dry. What she wouldn’t give for a change! She pulled on the cavernous nightdress, climbed into bed, and quickly drifted off once more.

“Coo,” a female voice exclaimed in tones of reverential awe.

Christy dragged open her eyes. Daylight streamed in through the window. By the washstand stood Nancy, holding up the camisole.

The maid eyed Christy with respect. “I ain’t never seen the likes of this, afore. Major ’Olborn’s below, askin’ after you.”

Christy climbed out of bed, feeling ridiculous—and somewhat floundering—in the tent she wore. Normally, she slept in an oversized T-shirt. “I’ll be down in a few minutes. What time is it?”

“Gone on nine, it ’as. You missed breakfast, but I’ve brung you a tray. Are you puttin’ this on?”

Christy took the camisole and slip from her. “I’ll be down as fast as I can,” she repeated.

As soon as the maid took her leave, Christy dragged off the tent, pulled on her underthings, then turned to the wardrobe. She’d better not wear her own clothes today. Major Holborn and the Runcorns had accepted her appearance without comment—so far, at least. If they had a chance to study the garments in more detail, though, it might lead to some ticklish questions. Zippers hadn’t been invented yet. She’d better start conforming to the local—and temporal—standards.

By means of minor contortions, she managed to fasten the buttons at the back of the gray gown. The fact it fit a bit too tight didn’t help any. Christy might be small, but she was generously endowed.

She ran her hands over the seams of the gown, and a new problem struck her. No pockets. And what was worse, no tissues. She’d have to get a handkerchief from somewhere. She dragged on her pantyhose and boots and, still chewing a slice of cold toast, hurried down the several flights of stairs.

Sounds of the boys reciting a dull lesson reached her as she passed the first-floor landing. She continued to the ground level and entered the sitting room she’d been in the night before.

The major stood near the hearth, leaning over to examine a paper Mrs. Runcorn held out to him. Christy stopped in her tracks, and drew a slow, appreciative breath. That was one man who would never disappear in a crowd. The power of his presence wrapped about her, making her vividly aware of him. A tingling sensation danced along her flesh. Sheer animal magnetism, wasn’t that the trite phrase? At the moment, she couldn’t think of a better. The door closed behind her; he looked up, directly at her, and the penetrating assessment of his gaze sent her back a pace. Suspicion tempered yesterday’s concern, and an element of challenge lay in the depths of those marvelous eyes. A thrill of nerves raced through her, leaving a hollow sensation in its wake.

His searching scrutiny rested on her a moment longer, then he awarded her a sketchy bow. “Good morning, Miss Campbell. I trust you are now rested?”

“Yes, thank you.” Damn, the man unsettled her. She looked away, unable to meet the intensity of his regard. “Mrs. Runcorn, I’m really sorry about last night. I’d only meant to sit down for a minute, not fall asleep like that. Please forgive me.”

“Of course, my dear. There is nothing to forgive. Now, the major has had the most delightful notion. He wishes to take you to the shops himself.”

Christy cast an uneasy glance at him. “Do you? Are you quite certain? I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

“It will be my pleasure. I am sure we have much still to discuss, Miss Campbell.”

Even through that calm exterior, she caught the note of determination in his voice. Well, she couldn’t blame him. He’d acted on generosity of spirit yesterday afternoon. By now he’d had time to reflect—and ask himself a few questions about her. Like how she happened to turn up so opportunely in his path, and in such desperate straits as to instantly appeal to his chivalry. In his position, she’d be suspicious of herself, too. And be out to learn a thing or two about this protégée.

That meant trouble time, for her.

She ran back up the stairs and grabbed the borrowed coat, then slowed as she started back down. He’d had his friends take her in before he’d had time to reflect. Did that mean he might change his mind and have them throw her out? Or would he keep her here, where they could watch her for him? He’d probably feel safer knowing where she was—and whether or not she tried to hurl a few knives at him, herself.

What
was
she going to say in response to the probing questions he must have planned for her?

Stick to the truth, she reminded herself—at least, as far as possible. That way she wouldn’t trip herself up in a web of lies.

He waited in the lower hall. His gaze ran over her, and he nodded as if in silent approval—or as if one of his nagging uncertainties had been quieted. Apparently, she’d passed muster—this time, at least. She’d have to study everybody she saw, and copy the appropriate mannerisms and figures of speech, if she hoped to keep him from guessing how
very
much out of place she really was.

He escorted her outside to where a low-slung carriage stood before the door, with a little man holding the head of one of the matched gray horses harnessed to the rig. The major handed Christy into the seat, climbed up beside her, and started the pair. The man—a groom, she supposed—stepped back, then swung up behind as the carriage passed him.

Fascinated, Christy looked about, noting details she had been—too upset to notice yesterday afternoon. A living museum surrounded her, with costumes, professions, and customs that would vanish with the coming of industrialization. And here it was, for her to see—and experience.

Again, they made the abrupt transition into a better neighborhood, and she leaned forward, trying to take in so many strange sights and sounds. A man in ragged clothes swept snow from a crossing with a stick broom. Vendors wandered the streets, shouting their wares. And so many people rode horses!

“Do you find London so very different from New York?” He cast a sideways glance at her. “That was where you said you were from, was it not?”

The first of his tests. She swallowed, and settled more decorously on the seat. “No, I’m from a tiny town in Connecticut. And yes, it’s very different.” That much, at least, was the truth.