Jack bunched his fists up so tightly they turned white, and the veins throbbed from fingertips to forearm. His eyes closed for a moment to keep her from seeing in too far.
“What happened then?” she asked.
“From the moment of the gunshot to Booth vanishing into the wings, no one in the audience moved. Some gasped; others thought it was part of the play. Major Rathbone shouted, ‘Will no one stop that man?’ and then the actress Clara Harris cried out, ‘He has shot the President.’
“Then fifteen hundred people went wild. Some men climbed up on the stage, women fainted, and half-crazed voices shouted to kill the murderer, but by then Booth had left the building.”
Jack paused and drank his coffee.
“What’d you do then? How’d you find Braham?”
Jack looked at her; his eyes searched her face, as if her features held important answers. “Panic erupted, and people shoved each other to get out. I stood there, unable to move. Finally, I made my way to the lobby and ended up following behind the bearers who carried Lincoln’s body across the street. I kept waiting for the police to rush in and impose order, but they never came. Lincoln almost died in the middle of a dirt street surrounded by a frenzied mob.”
Jack didn’t move; he merely intensified his stare. “It was real, sis. Not a goddamn reenactment, or a movie, but real.”
The anguish on his face made her heart slam against her ribs. She opened her arms, and he fell into them, hugging her tightly. Tears dampened her shoulder as he poured out the fathomless grief of a man who had grown up honoring a marble sculpture until at last he grew to love the man who had inspired it.
Charlotte wasn’t the only one who would bear the emotional scars of this trip back in time. These new wounds would be indelibly etched on the whole of Jack’s being.
70
Washington City, April 15, 1865
Charlotte reclined on the sofa next to the dining room table, grateful for the morning sun’s warmth and light, while she reviewed the chart of Braham’s vital signs and medication. She chewed her lower lip as she considered what to do next. During the night, after Jack had fallen asleep, Braham’s agitation had increased, and she hadn’t been able to calm him.
As a last resort, she had climbed up on the table and lain next to him with her hand on his chest keeping track of the rise and fall of each breath. She had kissed his lips, cradled his head against her breasts, smoothed his tousled hair back from his face, and whispered the words of her heart. Words he would never remember, but they had calmed him nonetheless. The warmth of his body seeped through her clothes, dispelling the chill of the night but not the chill of their upcoming separation.
He had not been fully awake since Jack brought him home hours earlier. He had moaned, and sipped water laced with medication, but he hadn’t fully opened his eyes or followed basic instructions other than to drink what was offered. She fluffed the pillows and edged smaller ones beneath his neck and back. She yawned, stretching. The night had been very long, and she hadn’t slept.
Midmorning rays came low through the trees, spilling through the windows and making shifting leaf patterns on the dining room walls. The front door opened and footsteps, quick and solid, thumped the oak floorboards. A minute later, Jack entered the dining room. “How’s the patient?”
“His vitals are good, he doesn’t have a fever, but he’s still not responding as he should. I’m considering—”
“I know what you’re thinking, and don’t waste your brain cells.” Jack plopped down on the sofa and crossed his hands behind his head. “I considered it earlier, and said only if his life was in danger, and it’s not now. Right?”
“But he needs to be seen by a neurologist.”
“Why? Do you think he has brain damage?” The muscles in Jack’s neck knotted. It obviously cost him a lot to ask the question, even more to wait for the answer.
“There’s no way to tell until he wakes up.”
“Can’t you look in his eyes or something?” Jack voice grated past his throat.
“It doesn’t work that way.” She pressed her hand on his arm in warning and then said in a low voice, “I can’t tell if this is exhaustion, a concussion, or neurological deficit. Some people in comas remember conversations. I don’t know if Braham is listening to us or not, so let’s keep our voices down.”
Jack ran his hand through his hair, creating furrows. “Sure, no problem. It’s just…”
“I know. I’m tired, too.” Moving slowly, she came to her feet, her joints protesting loudly. She pressed her hands on her lower back and stretched. For the last several hours, she’d sat at the table next to Braham, watching him breathe, stroking his face, holding his hand, letting him know he wasn’t alone. “What’s the news on the street?” she asked.
“I saw Gordon at the War Department. Saw him outside the theater last night, too. You know the expression if looks could kill? Well, it’s how he glared at me. Creepy.”
The hairs prickled on her arms, and she shuddered. It was one of those uncontrollable shudders, according to old wives’ tales, caused by footsteps walking over her future grave. “You didn’t say anything to him, did you?”
“No, I nodded politely and moved on.”
“Good, because he scares me. I’m surprised he hasn’t challenged you to a duel.”
“If he could get away with it, he probably would.”
“So what other news do you have?”
Jack removed his journal from his pocket and opened it to a page about halfway through. “The city’s agitated and there’s a spirit of revenge. At the New York Avenue Presbyterian Church, the president’s pew was draped in black. Stanton has called Grant back to Washington to defend the city. Johnson’s been sworn in, but Stanton’s in charge. The manhunt for Booth has been going on for hours. Stanton believes there was a conspiracy planned in March, and the Confederacy might be involved. Lincoln took his last breath at seven twenty-two this morning. Mrs. Lincoln returned to the White House about nine o’clock. I saw them carry the body into the White House in a crude, improvised coffin. It looked like a shipping crate. But you know”—Jack paused and tapped the tip of his pencil against his teeth—“Lincoln wouldn’t have cared. It was the roughly hewn coffin of a rail splitter. There were no bands, no drums, no trumpets, only the cadence of horses’ hooves.”
“Sounds like you have a story to write.”
“Not me. This story will be well documented without my two cents.” He glanced up at Charlotte, blinking slightly. “I’m ready to go home.”
“It’s time ye both left,” Braham said in a raspy voice.
Mouth agape, she whirled around to face her patient. Jack jumped to his feet and rushed to the table. “You’re awake,” they said in unison.
He seemed to want to say something more, but couldn’t decide what. His mouth opened, but nothing came out for a moment or two. Then, in a hoarse voice he said, “It’s over now. Go home.”
The coldness in his voice sent shivers from her nape to her tailbone. “We’ll talk about it when you’re up and moving around.”
“I’m getting up,” he said. “Where’s Edward?”
Edward entered the room so quickly he must have been sitting by the door waiting. “I’m here, sir.”
Braham rolled over onto his left side, hissing between his teeth. “Help me up. I want a bath and a shave.”
Charlotte got out of Edward’s way, swallowing a lump of relief. “You have stitches in your forehead and right shoulder. A bath would do you good, but keep the area around the stitches dry.”
She stood at the bottom of the stairs and gritted her teeth as she watched Braham shuffle up, one slow step at a time. When he disappeared onto the landing, she returned to the dining room.
“Do patients always wake up so grumpy?” Jack asked.
“On the crotchety side, but he wasn’t so bad. Some patients wake up swinging. I think he woke up remembering what happened and didn’t want to talk about it.”
> “I don’t blame him. For months he’s been focused on one goal, and he failed. I wouldn’t be happy either.”
“History survived, and if he thinks we’re happy because he didn’t prevent the assassination, he’s dead wrong. Last night I wanted him to succeed,” she said.
Carefully, she wrapped the mortar and pestle in velvet and placed the pieces in her bag next to the pill containers, and then she fastened the clasp, letting her fingers rest on the handle. “If he’s going to shut us out, there’s no point in staying any longer.”
Jack put his arm around her. “We’re not going to rush off. You two need to settle things between you.”
She leaned into him, sighing. “Why don’t you go up and help him? He might be interested in hearing the news.”
Jack gave her a squeeze. “I’ll do it, but you need sleep. If you’re going to make decisions in the next few hours, you need to be rested. You don’t want to leave here with regrets.”
No, she didn’t, but it was impossible not to. Of course she would have regrets. She pressed her hand on her lower belly. There was one thing which could make leaving him more bearable, but even if it happened, it would never be a substitute for her soldier’s love.
71
Washington City, April 1865
Every few hours Charlotte either knocked or rattled the doorknob or stomped noisily back and forth in front of Braham’s locked bedroom, but he refused to talk to her or let her come in. After the second day, Jack gave her a trumpet, very tongue-in-cheek-ish, and said, “Blow this for six days. On the seventh day, the door should fall flat.”
She closed her eyes, exasperated, blew hot air into the mouthpiece, and then shoved the damn instrument against his chest. “You blow it.” She had then nodded smartly, turned on her heels, and left…only to return a few hours later and rattle the doorknob again.
At night, she sat on the floor with her back propped against his door. She’d roll skeins of yarn she would never use into perfectly shaped spheres while she talked to Braham about random events in her life and travels through Europe and Asia with Jack. The clink of bottle against crystal told her he was awake. Did he hear her? She didn’t know, but occasional footfalls near the door made her believe he did. Otherwise, she had no real sense of what he was doing, other than grieving and avoiding company.
Whenever she knocked and pounded, pleading with him to let her in, he yelled at her to leave him alone. Her patience had worn as thin as the line she tried not to cross. He didn’t owe her anything. She was a guest in his home, and if he preferred she didn’t change his dressings or share his grief, she couldn’t very well have him arrested or committed to an asylum, although it was tempting.
Tuesday following the assassination was a warm day, and a spring breeze fluttered the curtains framing the windows in her bedroom. In spite of the warmth, gooseflesh rippled up her arms while she considered what to do next.
If Braham wouldn’t talk to her, she might as well go home. Would he even care? Maybe not, but she would. She wanted to see him before she left, partly to check his wounds, but mostly to say good-bye. Short of blasting a hole in the wall, gaining entry was unlikely. Frustrated, she snatched up a pair of boots and pretended they were grenades, lobbing them one by one against their adjoining bedroom walls.
“Great.” She didn’t blast a hole to climb through, but her bad aim had lodged one of the boots between the wall and the wardrobe. Grunting, she pushed against the oversized piece of furniture, but it wouldn’t budge.
“I’m going to the White House. Lincoln is lying in state in the East Room. Do you want to come?”
She glanced around to see her brother loitering in the doorway, his jacket slung over his shoulder and hanging by two fingers. “Yes. When’s the funeral?”
“Tomorrow, but it’s limited to six hundred people. We can’t get in, but I’m sure Braham’s on the approved list.”
She stopped pushing and leaned against the side of the chest, gasping. “Do you think he’ll go?”
“He should, but he’ll have to come out of seclusion.” The lines of Jack’s face cut deep and weariness shadowed his eyes. He took a slow breath and moved his shoulders a bit, as though his necktie was too tight. “By the way, what are you doing?”
She pushed against the wardrobe again, giving it all she had. “What does it look like?”
“Taking your frustration out on a six-foot-high mahogany wardrobe.”
She pushed harder on the side of the massive piece of furniture. “Well, I’m not. I’m saving the physical violence for when I get my hands on a particular Union major. Come here and help me. I can’t reach my shoe.”
He idled in and dropped his jacket onto a chair. “How’d it get back there?”
She fixed him with a direct look. “I threw it against the wall and it bounced.”
“I won’t ask why.”
She stood aside, brushing dust from her hands. “I was pretending it was a grenade.” He grabbed the back corner of the chest and pulled, barely straining against the weight. She bent to reach for the shoe. Her fingertips brushed against the heel at the same time she spotted the frame to a door. She blinked, so surprised she couldn’t immediately translate the appearance of the door into the significance of its presence. A moment passed, and then she let out a sort of unhinged giggle. “There’s a door back here. Push this monstrosity farther from the wall.”
Jack pulled the piece of furniture out several more feet, leaving a wide gap between the wall and the wardrobe. “I doubt it’s a closet. Must be a connecting door to Braham’s room.”
“If it’s unlocked, I can get in to talk to him.”
Jack held out of his arm, blocking her way. “Wait a minute. You can’t go barging in there uninvited.”
She ducked and skirted past him. “Of course, I can. I do it every day. If I waited for patients to be ready to see me, I’d waste half my day. I simply enter, and avert my eyes if they’re on the commode.”
There was a ghost of a smile on Jack’s face, although his eyes were dark with concern. “If we go in there, he’ll probably have us thrown out.”
She gave a brief snort, the verbal equivalent of a shrug. “I don’t care. After I change the dressings, he can toss us out, and lock this door, too. We’re going home anyway.” She took a breath, placed her hand on the doorknob, turned it, and pulled gently. The breath she had held blew out in a rush as she pulled the door open wider. It didn’t creak.
A heavy red velvet curtain hung over the doorway, probably to keep heat from escaping either of the rooms by way of the passage. She slipped the back of her hand between the door facing and the edge of the drape, fanned the curtain out of the way, and tucked the bunched fabric into a brass holdback. The dark tomb-like room reeked of whisky, sweat, and cigar smoke. She shook her head to clear it and looked up to find Jack’s eyes on her, no longer dark, but blue and vivid. He, too, understood at once the complexity and dangers of Braham’s use of alcohol to battle depression.
The sunlight gleaming in from her window cast a long beam of golden light into the dimness of Braham’s room. The light illuminated several plates filled with half-eaten food, as well as empty whisky bottles, and discarded clothes. A small uneasy feeling darted down the back of her neck. She sniffed, but didn’t smell rot, or worse.
“Go away. Why are ye in here?” Braham’s slurred speech was raspy from whisky and smoking.
She didn’t bother answering; it was a rhetorical question anyway.
“Stoke the fire,” she said to Jack. “I’ll open the drapes and windows and let in some fresh air.”
“Leave me alone. I don’t want ye here.” Something hit the floor with a thud. “I need another bottle. Edward.”
Jack threw on some kindling and poked the fire. Light sprang up, wavering in swaths of shadow and light over the plaster walls, and the chill quickly dissipated.
Charlotte pulled open the drapes, then went over to the other door and threw back the bolt. “Edward.” Withi
n seconds, the butler was standing in the room, holding two bottles of whisky. “This can’t go on. No more alcohol. Draw him a bath, clean up this mess, and bring him his favorite foods. He needs something solid in his stomach.”
Within minutes, servants were moving about the room, picking up soiled clothes and empty bottles. Braham slouched in an armchair with his shirt unbuttoned down to the mat of hair on his chest. Unkempt and puffy-eyed, he let his head loll to the side. “Get out, all of ye. Leave me alone.”
Charlotte bent over him, pressed her hands on the arms of the chair, and dug her fingers into the upholstery. “I didn’t save you from Chimborazo to see you waste away like this.”
“I didn’t ask ye to save me.”
“No, you didn’t, but a man who loved you very much asked me to do it.”
Braham glared at her and the rhythm of the pulse in his throat closely matched the pounding of her heartbeat. “I failed to do the same for him.”
“Your failure, if it’s what you want to call it, grants him immortality.” From the corner of her eye, she caught the movement of his hand as it inched down into the side of the seat cushion. Thinking he might have hidden a flask of alcohol, she pushed his hand aside and dug her fingers into the crevice. When her hand brushed the smooth-finished grip of a revolver, she jerked upright, gasping with a hot flash of shock, and then she slapped him across his whiskered jaw. His head popped up, and he shot her an affronted glare, clutching the side of his face, red with her handprint from chin to cheekbone.
She snatched up the revolver and held it by thumb and forefinger. “Take this,” she said to Jack. “And check the room. See if there are any other weapons. He’s not going to blow a hole in his head while I’m here.”
“Get out.” Braham clenched his teeth and waved a shaking arm. He swallowed hard and visibly. “I don’t want ye here.”
The Sapphire Brooch Page 47