The Sapphire Brooch

by Katherine Lowry Logan

  Sighing with frustration and a heavy dose of worry, she closed the computer and locked up the apartment.

  Driving home, she thought about where he might be. Researching was the logical conclusion, but why wasn’t he answering his phone? If he was in the mountains out of cell range it would explain no calls or texts, but if he’d gone to the cabin he routinely used, he would have called to cancel dinner. If he didn’t call her in the next hour or two, she’d call his agent. Maybe she had heard from him.

  When Charlotte arrived at her house, she found her medical bag open on her unmade bed. Obviously, Jack had been to her place and looked for his journal. Did he find it? Until he called, she had no way of knowing.

  She put the bag back into the closet, unpacked her suitcase, dumped the dirty clothes into a pile, and then slipped into a pair of sweats and a running T-shirt. Dinner was supposed to be at Jack’s place. Now she’d have to come up with something to eat. She stood in front of the gourmet refrigerator that had come with the purchase of her house and cost more than a Honda, and pondered her choices. A bottle of Cailean, Meredith Montgomery’s chardonnay, a package of cheese, a bottle of water, and a half-gallon of outdated milk were the only items on the shelves.

  Go without or carryout.

  While she considered Chinese or barbecue, she carried a glass of wine to her office, sat down at the desk, and opened her Mac laptop. She wasn’t interested in checking email, so she googled Mary Surratt and discovered she was charged with aiding and abetting her codefendants. Charlotte knew the government had hanged several of the conspirators. Was Surratt one of them? She Googled the question and found the military panel had sentenced five defendants to the gallows: Lewis Powell, David Herold, George Atzerodt, Mary Surratt, and Jack Mallory.

  For one shocking moment, the steady hand of time stopped dead.

  She didn’t flinch or look away, but continued to stare wide-eyed at the computer. Then blood seemed to drain from her body, leaving icy cold fear freezing her veins. Jack Mallory? Impossible. She slammed the lid down on the laptop and left the room, wineglass in hand, wandering aimlessly through the house. Her fear faded, mutating into agitation spinning out of control in the pit of her stomach.

  On July 7, 1865, the government had hanged a man named Jack Mallory for conspiring to assassinate Abraham Lincoln. Why hadn’t she known? Simple. How many people knew the names of the conspirators? How many people could name the presidents or state capitols? She shrugged as if the answer was obvious. Unless a person was a teacher, a student of history, or author, probably not many knew. She knew Virginia history and Civil War history as it related to the Commonwealth, but that was the extent of her expertise.

  But to have the same last name…

  The conspirator Jack Mallory had been dead for more than a hundred and fifty years. Her Jack must be secluded in a mountain cabin out of cell range so he could meet his deadline. Time must have gotten away from him, and he forgot she was coming home. He had done it before. It made sense.

  She collapsed onto a chair next to the stairs, pushed aside a stack of clean jeans and T-shirts, and glanced up toward her bedroom door. There was a quick way to prove her brother was not the same Jack Mallory hanged for conspiring to kill Lincoln.

  Open the puzzle box.

  Slowly she climbed the stairs, imaging the terror which must have burned through the condemned as they climbed the stairs to the gallows.

  She halted on the top step. This was ludicrous. She was terrifying herself over an improbability. Her bedroom door, several feet ahead, gaped open. With a deep, conscious inhale-exhale and her feet dragging, she crept forward, wading through a pool of shoes and clothes and unread journals.

  Clean thongs and bras, running socks without mates, and a couple of empty wineglasses cluttered the top of the dresser. The puzzle box that held her most precious piece of jewelry sat in plain view. Clammy hands reached for it. Now that she knew the solution to the puzzle, opening the box took only seconds. A rivulet of sweat trickled down the side of her face.

  Inside was a blue velvet bag with a gold-corded drawstring. Upon her return, she had wrapped the sapphire brooch in the bag and carefully tied a perfect bow.

  The bow was now untied.

  With nerves curling, she dug her fingers inside the cut velvet, but nothing was there. She drew a trembling breath and swayed a little as waves of darkness washed over her. Everything went faintly out of focus. Her legs turned soft and wobbly, and she fell into a bottomless cavern of despair.

  73

  Richmond, Virginia, Present Day

  Charlotte’s world had already been teetering on its axis, but with confirmation of Jack’s return to the past and his death, it spun completely off, yet she couldn’t cry or scream.

  If she could hold her breath and die, she would. Jack had been executed for something he didn’t do. How was she supposed to live now, without either of the men she loved? Her heart wasn’t merely broken. The executioner had ripped it from her chest while it was still beating.

  The house wasn’t cold, but her teeth were chattering. She curled into a ball on the floor and burrowed into the pile of crumpled and dirty clothes. Tears soaked the T-shirt where she rested her face. She fiercely gripped a pair of running shorts, squeezing tightly, as if the fabric could wick away her pain.

  Nothing mattered now, not even medicine. Sobbing gasps exploded from her innermost core, and she wept until she had no tears left. Finally, she drew in a few trembling breaths and fell into numbing sleep.

  Hours later she awoke, tense and dry-mouthed. She gulped the last of the wine she had carried upstairs, and needed more, but there wasn’t enough wine in the world to ease the pain of her losses. First Braham. Now Jack. She had believed she could struggle through the loss of Braham only because she had Jack. But who would help her through the loss of her brother? The compounded pain was simply too much.

  Once again, she stood in front of the refrigerator, staring at the same four items—wine, cheese, bottled water, and sour milk. Forget the cheese. It had green stuff growing on it. She grabbed the wine bottle and a clean glass.

  The first time she had tasted Meredith’s wine was shortly after her return from MacKlenna Farm. She and Jack never should have chased Braham. But they had, and she’d had unprotected sex, and she might now be pregnant.

  She glared at the bottle as if it were solely responsible for her possible predicament. Wine and pregnancy didn’t mix, but the odds of her being pregnant were extremely low. She pulled out the cork, but as she tipped the bottle over the edge of the glass, her rational voice told her to stop. Whether she was pregnant or not, the possibility would keep her from using alcohol as an escape. She put the wine back and instead drank a sixteen-ounce bottle of water to rehydrate.

  What would Elliott and Meredith think of this story? She should call them. There wasn’t anyone else she could talk to about Jack. Maybe they could help her figure out what to do next.

  She had Ken, but he still had reservations about time travel, and right now she couldn’t bear to expose herself to doubters.

  Could she go back again and undo what Jack had done? Braham had tried to change history, and he had failed, but Jack had altered what happened at the conspiracy trial and afterward. Surely, she could reverse what he had done. To do it, though, she needed a brooch. Elliott had given the ruby to Braham because he didn’t belong in the twenty-first century. Would he let her use the ruby to save her brother’s life?

  What if Elliott hadn’t gotten the brooch back after Braham used it?

  She ran into her office to call Meredith. Dashing through the foyer, she banged her shin on the table, knocking over a stack of mail and a pottery candlestick. Flyers and magazines scattered across the oriental runner with its clutter of shoes and socks. The beeswax candle rolled across the floor. She swooped up the mail, kicked aside the shoes, and hurried to the office where she tossed the junk on top of a round oak pedestal table. One of these days, she’d throw out the accumul
ated crap covering the top and finally have room to eat there.

  Now, where was her purse? She dug under the mail and found the black clutch and her keys and phone. The phone showed one missed call. Her heart thumped with surprise and then raced with hopeful expectation.

  But it wasn’t from Jack, and her heart dropped sickeningly. The missed call was from Ken. She sat with her head bent, propped on one hand, and her fingers splayed through her hair. Frustrated, she swept the junk mail across the table with her forearm and most of it fell to the floor.

  A first-class letter addressed to her from someone in Maryland teetered on the edge of the table. She didn’t know anyone in Maryland. She stared at the letter, wishing it would fall off, too, so she wouldn’t have to deal with it.

  The sender had written her name in black block lettering—very precise—to get her attention. What kind of person wrote like that? An architect or engineer or even an artist. Written under her name was: please forward. She had just discovered her brother was dead, and some stranger wanted her to read his letter. She swiped it off the table.

  She scrolled through her list of contacts and found Meredith’s number, but before she pushed the call button, she stopped to consider what to say. The best strategy was not to say anything about Jack over the phone. First, she had to find out where Meredith was jet-setting today: the winery in California or the farm in Kentucky. She might even be in Scotland. God, forbid. Charlotte didn’t have time to fly to Europe. She pushed the send button and said hello to her friend.

  “You’re back. I can’t wait to hear about your adventure.” Meredith’s voice swelled with excitement.

  “We got back several days ago. Sorry I haven’t called before now. I’d like to come for a quick visit. Are you free tomorrow or Sunday afternoon? Some things shouldn’t be discussed over the phone.”

  “We’re in Kentucky, and we’re not doing anything this weekend. Fly up, and while you’re here, we’ll make plans for Derby. We want you and Jack to be our guests.”

  “I’ll fly out in the morning. As soon as I have an arrival time, I’ll send you a text.”

  “I’ll pick you up at the airport. We’ll have a girls’ lunch in Lexington and shop for Derby hats before going to the farm.”

  When Charlotte disconnected, she picked the mail up off the floor and drank the rest of her water. There was no way she would be able to bring herself to have a girls’ lunch or shop for a Derby hat right now. She’d have to tell Meredith that Jack had disappeared when she picked her up.

  A fresh surge of tears trickled down her face, tempting her to curl up on the floor and weep some more. She glanced down at the table, drawing patterns in the dust with a forefinger. The letter from Maryland caught her eye again. The damn thing kept popping up. She ripped open the sealed flap and removed two sheets of paper.

  Dear Dr. Mallory,

  For the past several years, I have been doing research at the Surratt House and Museum on the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln and the trial of the conspirators. I came across a letter which appears to be an original written by one of the conspirators, Jack Mallory. I have not found another reference to this letter. It is possible Mr. Mallory’s attorney put the correspondence in his case file and never delivered it. Mallory addressed the letter to his sister, Charlotte.

  I, along with thousands of other researchers, have done extensive research on the Mallory families living at the time of the war, and have found no reference to Jack. The experts believe Mallory was an alias. Whoever he was and wherever he came from are among those mysteries lost to time.

  However, I did discover a few things which might interest you, and which I offer as thanks in advance for any assistance you can give me.

  I traced your family tree back to Major Carlton Jackson Mallory, who served valiantly in the Army of Virginia during the Civil War. He had a son, Carlton Jackson, Jr., who was only a child at the time. Major Mallory owned a plantation outside Richmond. Vigilantes burned the mansion within weeks of General Johnson’s surrender to General Sherman on April 26, 1865. The family eventually sold the acreage to pay back taxes. Today the property is the home of The Lane Winery and Bed & Breakfast.

  I have enclosed a copy of the letter I discovered. I have read it dozens of time, and it makes no sense. In addition, there was no reference to a Charlotte Mallory found in the Mallory family tree until you. It’s probably why it was never delivered. If you have any information about Jack and Charlotte Mallory in your family archives, I would appreciate hearing from you. I’m sure if there ever was any information it would have circulated long before now, but I would be remiss as a researcher if I failed to follow up on this lead.

  Thank you for your time and attention. I look forward to hearing from you.

  Her hands dropped to her lap, shaking. “Oh God, Jack. History has gotten so screwed up.” From the very beginning, her goal had been to keep history intact, but now…

  She read the letter again. The family history was correct. Nothing new there. Her ancestors had moved to Richmond after the plantation burned, and Major Mallory had practiced medicine until he died. His son taught school, as did the next four Carlton Jackson Mallorys, although the last two were college professors. Jack broke the mold when he went to law school and ended up becoming a writer.

  Small waves of pointless panic seized her. There was no way anyone could connect Jack to her ancestors. Even if her name was discovered on Lincoln’s second inaugural dinner invitation list or medical records as an attending physician, she couldn’t be linked. She was the first and only Charlotte in a long line of Mallorys dating back to the seventeenth century. Thinking back now over the last few months, she realized she had saved the old house from the torch in the fall of 1864, only to ensure it burned in the spring of 1865.

  A strange ripple—like when someone tosses a stone into the water—went through her, and the breath hitched in her dry throat, with a faint rasp. Her actions and Jack’s actions had a rippling effect on the future. She didn’t yet know how far out the ripple extended, but it was there nonetheless.

  She gulped painfully when she peered at the second page, recognizing Jack’s eloquent script. The uneven writing, dark where he had dipped the quill, faded slowly through each line until he dipped the nib again.

  Dear Charlotte,

  I am sorry for the pain my death will cause you. When the police came to arrest me, there was a fight, and I lost your beautiful sapphire eyes in the place of our last good-bye. After an exhaustive search, no one could locate them, so I was unable to travel again. I pray no one finds them now, for I fear they will never understand their uniqueness, and the consequences could be catastrophic. I hope one day you will claim my body and bury me in the family cemetery at the homeplace close to the river I love.

  Tears dropped on the page, puckering the paper in her cold hands.

  She didn’t know what he was talking about. They had no homeplace. No family cemetery. And what happened to the brooch? Did someone find it? Oh God, what a mess.

  She read his letter again, then again, becoming more confused with each reading. No wonder his attorney never delivered it, and who was his attorney anyway? Surely Braham had represented him. A very uncharitable thought occurred to her. His lawyering skills might be on the same level as his spying skills.

  Yes, it was very uncharitable. Braham and Jack loved each other dearly. Braham would have moved heaven and earth, and even hell to clear Jack’s name. Which meant someone had planted irrefutable evidence against Jack, but who would have done it…and why? It would all be in the record. She would have to dig through the trial transcript, witness list, and find the evidence used against him. The thought of him languishing in prison, wearing the ghastly hood, and being horribly tortured, made her sick at her stomach. She gagged, leaned over the trash can, and threw up the little bit of food in her stomach.

  No amount of struggling helped her control her emotions. She rolled into a fetal position on the rug and sobbed until
her fists were sore from pounding the floor and she had no more tears to shed.

  74

  Richmond, Virginia, Present Day

  When Charlotte woke on the floor of her office, it took only seconds for her to plummet from conscious awareness into profound sorrow. She made a strangled noise and froze, paralyzed by stiffness and pain. She drew her knees tightly up to her chest, sobbing.

  I’ll get you back. I’ll undo this mess. I promise.

  She staggered to her feet. What time was it? Her eyes were dry and scratchy, and she couldn’t read the small numbers on her phone. She blinked and blinked until finally the numbers one-two-one-three came into focus. Just after midnight. Her stomach complained, reminding her she hadn’t eaten in more than twelve hours. First, though, she had to schedule a flight to Kentucky. Then she’d go to the all-night market. She scrolled through her contacts and found the number for the private airline she had used before. Jack wouldn’t be around to pay the bill for this trip, but she’d get the money out of savings. It didn’t matter what it cost. She was sure they would accommodate her travel plans. Which they did. She had an itinerary confirmed within minutes, with an early departure time of 7:00 a.m. She sent Meredith a text of her arrival time.

  After a trip to the market, she chowed down on a late supper of chicken and a spinach salad with sliced almonds, cranberries, and chopped eggs. With a full stomach, she set about making plans. She had four months of sabbatical left, and the accountant was still paying her bills. For this trip, she wouldn’t need a Confederate uniform, and since she’d left all her dresses at Braham’s house, she didn’t need to pack any clothes. Assuming the brooch would take her to Kentucky as it had taken Braham, she would have the same two-day trip to Washington. Traveling unaccompanied, she’d be safer dressed as a man, and arriving in the city incognito would give her time to investigate whether or not the government suspected her of participating in the conspiracy, using guilt by association reasoning. She would need to order men’s clothing or possibly buy trousers and shirts off the rack in a costume store.