he frowned. “I greatly fear there isn’t a confectioners in this quarter of town.”
“Terrific.” If even one of those would do her much good. If memory served—and when it came to chocolate, it usually did—there wasn’t supposed to be any of the solid eating stuff until 1847. That meant for the next thirty-seven years, she’d only find something vastly inferior. Of course, cocoa butter came along about 1828. She considered the eighteen-year wait and shuddered. She’d never survive.
It made one more reason why she had to return to her own time, and as quickly as possible. Her meager supply of chips couldn’t last much longer.
They turned off Golden Lane, onto the narrow alley leading to the orphanage. Mr. Runcorn, huddled in his greatcoat, stood outside with the boys and the curricle, staring up the street to where Kepp approached with the sound gray. His hands shielded his eyes. As Christy and the major came into view, Mr. Runcorn hurried forward to meet them.
“James!” Concern showed on his every feature. “What happened?”
Briefly, Major Holborn explained about the snowball.
The elderly man shook his head. “This is getting serious, James. Miss Campbell might have been seriously hurt.”
“But I wasn’t,” she said quickly.
“My horse may have been.” The major bent to run a hand over the animal’s leg again.
As Mr. Runcorn joined him in a gentle probing of the tendon along the cannon bone, an unwieldy carriage rounded the corner. Its body perched precariously above wheels which were over five feet in diameter. Christy watched in fascination as the driver bounced along, and wondered when he would be thrown out.
One of the blacks harnessed to the shafts shook its beautiful head, setting the harness bells jingling, and its companion danced daintily sideways. Christy whistled softly. “There’s someone asking for trouble. That turnout must have cost a small fortune. What is it?”
Major Holborn looked up to follow the direction of her gaze, and a slight smile relieved the severity of his expression. “That, Miss Campbell, is my cousin, Saint Ives.”
“I meant, what is he driving?”
“Ah, a swan-necked phaeton. Have they not become popular in America, yet? You shall have to have the dubious honor of riding in one.”
“No, thanks.”
The major cast her an amused glance, and stepped forward to greet the new arrival.
Christy regarded the major’s cousin with interest, from the graying sandy brown hair that protruded from beneath his high-crowned curly hat, to the sharp face which appeared to consist primarily of a thin beakish nose, narrow mouth, and pointy chin. The heaviness of his coat did nothing to hide the slenderness of his build.
St. Ives’s gaze fell on her, and she stepped back, suddenly uncomfortable. An overly polished, cold-fish type. His upper lip appeared to be curled perpetually into a sneer.
He returned his regard to the major. “Dear Coz, a carriage accident? You?” A flash of humor lit his steely eyes.
Major Holborn merely smiled. “A badly misplaced snowball. What brings you here?”
“You, dear boy, what else would induce me into this benighted neighborhood?” An exquisite shudder ran through St. Ives. “I’ve had the merry devil of a time tracking you down, too. Wickes finally told me you were here.” He glanced at the building again and the curl of his lip deepened. “You have an unaccountable fondness for this district.”
“For the people,” the major agreed. “And what is of such urgency you permit it to drag you into so unsavory a neighborhood?”
“The pleasure of your company, what else? I’m having a gathering at my house for dinner tomorrow night, and thought you might care to join us.”
Major Holborn raised an eyebrow, and Christy gained the impression this was an unusual invitation, and not one motivated by any desire for the pleasure of his company, either. Uneasy, she pressed the major’s arm in silent warning.
He ignored
“Terrific.” If even one of those would do her much good. If memory served—and when it came to chocolate, it usually did—there wasn’t supposed to be any of the solid eating stuff until 1847. That meant for the next thirty-seven years, she’d only find something vastly inferior. Of course, cocoa butter came along about 1828. She considered the eighteen-year wait and shuddered. She’d never survive.
It made one more reason why she had to return to her own time, and as quickly as possible. Her meager supply of chips couldn’t last much longer.
They turned off Golden Lane, onto the narrow alley leading to the orphanage. Mr. Runcorn, huddled in his greatcoat, stood outside with the boys and the curricle, staring up the street to where Kepp approached with the sound gray. His hands shielded his eyes. As Christy and the major came into view, Mr. Runcorn hurried forward to meet them.
“James!” Concern showed on his every feature. “What happened?”
Briefly, Major Holborn explained about the snowball.
The elderly man shook his head. “This is getting serious, James. Miss Campbell might have been seriously hurt.”
“But I wasn’t,” she said quickly.
“My horse may have been.” The major bent to run a hand over the animal’s leg again.
As Mr. Runcorn joined him in a gentle probing of the tendon along the cannon bone, an unwieldy carriage rounded the corner. Its body perched precariously above wheels which were over five feet in diameter. Christy watched in fascination as the driver bounced along, and wondered when he would be thrown out.
One of the blacks harnessed to the shafts shook its beautiful head, setting the harness bells jingling, and its companion danced daintily sideways. Christy whistled softly. “There’s someone asking for trouble. That turnout must have cost a small fortune. What is it?”
Major Holborn looked up to follow the direction of her gaze, and a slight smile relieved the severity of his expression. “That, Miss Campbell, is my cousin, Saint Ives.”
“I meant, what is he driving?”
“Ah, a swan-necked phaeton. Have they not become popular in America, yet? You shall have to have the dubious honor of riding in one.”
“No, thanks.”
The major cast her an amused glance, and stepped forward to greet the new arrival.
Christy regarded the major’s cousin with interest, from the graying sandy brown hair that protruded from beneath his high-crowned curly hat, to the sharp face which appeared to consist primarily of a thin beakish nose, narrow mouth, and pointy chin. The heaviness of his coat did nothing to hide the slenderness of his build.
St. Ives’s gaze fell on her, and she stepped back, suddenly uncomfortable. An overly polished, cold-fish type. His upper lip appeared to be curled perpetually into a sneer.
He returned his regard to the major. “Dear Coz, a carriage accident? You?” A flash of humor lit his steely eyes.
Major Holborn merely smiled. “A badly misplaced snowball. What brings you here?”
“You, dear boy, what else would induce me into this benighted neighborhood?” An exquisite shudder ran through St. Ives. “I’ve had the merry devil of a time tracking you down, too. Wickes finally told me you were here.” He glanced at the building again and the curl of his lip deepened. “You have an unaccountable fondness for this district.”
“For the people,” the major agreed. “And what is of such urgency you permit it to drag you into so unsavory a neighborhood?”
“The pleasure of your company, what else? I’m having a gathering at my house for dinner tomorrow night, and thought you might care to join us.”
Major Holborn raised an eyebrow, and Christy gained the impression this was an unusual invitation, and not one motivated by any desire for the pleasure of his company, either. Uneasy, she pressed the major’s arm in silent warning.
He ignored
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