The Sapphire Brooch

by Katherine Lowry Logan

  The flood of wounded pouring into the city continued even as Braham led her and Jack across Rock Creek and onto Bridge Street. Had the gates of hell opened and spit out all the ragged and war-weary men in the Union Army? She would not be back at the hospital until morning, so until then she had only a smile or kind word to offer those who looked her way.

  Braham turned up Thirtieth Street and left the war traffic behind as they entered Georgetown’s more dignified streets. While they rode past the red-brick houses, he and Jack discussed the city’s defenses, and the animated conversation between the two devilishly handsome men attracted stares from well-dressed ladies wearing fancy hats and riding by in open carriages.

  Charlotte paid attention to details, often picking up on inconsistencies between a patient’s reported history and symptoms attributable to specific diseases. She was kicking herself now for ignoring Gordon’s obvious symptoms. She had dismissed behaviors which normally would have triggered concerns about drug addiction, post-traumatic stress disorder, and abusive personality. She now was convinced Gordon suffered from all three.

  She glanced over at Braham. He was quite a sight in his Cavalry uniform, sitting tall in his saddle, his chiseled features shadowed beneath a dark slouch hat, his well-trained mount responsive to the slightest shift of his weight. Her thoughts spiraled back to the moment he cupped her head in his large, gentle hands and kissed her.

  She moaned.

  He turned in her direction. “Did ye say something?”

  She shook her head trying to shake off last night’s sensual memories. He reached for her gloved hand and fondled her fingers.

  “Does yer wee toe hurt?”

  She couldn’t help but chuckle. If she had stuck her toe in his face, he would have lavished the foot with affection. Someday she’d have to tell him she kicked the damn door stopper, not Gordon’s ass, but for right now he needed to believe she could defend herself.

  He straightened in the saddle, winking roguishly. “After luncheon, ye can rest. Ye didn’t sleep much last night.”

  She replied with a simple eyebrow arch before saying, “You didn’t either. Maybe you need to rest, too.”

  He smiled. “I’ve arranged for Jack to meet the daughter of my neighbor. I think he’ll find her enchanting.”

  “Did you know this, Jack?”

  Her brother turned in his saddle, free and easy. “Know what?”

  “Braham has a woman for you to meet.”

  Jack gave an easy lift to his eyebrows, widening his eyes. “Why do you think I’m out in front trying to hurry this party along?”

  “Is Braham trying to pass off a homely young lady to occupy your afternoon?”

  Jack turned his stallion to align his mount with hers so their horses were trotting side by side. “I asked him, and he assured me she’s the most popular young lady this season, and I’d find her charming.”

  She gave her brother a frank, assessing look. “And Braham doesn’t find her charming? Is that why he’s introducing her to you?”

  “He assured me he’s not interested.”

  She thought a minute then said to Braham. “Are you sure introducing the famously rascally Jack Mallory to your neighbor’s innocent young daughter is wise?”

  Braham shifted in his saddle. “The lassie’s parents will be close by. But I’m mindful of Jack’s reputation. I was in town for only an hour last night when I heard the first of several rumors concerning yer brother. He’s an object of much discussion and speculation. At least a dozen fathers asked me if I would vouch for his character since their daughters wouldn’t stop giggling about him.”

  She gave Braham a fixed stare. “And did you?”

  Braham’s look jumped from Jack to Charlotte. “Without the slightest hesitation, I said I knew him well, he came from a wealthy, highly respected family, he was a writer with immense talent, and a man I was glad to call friend.”

  She glanced sideways at Jack, narrowing her eyes. “Sounds like excellent book jacket copy to me. I’d get it in writing while you can. And be sure to get a picture of Braham in uniform to go with the comment.” Then she nabbed Jack’s arm and squeezed. “And please don’t seduce a virgin.”

  47

  Georgetown, February 1865

  After a delightful luncheon, Braham’s neighbors, the Murrays, along with Jack and Mary Ann, the Murrays’ daughter, left for a stroll in the garden, with her parents following at a discreet distance. Charlotte watched the couple saunter along the snow-cleared pathway from the window at the back of the house. The wind had stopped blowing, and a brief glimpse of dark blue sky showed through the clouds, giving her hope it might clear the way for an early spring.

  “I see why you thought Jack might find her charming. She’s educated, well read, and has traveled abroad. She also fresh, innocent, and different from any woman he’s ever spent time with. For her protection, though, I’m glad we’re staying in Washington instead of next door. I’m not sure Jack could resist the temptation of a beguiling young woman.”

  Braham came up behind Charlotte and rested his chin on the top of her head, his hands caressing her shoulders. “He’s given me his word he’ll not deflower her.”

  She laughed softly. “I hope he didn’t ask the same of you. Although deflowering me isn’t an issue. It happened several—”

  Braham pressed his fingers lightly against her lips. She turned in his arms to face him. His eyes were darker than their usual glacial green, and they were fixed on her, or at least pointed at her. “I don’t want to hear about the man who took ye.”

  She kissed the tips of his fingers and his mouth quirked wryly. “Why does your accent come and go?”

  His brows knitted together briefly before he laughed, his body vibrating against hers. “I fall back into it when I’m with other Highlanders like the Murrays. Do ye not like the sound of it, lass?”

  “Ooooooh.” She sighed. “I love it. It’s musical and very romantic.”

  He took her hand. “Come, I’ll show ye the library. It’s my favorite room.”

  When they reached a closed door, he said, “Close yer eyes.” The doorknob clicked slightly before the door hushed open. The warmth of sunlight bathed her face. “Open yer eyes now.”

  She did. She pressed her hand to her open mouth. “Oh my, what a beautiful room.” She meandered across the parquet floor, glancing up, down, and around. “Are those all Birch paintings?”

  “Not all of them.”

  A dozen paintings hung side by side between the top of the head-high wall-to-wall bookcases and the ornate crown molding. The bookcases were filled to overflowing, a large library globe mounted on a three-legged mahogany stand sat in the corner next to a window, and a circular table covered with opened books and maps occupied the center of the room. Brown and gold curtains framed windows overlooking a private garden. A gold-upholstered settee and two chairs covered in coordinating green brocade clustered in front of the fireplace. A chandelier throwing off rainbows from the abundance of sunlight hung over the table. At one end of the room, a grandfather clock was nestled in an alcove between two bookcases. At the other end, an open three-panel door led into a room with a massive four-poster bed.

  “You designed this suite of rooms, didn’t you?” she asked, looking at him intently, seeing the side of him devoted to order and symmetry and simplicity. “You belong here.”

  He smiled slightly, and his face seemed perfectly at peace in sunlight which somehow washed away the worry lines normally etched in the corners of his mouth and eyes. Then in an instant his mood changed, and he wore an odd expression—tender, yet somewhat rueful. “The war—violence, death, destruction—stays outside this door.” One of his powerful shoulders moved in a partial shrug. “I don’t allow it in here, but it sneaks in when the door’s left ajar.”

  “What will you do after the war? Will you live here?”

  His lips stretched into a grimace which might have been intended as a smile, but fell far short. “I’ll have had eno
ugh of Washington by then. I’ll sell the house.”

  The heat of his energy was palpable, especially against the chill in the air. Perspiration gathered between her breasts. Feeling overly warm, she removed her wool jacket and opened the top button of her blouse.

  “It’s so beautiful here, especially this room.” She relaxed onto the oak settee, casually rubbing her hands over its ornate carvings and silk upholstery.

  “Aye, but I have a similar room in my house on Rincon Hill in San Francisco.”

  She removed her shoes and tucked her chilly feet up under her. “Three houses. Are you starting a collection?”

  “There’s one at the winery, too.”

  “Hmm. Four. You definitely have a collection. Will you move back into the Rincon Hill house and practice law again?” She picked up a Highland piper figurine off the table next to the sofa and examined it. The vivid detail and intricate workmanship were extraordinary. She set it down carefully, patting the piper’s head, as if giving him permission to blow his bagpipes.

  “Cullen is keeping the law practice going with only one other lawyer. There’s too much work for them. They need me back.”

  “Is it what you want to do?”

  He joined her on the sofa, stretching out his long legs, his arms draped casually along the back and arm of the settee. “I’m tired. I want to work at the vineyard for a while. Put the war behind me. Settle down.”

  Her mouth quirked as she met his eyes. “Get married?”

  Shying away from the question, he half-closed his eyes, his long lashes shadowing his gaze. His strong, lithe form remained motionless for a moment. Then he gave her a serious look. “When I thought I would die at Chimborazo, I believed no one would care.” He paused a moment and shrugged. “Except perhaps Kit and her father. Even their lives wouldn’t be troubled much by my death. I don’t particularly want people to mourn for me; it’s, well…I want to know someone will pray for my soul.”

  “A wife and children would pray for you.”

  “Aye. I hope it’s not too selfish a reason to wed.”

  She sighed with exasperation. “You desire a family so when you die you’ll be missed? You’re missing the point.” She snatched up another figurine, one resembling a Scottish terrier, and passed it back and forth between her hands, mentally weighing the small piece of pottery and wondering how much sense it would knock into Braham’s impenetrable skull if she threw it at him. “What’s wrong with having a family so you’ll have a richer life, filled with love and purpose?”

  He scrubbed his face, sighing heavily. Then he shook his head, his hair coming loose of the thong binding it at his nape. If he’d been a wet dog, water would have scattered across the width of the room. He turned his body to face her. “I have my law practice and vineyards. Ye have yer hospital and patients. We both have lives with purpose. From what Jack says, yer patients and students love ye. If ye can have a life with love and purpose through yer work, it stands to reason the same is available to me.”

  She gently replaced the dog figure next to the piper and arranged them exactly as they had been before she fussed with them. “It’s not enough for me—”

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Come in.” Braham’s voice sharpened with an annoyed edge.

  The butler entered and handed Braham a note with a red wax seal. “This was just delivered, sir. The sergeant said he’d wait for your reply.”

  Braham put his thumb beneath the flap and withdrew a sheet a paper. His eyes were fixed, as though he were seeing something else, something far beyond the missive he held in his hand. Casually, he refolded the letter and slipped it inside his vest pocket.

  Addressing the butler he said, “Tell the sergeant I’ll join the general on board the River Queen at the requested hour.”

  The butler left, closing the door with a soft click of the latch.

  Jolts of desire to make love to Braham shot through her and mingled with spurts of fear bottling up in her throat. The decision to have sex, though, would have to be his, and damn him for being so stubborn.

  “Will you tell me where you’re going?”

  “If I’m to travel on the River Queen, my orders must have changed. I don’t know where Lincoln is sending me this time. Even if I knew I couldn’t tell ye.”

  She chewed her bottom lip in moody concentration, fighting a semi-hopeless battle to keep tears at bay. “I wish I could whisper the magic words and take you home with me again. If something happens to you, I’ll never hear about it.”

  As he stroked the side of her face, tugging once again on her curls, a hidden smile popped out, dimpling one cheek. “Jack told me ye won’t leave until Lee surrenders. I catalogued all the reasons ye should go, but he scratched off each one. I know now he won’t alter his plans, and neither will ye. It’s reckless for ye to stay, but ye’re both too damn headstrong to listen to reason.”

  “There’s a triangle here,” she said forming the shape with thumbs and forefingers, “and Jack and I are only two of the points.” She wagged her thumbs. “You fit the definition of headstrong, too, and I’ll add stubborn, bullheaded, mulish, obstinate, and pigheaded to the list.”

  “Ye’ve made your point, lass, and mayhap I am stubborn, bullheaded, mulish, obstinate, and pigheaded, but I’m nay reckless.”

  Reconsidering, she picked up the dog figurine again and fingered the fine whiskers carved along its muzzle and above its eyebrows.

  “Before I leave tonight, I’ll make arrangements for yer safety. Gaylord has worked for me for a number of years in a variety of positions. He’ll act as yer bodyguard while I’m away.”

  Braham rose and crossed the room to a table holding a crystal decanter and glasses. He poured amber liquid into two whisky glasses and handed one to Charlotte. “If ye need him, whistle this tune.” He puckered his lips and whistled.

  “It’s very familiar. What’s the name?”

  “Bach’s Minuet in G. Try it.”

  “I’m a terrible whistler. Don’t laugh.” She wet her lips, puckered, then whistled. At first nothing but air came out. She tried again, blowing a steady stream of air, but managed only a single note.

  “Curl yer tongue, lass.”

  She wet her lips once more, curled her tongue, and tried again and again. Finally, more than one note replaced the hissing, and she whistled a tune. “Okay, I’ve got it now.” She took a mouthful of whisky and let it trickle down the back of her throat, a warm and pleasing sensation.

  “If ye need anything, anything at all, Gaylord will come to ye. Ye can trust him implicitly. He’ll even deal with Gordon if he causes ye more trouble.”

  “What created the bad blood between you?”

  Braham sipped his whisky, making no comment. Finally, he said, “He wanted the position with Lincoln, but Sherman recommended me over him. Henly has a fine military record, and no one would suspect a violent streak twisted his character.”

  “He lives with constant pain. It can change people.” She thought a minute. “He must blame you for his injury. If he’d had the job working for Lincoln, he wouldn’t have been wounded at Cedar Creek.”

  One of Braham’s eyebrows rose in an ironic arch. “But he might have been hanged in Richmond.”

  “Could Gordon cause a problem for you since he works at the War Department?”

  “I’m assigned to the president. He’s the only one who dictates where I go and what I do.”

  They sat in silence, save for the annoying tick-tock of the grandfather clock. To her ear it sounded out of balance, and ticked every half second instead of every second. Or perhaps it was because time moved faster when she and Braham were together.

  In the room’s semi-silence her stomach fluttered like lightning bugs caught in a jar. Funny she should think of lightning bugs now. Didn’t fireflies blink their taillights off and on to lure a mate? Maybe the old cliché was more accurate for the moment—she had butterflies in her stomach.

  She had a question for Braham, and it h
ung on the tip of her tongue, daring her to set it free—so she did.

  “What are you going to do about Booth?”

  “Gaylord’s keeping an eye on him.” Braham’s voice was heavily laden with emotion and guilt, as if he had assigned his retainer a despicable task. “I won’t kill Booth, but on the fourteenth, I will keep the president away from the theater. Marshal Lamon warns him daily. He’s even threatened to resign as his bodyguard unless Lincoln takes his concerns more seriously.”

  “Why does Lamon believe there’s a threat?”

  “He received a secret service report filled with warnings.”

  “Did you write the report?”

  Braham didn’t answer her question. He also had a way of hiding his expressions when he wanted to. She couldn’t read a thing from his face, nor could she read the gold specks in his eyes like tea leaves. But she knew his heart when it came to Abraham Lincoln, or at least she thought she did. Even knowing, she had to try once more to get him to do something he absolutely would not allow himself to do.

  “Come home with me.” Her request ricocheted wildly around the room, as if looking for a place to land where it wouldn’t cause an explosion. The place didn’t exist.

  With a sudden intake of breath, he came to his feet and strode across the room, where he paused to spin the globe, watching it twirl. It made several revolutions before coming to a stop. Then, as if his thoughts had settled, he pulled roughly at his collar and appraised her critically. “Abandon yer machinations, lass. My life is here.”

  Her heart closed in on itself. His statement stung like alcohol on an open wound, but she wasn’t willing to let go of the conversation. “You could start a winery in Virginia, or write, breed horses, solve world hunger. I don’t know. You’re brilliant. You’d find something to give you purpose.”

  “Solve world hunger?” He laughed, but there was no humor in it, merely a low, mirthless noise. “Why do twenty-first century women think a man engaged in serious thought must be trying to find an answer to feeding the world’s population?”