The Topaz Brooch

by Katherine Lowry Logan

  I set myself up for that.

  “General, I was caught up in the fray when the revolutionaries stormed the Bastille. I assure you I won’t be in any more danger than I was then. Whatever I paint should come from what I see, not from post-action reports.”

  “Mistress Orsini, if your connections extend to the secretary’s office and the Office of the President, I would never be forgiven if harm came to you.”

  “Ambassador Jefferson said much the same, but it didn’t stop me from accurately reporting the revolution or what happened in New York before the Compromise of 1790 resulted in the Capitol relocating to Philadelphia.”

  Marguerite cleared her throat, and Sophia knew she was stepping over an invisible boundary, and if she kept pushing him, she’d lose the small victories she’d already won.

  He moved to the top of the staircase. “Does Mr. Jefferson know you’re here?”

  “No, he doesn’t. But if you asked for his opinion of my work and how valuable I was in his reporting, he would give me a stellar review.”

  “I don’t have time right now.”

  She didn’t know what Thomas would do if he heard she was back in his time. Would he want to see her? Would she want to see him? He’d had twenty-four years to think about that night. She’d had four. Bottom line—no!

  “You’ll never know I’m in the room. I won’t get in your way, or slow you down, or inconvenience you, and I have my own art supplies.”

  “I’ll give you one day, Mistress Orsini, to prove your value. If there’s a problem, or if my officers object to your presence, it will be your last.”

  A soldier ran up the stairs to meet him. “General, your aides are ready in the briefing room.”

  “I’ll be right there.” Then to Sophia, he said, “Don’t let me regret this, Mistress Orsini.”

  Sophia whispered to Marguerite while putting a gold nugget in her hand. “See if you can find me a uniform. If I dress like a soldier, he might agree to take me with him.”

  “But you promised your husband you wouldn’t put yourself in danger.”

  Sophia headed for the stairs. “I’ll be with the general. I won’t be in danger.”

  “I’ll see what I can do while you’re in the meeting. But please don’t leave here without me. Your husband would be so angry with me for letting you out of my sight.”

  “I won’t.” Sophia and Marguerite parted at the front door, and Sophia followed the general into the briefing room.

  “Gentlemen, this is Mistress Orsini. She was Thomas Jefferson’s artist when he was Ambassador to France. She wants to sketch my meetings so I can include the drawings in my reports to Secretary Monroe.” He pointed toward a desk. “Sit over there, if you please.”

  Sophia pulled her chair up to the desk, removed her gloves, and opened her journal. There were four men at the table, plus Jackson. Only one was in uniform. She pulled a dozen sheets of loose paper out of her journal and gathered the pencils she’d hidden in her cloak pockets, and went to work.

  She sketched Jackson first, standing at the head of the table.

  “For your benefit, Mistress Orsini, on my right is Major Auguste Genevieve Valentin D’Avezac, my aide-de-camp and judge advocate. Next to him is lawyer John Reid, also an aide-de-camp. At the opposite end of the table is my military aide from Tallahassee, Robert Butler. And finally, also an aide-de-camp, New Orleans lawyer Edward Livingston.”

  Livingston leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. “Weren’t you in New York City before the Capitol moved to Philadelphia?”

  “Yes, I was,” she said, trying to place him. He wasn’t in the Senate, but he was always complaining about something. “If I remember correctly, you were in…Congress.”

  “Yes, representing New York. And if I remember correctly, your drawings were published in the newspaper every day. They became so popular men placed bets on who you would satirize next. You don’t plan to do that here, do you?”

  She didn’t squirm under his gaze, but she certainly felt like it. She could handle him, but it would be nice if Pete were nearby. “That’s not my intention.”

  Livingston squinted, looking at her more closely. “I heard you drowned in the James River.”

  “The rumor of Mistress Orsini’s demise was greatly exaggerated,” Jackson said. “Now, let’s move on.” He turned his attention to Major D’Avezac. “What’d you learn about Major General Carroll?”

  “The Major General finally arrived with three thousand Tennessee militiamen, carrying nothing but their cartouch boxes and powder horns.”

  “It’s about time. It’s taken…what? Five weeks to get here?”

  “He said his volunteers were raw and untrained, the rain had damaged the ammunition, and they needed time to correct their deficiencies. They traveled by flatboats, and while half the troops poled and rowed, the other half drilled and practiced maneuvers on the shallow decks. I heard it turned into a floating show.”

  The other men laughed. “Maybe they scared the British.”

  “Doubt it,” Jackson said.

  “They did overtake a keelboat carrying eleven hundred muskets,” Major D’Avezac said, “which they confiscated. So all told, their delay was to our advantage.”

  “Where are they encamped?”

  “Avart’s Plantation.”

  Another soldier entered the room. “Excuse me, sir. Major Hinds just galloped into the city with his blue-coated dragoons.”

  “Tell Major Hinds to report to me immediately, and if Major Kemper arrived with him, I want to see him too. Then I’ll ride out to Avart’s to meet with Major General Carroll.”

  “I’ll deliver the message, sir.” The soldier hurried from the room.

  “Kemper is the kind of warrior I need right now,” the general mused.

  While the men talked about Major General Carroll and Major Kemper, Sophia sketched what she heard. One sketch became two, then three, and by the time the meeting concluded, she had a dozen sketches for the general to review.

  Once the room cleared out, the general pulled a chair up to the desk and rubbed his stomach while he reviewed the drawings. “Well done, Mistress Orsini, especially this one of the troops drilling on the flatboat. Secretary Monroe will enjoy the story more with this drawing attached to the report. You’re right,” he nodded. “I can see why Mr. Jefferson recommended you so highly.”

  “You aren’t feeling well, are you?”

  The general grimaced. “It’s my stomach. I’ll get by.”

  “I have something for you.” She reached into the pocket of her cloak for her handkerchief. Wrapped up in the linen were three yellow pills. “These are for you. Take one right now, one tonight before bed, and one in the morning.”

  The pills were Cipro, from a prescription she had for an infection. Since Jackson hadn’t built up any resistance to antibiotics, three pills should get rid of his intestinal inflammation. But to keep him from getting dysentery again, he had to make significant life changes.

  “If you want to be well, there are actions you have to take other than swallowing these pills, and if you don’t do them, you’ll get sick again. And you won’t have any more pills to take. These are the only ones.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m going to be blunt and speak to you the way I would have spoken to Thomas. You’re getting sick because you don’t wash your hands, and you’re drinking and eating contaminated food and water. After you use the latrine wash your hands with soap. Wash your fruit and vegetables, and drink only clean water. Otherwise, you’ll get sick again. Once you get well, you won’t want to feel like you do now ever again.”

  “Wash my hands after going to the latrine?” He crossed his arms and worked his jaw back and forth in silence. “And I won’t get sick.”

  “That’s the gist of it. I know it’s hard to believe, but tomorrow, after you start feeling better, think about how simple it would be to stay that way.”

  “I don’t always have soap with me.”


  “You have a choice, General. Do you want to spend the rest of your life feeling the way you do now? Or do you want to be well again?”

  He thumbed through her drawings as if measuring whether he could believe her or not. “How do you know this?”

  “My mother taught me as a child, and I’ve never had dysentery.”

  He uncrossed his arms and looked at his dirty fingernails.

  “All you have to do is take those pills and follow my advice. Isn’t it worth a try?”

  He squared her drawings into one pile and looked at her. “Why didn’t the doctors tell me this a long time ago?”

  Sophia pushed back her chair and stood. “Because they don’t understand how or why things make people sick. I’m just trying to help you get through the next couple of weeks. When you inspect your troops on the morning of the battle, you can’t be ill. When that day breaks, all the events of your life will have been but a preface. So be well, General.”

  She closed her journal and strode toward the door. “Those drawings are for you to send to Secretary Monroe. I’ll be back in the morning.”

  “Mistress Orsini, I’ll take this pill for one reason.” He held up the stack of drawings. “You told me what you were going to do, and you did it, surpassing my expectations.” He popped the pill into his mouth and swallowed. “I want to know if this pill will also surpass my expectations.”

  “Take another one tonight and again in the morning.” She opened the door, leaving him alone with his thoughts, doubts, and probably fears.

  The soldier who’d come in earlier returned, passing her in the doorway. As he closed the door, he said, “The pirate Lafitte sent word he wants to—”

  She looked back at the closed door but didn’t dare put her ear to the keyhole. If they caught her eavesdropping, they’d toss her butt in jail. She couldn’t miss the meeting with Lafitte. It would be her only chance to meet the pirate and get a sketch of him. But the general had other meetings today, so maybe it would be scheduled for tomorrow. In that case, she’d be there for sure.

  She slipped on her gloves, headed for the front door, and was surprised to find Tommy waiting there. “I thought you’d be off by now.”

  “Mademoiselle Bonnard asked me to walk ya back to the dress shop.”

  “How sweet. I hope it’s not an inconvenience.”

  “No, ma’am. Not a’tall.” He presented his elbow, and Sophia clutched it.

  “While we walk, tell me about your wife. Start with her name, then what she looks like, and why you picked her to marry and not another girl.”

  The tiniest flicker of a smile rose to the surface, then expanded to light up his face. “Her name is Clara, and she looks like an angel.” He licked his lips. “And she makes the best pecan pie ya’ve ever eaten in yer life.”

  “An angel who makes pecan pies. What a lovely description.” That did it for Sophia. Even if he wasn’t Billie’s relative, Sophia would do whatever it took to save Tommy Malone’s life.

  29

  New Orleans (1814)—Billie

  The logs in the dining room fireplace crackled, and the sun glinted through glass panes in need of a good cleaning, but Billie sat contented, her belly full, coffee refreshed, and the latest edition of the Courrier de la Louisiane spread out before her. It could be any day in the twenty-first century.

  But it wasn’t.

  It was December 1814, and the Battle of New Orleans was fast approaching. She needed to survive the battle and get the hell out of Louisiana before word of the peace treaty reached Captain Lockyer. He and his officers would then realize how accurately she predicted the future and how valuable she could be to them and England.

  At most, she had two months before someone came looking for her.

  Why had she been in such a hurry to show those British officers how damn smart she was? She had better self-control than that. But no, she just had to show off, and now her rash actions had put her life and future in extreme danger. Every time she thought about what she’d done, her anxiety meter teetered at peak freak-out level.

  But not Jean.

  Every time she mentioned the British coming after them, he’d flip his hand, dismissing the danger, saying, “C’est la vie.”

  She didn’t believe him. But if he showed real concern, then she’d stop teetering and freak out completely.

  She turned the page, rustling it with the full measure of her frustration, almost ripping the paper from top to bottom. She smoothed out the crinkles, folded it in half, and set the broadsheet newspaper aside. Dominique gave it to her with the warning that Boss hadn’t read it yet and would expect it to look like no one else had either.

  An ad for a Marguerite’s Dress Shop was on the front page. Billie chuckled. She couldn’t imagine the shop having anything comparable to the magical dresses in Billie’s trunk.

  Lafitte sauntered into the dining room and poured a cup of coffee from the silver pot on the sideboard. He eyed the newspaper in front of her. His jaw ticked, and after a contemplative moment, he asked, “Can you read?”

  “What? Can I read? Seriously?”

  He lifted his chin like it was the dumbest question he ever heard.

  “Or are you asking me if I can read French?”

  “I only know one other woman who can,” he said.

  “You’re hanging out with the wrong women. And speaking of which, you came in a little late last night…” She cocked her head and gave him the most innocent look she could manage, but forced herself to stop short of fluttering her eyelashes. “Or should I say…early this morning?”

  He pulled up one of the cane back-and-bottom walnut chairs and sat down next to her. The cane bottom creaked as he settled in. “Are you spying on me, mon Capitaine, now that you’re free of Barataria?”

  “Hardy-har-har-har.” She tried to hide her teasing grin by sweeping the crook of her finger across the tip of her nose. “I wouldn’t think of spying on you, Boss. I woke at dawn to the sound of your cutlass clinking. I couldn’t imagine what you were going out to do that early unless it was to fight a duel. It’s a common way to settle disputes for you guys. Right? And I read somewhere that you’re skilled in the use of dueling weapons.”

  He gave her the one-eyed look. “Who would do that?”

  “You, I think. But I forget. So, no duels for you? You just tie your opponent’s hands and walk them off the plank. Splash!”

  Jean turned the newspaper around so he could read it, his long lashes hiding his eyes. “Mon Capitaine, sometimes you give me a headache.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been told that before.” A mental image of her ex came to mind, sitting at the breakfast table rubbing his eyes, as if that would ease the pain in his head or wherever his confusion took its toll.

  “It might not have been me this morning. It could have been Dominique.”

  “It could have.” She sipped her coffee, and the cup dinged softly against the saucer when she set it down. “But he doesn’t return until after the sun comes up… And he doesn’t tiptoe across the squeaky boards.”

  Jean turned the page, scanning the news and the ads, ostentatiously nonchalant. “I had some business to transact.”

  “Ohhh,” she said, nodding. “So that’s what it’s called in the nineteenth century. Who is she?” Billie plopped her elbow on the table and rested her chin on her fist, giving him a flirtatious smile. “Inquiring minds want to know.”

  “It’s none of the inquiring minds’ business.” He turned and held her gaze for far too long, and her heart pounded a little too fast. “Do I detect a note of jealousy in your question?”

  “Me?” She pressed her fingertips against her chest. “Jealous? There’s not a jealous bone in my body. Matter of fact, my ex-husband liked boys better than girls. We were married a few years before he told me the truth.”

  Lafitte’s intense gaze settled on her. “How could you not—”

  She instinctively hiked up her chin and smacked his arm with the back of her hand. “Let’s not go th
ere, please.”

  He tilted his head, as though she were a curious object lying on the deck of one of his ships. “I was about to reveal the identity of my late-night companion, but as you say, ‘Let’s not go there.’”

  “Whatever.” She returned to the sideboard for another refill. “You know the city is under martial law, and people might be more suspicious of you now that the British are on their way here.”

  “Ces gens là font leurs affaires, pourquoi gàter leur métier.”

  She stirred a spoonful of sugar into her coffee. “But they might interfere in your affairs now, and turn you over to the militia.”

  “My lawyer, Mr. Livingston, believes General Jackson will grant safe conduct once I agree to meet with him.”

  “I’m sure he will. Rather, I know he will. So when’s the meet and greet?”

  “The what?”

  She snatched a piece of bacon off the platter and returned to her seat. “Meet and greet, like ‘Hello. How are you? Let’s get together and talk about how I can help you win the war.’”

  Lafitte blew out a frustrated breath. “You could have said that.”

  “I did. You just didn’t… Never mind.” She bit into the bacon and crunched it for a moment. “When are you meeting him?”

  “As soon as it can be arranged.”

  “I’d like to be a fly on the wall at that meeting.”

  “Je ne comprends pas.”

  She dropped the bacon and wiped her hands on her napkin. “Do you want me to speak French? Will that help?”

  “I don’t care what language you use, just speak so I can understand you.”

  “I can speak Dari. Will that help?”

  He slammed his fist on the table, rattling the dishes. “Merde. Why do you have to be so difficult?”

  “You’re the only person who’s ever accused me of being difficult.”

  She glanced up at the ceiling, wondering if it was true. It wasn’t. Her stepmother accused her of being difficult. Yeah, but consider the source. How about her ex-husband? He accused her of being difficult when they were business partners. Yeah, but consider that source, too. Then there was her roommate in college… Okay, but Billie was a neat freak.