“Do you speak French?” Mr. Henry asked.
“Yes, both French and Italian, but I don’t speak Virginian.”
The lines of his face curved into a contagious smile. “No, you don’t. Your accent is different from any I’ve heard. But tell me this, Miss Orsini. How talented an artist are you?”
“I paint like an Old Master with a modernist twist. I use more depth, dimension, and color than traditional artists, and the emotion is more expansive.”
“I’m not sure what that means—”
Thomas cleared his throat, and Sophia pressed her fist against her mouth to cover her smile. She knew exactly what he was thinking… Read a book, Mr. Henry, and you’d understand.
“I have painted several portraits of Mr. Jefferson and his daughters.” She lowered her voice. “If you can keep this between us, if you’ll allow me to paint your portrait, I won’t charge you.”
“If the painting is as good as you believe it will be,” Mr. Henry said, “when others see it, they’ll want you to paint them as well.”
She grinned. “Starving artists need to be creative in how they advertise their talent.”
“I doubt you’re starving, Miss Orsini. Mr. Jefferson is well known for his lavish table and excellent wines.”
“Why, Mr. Henry, didn’t you accuse the ambassador of being unfaithful to good old-fashioned roast beef in favor of French cuisine?”
He scratched his neck, the tips of his ears pinking. “I might have said something similar. But tell me, did you ever have any old-fashioned roast beef while in Paris?”
“Not only roast beef, but fried chicken, country ham, a variety of peas, beans, greens, and wah-a-tah-mill-i-an.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t bear to eat grits, though.”
Mr. Henry roared with laughter while glancing over at Jefferson. “I apologize, sir, for accusing you of being unfaithful to Southern cuisine.”
Thomas smiled at Sophia. “Did Miss Orsini mention she couldn’t stomach grits?”
“Yes, sir. She most certainly did.” Whatever differences the two men had in the past that had caused Thomas to describe Mr. Henry as his nemesis, their joking didn’t convey enmity at all.
Throughout lunch Thomas brought himself up to date on the political situation. “North Carolina has accepted the new Constitution, I heard.”
“Rhode Island has rejected it again,” the general said. “The amendments Mr. Madison designed to meet the major objections in our ratifying convention to provide for the protection of individual rights has been ratified by the House of Delegates.”
“But not by the Senate,” Mr. MacKlenna added.
“They’ll be adopted,” Mr. Digby said. “And they’ll cut the ground out from under the feet of the antifederalists.”
Everyone at the table looked at Mr. Henry. “Ye’ve been in the minority so often, I’m surprised ye haven’t quit the Assembly in disgust,” Mr. MacKlenna said.
“As the only antifederalist at this table, I feel safe in telling you I am quitting. This is my final year,” Mr. Henry said. “It’s time I return to private practice while I still maintain my popularity.”
“You can’t do that!” the general said. “Who would we argue with?”
The general’s comment brought a round of laughter from everyone at the table. But there was still an undercurrent of tension Sophia didn’t understand.
“Tell us about France, Mr. Jefferson. What do you think will happen to the monarchy?” Mr. Henry asked.
Thomas’s eyes fixed on Sophia with pensive admiration. “The queen isn’t popular, but I don’t think the populace wants to eliminate their king. I will admit, though, Miss Orsini has spent more years in Europe than I have. Through her clients, acquaintances, and travels, she’s acquired a deeper understanding of the mood sweeping the continent.”
The men looked at her. Their faces showed doubt warring with puzzlement. She was in America, not France, and women here didn’t discuss politics. So why had Thomas thrown the question to her? To prove he could change one of his positions?
“The monarchy hasn’t been a good steward of the country’s finances. They spent a lot of money in America in hopes of reclaiming the holdings they lost to Britain, but famines and mismanagement have almost ruined the country. It will take years before France is solvent again. I predict Frenchmen will act exactly as the colonists did here in America, and will throw out the monarchy in a long and bloody revolution.”
That drew a loud buzz as the men discussed it among themselves.
“How often do your predictions come true?” the general asked.
“Often enough that they’re taken seriously.”
The men went silent. “Will France be stronger after the revolution?” Mr. MacKlenna asked.
“I’m not sure how to answer,” she said. “If you’re asking if France will be a thriving nation in two hundred years, I predict it will be, but not as strong as America.”
“How could ye possibly know such a thing?” Mr. Digby asked.
“It’s a prediction, sir. But I also predict that in the same time frame, no democracy in the world will ever match what has been created here in America. The founding documents are brilliant. And, with a few exceptions, they will stand as written.”
Both Mr. MacKlenna and Mr. Digby were now strangely silent while the others talked among themselves.
She clinked her knife against her crystal goblet to gather everyone’s attention. “I’ve spent the past twenty years in Europe. As a painter, I’ve met kings, queens, a pope, the aristocracy, and generals. When people sit for a portrait, they talk, they predict, and I listen. I’m well-informed, well-read, and highly educated, and I make predictions based on what I hear, what I discern, and what history tells me.”
She paused, set down the knife, and let her shortened curriculum vitae speak for itself. Then she concluded with, “May I suggest we finish this delightful meal, clear the table, and linger over conversation and wine. Mr. Jefferson has some wonderful Normandy wines to share.” She hid her shaking hands in her lap, and didn’t dare look at Thomas, but she could feel his eyes. His hand found hers and squeezed it warmly.
Only then did she take a deep breath.
As soon as the table was cleared and the wine served, Mr. Henry stood, “To the late Minister Plenipotentiary, we bring you both welcome and congratulations from both houses of the General Assembly.”
The delegation applauded, and while the speeches continued and the wine flowed, Sophia sketched the men at the table. After two hours and dozens of sketches, she excused herself. Her hand was cramping, and she needed to stretch and take in some fresh air.
Following her nose, she found the exit to the back portico, where she could get a closer look at the willow oak and the James River. Whoever had the forethought to plant a tree with such grand stature should know the tree had become a lasting monument to him or her. Although the yellow and russet-red leaves piled on the ground, the scene was majestic and begged to be painted.
“Would ye walk with me along the river?”
Startled, she whipped around to see Mr. MacKlenna standing there holding her cape. He placed it around her shoulders. She buttoned it and pulled the hood up over her head. The wind off the river was rustling the leaves as they proceeded down a stone path toward the edge of the water. They stood there watching the waves ripple against the shore.
“Ye’re not from here, are ye, Miss Orsini?”
She shook her head. “No, I’m not.”
He wrapped her arm around the crook of his elbow and directed her toward the narrow path running parallel to the river. “Tell me about yer brooch, lass. How is it ye came by it?”
“It came from my grandfather, Seamus Digby.”
Mr. MacKlenna inhaled sharply. After a moment he said, “Please continue.”
“It came in a wooden jewelry box with a letter from James MacKlenna written in Gaelic in the year 1625. I assume James MacKlenna was your ancestor.”
“Aye,”
Mr. MacKlenna said.
“He was the Keeper of the brooches,” Sophia continued. “According to the letter, in 1625 the Keeper’s identity was in danger. He feared an evil force would find the brooches. To keep them safe, he dispersed them among his clan. My grandfather’s ancestor was given a box with four identical brooches, except the stone in the middle of each brooch was different. One had a sapphire, another an emerald, the third had a diamond. And”—she touched her brooch—“this one. I know I’m not supposed to talk about the brooches because of the evil force, but I need help. This brooch brought me here, but it won’t take me home.”
Mr. MacKlenna stopped, gazed off, and said, “‘The stone will take ye to a world unknown, through amber light to a time not yer own, to the one of yer heart, and the truth ye’ll be shown.’”
“That might apply to other stones, but not mine. It hasn’t brought me to the one of my heart, and I’ve learned no truths. I came to the wrong time, Mr. MacKlenna, and I want to go home. I was hoping either you or Mr. Digby would have a brooch you could trade with me. One that works.”
“Ye’re not supposed to go home, lass,” Mr. MacKlenna said.
“That’s crazy,” she said. “The brooch has taken me home five previous times. Why not now?”
He held her hand between his own. They were warm, almost hot. He gazed deeply into her eyes, as if searching her soul…for what, she didn’t know.
Maybe he was deciding whether to give her another brooch. Her spirits lifted. Her hopes soared.
Was there something she could say to prove her worthiness? She was a good person. She loved and cared for others. She would never intentionally hurt a person or an animal. She would turn her heart inside out so he could search it thoroughly.
Then his eyes flickered. He’d made a decision. Surely he would help her.
His hands cooled. “When the stones combine their energy, there’s a mighty force that seeks out good and destroys all that isn’t. In the hands of evil, the power of the stones could destroy the world.”
She gasped. “Then take mine. I don’t want it to be used for evil.”
He stroked the top of her hand. “Ye must keep yer brooch. To give it up now will interfere with all yer stone has done and will do.”
“But it doesn’t work.” Tears pooled in her eyes. “And I want to go home.”
“Yer destiny is not in the future.”
“Of course, it is. That’s where I belong.” She pulled her hand out of his grasp and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief tucked into her sleeve.
Mr. MacKlenna reclaimed her hand. “Lass, yer destiny is here, in this time and place. The singular purpose of each stone is to bring soul mates together.”
“What? Like a love potion?”
“Soul mates create family. There is strength within a family, and that strength protects the Keeper. Chan ann le tìm no àite a bhios sinn a’ tomhais an’ gaol ach ’s ann le neart anama. Love is not limited by time or space, but the capacity of the soul,” he said. “The soul is where love resides. Soul mates increase the love and make it indestructible. It’s the only way to defeat the evil force.”
“Soul mates should also share core beliefs, faith, and values. I want to go home, Mr. MacKlenna. Will you please trade brooches with me?”
“I can’t, lass. Yer destiny is here. Another brooch will not help ye. It won’t take ye home. Ye’re meant to be here.”
Her knees buckled, and she leaned against him for support. “I don’t believe it. I’ll talk to Mr. Digby. Maybe he’ll trade a brooch.”
“Mr. Digby canna help ye now.”
“This is crazy. It can’t be true. There’s no soul mate waiting for me in this time.”
“Ye’re wrong. Yer soul mate is here.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He turned her gently to see Thomas walking toward her. “There’s yer soul mate, lass. Love him well. For it’s certain, he’s in love with ye.”
36
Mallory Plantation—Pete
Pete entered Jack’s house a half hour before the meeting with a laptop in his backpack, a slide projector screen under one arm, a projector under the other.
After Elliott sent him a text late last night to let him know he agreed to a family conference at one o’clock today, Pete spent the rest of the night pulling together a PowerPoint presentation featuring Sophia and her art. It would have been easier if the meeting was held at the resource center and he didn’t have to lug equipment into Jack’s almost three-hundred-year-old mansion, but the kids were in the resource center working on a project with one of their tutors.
After setting up the equipment in the dining room and moving a speakerphone from a side table to the dining room table, he poured a cup of coffee from the usual carafe on the sideboard, settled in his seat, and waited for everyone else to arrive.
He tried to look relaxed, but truthfully, he was sweating like he’d run a 5-K in sixteen-fifty, and he hadn’t run a race that fast in almost twenty years.
He didn’t know how this meeting was going to play out, but regardless of the support he received or didn’t, he was going after Sophia. He failed her twenty years ago, and he wouldn’t let her down again.
By one o’clock the adult family members were either sitting at the table or had called in to participate remotely. Elliott poured a cup of coffee and took his seat at the head of the table, then marked his territory, carefully arranging his cup, laptop, and phone.
His right hand had an unusual tremor. Pete was immediately alarmed and considered canceling the meeting, but everyone was either there or on the phone, and postponing would only confuse and stress everyone, and it might even exacerbate Elliott’s tremor.
Elliott knocked on the table. “This meeting of the MacKlenna Adventure Company is called to order. Meredith, call the roll.”
Sitting at his side, watching him closely, she flipped open a notepad with a long list of names. “Just say aye or remote when I call your name. Kit and Cullen.”
“Aye, aye.”
“David and Kenzie.”
“Aye, aye.”
“Kevin and JL.”
“Both remote. We’re in the NICU, so we’re putting our phones on mute. If you ask us a question, don’t expect an answer right away,” JL whispered.
“Matt and Elizabeth.”
“Aye, aye.”
“Pops and Maria.”
“Aye, aye.”
“Jeff and Julie.”
“Both remote,” Jeff said.
“Shane.”
“Remote. Sorry guys, but I had to be in Colorado this afternoon.”
“Gabe.”
“Remote.”
“Rick.”
“Remote.”
“Braham and Charlotte.”
“Aye, remote.”
“Jack and Amy.”
“Aye, aye.”
“Daniel and Amber.”
“Aye, aye.”
“Connor and Olivia.”
“Aye, aye.”
“I have eighteen present and eight attending remotely,” Meredith said. “None of the children, even those college age or older, were notified of the meeting.”
“I have to break off in fifteen minutes,” Charlotte said. “If you have any medical issues, bring them up early or I’ll have to get back to you later.”
“I think wee Lawrence is the only medical concern we have right now,” Pops said.
“And he’s doing great today,” JL whispered. “It’s Kevin’s turn to do kangaroo care, and I have to pee.”
A wild laugh sparked from Connor. “TMI, sis.”
Elliott knocked on the table again. “Some of us don’t have all afternoon to sit here. Let’s move it along. Ye might already know why we’re here. If ye don’t—”
“Elliott, if you don’t mind, I’ll take it from here.” Pete stood, hitting the table with his hip, sloshing his coffee. Kit grabbed a napkin and wiped up the spot. “Thanks.”
Elliott gritted his te
eth before leaning back and crossing his arms.
“The day of Kevin and JL’s plane crash I was in Florence. Gabe and I were supposed to meet for dinner, but he couldn’t make it. I had left the restaurant and was strolling down Via Toscanella when, farther up the street, I saw a man rattling a locked security gate installed at an art studio. I didn’t know what he was up to, so I stopped and asked.”
“Did you flash your badge, too?” Shane asked.
“No, but I told him I was a former NYPD detective. Turns out he was rattling the gate because he was pissed. He had commissioned a painting, and the artist was supposed to deliver it to him that day. But she wasn’t answering her phone, and she obviously wasn’t at her studio. While talking to him, I discovered the artist was someone I hadn’t seen in almost twenty years.”
“Small world, Pete,” Connor said. “Sophia?”
Pete nodded.
“Shit,” Connor said.
“I’m missing something,” Kenzie said. “Who is she?”
“The love of his life,” Connor said.
Pete glared at him.
“Whoa, touchy,” Connor said.
“Leave him alone,” Pops said. “Everybody knows what happened, but they’re being discreet and respectful.”
“How come I’m the only one who doesn’t know the story?” Kenzie said. “I’m sorry, Pete.”
David squeezed her hand. “It’s a guy thing, babe. I’ll fill ye in later.”
Pete gave Kenzie a slight nod and continued, “I learned from the client that Sophia takes a two-week vacation every year, but this year she was late returning. The client and I exchanged contact information, and after he left I broke into her studio.”
“Because she was a few hours late returning from a holiday? Sounds like an invasion of her privacy to me,” Kenzie said.
The Pearl Brooch Page 46