Read Online A Christmas Keepsake by Janice Bennett - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Janice Bennett
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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.
Their carriage slowed behind a wagon filled with crates, and Christy swiveled about to watch the passing people. One of the horsemen behind them pulled up abruptly and turned away.
“How many days did the crossing take?” Major Holborn whipped up the team, and they swept past the obstructing vehicle.
“It seemed like forever.” How many days did it take, at this time? She couldn’t ever remember hearing. The Clipper Ships hadn’t been
“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.
Their carriage slowed behind a wagon filled with crates, and Christy swiveled about to watch the passing people. One of the horsemen behind them pulled up abruptly and turned away.
“How many days did the crossing take?” Major Holborn whipped up the team, and they swept past the obstructing vehicle.
“It seemed like forever.” How many days did it take, at this time? She couldn’t ever remember hearing. The Clipper Ships hadn’t been
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