She stopped primping and studied Jack’s face. On the surface he appeared relatively calm, but she sensed an undercurrent of concern. His tense neck and chin contradicted his relaxed posture.
“God, I hope not. I have no interest in him at all,” she said.
“Because you’re just not into him,” Jack said, using air quotes, “or because of the difference in time zones? You can’t have missed the way he looks at you.”
“I’ve noticed the lustful looks, but I ignore them.”
Jack smiled charmingly. The sort of smile that caused women to add their phone numbers and addresses to his contact list, then sneak a peek at his cell number in case he didn’t call them for a date within the next forty-eight hours.
“Would he fit the bill as a sperm donor?” he asked.
“Hmm.” She pulled her lower lip through her teeth. “He has the physique, intelligence, and voice. But there’s something missing. Chemistry, I guess.”
“What’s chemistry got to do with choosing a sperm donor?”
She scrunched her face, thinking. “It does seem odd, doesn’t it? I think I want my donor to be anonymous. Just a picture and facts on a piece of paper.” She patted the sides of her hair to herd stray wisps back into place. The current style of parting a woman’s hair in the middle, smoothing the sides over her ears, and then pinning a roll at the back of her neck, didn’t work for her natural curls.
“Whatever you decide to do about Gordon, please do be careful. I don’t want to have to beat him up because he misbehaves. Or you could fix him. Then he might give up painkillers…unless he’s already addicted.”
“The bullet presses on a nerve in his back. Riding horseback aggravates the injury, and he can’t get any relief from the pain. I wish I could help him, but I wouldn’t attempt the surgery even in our time. Neurosurgery isn’t my specialty.”
“Don’t worry about Gordon. Forget him. Braham’s my ideal brother-in-law. He’s a lawyer, he likes to hunt and fish, and he quotes Shakespeare, too.”
“Pshaw. Braham? Our elusive cousin?” She collected her white leather gloves and slapped them against her palm. “I wouldn’t be surprised to discover he’s back in town and trying to avoid us.”
Every moment her mind wasn’t otherwise occupied, it drifted toward him like smoke from a tipi-shaped fire, spiraling in one direction—his. Even during minor surgeries, the hospital had, out of necessity, allowed her to perform, her thoughts were of him—yearning to see him and wondering if he was well. The image she carried in her mind was of him sitting on a barstool in the kitchen at the mansion, drinking Jack’s coffee and laughing. His bright green eyes held a magical twinkle. The twinkle was what kept the pain of his betrayal manageable.
“By the way,” she said, dragging her attention back to the conversation, “did you finish your article on the inauguration? Gordon said he’d like to read it before it goes to print.”
Jack crossed his ankles and folded his arms across his belly. “It’s on my desk. I’m submitting it to the Daily National Intelligencer tomorrow. It was one of the hardest articles I’ve written.”
“You’re writing in the present tense. You have to back away from the historical Lincoln and write about him from today’s perspective. It has to be difficult. What’s the opening line?”
“Lincoln’s second inauguration isn’t taking place in a small country town startled by the arrival of a handful of soldiers, but in a city approaching triumph.”
“I like it,” she said. “You’d think with the scent of victory in the air, the sources you’ve cultivated would be freer with information. Someone has to know where Braham is. Have you tried John Nicolay or John Hay? They’re the president’s gatekeepers.”
“And they keep his secrets well. Believe me, I’ve tried both, so has everyone else. They don’t leak anything.”
“And one day the boys will be responsible for writing the president’s history and creating his legacy.”
“And they’re so young,” Jack said. “I wish I had information to trade. They know where Braham is. I’d bet on it.”
“Write a few good articles about the president and gain their trust. Might help.”
Jack rose and went toward the door. “The article I’m submitting tomorrow will be a good start. Certainly, won’t hurt.”
She returned the knitting basket to its place on the table and turned down the gas lamps in the bedroom. “Do you have plans tonight?”
“I’m dining at the National Hotel. Why don’t you and Gordon join me for a late dinner?”
“I’m not up for your rowdy crowd, but thanks.” She sashayed out of the bedroom, her skirt swishing in the quiet hall. “Come downstairs with me.”
“Why? Do you need protection from lover boy?”
“If I needed protection, you’d be going with us. I don’t yet trust myself on the stairs in a long dress with all these petticoats.”
“Ah, you do need my protection.”
She gave Jack a knuckle punch to his bicep. His arms were so muscular, her light punch bounced off like a penny on a desktop. “Your arms feel like punching bags filled with cement. No wonder you don’t have a girlfriend. Who’d want to snuggle up to those rocks?”
“You’d be surprised,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.
“Egads. Get me out of here.” Jack had been her protector since childhood, and she depended on him far more than she’d admit. Although she gave him grief over having no soft edges, she appreciated how hard he worked to stay fit, saying nothing of how her pride was tickled when he dressed in a tux.
“You didn’t tell me about your meetings today. Did they go well?”
Jack looped her hand around his bent elbow and they started down the stairs. “Yes, they did. My contacts now extend to the very bowels of the White House. Someone will talk. Someone always does. We’ll find Braham. It’s just a matter of time.”
“Yes, but time is one of many things not on our side.”
37
Washington City—February 1865
Moments before Gordon arrived, there was a crash in the kitchen followed by a glass-shattering scream. Charlotte and Jack ran to the back of the house to find one of the women servants holding up her scalded hand, crying hysterically.
Charlotte gave Jack’s arm an urgent squeeze. “Get my medical box.” Then she turned to Edward. “Get a bottle of whisky.”
Gordon arrived in the midst of the confusion and demanded that Charlotte abandon the servant to her own devices. Incensed by his attitude, she wanted to tell him to screw himself, but instead she told him to go sit in the parlor with Jack, have a drink, and wait for her, or go to the theater by himself.
“I’ll wait. You have ten minutes.”
It took fifteen minutes to settle the woman, treat the injury, and send her off to bed. Dealing with Gordon’s passive-aggressiveness wouldn’t be so easy. He barely spoke during the carriage ride.
At Ford’s Theatre, the usher escorted Charlotte and Gordon down the aisle to their seats in the front row of a packed house. The production was minutes from starting. Gordon was fuming, and on their way down the aisle, he made a production out of speaking to everyone he knew except her.
She scooted into her seat and arranged her dress. “How did you manage to get such excellent seats?”
“I imposed on a personal connection and told him I needed to impress a beautiful woman.”
She smiled and tried to make her appreciation sound as sincere as possible. “Thank you. I am impressed, and I’m also sorry we’re late.”
“I should be used to it,” he said with a slight snarl in his voice. “You make us late to almost every function.”
She concealed an exasperated sigh behind her hand. Nothing she could say would appease him. If she was lucky, the show’s humor would defuse the tension. If it didn’t, and he was still as unpleasant after the show, she would insist he take her home and not out to dinner. Walking on eggshells around him made for very tender feet.
> Since Gordon wasn’t speaking to her, she surveyed the theater and compared the architecture with the present-day venue. The presidential box, built into the proscenium arch, was draped with American flags and a portrait of George Washington. Charlotte’s mother had held several Senate campaign fundraisers in the twenty-first century Ford’s Theatre. Looking at the interior now, Charlotte was amazed at how accurately the building had been restored.
Gordon tapped her arm. “The show’s starting.”
The gaslights were turned down, the orchestra began to play, and Charlotte settled in for the performance. Then, moments after the music began, the conductor abruptly stopped. The crowd seemed to be poised, electric, waiting.
Charlotte leaned over to Gordon. “What’s happening?”
He turned in his seat, craning his neck to see over the crowd behind him. “A special guest is about to enter, but I don’t know from where.”
The orchestra played the distinctive four ruffles and flourishes of Hail to the Chief.
“Lincoln’s coming,” she said to Gordon.
Heart pounding, she could scarcely contain herself as she watched the entrance to the presidential box with shivers of excitement. She dug into her drawstring-beaded handbag for her camera, and then stopped herself. This wasn’t the twenty-first century, where every moment must be captured on someone’s cell phone, sent to Twitter or Instagram, and then out into the world.
Lincoln, followed by General Grant, entered the presidential box.
She came to her feet, joining the audience in a rousing standing ovation. In her lifetime, she had met the Carters, Bushes, Clintons, Obamas, and Lincoln. Now, the sight of him in the presidential box, where in two months he’d be murdered, saddened her. How could she live with herself if she did nothing and allowed Booth to succeed with his diabolical plan? Wouldn’t she be as guilty as the conspirators if she didn’t try to prevent the assassination?
“You’re shaking. Are you ill?” Gordon asked with noticeable irritation.
She gave him a tight smile. “No.” But she was ill. She was sick at heart.
Was Braham’s plan to stop the assassination the best course? Would the country ultimately be better off if Lincoln survived? How could she do nothing and allow such a noble man to die long before his time? She studied the shadowy hollows and deep lines etched in angles across his cheekbones—so care-worn and weary. The job and the constant demands on his time were literally killing him.
He waved to the audience and Grant nodded. Then Lincoln took his seat in a comfortable parlor rocker and turned toward the stage. His hearty laugh could be heard throughout the performance. When the curtain fell, she didn’t remember much of the play, but the president’s laughter would echo in her heart for the rest of her life.
Following the performance, Gordon begged off a dinner invitation with fellow officers and spouses also in attendance. As they left the theater, Charlotte said, “I would have enjoyed dinner with your colleagues.”
“I’m not in the mood to share you with anyone tonight.”
“Jack invited us to join him.”
“I’m not sharing you with your brother either. We’ll dine alone.”
Any other night, his possessiveness would have irritated her, and she might have insisted on going home, but tonight she couldn’t see beyond her worry over Braham’s plans. So she said nothing. She merely lifted one shoulder in a half shrug of acknowledgement and climbed into the carriage.
He grimaced when he climbed in, and she realized part of his problem was he was in more pain than usual. Maybe he would want an early evening, too. The rest of the night didn’t bode well for either of them.
38
Washington City—February 1865
Charlotte and Gordon were seated in a quiet, candlelit corner of the Willard dining room, drinking champagne. The bubbly settled the tension between them, and it seemed to calm Gordon, too. Although there was still a noticeable tremor in his hand as he fiddled with the plain stem of his glass.
“You’re in pain, aren’t you?” she said. “We don’t need to stay for dinner.”
He gave her a warning eye. “My back is not the issue. There’s a delicate matter I wish to discuss.” His voice was sharp with agitation. He stopped fiddling with the stem and held up his hand to quiet her. “I saw the list of sick and wounded brought into the city today. I know the K Street Barracks Post Hospital received a fair number. The work is taking its toll on you. You’re always late for engagements, and when you are present, you’re distracted. I want you to quit working immediately.”
She stared in open-mouth shock, temporarily unable to speak.
“Hear me out, please.”
He took a sip of champagne, and so did she, but it did nothing to lessen her outrage. She inhaled through her nose, exhaled through her mouth. If she wasn’t so conscious of needing to protect her hands, she would have reached out and slapped him silly.
“The war won’t last much longer.” His eyes were fixed on hers, but the only spark of life was a small glint which then disappeared into darkness under the low light of a gas lamp overhead. “When it ends, I’m going back to Ohio to take over the family store.”
Her vision narrowed, as if she had entered a long, winding tunnel with only a small beam of fading light.
“I should discuss this proposal with your brother first, but he told me the day I met you he didn’t make decisions for you. In light of that, I’m broaching this subject with you instead.”
“Gordon—”
“Please, let me finish.”
Their eyes locked and held. Her foot shook. If the conversation went in the direction she suspected, then a disaster was looming.
“We’ve only known each other for a few weeks, but we’ve grown compatible, nonetheless. You are as knowledgeable about poetry as you are about the army and politics. You have practicable opinions on every conceivable topic. You’re well-read, and you have a unique sense of humor I find refreshing…most of the time.” He placed his hand on top of hers. “I’m a man of means and can provide a comfortable lifestyle. I hope you will consider—”
Braham’s doppelganger appeared in Charlotte’s periphery. She did an instant double take. After tossing down a whisky, the man opened a cigar case, extracted a black cigar, and held it to his nose for a moment. A match flared, then he leaned against the bar, one foot hiked on the lower rail of a stool, smoking.
Gordon looked to see what had caught her attention. “What the hell is he doing here? I heard the president sent him out on assignment.”
She snatched away her hand, damp from his sweaty palm. “You heard what?” Ripples of shock pulsed through her. She put her fingers flat on the table and pushed her chair away.
Gordon grabbed the back of her chair, holding it in place. “Sit. You’re not going anywhere.”
“You’ve been lying to me. I’ve been asking you for two months”—she flashed her fingers in front of his face—“if you knew Braham’s whereabouts, and not once, not twice, but dozens of times, you’ve said no. Now you tell me you’ve known all along Lincoln sent him out on a mission.”
Anger flashed up like heat rising from a boiling pot. She glanced over at the bar, and her eyes locked and held with Braham’s. He saluted her with the two fingers gripping his cigar. Then he turned, opened a door behind him, and quit the room. She peeled Gordon’s hand off her chair.
“Now he’s gone. I’ve got to go find him before he leaves again. Let go of my chair.”
Gordon glanced over his shoulder. “If he went through that door, he’s in the billiard room, and women aren’t allowed in there.”
In the brief time she’d been in the nineteenth century, when faced with blatant sexual discrimination she had remained calm, which had surprised her and given Jack a good laugh. But this time, cultural practices were putting a trivial and unnecessary obstacle in her path. She didn’t intend to stand idly by and accept the dogma. She slipped out the other side of her chair and stood.
“Watch me.”
“Sit down,” Gordon growled between clenched teeth, clasping her wrist with a yank, “before you cause a scene.” His dark eyes narrowed and the vein at his right temple pulsed. “There are actions you can take in your own home you’re not permitted to take in public. One of those is entering the billiard room.”
Blood pounded in her ears. “If I can’t go in there, would you please go ask him to come out? I’d like to speak with him.”
Gordon shoved his fingers through his hair, leaving uneven ridges. “He’ll be at the townhouse later. You can talk to him then.”
“You don’t know that.” She set her feet squarely. “I have been waiting months to talk to him. If you don’t go in there right now, I will, and rules be damned.” Gordon made an exasperated noise deep in his throat, but it was his scorching glare which fueled her determination.
“I didn’t know this side of you existed, but I shouldn’t be surprised. Your father and brother have coddled you and allowed you to have your way. Your husband will correct this behavior with a lash, if necessary. Now sit down.” His voice was as inflexible as a stone.
A lump of fear hardened in her chest, so she sat. She’d had professors in classroom situations and doctors in the hospital use a similar condescending tone with her, but no one had ever threatened her. Forget slapping him. Breaking a chair over his head would be far more satisfying.
Gordon got to his feet and threw his napkin on his chair. “I’ll be back.” The sharp-edged emphasis he placed on the word back was as relentlessly pointed as the final gesture of a conductor’s baton.
Silently, she seethed, refusing to let her composure completely crumble.
39
Washington City, February 1865
Braham had gone to the dining room at the Willard intending to have a decent meal. His stomach rumbled for expertly prepared food rather than something shot, skinned, and burned over an open campfire. He ordered a whisky at the bar and drank the amber liquor in one long burning swallow.
The Sapphire Brooch Page 24