His eyebrows scrunched as he thought. “Green?”
She shook her head. “You’re right. You won’t remember. How about the paintings?”
He gave her an I-gotcha-there smile. “I may not notice china patterns and seat cushions, but I do notice paintings. The one behind me with the four boats is a Birch. My agent has a copy hanging over the receptionist’s desk. The other three,” he said, waving his finger around, “show the same technique in the clearly painted waves, so I assume they’re also by Birch.”
She poured a cup of coffee from a silver pot on the sideboard. “A townhouse in Lafayette Park—across from the White House—and Birch originals. I’m—”
“Impressed?”
“And surprised. Aren’t you?”
“Not really. He’s well-traveled, educated, and wealthy.”
“Where’d his money come from? Do you know?”
“He inherited money from his father, but a controlling interest in a California gold mine substantially increased his net worth.” Jack folded the newspaper and pushed away from the table. “Will you be all right while I go out?”
“Depends on how long you’ll be gone.”
“Most of the day. I want to get a lay of the land. Our man’s not in town yet, so I’ll use this week to acquaint myself with the landmarks.”
Charlotte winced, knowing Jack was referring to Booth. They had agreed not to use his name.
“According to my notes, he’ll be here on the seventeenth.”
Charlotte took her coffee cup to the table, sat next to her brother, and whispered, “Do you think Braham knows?”
“Sandburg’s books are very detailed. We have to assume he’s fully aware of the man’s comings and goings over the next four months. Today I’m also going to visit the epicenter for journalists, talk to a few reporters.”
“You mean there’s a general location where they all hang out?” Her voice rose in disbelief. “They’re not roaming the streets harassing people like they do in Richmond?”
“It’s between Fourteenth Street NW near the Willard and the Ebbitt Boarding House, and you need to get over your press phobia. So stay away from there. I don’t want you arrested for attacking the press.”
“Me? Attack them? Maybe I can convince the Confederate Army to target the area and blow them all to smithereens. I’ll even send them the coordinates.”
“I don’t think a bomb would take out the entire newspaper row.”
“Dang,” she said, snapping her fingers. “What’s at the location now? I mean in our time? Has to be better than a swarm of reporters.”
Jack laughed. “The National Press Building.”
She rolled her eyes. “I hate the press.”
“You do?” Jack grinned and changed the subject. “It might be decent enough this afternoon for you to take a stroll through the park.”
“I don’t know all the social etiquette, but I don’t think it’s proper for a lady to go out alone.”
“No, but the colonel said he would call on you. Maybe—”
She plopped her elbow on the table, chin in her hand. “I’ll see him today and ask him if he knows anyone who can help me get approved to work in one of the hospitals. I’ll feel better if I can work while I’m here, even if it’s only for a short time. Apparently, he knows a lot about Washington and the people who live here, but if I have to be on guard, it’s not worth socializing with him.”
“It’s either make the effort or be bored. At least today he can take you to the park.”
“Oh,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “Should I give him a leash to put around my neck?” She grabbed her throat with both hands and made exaggerated gagging noises.
Jack took a large bite, murdering a plate of scrambled eggs. “The colonel might have news of Braham today.”
“He might, but I doubt it. The odds of finding him, especially if he doesn’t want to be found, aren’t good. The odds of stopping him are even slimmer. I’m resigned to being here for at least four months.” Except for the mission to Afghanistan, she’d never been away from her patients for more than a week, two at the most. And although she had planned for an extended leave, the knowledge that she could be gone for months created an odd emptiness beneath her breastbone.
“Then you have to find a project. Don’t you have two journal articles to write? Work on them.”
She snarled, putting the full force of her frustration—at the restrictive status of nineteenth-century women and her pique at her errant cousin—into the long growl. “Longhand? You’re suggesting I write and edit a detailed medical article by hand? I need my data, a computer, and the Internet to get past the outline.”
He wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin, grinning. “A surgeon needs to keep her fingers nimble.”
She swatted her napkin at him. “There’s a difference between keeping them nimble and writing with a quill pen until they cramp.”
Giving her a broad wink he said, “They use dip pens now.”
“Great. Just what I want. Ink all over my fingers.”
35
Washington City—1864
After Jack left to go wandering about the city, Charlotte asked Edward for pen and paper. He brought her a metal nib pen, inkwell, and a sheaf of Braham’s letterhead. She set up shop at the table in front of the window and outlined a promised article on the improvements in computer simulation as a teaching adjunct for robotic surgery. Because she didn’t want to waste paper, she took her time, composing sentences clearly in her mind before she wrote them. Her drawings would never be accepted by a publication, but they did have an artistic flair which made her chuckle.
At noon Edward brought in lunch, and at two o’clock he announced Colonel Henly.
Ringlets had fallen across her forehead during her long hours bent over the table writing. She tucked them out of the way behind her ears, but the stubborn locks were too short and too curly to stay put without hair clips.
“Good afternoon, Miss Mallory.” Henly strode toward her with a slight hitch in his stride, his steel scabbard clinking with each step. His jaw didn’t have the tension of the previous day, and his eyes seemed clearer. She tried once again to tuck the springy wisps out of the way before giving up.
“Good afternoon, Colonel.”
His glance drifted from her face to the drawings of abdominal organs spread out on the table. He frowned, his mouth twitching in disbelief.
“I’m writing an article I hope to see published in The Lancet, and I’ve written enough for today. Will you take me for a walk? I need exercise and fresh air.”
With his eyes still on the papers he said, “It’s chilly. Colder than yesterday.”
“I know, but I need fresh air, if only for a brief stroll.” She gathered the papers, tapped the edges on the table, and then stacked them neatly.
A few minutes later they waited on the corner of H Street and Jackson Place. A wind blew through the bare trees, making them whisper and creak. What were they saying? Were they warning her? If so, they didn’t need to go to all that trouble. Fiddling with history could cause all sorts of complications, none of them pleasant. She looped her hand around the colonel’s elbow as she stepped off the curb, and they crossed the street heading toward the General Andrew Jackson equestrian statue.
When they reached the opposite corner she asked, “Where’s the closest hospital?”
He glanced around for a moment, as if getting his bearings. “The K Street Barracks Post Hospital, on K and Seventeenth Streets. Why?”
“Because I need to do something useful. I want to work in a hospital.” They began walking again. “The K Street hospital is only two blocks away? If I could volunteer there it would be easy for me to walk to and from work.”
Emotions swept across his face, which made her wonder if he was remembering his painful hospital experience. He shifted his weight, grimacing slightly. “If I hadn’t seen your drawings, I would have said you were too genteel to work in a hospital. Did you do the sam
e work in Richmond?”
“I’m a trained surgeon, like Mary Edwards Walker, and I need to work. I have skills that can save lives. If I dressed in a surgeon’s uniform, I’d be admitted to the surgical theatre, but because I’m a woman—”
“Other doctors would be reluctant to let you.”
“Exactly.”
They circled the statue of Jackson in silence. When they returned to their starting point, he directed her toward the street crossing.
“Might we stay out a few more minutes? I’m not ready to go back.”
He slowed his pace. She stopped and took a long, hard look at him. There was an unnatural color to his skin, and the tightness around his jaw had returned. “You’re in pain. Aren’t you? Why didn’t you tell me before you agreed to escort me?”
“You don’t impress a lady by telling her you’re injured.”
She searched his face. “What happened to you?”
“I was shot several weeks ago.”
“Where?”
“The Battle of Cedar Creek.”
She shook her head. “No, I mean where on your body, if you don’t mind me asking.”
“I was shot off my horse. The bullet entered my back, and now it’s lodged close to my spine. The surgeon said if he tried to remove it he could paralyze me, or worse, kill me. I’m able to walk now, though it is uncomfortable at best. They left me the choice. I could put up with the pain, or—”
“Possibly never walk again.”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Let’s go back and have tea, then,” she said.
As soon as they entered the front door, Edward said, “Tea is served in the parlor.”
“How delightful. Thank you, Edward.” She sat down on the bench in the foyer and unlaced her shoes, but before she took them off she noticed the colonel staring at her. “What’s the matter?”
Shock jumped into his eyes. “You’re taking your shoes off?”
Her head came up. “Of course. I don’t want to track mud on the floor.”
He glanced down at his muddy feet.
Edward pulled a white cloth from his back pocket, bent over, and cleaned the mud from the colonel’s boots.
Charlotte removed both shoes and put on a pair of black kid leather dance slippers. She handed Edward her muddy shoes. “Would you ask someone to clean these for me?”
He tried not to smile, but his eyes twinkled. “I’ll clean them myself, ma’am.” He carried them by the laces to somewhere in the back of the house she had yet to explore.
“You’re a most unusual woman, Miss Mallory,” Henly mused.
She sat and poured cups of tea. “Please call me Charlotte, or if you need to be formal, then Doctor Mallory will do.”
His full, symmetrical lips pinched in disapproval. “You are a most unusual woman.”
She was not seeking his approval, and she intended to make it clear to him she was an intelligent and well-educated woman with strong opinions. “There has to be more to your name than Colonel Henly.”
He nodded quickly, as if shocked by her question. He cleared his throat. “Gordon Frederick. If you’re so inclined, please call me Gordon.”
She sipped her tea. “Tell me about your injury. Did the surgeon see you at the field hospital?”
“Yes, and then I was examined by several more surgeons once I arrived back in Washington. I’ve been reassigned to the War Department, and Colonel Taylor now leads my regiment.” Bitterness lingered in his voice. “I don’t want to talk about me. I’d much rather hear about you. Where did you study medicine?”
“There’s not much to tell.” God, she hated lying, and yet here she was, at it again. “My father trained at a medical college in New York, and I assisted him for a number of years, learning as much from him as possible.”
“Where is he now?”
She held Gordon’s gaze a moment. Then her eyes dropped before saying, “He’s attached to the Second Corps Army of Northern Virginia.”
Gordon’s upper body stiffened.
“I told you I’m a Unionist,” she added quickly. “The split with my father has been difficult.”
He set his teacup on the serving tray. “Your story is not unique. The war has torn apart families in the North and South—brothers, fathers, and sons fighting on opposite sides.”
“At least Jack didn’t join the cause.”
Gordon’s head tilted curiously. A faint gleam of something indefinable appeared in his eyes. “How has he stayed out of the conflict?”
A liar’s edge of discomfort crawled up her back to the base of her neck, tingling and twitching. She glanced down at her hands, avoiding Gordon’s eyes. “Jack is a journalist. He’s been at most major battles.” Once she regained a grip on her composure, she looked up at the colonel again. “He’s a brilliant writer. He’s visiting newspapers today, as a matter of fact. Maybe one of them will be interested in buying his dispatches. One day, I believe he’ll write a novel of lasting importance.”
“You have confidence in him.”
“As he does in me,” she said.
Gordon tapped his finger against his chin. “Jack Mallory. I don’t think I’ve read anything he’s written.”
“Bylines aren’t published so you wouldn’t recognize his name.”
“I’d like to read one of his dispatches. Maybe I can introduce him to a few editors. I know several. A recommendation might help him sell a piece.”
She gave him a sweet smile. “I’m sure Jack would appreciate your help, if it’s not too much trouble.”
Gordon took her hand. His palms were sweaty and callused. “If you’re serious about working in a hospital, I’ll see what arrangements I can make.”
“You’re more than generous, and I am very appreciative.” She withdrew her hand to pick up her teacup.
“I can get you in to see the right people, but you would have to prove you have the skills you claim to have. I can’t speak to that.”
“You came to my rescue yesterday, and today have made offers to assist both Jack and me. Our abandonment on the street was very fortuitous.”
He gave a light laugh of false modesty. “I do what I can.”
They both sipped their tea. She felt a question or statement hovering in the air between them. Could it be about Braham? She set her cup in its saucer. Not one to shy away from controversy, she asked, “What about my cousin?”
“Oh, well, yes, I asked Secretary of War Stanton about him.”
“And?” Her voice climbed a notch in anticipation.
“He wanted to know why I asking. I told him Braham’s cousin from Richmond was in town looking for him. He said he found it very curious and didn’t have any information he could pass along. However, as I was leaving, Secretary of State Seward stopped me and extended an invitation to a small dinner party at his home this Friday. Would you like to accompany me?”
“He lives on the other side of the park, does he not?” she asked.
“Near the corner of Pennsylvania and Madison Place.”
“May I send you my reply tomorrow?”
He gave her a half grin. “If the answer is yes, tomorrow will be fine.”
For a moment, she didn’t reply. Then she said, “I’d like to mention it to Jack first, to be sure he hasn’t committed us to another engagement.”
The case clock in the corner struck four.
“I must be going,” Gordon said, standing. “I have a five o’clock appointment. Tomorrow I’ll call on Doctor Letterman at the Medical Department and inquire as to a position which might be appropriate for a woman with your qualifications.”
“I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”
He lifted her hand and kissed her fingers. “And I look forward to hearing from you.”
Charlotte stood at the window scrubbing her hand to get rid of the sensation of his lips. She had painted herself into a corner. Lincoln and Stanton had sent her father to rescue Braham. Now she showed up claiming to be his co
usin and wanting to know his whereabouts.
Good God, what was she doing? Playing with history. Playing with people’s lives.
Life was much simpler when all she had to worry about besides her patients, teaching, and piles of medical records, was whether she was going to get another speeding ticket.
36
Washington City—February 1865
Jack stood in the doorway to Charlotte’s bedroom, twirling his pocket watch by its long silver chain. “Big date?”
“I’m going with Gordon to Ford’s Theatre to see the comedian J. S. Clarke. He wouldn’t take no for an answer, and I do want to see the production.”
Jack leaned against the doorframe and pocketed his watch. “I would have taken you.”
“I know.” She removed her grandmother’s cameo from its secret hiding place in her knitting basket and pinned it at the center of the low, square bodice of her blue silk dinner dress. “I don’t want to complain, though. Getting me a job at the hospital racked up lots of points for him. And he can be quite charming when he’s not in pain or doped up on medication. Then he’s unpredictable.”
“Do you think he’s dangerous?”
She swirled from side to side, checking her reflection in the long mirror. “He can be aggressive, but when I’m firm, he backs off. The trouble is I never know which personality is going to show up.”
“A real Jekyll and Hyde. Now you’ve told me, I’m not sure I like the idea of you going out with him.”
“He’s got connections and knows all the movers and shakers in Washington. I don’t think we’d get invitations to important dinner parties and balls without him. Although none of them have led to a smidgeon of information about Braham.”
“Stop seeing him, then. You don’t care about the parties, and if they’re not fruitful, there’s no reason for you to go.”
“You enjoy them, though,” she said.
“I do. But I don’t need Gordon to get an invitation.” Jack sat in the chair next to the door and stretched out his long legs. “Do you think it’s serious with Gordon? An unrequited love affair could get messy.”
The Sapphire Brooch Page 23