A Christmas Keepsake Read Free Page B

not the later changing into the earlier, and back again.
    She ran her fingers along the shelf, and pulled out another volume on the social history of England. It covered a longer period, several hundred years, and spoke in general terms rather than specifics. The Luddites rioted in fear of losing their mill jobs to the new industrialization, but that was far from London, though they did begin in 1811. The words remained crisp and clear, easy to read.
    Maybe she needed a book written at the time, as Mr. Holborn’s was. She studied the shelves once more, and this time selected five different volumes. Surely, if something indeed happened over that Christmas, one of these must mention it. She carried them to a long table, seated herself in one of the slat-backed wooden chairs, and set to work.
    Some three hours later, the words began to dance once again, but this time she found nothing peculiar in it. She took off her reading glasses, massaged her forehead where it began to ache, and stretched her stiff back. With a slight frown creasing her brow, she contemplated the volumes before her. From the plastic bag in her coat pocket she drew out another chocolate chip.
    All five books mentioned the Christmas period of 1810. Parliament met in long sessions during that season, and finally passed the long-awaited regency bill in February 1811. Yet the populace seemed to have greeted this with indifference. The new regent made no sweeping changes in the Tory government, despite his Whiggish friends, and for some time the old king actually appeared to be in better health. Not one of the volumes mentioned so much as a single riot or protest.
    Christy drew a dark curl from behind her ear and chewed the end, lost in thought. That regency bill had been the subject of the letter she’d come over here to buy, too. It must have been a major issue at the time. It might, in fact, have been the subject of discussion at the house party chronicled by Mr. Holborn.
    But why should that make the type change in that damned book? She rubbed weary eyes, knowing herself too tired to make sense out of any of this.
    She glanced at her watch. One o’clock. She had two and a half hours before she was to meet Amanda in Bloomsbury. She could do with some lunch, though.
    She reshelved the books, then paused, looking back at the rows of aged volumes. Maybe she needed to learn more about the man, not just the time. Maybe it all had something to do with him.
    A consultation with the librarian set that obliging gentleman searching records. At last, he shook his balding head, and reported that nothing whatsoever seemed to be known of the mysterious Mr. Holborn. Christy thanked him and turned away.
    “Holborn is the family name of the earls Saint Ives, miss,” the man added. He offered his most helpful smile. “But whether or not our James Edward belonged to that branch, I’m afraid I can’t say. You might try Somerset House.”
    Christy rocked back on her high-heeled boots, considering. She might find something among the records there. She thanked him again and left the building.
    She shivered as the icy wind slammed into her face, but trudged on, lost in thought, mulling over the disturbing lack of progress she’d made. Should she go to Somerset House at once? And if she did, what should she look up? Maybe she should get in touch with the Holborn family and ask to see old records. And just what would she tell them? Excuse me, one of your ancestors wrote a peculiar book, and only I have trouble reading it?
    A chill gust whipped her thick, unruly curls about her face and she shoved her hands into her pockets. She’d come out without her gloves and hat. A scarf wouldn’t come amiss, either. The clouds that darkened the sky hovered low. A feathery white flake drifted past her cheek, followed by another, then several more.
    Snow. She raised her face toward the sky. She loved December, she loved Christmas. The special time spent with her family, the decorated shops,