A Christmas Keepsake (7 page)

He entered the modiste’s, but saw no sign of Miss Campbell. As he turned to go out, though, fabric rustled and the curtain separating the front of the shop from the back parted.

The proprietress emerged. “Major Holborn. Do come back. Miss has been enjoying a cup of coffee while she waits.”

His eyebrows rose a fraction, and he preceded the woman into her workroom. Never before had he entered this portion of the establishment, and he glanced about at the tables laden with fabrics and the group of women industriously stitching by the light of candles.

A young lady, not in her first blush of youth but with a quiet elegance, sat before a large desk on which a coffee-pot, a plate of biscuits, and two cups sat on a tray. Her white muslin gown, sprigged with tiny roses, boasted a low-scooped bodice filled with netting to her throat, where it fastened with a delicate bow. A delightful high poke bonnet framed a round face with startlingly vivid blue eyes and a full, laughing mouth. Clusters of tight dark ringlets hung about her neck. With a sense of shock, he recognized Miss Campbell.

“Is this all right?” she asked.

The devil! He hadn’t noted before how husky and sweet her voice could be. For the first time in a very long while, he floundered for a permissible answer.

“I prefer bright colors,” she went on, “but Madam Hendricks says it ‘wouldn’t be at all the thing.’ ” She glanced at the older woman. “Did I get that right?”

“You did.” The modiste eyed James. “Miss has been telling me what a dreadful time she has had.”

“Dreadful, indeed,” he agreed. “Miss Campbell, you look quite delightful.”

“Madam Hendricks has been terrific, Major,” Miss Campbell declared with a rush of warmth. “She told me what I needed to buy at the other store—what you call things over here. And when I got back, they’d already altered this to fit me.” She rose and moved to where he could see her. “Do I look like a teacher, now?”

“No,” he said before he could stop himself, then could have bitten his tongue as her face fell.

“I
knew
it should have been simpler. I’ll have to return this,” she told Madam Hendricks. “And he’ll never approve of that evening dress.”

“Indeed, I most likely shall. You will not be an instructress forever, remember. Your difficult situation will be rectified as soon as you have sent a letter to your people in America.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again, and his suspicions surged once more to the forefront. Damn this vacillating. Why couldn’t he make up his mind about her?
Could
her situation be rectified? Was she impoverished, sent by her American family to try her fortunes in England? Or was she an adventuress—or even in the pay of his enemy?

Part of him objected to that last possibility. Yet with knives landing within inches of his back, he was in no position to take anything—or anyone—on trust. Despite her provocative voice and very kissable mouth. His gaze rested on her full lips, his pulse quickened, and a most unwelcome longing stirred in him.

“Have you finished here?” he asked abruptly. “Then I had best take you back to the Runcorns.”

They accomplished most of the return journey in silence. He ought to be pointing out more instances of poverty and despair among the denizens of the back slums, but he found her mere presence disturbing. It would be best if he avoided her company in future. He drew up before the orphanage in record time, and Kepp carried her packages inside.

She descended to the paving, then looked up at him with a hesitancy that sat oddly on her vivacious features. “Thank you,” she said simply.

“My pleasure.” He touched the brim of his curly beaver, and set his pair in motion without allowing himself to look back at her. He needed to concentrate on his work, on recording the expedition to the workhouse before the right tone slipped irrevocably from his mind. The last thing he needed was a very lovely—and possibly treacherous—distraction.

Not until late the following afternoon did he finish his new chapter, and only then did he permit his thoughts to return to Miss Campbell. He should visit the Runcorns, he supposed. Not that he had any desire to see Miss Campbell, of course. He merely needed to assure himself all progressed as it should, and she filled her position to their satisfaction.

He drove himself to the disreputable alleys off Golden Lane, left Kepp with instructions to walk his pair until he returned, and ran lightly up the steps and rapped on the door. A little over a minute passed before Nancy appeared.

Her easy smile brightened. “Lord love you, guv’nor, we thoughts as you’d be ’ere right early this mornin’.”

“Is something amiss?” He handed over his hat, pulled off his gloves, and shrugged himself out of his greatcoat.

“No, ain’t nothin’ amiss.” She laid his beaver aside and accepted his other things. “Everythin’s gone right, it ’as. That lady you brung is a wonder. The boys’ll do anythin’ she says, just to ’ear ’er talk.”

Above them, footsteps pounded the length of the hall, and the ceiling shook. Startled, James looked up. After a brief pause, the thundering resumed, headed in the other direction.

“What the devil—?” He looked toward Nancy.

She giggled, and jerked her head toward the steps. “You go on up, guv’nor.” She started down the hall in the direction of the kitchens.

Several childish voices rose in laughter, then faded beneath the mad dash for the other end of the room. Intrigued, he made his way to the floor above, then down the hall to the large chamber allocated for the boys’ lessons. He entered as the rush started once more.

“Remember, it has to be spelled
right
!” Miss Campbell’s husky voice shouted over the hubbub.

He stopped in the doorway, scanning the room. Mrs. Runcorn sat in a chair near him, chuckling softly as she watched the scene. Six of the boys stood at one end arranging blocks, each with a letter painted on it. The last two boys reached them, only to be left behind as the others took off for the other side, where they scrambled among a large pile of wooden cubes, seeking the letters they needed.

“What, in the name of all that is holy, is going on?” he demanded.

Miss Campbell, attired in a becoming gown in a deep shade of rose muslin, jumped up from her chair in the middle. “Wilfred, you give that back to Alfie. He had it first. You’ll have to find another one.”

The wiry little nine-year-old turned his tousled dark head to glare at her. “Ah, Miss Campbell—”

“You heard me, Wilfred. You try that again, and it’s back to the slate board for you.”

“Yes’m,” the boy muttered, chastened, and dove once more into the pile of blocks. The others began their run to the opposite side of the room, and grumbling, Wilfred followed several seconds later.

“Done!” A slender, fair twelve-year-old raised his hands over his head.

The next moment two more finished as well, and the stragglers ran up with their last letters and shoved them into place.

“Very good!” Miss Campbell surveyed the blocks. “Round three goes to—no, it doesn’t. Tom, you’ve got the wrong letters. ‘School’ is spelled with a ‘ch,’ not a ‘k.’ Remember?”

“
I
remembered,” shouted the boy who had finished second. “
I
win.”

Miss Campbell scrutinized his efforts. “So you do, Jem. Very good, all of you. Why don’t we—”

“Miss Campbell!” One of the younger ones interrupted her, jerking his head toward the door.

She looked up, eyes bright and laughing, and a soft flush lent becoming color to her cheeks. “I didn’t hear you come in, Major.”

“No, I’m surprised you could hear anything, with all that running and shouting.”

To his consternation, her lips tightened and her shoulders trembled. Instantly, he regretted his words. “I didn’t mean—”

Her laughter cut off his apology. “I’m sorry,” she managed when she could speak again. “You looked so shocked. I
know
this isn’t the way you teach at—over here, but it’s easier to learn when you’re having fun. Isn’t it?” she asked of the children, and got a chorus of agreements.

“Where did you acquire your teaching methods?” he demanded, torn between amusement and uncertainty at her unorthodox approach.

“Sesame Street,” came her prompt response.

“Where?”

She laughed again, an easy, mischievous sound that enveloped him, warming in its richness, unsettling in its effect on him.

“It’s a place that makes learning fun,” she explained. “My nieces and nephews watch—go there. And Gina—my sister who teaches second grade—swears by it for helping kids with the basics.”

“What else do you have planned?”

She raised her chin, as if challenging him to object. “Tomorrow we’re going to start on accents and manners.”

“On what?” That took him by surprise.

“Accents and manners. They’re all young enough to change the way they talk. You don’t want to grow up to be street sweepers, do you?” she asked the boys.

Several shook their heads “no,” but not with certainty. “What
will
we do?” the fair, slender boy asked.

“Anything you want, Tom,” Miss Campbell said. “Would you like to work in an office? Be a clerk, maybe?”

“Don’t be daft, miss.” One of the older boys waved his hand in denial. “We ain’t goin’ to get no jobs like that.”

“Why not? If you talk and act like office clerks, that’s exactly what you’ll become. Then no more of this hand-to-mouth existence in these slums. You’ll earn money
—real
money—and be able to live in comfortable houses and buy whatever you need.”

“Cor,” another breathed, apparently awed by this picture of security.

James’s lips twitched, and he fought them into a stern line. “You are undermining the social class system, Miss Campbell.”

She inclined her head in acknowledgment. “Thank you. I try.”

“If all Americans are like you, it must be a very strange place,” he said, with feeling.

Her grin broadened, staggering him. He had thought her large, startlingly blue eyes dominated her charming face. But when her incredible smile flashed, it took his breath away. “Miss,” Tom piped up. “We wants another word.”

“Spell ‘school,’ ” she shot at him. He did, stumbling only a little over the ‘ch,’ and she nodded. “All right, pick the next one.”

A minute later, all eight boys dove into the pile of blocks for the first letter of “carriage.”

“Remember the spelling rules we covered earlier!” she shouted over the commotion.

“Will they?” He raised a dubious eyebrow.

“I should think so. We made up rhymes until they got the idea.”

“Do you make everything a game?”

“If possible. It’s a lot more effective.”

“A lot noisier, too.”

She smiled and shook her head. “That’s a small sacrifice. Besides, it’s too cold to take them outside to run off their energy. This way we’re having a lesson and recess combined. Maybe you’d rather come back tomorrow morning when we’re doing math. I have a quiet game planned for that.”

They watched in silence, until a shout from one of the boys and a chorus of groans from the others announced that someone had succeeded in spelling the word. Miss Campbell congratulated Davey, then encouraged the others to finish, as well.

Mrs. Runcorn rose. “It is time for their chores, Miss Campbell.”

The young lady nodded. “You heard Mrs. Runcorn. I want all the blocks put away and the tables straightened. Or there won’t be any games tomorrow,” she added as a dark threat.

James leaned against the jamb, watching with approving eyes as the boys scurried to straighten the mess caused by their games. Miss Campbell had a knack with children, he had to admit that. No, he corrected himself the next moment, she had a knack with everyone. Energy and enthusiasm bubbled from her. She made him want to run laughing through the meadows in a game of tag, which he hadn’t done in nearly thirty years. She made him want to—

The blood pounded through his veins, and he cut off that thought. Despite his suspicions—and her free and easy mannerisms—she did not have the appearance of a straw damsel. He would not
—could
not—insult her. He would learn more about her, though.

He moved aside to allow the boys to file past and up the stairs to begin whatever chores awaited them. “Miss Campbell,” he said softly as she followed.

She stopped and turned her steady gaze on him. The uneasy sensation shot through him that she wished to know as much about him as he did about her. “Will you drive with me?” he asked.

She started to agree, then glanced at Mrs. Runcorn.

“Of course, my dear,” that lady said at once. “You have already done far more than I expected.”

“Put on your pelisse.” He watched as she hurried past and ran lightly up the stairs. She almost bounced, so light and energetic was her step.

“She is the most charming creature.” Mrs. Runcorn’s gaze followed her. “I vow, James, I could not be more pleased with her. You see how the children adore her, and they memorized so many rules today, which I have never been able to make them do before. She makes everything a treat.”