Author's Note: Sigh...I miss Helen and John SO MUCH! I just had to write a little romantic something about them to tide me through the holidays. Reviews are greatly appreciated. Thanks, as always, to MajorSam, Beta and Friend extraordinaire. Happy Holidays y'all!
The Memory Box
(Part 1: Christmas Present, Christmas Past)
by NoCleverSig
Copyright 2011
Christmas, 1887
The warm, Caribbean sun sparkled off of Helen Magnus' golden, blonde curls, her face turned toward the turquoise sea, her mouth open in awe. John Druitt grinned in delight as he ran his fingers through her hair, the sea breeze molding her dress against her skin, the locket she'd given him still icy cold as it rested upon his chest.
"Better?" he teased.
She turned and smiled up at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and standing on tiptoes in the bright, white sand to kiss him.
"Much. Oh, John!" she shook her head in disbelief.
"Merry Christmas, Helen."
She smiled at him again, her eyes shining, then leaned in and kissed him once more, the taste of eggnog and sherry still sweet on his lips.
Christmas Eve, 2011
Will Zimmerman was perched on the edge of the couch across from the fireplace, Guinness in hand, the 16 foot Christmas fir sparkling behind him. Abby sat beside him, their fingers interlocked as they watched Henry, who sat on the opposite side, his hand lightly resting on Erica's stomach. Behind them Kate engaged Biggie in animated conversation about Garris and Hollow Earth, but mostly about Garris, her face glowing bright.
Off to the side, sitting alone in a wing chair, Helen Magnus sat with brandy in hand, watching the scene unfold, suddenly caught in a wave of melancholy that washed over her like a cold, damp fog.
An extraordinary peace had descended upon the Sanctuary the past week, and Magnus had accepted it with unquestioning joy. They deserved peace. After everything they had been through, to come out scarred but still whole, hurt but still loved, was a Christmas miracle. Dinner, as usual, had been elaborate and delectable. Each year Biggie worked to outdo his meal from the year before, and each year he succeeded. Presents had been exchanged, which made them smile, laugh, or cry, sometimes all three. And Christmas carols, a Victorian tradition Helen refused to relinquish, had been sung even by Will, the music taking on new meaning as he rested his eyes on Abby.
It had been a lovely Christmas Eve. But now, surrounded by mostly young couples in love, Helen Magnus felt suddenly alone, the scene before her lying out like a tableau inside a snow globe. She could see it but couldn't touch, forever separated by a thin veneer of glass from the happiness within.
"Hey, you okay?"
All eyes turned toward her as Will Zimmerman spoke, a worried expression on his face.
She forced a smile. "Fine. Wonderful, in fact. Just a little tired," she lied. "I think I'll retire for the night," she said, rising up from her chair. She'd be damned if she'd let her waning mood ruin Christmas Eve for everyone else.
"But Doc, it's barely midnight!" Henry insisted. "We still have more carols to sing, cookies to devour, and eggnog to…grog?"
Will groaned, and Magnus laughed.
"You carry on, Henry. I'll see you all bright and early tomorrow morning for breakfast and mimosas," she looked pointedly at Biggie, keeping the mood light. "Goodnight everyone, and Merry Christmas."
They shared hugs and kisses as she made her way out. Magnus reached the hallway and almost made it to the stairs before Biggie stopped her.
"You alright?" he asked, the concern heavy in his voice.
She turned and smiled at him; he knew her far too well for deception.
"I'll be fine, old friend." She inclined her head back toward the drawing room. "You go on. I just need a bit of time alone. I'll see you in the morning." She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. "Merry Christmas," she said, then turned and walked up the stairs.
"Merry Christmas," he mumbled after her, a slight pang in his heart as he watched her go.
She tried to read, first a novel then medical journals. When that didn't work she attempted Sudoku. When she still couldn't sleep she grabbed her iPad and surfed the Net, checking her email, catching up on the news, reading blogs, and then finally lurking on Twitter.
Had it really come to this? she thought, irritated at herself.
She tossed the tablet aside, pulled the blanket back, and switched on the light.
She couldn't sleep. Her mind wouldn't let her. In a moment of weakness, surrounded by fervent young love, she'd let her mind wander to the past, a mistake she rarely made. Now she was paying the price. She wouldn't settle until she'd dealt with it; walked herself through what had been, with all its glorious highs and painful lows.
Magnus slipped out of bed and silently padded across her room to her closet, turning on the ceiling light, blinking from the brightness, and walking in, her clothes and shoes neatly arranged in bountiful shelves and drawers. She made her way toward the back of the room and pulled out an antique trunk from the wall, its wood worn and banded with leather. With a heavy sigh she sat down and opened it.
A smile crossed her lips as her fingers slipped inside the chest and back through time.
One by one her hands grasped mementos of her life, the dust gently tickling her nose…a baby's quilt, a porcelain doll, a stethoscope, a daguerreotype, until finally reaching the object her mind refused to forget.
It was a box, rectangular in shape, and not much bigger than a cigar holder. Pink, lavender, and blue papier-mâché covered it, with pictures of flowers and angels neatly pasted throughout. Although the edges were frayed, the frame was sturdy, and centered on the lid, cut out in what had once been white lace, was the shape of a heart with words written in a clear, strong hand:
"To the breath, depth, and height my soul can reach...
With the breath, smiles, tears of all my life."
MJD
She closed her eyes and traced the words with her hand, fingering the soft lace. He'd taken the lines from her favorite love poem, one he'd recited to her often in their courtship. It was odd how much of a romantic he'd been given what he would become later in life. But in hindsight, it made sense. His existence, right or wrong, good or bad, could never be accused of lacking passion.
Magnus opened her eyes, breathed deep, and lifted the lid, steeling herself against the memories that waited within.
Christmas Morning, 1887
"John, it's freezing out here!"
John Druitt pulled a reluctant Helen Magnus by one hand out the back door of James Watson's London home and into the wintry garden, the cold air stinging the bare skin on her face and hands.
"You could have at least allowed me to put on my hat and cloak!" she continued in mild protest, the air circling in misty puffs around her lips.
Druitt turned back and laughed. Her tone may have been scolding, but Helen's eyes shone with amusement, her face a rosy pink from the frost. His heart pounded in his chest at the mere sight of her never mind the touch, the feel of her small hands so cold, so perfectly melded into his own. He drew her into the far corner of the garden near the outer wall where a small, curved concrete bench sat tucked underneath an arbor of ivy that sheltered it from a view of the house.
"It's only for a moment, Helen. I promise. Please, sit down."
He swung her around, briefly resting his hand on her waist and helping her to the bench, giving her time to adjust her gown and bustle. He scooted in beside her, the bench barely big enough for two, the still green ivy cocooning them in a blanket of draping leaves.
Cold as she was, Helen couldn't help but smile, caught up in John's enthusiasm. He'd hidden something behind his back. A present, of course. She'd given hers to him last night, a gold locket with her picture inside, and he'd worn it around his neck since. She'd been concerned that it was too arrogant a gift, but he loved it. His hands reached to touch it throughout Christmas Eve dinner and then after when they retired to the drawing room for carols and games. Each time he did so, she felt her own skin burn, as though through some trick of magic he had reached out and caressed her.
"I wanted to give you your present. Alone," he told her.
The way his voice dropped when he said 'alone' made her shiver, but not from the cold. With her father in Europe and John's family all but gone now, they'd readily accepted Watson's invitation to spend Christmas in his home with his family and friends, including Nicola and Nigel. But spending the last several days in James' home with his guests meant being discreet about their affections, something they would have had to worry little about in her own house. She'd dismissed her father's servants for the week, sending them home for the holidays. But James had asked so sweetly, and despite the desire to hide away, just the two of them for Christmas, a part of her had wanted to be with friends, having the worrisome feeling that it might be the last time they did so.
Nevertheless, she'd shaken the heaviness off, and despite their forced abstinence, had enjoyed the last three days immensely. Here in the cold with John, finally alone, his fit figure pressed warmly against her side, the heavy ivy sheltering them from prying eyes, her mind and emotions drifted like the translucent snow flurries that had started to fall from the sky.
John broke the reverie, finally pulling from behind his back the present he had so artfully hidden.
"Merry Christmas, Helen," he said smiling and handing it to her.
It was wrapped in plain paper with bright red ribbon and an equally bright red bow. Helen took it from him, his hands lingering on hers as he passed it to her. She slowly undid the ribbon, then the paper, and gasped at the object inside, understanding immediately its purpose and significance.
"A Memory Box! John, you made this?"
Druitt nodded.
It was lovingly covered in pink, blue and lavender tissue with matching flowers and angels pasted throughout. On top was a white lace heart with a verse written in John's bold, dark hand.
"To the breath, depth, and height my soul can reach...
With the breath, smiles, tears of all my life."
MJD
Helen Magnus wasn't one for tears, but the significance of the verse, two of her favorite lines from Elizabeth Barrett Browning, made her press her hand to her heart and swallow to keep from crying.
John looked at her worriedly, reaching up to stroke her hair, which she'd let down today, golden curls spilling around her shoulders.
"Do you like it?" he asked concerned.
She looked up at him, her eyes shining.
"I love it! I love you…"
With one hand she held the box, the other she reached up and pressed against his cheek. Druitt reached his hand up and held hers there in return, the cold wind suddenly still, their eyes locked. Then he closed his eyes and turned his face into her palm, pressing his lips against her soft flesh.
The simple gesture undid her. She needed this man, needed him more than she had needed anything in her life. Every ounce of desire for female equality was embarrassingly cast aside as Helen thought only of how much she wanted to please him, make a home for him, lay with him…bear his children.
John must have read her thoughts because he dropped his hands to her waist, pulled her toward him, the box pressed between them, and took her mouth firmly in his.
He tasted of eggnog and sherry, smelled of citrus and musk. Her senses filled with the scent of him. Every cell in her body vibrated with a rush of desire at the feel of his warm mouth against hers, his tongue lightly tracing her lips, her teeth, her cheeks, her tongue.
Helen wrapped her arms around John's neck, pulling him closer, running her fingers through his deep, brown hair, toying with the small hairs that bristled from the cold at the base of his neck.
When they could no longer breathe, they broke apart, both of them gasping for air. John moved his hands from Helen's waist to her cheeks and held her there.
"I love you, Helen. More than life itself. Forever. For all eternity. You know that? Don't you? Tell me you do."
His eyes, usually blue, were wild and dark. She nodded, a million thoughts racing through her mind, when he pulled her toward him again, fiercely crushing his mouth against hers. The kiss was so sudden, so powerful, she was caught off guard, unsure what to do with her hands. But as he calmed himself and deepened the kiss, she found herself responding in kind, her mouth opening wider to receive him, her tongue edging out to meet his, her hands moving to his chest, making their way under his jacket, playing with the buttons on his waistcoat, wanting so much to touch his warm flesh.
This time when he pulled away she whimpered.
"There's more to the present then just the box, Helen. Open it." he encouraged, laying his hand on hers.
She looked down and did as he said. Then she looked up at him, puzzled. Inside was a single object, a vile of white sand held in check with a small, tan cork.
A Memory Box was for keepsakes, mementos from lovers, sisters, or friends. Items from places or events that held special meaning in one's life. She and John had travelled to the English coastline together, to beaches in Italy and France, but there was nothing she could think of that held special significance for them.
He saw her puzzled look and smiled, deciding to save her from further confusion.
"It's your Christmas present. The second one. The one I'm taking you to."
Helen shivered, a sudden draft catching her by surprise. "But I thought this was my present?"
"It is. But there's more." John reached out and held her hand, grasping it firmly.
"Hold on. You shan't be cold much longer."
In a shimmer of light they disappeared, the ivy leaves trembling from the frigid air and falling snow that swirled in the empty arbor.
End Part 1 of 2...to be continued soon :)