The Pearl Brooch

by Logan, Katherine Lowry

  “We were just friends who had Elliott in common until you O’Gradys came along. Y’all filled out the clan. Then when the Kellys came in, man… Now we’re more than a family. I don’t think we could fight evil around the world, but we might be able to solve world hunger.”

  “I love the story about Kit finding Braham meditating at the Kansas River…or was it the North Platte? Some river along the Oregon trail. She asked him if he was trying to solve the problem of world hunger.”

  “It’s a good story.”

  She shifted to get more comfortable, but without a cushion in the chair it wasn’t going to happen. “Back to the family and fighting evil… I call it soul mate power. That’s what we have. Wish I could, but I can’t explain it any better.”

  “I like it,” Jack said. “But you didn’t drag me down here to discuss soul mate power. What’s up?”

  “Did Pete mention Sophia to you?”

  “Not recently. Why?”

  “She’s gone missing.”

  Jack blew out a mouthful of smoke. “Like the police are looking for her kind of missing or brooch missing?”

  JL gave him a hard look, her heart pounding a bit. “Brooch missing.”

  “Damn. It’s been four years since the last one. I was hoping the kids would all be grown before the next one showed up.” Jack tipped back his glass and emptied it. “Pete’s been so quiet lately. I wondered what was going on with him. Figured it had to be woman trouble. Guys don’t like friends to pry. When we’re ready to talk we will, but otherwise—”

  “Pete was ready to talk, but Elliott told him to keep it to himself,” JL said.

  “Elliott can’t keep that kind of information from us. We’re all owners of the company and have a stake in the brooches.”

  “He knows, but he’s the Keeper. Which means he can make that kind of decision based on what he feels is best for the brooches and the family. He believes searching for Sophia will cheat Lawrence out of the attention he deserves.”

  Jack rolled his cigar and flicked the ash into the river. “I don’t believe that. Do you?”

  “I don’t believe it’s the reason he told Pete to hold off,” JL said. “It doesn’t make any sense. If a rescue mission is organized, and the travelers use the diamond brooch, they’ll only be gone a few minutes. I think he’s using Lawrence as an excuse, and his real fear is growing old and being pushed aside.”

  “Elliott’s smart enough to know when it’s time to relinquish control,” Jack said.

  “I’m convinced it’s the debate he’s having with himself. He’s afraid he won’t know.”

  “Set Elliott’s issues aside. What’s your other concern?” Jack puffed his cigar.

  “I want you to go with Pete to find Sophia.”

  “Why me?”

  “Come on, Jack. You’ve pouted over Connor and Rick’s Colorado adventure for four years. You’re dying to go on another one.”

  “I’m not sure how Amy would feel about another trip. Any ideas where Sophia went?”

  “Pete has a few clues, but it will take Kenzie’s unique talent for recognizing patterns to figure out where. But,” JL leaned forward. “You’ll love this…”

  “Okay. What is it?”

  “Sophia has already made five trips to the past.”

  Jack yanked the cigar out of his mouth. “Jesus Christ! Then she’s more experienced than the rest of us.” He studied the cigar for a moment before pulling a short draw and blowing out puffs of smoke. “So, she’s gone back and forth five times, and on the sixth trip she doesn’t return. Sounds like to me either the purpose of her brooch isn’t about finding a soul mate, or she’s injured, possibly dead.”

  “I considered those possibilities, but I don’t believe she’s dead. She might be injured or incapacitated, but if she has possession of the brooch she could still come home.”

  “Or, like Kit, Charlotte, and Amber, she found her soul mate in the past.”

  “Yeah, but they all came home, and besides, I believe Pete is her soul mate.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “God, no, but he thinks so or he wouldn’t still be single.” JL pulled out her phone to see if she’d missed a response from Kit. Nothing so far. “We’ve had lots of bad stuff happen during adventures, but nobody’s gotten seriously hurt.”

  “If you don’t consider getting hanged a serious injury or—”

  “None of us will ever get over Carolina Rose’s death.” JL’s phone beeped with a text message. It was from Kit: All fine. Enjoy the play. “Kit says everything is fine at the hospital.”

  “Good. So what do you want to do about Pete?” Jack asked.

  JL sent Kit a short text: Play hasn’t started yet. Be back in a couple of hours. She put her phone away. “According to the bylaws of the company, Elliott has to be notified first if someone wants to call a meeting. He doesn’t have to agree, he just needs to be told.”

  “You want me to notify him so he’ll get pissed at me instead of you?”

  “He won’t get pissed at you. He’d get pissed at Kevin or David or me. But not you. Something changed between you two after Carolina Rose died. If there’s something you want that’s within his means to give you, he will.”

  Jack sighed. “I’ll tell him tonight that I intend to schedule a meeting for tomorrow afternoon at one o’clock. He’ll ask me if I’m doing this because I want to go on another adventure.”

  “Do you?”

  “Like I said, it depends on where Sophia has gone.” Jack flicked the ash over the water. “Amy would like to be a guide like Kenzie was for Amber, but she’s done with the violence. It has to be a time period without a war or major societal upheaval.”

  “Good luck with that. I don’t think you can find a decade without one or the other.” JL pushed to her feet, grimacing at the pull on her incision. “Schedule the meeting. If I’m available tomorrow, I’ll call in, but don’t wait for me.”

  “What about Kevin?”

  “It depends on what’s going on with Lawrence. If I’m doing kangaroo care, we might call in. It’s a wait-and-see kind of thing.”

  Jack stood and hugged her to his side as they headed back toward the tree where the spotlight was now directed on the hanging sheets. “What about Rick? Do you think he’ll want to go on another trip?”

  “Rick flew in, visited Lawrence and me in the hospital, then returned to California to finish his work on the reopening celebration. Blane said he’s coming back to take him horseback riding. I haven’t talked to him. I think going on an adventure is a distraction he doesn’t need right now. His focus is on doing a perfect job for Meredith. That’s a high bar,” JL said. “Everybody wants to do a perfect job for Meredith, but it only happens when she does the job herself.”

  “Yeah. He’s figured that out.”

  JL looked up at Jack. Moonlight fell into his blue eyes and glinted off his perfectly styled blond hair. “You’re the best friend a girl could have. But don’t tell Pete. He’d be jealous.”

  “Don’t tell Amy. She already is.”

  JL smacked him in the arm. “She is not. We almost died together in the belly of that ship. We’re BFFs.”

  Jack clamped the cigar between his teeth at a jaunty angle. “If you say so, kiddo. Now, let’s go enjoy some Shakespeare under the willow oak.”

  35

  Mallory Plantation (1789)—Sophia

  On November 29, Thomas wrapped his hands around Sophia’s waist and swung her up onto the bench seat of a borrowed buckboard. The wagon belonged to one of the kind Virginians living in Norfolk who volunteered to carry Jefferson’s party and baggage as far as Mallory Plantation in Charles City County, located several days’ ride from Norfolk. Thomas said the weather was unusually cool, but it wasn’t cold enough to snow or freeze the creeks they had to cross.

  The only positive so far was the surrounding beauty, even though the weather delays in France and England had brought them to Virginia too late to enjoy the fall foliage when it would hav
e been an artist’s heaven. She knew from previous visits to the Washington, DC area that the countryside in October was a blanket of burnt orange, crimson, gold, the green of pines, and the deep jewel tones of the oaks. But now the wind and cool temperatures had brought down the leaves, and the fading colors covered the ground and crunched beneath the wagon wheels. When they neared plantations and towns, the delicious scent of hickory fires drifted in the air.

  There was still beauty in the landscape this time of year, when the colorful face of autumn had passed and the season hadn’t turned to winter. The naked trees let her artist’s eye see the bone structure of the forests, the loneliness of it all, and the attempt to hide secrets in the underbrush until spring. As tempting as it was to remain in Virginia until winter loosened its grip and pastel colors popped up in the meadows, she didn’t think she could stay that long.

  If her foreseeable future was living in the eighteenth century, then she was going to New York, the center of business and government, at least for a few more months. After the Residence Act, which would be passed by Congress in July 1790, the government, including Thomas, would relocate to Philadelphia until the government moved to the new Federal District—in what would become Washington, DC—in 1800. Since Sophia had to earn a living as an artist, what better place to be than New York City? When the government relocated next year, she’d have to decide which city provided more opportunities to grow her business—where bankers lived or where politicians lived?

  While debating the pros and cons of living in New York, Philadelphia, or Virginia, she forgot about the cold. But as her choices became more confusing, the cold reality returned. Shivering, she clutched a thick wool blanket more tightly around her shoulders. If she was this cold, Polly might be even colder. Sophia had insisted she dress in several layers of skirts, and Patsy, Marguerite, and Sally were snuggled with Polly under heavy blankets in the back of a wagon. Hopefully it was enough to keep her from becoming chilled.

  Thomas had mentioned Polly’s constitution was on the sickly side like her late mother’s, but she hadn’t been sick since Sophia met her. If there was anything she could do to save the eleven-year-old from dying in her mid-twenties, Sophia would do her best.

  When the wagons lined up at the start of the day, Sophia insisted her wagon be placed behind the one with the girls that James was driving, so she could keep an eye on them. They had yet to send out a distress call, but she still watched them with her hawklike vision.

  With Thomas riding ahead on horseback, the party journeyed in the slow, easy, social manner of the time, stopping at every friend’s house on or near the road. At the speed they were traveling, it would take forever and a day to get to Mallory Plantation.

  At every home they visited, Sophia sketched the family with Thomas and left the drawing as a thank-you gift. When folks saw her sketches, many commissioned paintings. People understood the importance of preserving their likeness for generations to come. If she decided to stay in Virginia until spring, she had enough work to keep her busy. And the money she made would cover the cost of opening a studio and setting up a home for her and Marguerite when they reached New York, without having to sell more jewels.

  Thomas wrote to both Mr. MacKlenna and Mr. Digby, asking them to come to Mallory Plantation, but he didn’t mention Sophia or a reason for the request.

  As the miles fell away, her anxiety skyrocketed, and she fidgeted so much the buckboard driver asked if he needed to stop the wagon. From then on, she just let the butterflies in her stomach flitter here and there while her mind wandered to her students and the things she’d miss if she never returned.

  On the tenth day of travel, the wagons rumbled down a long drive with fading emerald green lawns rolling out on every side of a Flemish-bond brick three-story Georgian manse with a double portico. Sophia had seen the pictures in Jack Mallory’s wedding publicity shoot, but the touched-up photographs couldn’t compare with seeing the plantation firsthand. She couldn’t wait to stroll around the premises and sketch the property as it looked now, especially the willow oak in the backyard. The tree was about a hundred fifty years old now, which was half the age of the tree in the photograph.

  A man, quite familiar-looking, tall and striking with blue eyes and a head of thick gray hair curling into his forehead walked out under the portico just as Thomas dismounted and the wagons pulled to a stop. While a servant led his horse away, he moved quickly to Sophia’s wagon, and swung her through the air to solid ground. She experienced a sensation of weightlessness and the world disappearing around her, and then his hands were gone.

  “Mr. Jefferson, welcome to Mallory Plantation.” The general spoke in a warm Tidewater accent, sounding like Thomas, although Mr. Mallory’s voice was much deeper.

  “It’s nice to be back, General,” Thomas said.

  Sophia had dissected Thomas’s accent from the moment she first heard him speak, and it had taken until now to completely nail it down. In place of New England’s rapid, metallic whine, Virginia’s speech was a soft, slow, melodious drawl that came from the nose, not the throat. Thomas’s, and, she assumed the Mallorys would do the same, adding syllables where New Englanders subtracted them. Vowel sounds were prolonged, embellished and softened as in ha-lf for half, ke-er for care, puriddy for pretty, fuust for first, and the pièce de résistance wah-a-tah-mill-i-an for watermelon. She often asked Thomas to name his favorite fruit just to hear him say it, and then she’d imitate him and laugh.

  He escorted her up three wide stone steps to shake hands with the general, who could easily pass for Jack Mallory’s older brother. “Allow me to introduce Miss Orsini from New York. She’s returning from an extended stay in Italy.”

  The general gave her a look more suited for reprimanding an orderly than querying a woman standing on his portico. “Is your family still in New York or Italy?”

  “They’re deceased,” she said. “I’ve been studying art in Italy, and met Mr. Jefferson while visiting Paris. He volunteered to escort me home.”

  The general gave Thomas a similarly curious glance. “Then you knew about the offer from President Washington before you left the continent?”

  “I read it in the newspaper as soon as I docked in Norfolk. Honestly, I was surprised.”

  Patsy, Polly, and Marguerite joined them on the porch.

  “So these are the comely Jefferson daughters I’ve heard so much about from Mr. and Mrs. Eppes,” the general said.

  “These are my daughters,” Thomas said, resting one hand on Patsy’s shoulder, the other on Polly’s. “And this,” he nodded toward Marguerite, “is Mademoiselle Bonnard from Paris. She’s Miss Orsini’s companion and couturière.”

  Marguerite curtsied. “Bonjour.”

  “A Frenchwoman. How delightful. Do you speak English?”

  “But of course, Général Mallory. I also speak Italian.”

  The general then gazed at Sophia. “Where in Italy did you study?”

  “I was in Florence for twenty years.”

  The general smiled down at her, his bright eyes squinting in the sunlight. “Ah, so the prodigal returns.”

  With a nonchalant beauty queen wave, Sophia said, “That’s me.”

  “What do you paint?” he asked.

  “I have a preference for portraits, but I’ll paint whatever the client commissions—buildings, landscapes, copies of the Old Masters.”

  “Mrs. Mallory will be delighted to hear she has a French couturière and a portraitist visiting Mallory plantation.”

  A petite woman, a perfect ballerina size, with high cheekbones, blue eyes, and wearing a brocade silk gown embroidered with insects and flowers, waltzed out onto the portico.

  Her honeyed hair glinted in the sun. Sophia would paint her near a window to show the glint in her hair, the blue in her eyes, and her alabaster skin.

  “Did I hear…French couturière, darling?” The woman spoke with the same Tidewater accent, turning the word darling into dah-lin.

  “Yes, you di
d,” he said, then added, “I believe you’ve met Mr. Jefferson.”

  “Of course. We attended the ceremony when you were sworn in as governor of Virginia.”

  Thomas bowed over her hand. “Delightful to see you again, Mrs. Mallory. Allow me to introduce Miss Orsini.”

  “Miss Orsini is an artist,” the general said.

  Mrs. Mallory set her hands on her hips. “Splendid. Do you have paintings to exhibit? I’d love to see them. Portraitists so rarely come to Virginia, and if they do, they stay in Richmond, and we don’t hear about them until they’re gone.”

  “I painted several of Mr. Jefferson and his daughters while in Paris, which we have with us. With his permission, I’ll gladly show them to you.”

  “I invite you to gaze upon all of them,” Thomas said. “Shakespeare said ‘the eyes are the windows to the soul.’ The artist who captures the eyes and the personality of the sitter is a rare breed. Miss Orsini is that and more. Once you see her portraits, you’ll immediately commission your own.”

  Sophia lowered her head to hide her flushed cheeks. Her sketches had earned commissions for portraits at their previous stops without Thomas’s interference, but he was blatantly promoting her now. Why?

  “You are indeed impressed by Miss Orsini’s talent,” Mrs. Mallory smiled warmly at Sophia.

  The general slapped Thomas’s shoulder. “A delegation from the legislature is coming to welcome you home. They’ll be joining us for luncheon at two o’clock.”

  “I’m sure the ladies will want to change out of their traveling dresses and rest before company arrives,” Mrs. Mallory said.

  If Thomas’s letters to MacKlenna and Digby were received, and if the men were available to travel, then they were likely members of this delegation. Two distinct emotions immediately warred inside her: terror and an almost nauseating excitement. It was possible she might be able to go home today, although highly unlikely. If MacKlenna and Digby had brooches, they wouldn’t carry them around. The jewelry was either at their homes here in America or, God forbid, in Scotland.