A Christmas Keepsake (9 page)

“Are you sure he isn’t harboring some old grudge?”

“The idea is ridiculous.”

She glared back at him. “He’s up to no good. He wants something from you.”

“More likely it is his wife who wants me present, to drive a couple of old bores away from her dinner table at an early hour.”

Christy considered. “Are they? Old bores, I mean?”

“Devil a doubt. Have you ever known a person in government who wasn’t?”

At that, she smiled, albeit with reluctance. “Some things never change, I guess. I haven’t embarrassed you too much, have I?”

He inclined his head. “I can see that having the charge of you, Miss Campbell, is going to tax even my inventiveness.”

He took his leave of her to care for his horses and carriage, and she went inside to be greeted by Mrs. Runcorn with a cup of hot tea.

St. Ives’s motive behind that invitation continued to trouble Christy as she stiffly made her way to her room. The earl did not appear to be a man bent on the selfless purpose of helping his cousin’s work. She would have to wait until tomorrow night, she supposed, to find out what he was up to. At least she had assured the major would not attend the gathering without a friend.

A friend? She lay on her bed and frowned at the blazing fire. That brought up the whole issue of why she was here in the past. The major must be a key actor in some event shortly to take place, that much
seemed
clear. Otherwise, his would not have been the only book to shift between versions of what occurred.
But what is going to happen?

Her gaze strayed to the clothes cupboard, where she had secreted his
Life in London
, wrapped in her sweater to keep it hidden. What was her role? To help the major—or hinder him?
And why her?
She slammed her fist into the mattress in frustration. If only she could talk to him about it,
warn
him, maybe together they could find some answers.

She envisioned the result and cringed. He’d talk to her, all right—the whole time he drove her to the local mental hospital. Bedlam, wasn’t it? If she kept at this much longer, she’d belong there.

Her restless fingers plucked at the coverlet. Okay, she’d ignore the
whys
for now. She’d work on the
hows.
Such as how, when she knew so little about history, was she to prevent some action of the major’s from starting a revolution?

She shied from contemplating that horrendous responsibility. Instead, she spent the evening creating mathematical crossword puzzles for the boys, aimed at determining their various skill levels. This accomplished, she turned her attention to devising a fun way to memorize the multiplication table. That occupied her thoughts for the better part of an hour, and saw the demise of two more of her precious chocolate chips. At last, she admitted herself temporarily stumped.

The following morning, interspersed with spelling, math, and reading lessons, Christy began the boys’ instruction in the subtle art of rising above their class. At every opportunity she corrected speech and manners, then challenged the boys to do the same for each other. Mrs. Runcorn observed this process with considerable approval, while Nancy watched with absolute awe.

At first, Christy noticed the maid finding chores to do right outside the schoolroom door. As the lessons progressed, Nancy did less actual work and more just standing and listening. Finally, Christy invited her to join them, saying the boys needed interaction with a lady.

“Me, miss?” Nancy laughed, though with little humor. “I ain’t no lady.”

Christy fixed her with a firm stare. “You are if you act like one.”

Intrigued, Nancy joined them, and worked with a determined intensity that piqued Christy’s curiosity. After she at last dismissed the boys to their chores, she helped the maid straighten the room. The girl continued to practice, holding her shoulders straighter, even bobbing a clumsy curtsy to a desk as she passed.

Christy watched her, wondering what lay behind this dedication. She replaced the last of the books on the shelf, then regarded the maid. “What would you like to do with your life, Nancy?”

The girl leaned back against a chair, a dreamy half smile just touching her lips. “Mr. Wickes—what is valet to Major ’Olborn—says as it’s a good life bein’ a lady’s maid. I won’t never talk flash enough for that, though. Not to likin’ least ways.”

“And why not?” Christy demanded.

The girl shrugged. “Mr. Wickes, ’e don’t ’old with a mort what forked a tattler or two in ’er time. You’d think as it was ’im as was earl, and not the major’s cousin.”

She took herself off, leaving Christy to fathom the meaning of her cryptic utterances. She finally decided the valet must disapprove of Nancy’s former profession as a pickpocket. On the whole, she couldn’t blame him. There were worse ways, though, Nancy might have made her living.

Evening—and the dinner party—at last approached, and with trepidation Christy faced the task of transforming herself into a respectable lady of this era. She donned her new high- waisted gown of amber crepe, then regarded her reflection with misgivings. A suitable dress wasn’t enough. Her hair was all wrong, her face didn’t look right without makeup, and who was
she
to be teaching the boys manners? She had no idea how to behave, herself!

A gentle rap sounded on the door, and Nancy stuck her head inside. “Ifn you don’t mind, miss, I’d be right glad to lend a ’and. If you’ll ’elp me talk more genteel?”

“Of course.” Christy regarded the maid in relief. “Do you have any idea what to do with my hair?”

“I’ve ’elped the missus a time or two,” Nancy offered, though her tone implied the results had been less than desired. “It can’t be that ’ard, it can’t.”

After several initial mishaps, and considerable pauses to explain points of grammar, they at last achieved a creditable arrangement of the thick masses of Christy’s curls. Christy stood before the mirror, regarding herself with a critical eye. She felt like she was going to a costume party.

It would be much easier if she were. Then she wouldn’t have to worry about what she said or how she behaved. She hadn’t been brought up to the world she would enter tonight. She was a twentieth-century American, and not of the upper classes, either. Her manners were far too free and casual for this time period.

She tried, unsuccessfully, to calm the fluttering of nerves in her stomach. What if she embarrassed both herself and the major? She dreaded proving a source of ridicule for that St. Ives.

There was only one thing to be done. She went in search of Mrs. Runcorn, to ask about any blatant taboos.

She hurried straight to the sitting room, but that cozy apartment stood empty. Christy’s heart sank, and she bit her lip. So little time, so much to learn. Mrs. Runcorn probably busied herself in the kitchens, where Christy’s frantic questions would be an unwelcome interruption. She hoped the woman would understand, and forgive. Once more, she set off in search of her.

She had taken no more than ten steps down the hall, though, when a sharp rap sounded on the front door. She hesitated a moment, then shrugged and went to answer it. Probably she breached all sorts of social rules, but it seemed ridiculous to just stand there and wait for Nancy to drop whatever she did.

She swung the door wide, then stared in awe at the impressive figure on the porch. The light from the hall fell on Major Holborn’s black wool cloak, which parted in front to reveal a black velvet coat, a white waistcoat, and black satin knee breeches. He removed his hat, and the flickering candles glinted off his auburn hair and highlighted the planes and contours of his face.

She faltered back a pace, unable to drag her gaze from him. She’d been aware of his rugged good looks before, but considered him the outdoors type—someone who’d fit into flannel shirts, jeans, and fisherman knit sweaters to perfection. She hadn’t expected him to blend into such elegance. At least not so perfectly...

A wave of attraction swept through her, compelling and undeniable, leaving her breathless in its wake. Oh, no, the thought drifted through her mind, she couldn’t be that much of a fool! They were two hundred years apart, and not only in time, but in their outlook on life, how they had been brought up, undoubtedly in their goals and expectations. She would not let herself fall for a man from another time.

Abruptly, she turned away. “Do I look all right?”

For a long moment, he said nothing. She glanced over her shoulder and met his critical regard—and an unfamiliar spark in the depths of his dark eyes. Slowly, his gaze moved over her in a manner that caused a warm flush all over her and quickened her pulse.

“You will do very well.” His voice held a note of reluctant admiration.

Damn, why did his approval have to matter to her so much? His distrust had been safer. Holding herself under strict control, she walked into the sitting room.

He remained where he stood, his brow furrowing. “What is the matter?”

I like you too much for my own good.
With difficulty, she kept from blurting that out. Instead she concentrated on the question that had worried her since yesterday. “Why did your cousin invite us?”

A slow smile lit his eyes. “After what you said, it would have been impossible for him
not
to invite you.”

She waved that aside. “I know I was rude, or ill bred, or whatever. You don’t have to rub it in. Why did he invite
you
? I’ll swear you’re not friends.”

He came up to her, stopping a bare pace away. “I can think of no reason why he should wish me harm. It’s true, we have not always been close. Ten years separate us, and we have never had much in common.”

She looked up into his face. Big mistake, she realized. His closeness sent a yearning seeping through her veins, alluring—and impossible.

At least the major didn’t seem to be affected. She should be glad for that—but she wasn’t. She crossed to the hearth, putting a safe distance between them. “Isn’t it odd he should suddenly go to so much trouble to find you just to invite you to dinner?”

“I believe the answer lies in his newfound responsibilities. Our relationship underwent a rather subtle change after the death of his father, you see.”

She looked up quickly. “In what way?”

“I believe he is taking his role of head of the family quite seriously. He inherited the title and all the estates, along with the responsibilities that entails. Looking out for the other members of the family is one of those.”

She digested this. “It is not one he appears to care for, in your case, at least.”

He shook his head. “You wrong him. He has made a point of checking up on me with astonishing regularity since shouldering his duties. And now, shall we go? Where is your wrap?”

She ran back upstairs, then hesitated over her choice of coats. It was too darned cold outside for the thin wool of the pelisse. She’d take a chance on the down. It was three-quarter length, and had passed before without comment. By the time she returned to the hall, the Runcorns had joined the major. He now held a towel-wrapped oblong under his arm. The Runcorns wished them a pleasant evening, then returned to their own occupations.

Major Holborn escorted Christy out the door, gently touching her back as he ushered her through. Abruptly he stopped in his tracks and stared at the slick material. “What is it?” he demanded.

“A down coat.”

“Down,” he muttered. “In a coat.” He ran his fingers along the fabric. “I’ve never felt anything like this.”

She tensed. “You’ve seen it before,” she reminded him. “And touched it.”

“I had gloves on.”

Gloves ... She tried a smile, but knew it to be shaky. Now, his gloves protruded from the pocket of his coat. Oh, damn, why had she taken the chance?

She wasn’t about to try to explain nylon to him. She wasn’t even sure how it was made, but she knew it wasn’t a natural fiber. “It’s a material they’re using quite a bit in America,” she tried, hoping he’d accept her evasion.

He touched it again, his expression curious, but he said nothing more. Speculation, though, remained in his eyes as he studied her, and a sinking sensation once more assailed her stomach. He wasn’t going to let the matter drop. He’d allow it to ride for the moment, but something in the set of his jaw warned her he grew more and more determined to get to the bottom of the mysteries she presented. And when Major James Edward Holborn set out to do something, she had an uneasy feeling he accomplished it.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Christy stepped out the door, and the icy wind whipped the flimsy amber crepe of her evening gown about her legs. Even with Major Holborn staring at the nylon of her down coat as if it had been imported from another planet, she was better off in it than in the pelisse, she decided. The chill would cut right through the fine wool. She could do with her boots, too. These slippers were hopeless.

She glanced up at the threatening clouds, which hung low in the sky, obliterating any light from the stars. Darkness closed about them, and she shivered. “It looks like it’s going to snow before much longer.”

“You are probably correct.” He ushered her down the steps, and opened the door to a carriage.

A covered one, she realized with relief. One of those hackneys. Thank heavens he hadn’t brought his curricle. She climbed inside and hugged herself as she settled on the seat.

He called the direction to the driver, then jumped in beside her. “Here.” He placed the bundle he held at her feet.

Warmth radiated about her legs, and she pulled her skirt aside for a better look. “What is it?”

“Only a hot brick.”

“You’re kidding. What a terrific idea.”

He frowned. “Do you not use them in America?”

Another blunder. She struggled for an adequate response, then gave up and said the first thing that came to her mind. “Of course. Only I hadn’t expected you to put one in a hackney.” She gave an elaborate shiver and changed the subject. “It’s freezing. Everything about the weather screams Christmas, but there aren’t any decorations up. It doesn’t seem right.”

He chuckled. “What do you want? Banners hanging from every sign on the streets?”

“Yes.” She tried hard not to find his deep voice enticing, but failed. “That’s exactly what I’m used to, from October on.”

“October?” This time he laughed outright. “No, Miss Campbell, I will not be taken in by one of your hums. October, indeed. Do you not find it sufficient to celebrate for the twelve days?”

“We don’t. Celebrate them, I mean. We have our decorations up, and the parties start right after Thanksgiving—the end of November, I mean. But after Christmas Day, things are sort of quiet until New Year’s Eve. Then it’s all over. There aren’t many of us who still remember Epiphany.”

“I had not thought your country had strayed so far from the old customs.”

“You’d be surprised,” she muttered.

She directed her attention out the window, and stared at the feathery flakes that drifted down, softening the fastness of the night to a swirling gray. Here and there, the fitful glow of a dim oil light announced their passage to the more fashionable quarter of town. At last, they turned onto Portman Square, and the driver pulled up before one of the many towering mansions which fined the street.

The major jumped down, paid their jarvey, then helped Christy to the snow-covered pavement. She followed him up the shallow steps, keeping her head lowered against the icy wind.

He sounded the knocker, then glanced down at her. Once more, a deep chuckle escaped him. “You have snow in your hair.” Gently, he dusted the flakes from her curls, then hesitated, an arrested expression in the depths of his dark eyes.

Her gaze met his, and awareness swept through her, strong and tantalizing. Her breathing quickened. She tried to look away, to break that mesmerizing contact, but she remained a prisoner of his compelling regard.

She couldn’t be this crazy. She couldn’t fall for him, she couldn’t be drawn into the powerful emotional vortex that reached toward her. What life could she share with this man, even if she remained trapped in his time? They shared no common ground...

Or did they? They both worked for the betterment of living conditions for the poor. They both cared for animals. Maybe, just maybe...

The door opened, breaking the spell, and in relief she turned—only to come up against the most pompous-looking man she had ever encountered in her life. He peered down his nose at her, taking in every detail of her appearance, then turned and inclined his head in a supercilious manner to the major. He stepped back to permit them to enter.

“Good evening, Doring.” The major took off his hat and cloak and handed them over, then assisted Christy with her coat.

The butler accepted it, then held it gingerly, regarding it as if it were some foreign object. Well, it was, Christy realized. She only hoped he wouldn’t comment on it. That might start the major questioning her again.

Luckily, Doring had been trained too well—or considered it beneath him to take notice of a visitor’s garments. His features rigid, he merely laid her coat aside.

Christy cast an uncomfortable glance around the hall, and remained where she stood. The major appeared very much at ease—yet made no move to locate his cousin. Instead, he waited for the butler to complete his tasks, then with Christy on his arm, he headed up the steps in the man’s wake.

That struck her as odd. Major Holborn must know his way around—he must have lived here, in fact, while he was growing up, since his cousin inherited the mansion. Under the circumstances, she would have expected him to barge ahead. It’s what she would have done. Instead, he allowed Doring to lead the way along the upper hall to a room from which voices could be heard.

Propriety, she realized. The major adhered to a strict code of behavior, the basics of which escaped her completely. Apparently, one had to follow the rules, no matter how ridiculous.

She hung back, nerves tangling in her stomach. She would make a fool of herself, and have no idea what it was she had done. She would embarrass the major by doing something so silly, not even the explanation of her being an American could excuse it. Hers was not the world of these stuffed shirts. She didn’t fit into it—probably not even into his class.

Doring threw open the door, and the major drew Christy into a spacious apartment decorated in the rich tones of deep crimson and gold. Gilt-trimmed mirrors and ancient, elaborate portraits lined the walls, and three incredibly beautiful and intricately patterned rugs covered the floor. Delicate china ornaments, painted with an expert hand, lined the mantel. Everywhere, candles flickered in silver holders.

The flagrant display of wealth overwhelmed her. She tried not to think of the number of homeless shelters that could be funded with the money represented here, but failed. Almost, she blurted out that thought, and was relieved when she caught herself.

Relieved? Good heavens, what was happening to her? She wasn’t one to let
any
society’s mold dictate her priorities. She’d never before guarded her tongue, why did she do so now? She should speak up, and possibly pave the major’s path to make his comments on social conditions.

But she wouldn’t. Her outspokenness—or any such serious breach in her manners—would embarrass him.

Damn, she was behaving like a wimp, not standing up for what she believed in, and all because she felt like a freshwater fish suddenly adrift in a very salty ocean.

She emerged from her frustrated reverie to discover all the men had stood at their entrance. One came toward her, a slender gentleman with a developing paunch, whose calves and shoulders had been padded out in a very unnatural manner. Jewels glittered in his neckcloth and on his fingers, and an eyeglass hung about his neck on a black ribbon. His features appeared set in a perpetual sneer, which Christy could not forget. St. Ives.

“Coz.” He rolled the word out in a slow drawl. “And Miss”—he hesitated a fraction longer than necessary before finishing her name—“Campbell, was it not?”

The realization she had just been put properly in her place unsettled her. Well, she wasn’t about to let him guess he had succeeded in discomfiting her. She straightened her shoulders, and managed a bright facsimile of a smile. “What an excellent memory you have, my lord.”

He directed a sharp look at her, as if he suspected—but couldn’t quite believe—her insolence. She fluttered her lashes innocently, and a self-satisfied smirk settled over his features. He inclined his head with infinite condescension, and returned to his other guests.

“Do you think it possible for you to remain within the bounds of propriety?” the major demanded, his tone hushed. He regained her in a mixture of amusement and exasperation.

“I couldn’t help it. Darn it, I can only take just so much of his sneering.” She met his stern gaze, and shrugged. “All right, I’ll behave.”

“Thank you.” He took her arm and led her toward the fireplace.

A young woman in an elaborate robe of silver silk over a white satin underdress stood before the hearth, her restless fingers playing with one of the delicate figurines on the mantel. A cloud of soft brown curls framed a pale, narrow face with no pretences toward beauty. Her large gray eyes rested on St. Ives, then transferred to the new arrivals. With a sense of surprise, Christy recognized a lurking sadness in her expression.

The major took the woman’s hand and raised it briefly to his lips. “May I present Miss Campbell to you, Margaret?” He drew Christy forward. “Your hostess, Miss Campbell, my cousin’s wife, the countess St. Ives.”