The Pearl Brooch

by Logan, Katherine Lowry

  His face slowly reddened. “Let’s get out of this crowd. There are too many ears.” He turned her away from Federal Hall and they continued their stroll down Wall Street.

  Out of her periphery, she spotted three men watching her, but she turned so quickly she didn’t have time to study them. A vision of their surprised faces remained behind her eyes. They looked odd, out of place. Newcomers, probably.

  The vision remained, haunting her. What was it about them? Something familiar. They must have reminded her of…home. She shook the thought away as she did every time it popped up and lingered in her heart—her students, her career, her secret art.

  When she and Thomas reached the wharf, he directed her away from the clamor and rush of dockworkers off-loading sailing ships and toward an unattended stack of crates lashed together by ropes.

  “I’ll draw up a document and sign it in front of witnesses. Tell me now what other demands you intend to place on me. I will meet every term, every condition, but only today. I will not negotiate with you again.”

  She didn’t like ultimatums. Who did? In the twenty-first century, she would walk away from his take-it-or-leave-it position. She had options. She could walk away now, but she didn’t want to. If Mr. MacKlenna was right, this was exactly where she was supposed to be. She loved Thomas. She couldn’t say she was in love with him, but she did love him, and cared a great deal about him. And Lord knows she wanted him. But was it enough?

  “If I don’t protect my interests now, I’ll never have another chance.”

  “Have I ever done anything to give you the impression that I would dishonor you in any way?”

  “No, you haven’t. But conditions change, people change, values change. What’s important this year loses its importance the next. And sometimes we choose not to fight for what we believed in only months earlier.”

  “I won’t change in how I feel about you. If it were possible, I would give you the moon and use the stars for wrapping paper.” He cupped her cheek and gazed into her eyes. “I love you, my darling. Marry me.”

  How could she possibly say no? He agreed not to abandon her at Monticello, and he agreed her income was her own, but would he object to her working?

  “Thomas, if we’re married, will you insist I close my studio, stop going to Federal Hall to sketch, stop seeking commissions?”

  “As a married woman, you cannot go to Federal Hall to work. You cannot sell your sketches to the newspaper. I will allow you to seek commissions to paint women and children and landscapes, but certainly no men. You will be the wife of the secretary of state. You’ll be held to a different standard.”

  Tears burned at the back of her eyes. “You asked what other demands I had. You just listed them. I have to work. You just told me how much my sketches are enjoyed, and in the next breath you yanked it away. You want to stifle my creativity. Don’t you understand that I would wither and die without my art? Just as you would wither and die if you couldn’t write. You can’t do that to me.”

  “But you’ll put me in an untenable situation where I’ll be open to attack from my adversaries.”

  “I wouldn’t do that to you, and I wouldn’t do it to me either.”

  She glanced past Thomas and saw the three men she’d seen earlier. They were loitering, watching her…but not in a creepy way, not like stalkers. It was more like they wanted her attention. She pinched the bridge of her nose, squinting her eyes as she tried to synch her memory with her eyesight.

  “I can’t think right now. We’ll have to finish this discussion later.” A tension headache, with a dull, non-throbbing pain in her scalp gathered strength. Further negotiations were out of the question.

  “If we don’t finish it right now, I won’t have time to draft our agreement.”

  She stroked the side of her head. “There is no agreement without those additional terms.”

  “Sophia be reasonable. Women in Virginia don’t do what you’re proposing.”

  “We’re not in Virginia. We’re in New York City. And I don’t want to argue with you right now.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means…those are my conditions.”

  She glanced at the men again. They weren’t huddled with faces averted. They stood facing her, like an attacking army. Men of equal stature with equal determination in their eyes. Her gaze moved in slow motion back to Thomas’s tight face. What was happening? And then… Wham! Her memories collided with the present.

  Peter Francis Parrino.

  How was it possible, after all this time, that he was here? In 1790 New York City? Was he a figment of her imagination? She blinked. But nothing changed.

  “My head is splitting. I need to lie down,” she said.

  Thomas grasped her hand, gripped it tightly within the crook of his arm, and they continued down State Street toward Mrs. Colley’s house. If her breathing was hard, his was harder.

  “I have to consider what you’re asking and the ramifications. Your demand conforms with your prior pronouncements about women and their roles in society. I should not be surprised. Yet, I cannot agree—”

  “Well—”

  “Shh,” he said. “I cannot agree without contemplation.”

  She stopped and looked up at him. “Then you’re going to consider it?”

  After twenty years, Pete picked this moment to drop back into her life—a pivotal moment. How could life get more complicated?

  “I will consider it, Sophia. There is no guarantee I will take your position. In the meantime, you should also think about what you’re asking of me, of societal norms, and your expectations.”

  “If you’re asking for my bottom line—”

  He rested a finger on her lips, his eyes widened for a moment, then narrowed in calculation. “I want to marry you. We will negotiate. Neither of us will get everything we want, but hopefully we will both get satisfaction.”

  She licked her lips. Her mouth was almost too dry to speak. She squeaked out, “I will reconsider my position, but I make no guarantee anything will change. What time will you pick me up?”

  “Nine o’clock. And if there are any other issues, you must present them when I see you next or they will not be considered.”

  His willingness to even consider her position spoke powerfully of his love for her. But if she gave in to him, she’d never be happily married.

  Happiness wasn’t guaranteed. But if a marriage didn’t start out on equal terms, it had nowhere to go but down and out. She and Pete had not been on equal terms all those years ago. He was a few years older, lived on his own, and planned to enter the police academy. She had just graduated from high school. She was living at home and had no set direction.

  Nowhere to go but down and out.

  “Jefferson!”

  They both turned in the direction of the shouting voice. John Jay stood on the opposite corner, waving his hat to draw Thomas’s attention.

  “John and I have missed each other twice today.”

  “You mentioned you were looking for him. Go ahead. I’m only a block from home.”

  He turned his face back to her, lifting his chin so the sun glimmered like water along his jaw and cheekbone. She would never forget the way he looked right now, caught between pressing his case further with her and dealing with urgent government business, totally unaware of the disaster looming behind him.

  He kissed her cheek softly. “I’ll call on you at nine, darling.” He jogged over to John Jay, dodging carts and wagons until he reached the corner. He waved at her, then he and the first Chief Justice of the United States went back up Wall Street. She stood still a moment to collect herself, then she turned to face her ghost.

  “You’re twenty years too late, Pete.” This was bizarre, beyond bizarre, meeting like this.

  “I know, and I’m sorry. But I’m here now to take you home.”

  Something—a weird ripple, like a pebble thrown into still water went through her, and for an instant she thought she’d never brea
the again. But she did.

  “I’m not going home.”

  He raised one eyebrow, plainly unconvinced. “Of course you are.”

  All she could do was shake her head. He lifted her chin higher with the tip of his finger, forcing her to look directly at him. His eyes were warm, and the color of storm clouds. They flickered and instantly changed to dark green, the color that signals to storm watchers to prepare for the worst.

  “I’m not going anywhere with you. Eight months ago it might have been different, but not now. I learned the truth from Mr. MacKlenna and have accepted my destiny.”

  “Are you talking about the James MacKlenna who owns a farm in Kentucky?”

  She looked at the man who asked the question. His eyes, his smile, were lifted straight off the pages of a magazine. She could hardly wrap her mind around Pete’s presence, but pair it with Jack Mallory’s, and her non-throbbing headache turned into a pounding one.

  “You’re Jack Mallory. How in the world you and Pete hooked up and landed on the street I was walking down in 1790 New York City has to be Aesop’s best fable.”

  “It’s an interesting story,” Jack said. “His former NYPD partner has an amethyst brooch, and my sister has a sapphire.”

  “I didn’t know there was an amethyst.” She rubbed her head. “There’s probably a brooch with every gemstone out there. They should all be carried up Kilimanjaro and pitched into one of its three volcanic cones. I’ll even volunteer for the mission.” She squeezed the bridge of her nose, but it didn’t help the pain.

  Pete opened his knapsack, pulled out a small wooden box, looked inside, and handed her two ibuprofens. He returned the box and withdrew a canteen. “It’s Evian.”

  She swallowed the pills and guzzled the water. “Thank you.” Instead of handing it back, she took another long gulp. Safe water was hard to come by in the city. “I met Mr. MacKlenna last fall, and, yes, he has a farm in Kentucky. But he’s a member of the Virginia legislature, and was part of the delegation to welcome Thomas back to America. We met at Mallory Plantation.”

  “We know you were there,” Jack said. “Your portraits of the general and his wife are hanging in my dining room.”

  “Still? How nice. They’re kind and generous people.” She was talking to Jack but didn’t take her eyes off Pete. The green she’d seen in his irises turned back to brown. The sun had played a trick on her, or the light was reflecting off his jacket. She returned the canteen.

  “What else did MacKlenna tell you?” Pete asked in a calm voice, but the twitch in his jaw outed him. His calm was fake, just like his love for her had been.

  She stiffened and crossed her arms, hands locked tight on her elbows. “MacKlenna is a descendant of the original Keeper. Do you know about the keeper?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “You probably know more than I do then. Anyway, we had a long talk about the brooches, the magic, the purpose. Do you know where the diamond and emerald brooches are?”

  He nodded again.

  “You definitely know more than I do. The stones bring soul mates together. Did you know that too?”

  Pete nodded a third time. “Jefferson isn’t your soul mate.”

  His flat statement stomped on her last, best nerve. Her head was splitting, the afternoon sun was beating down on her, her stomach was growling, and the man she once loved was lying to her again.

  “Then who is? Certainly not you. You could have been, but you chose not to be. You lost all claim to me. Go home. There’s nothing for you here.” She turned to go, but he reached for her arm.

  “This isn’t where you belong. Let’s get out of here.”

  Her arm burned where he touched her, all the way through to her skin, his hand leaving a permanent imprint. But he was too late. Why hadn’t he come decades ago?

  Her heart rate galloped while she remembered the buckets of tears, days without eating because every tiny bite made her sick at her stomach. Pain like she’d never known before wracked her body and kept her awake night after night.

  And he had done nothing to help her.

  “You…asshole!” The vehemence in her voice reflected her residual pain. “You can’t sweep into my life after all this time and make demands. I told you, you have no right. If you need it explained further, ask your buddy Mallory. He’s a lawyer. And if you need further evidence that you’re not in my picture”—she jabbed her finger against her chest—“Thomas and I are getting married. Go away, Pete. And leave me the hell alone.”

  “If that’s the way you want it, then tell me this… Tell me you don’t still have feelings for me. Tell me you don’t still love me.”

  She looked at him hard, and it broke her heart in places never broken before, and, in a voice that didn’t belong to her, she said, “I don’t love you. I stopped a long time ago.”

  With as much dignity as she could manage, she walked home. She didn’t dare look over her shoulder. If they followed, so be it. They could find her easily enough. Tonight, if she and Thomas could come to an agreement about her final conditions, she would agree to marry him.

  She didn’t give a damn about Peter Francis Parrino—

  Or her studio—

  Or her students—

  Or her career—

  Or her secret portraits—

  Or ever going home.

  41

  New York City (1790)—Sophia

  Sophia sat in her studio attempting to paint a portrait of Thomas standing outside Federal Hall with George Washington and John Adams. The first, second, and third presidents—the only portrait of the three men together. She painted the light moving across the building, changing colors and shapes while chasing candlelight flickering in the windows, deepening colors on the horizon, and street lanterns lit just before dark.

  The Last Light of Wall Street. That was the title. She would donate it to Federal Hall and hoped it would survive the decades…the centuries. But no artist throughout history ever had any guarantees. Would Leonardo have painted the Mona Lisa differently if he had known she would someday be considered the greatest portrait of all time?

  No, he would have painted her the same way. Mona Lisa was perfection from the beginning—a complex figure very much like a complicated human.

  Sophia moved away from the canvas and cleaned the brushes. She couldn’t paint anymore today. What a laugh. All she’d done since returning from the encounter on the street was paint a flickering candle. How ironic was that?

  Thick tears tumbled down her cheeks. They flowed from a broken place within her, a badly mended break that was permanently misaligned, leaving a gap where her resolve to live happily in the eighteenth century resided until now.

  Until Pete’s appearance turned the gap into a maelstrom spewing out all her doubts and insecurities.

  Why now? Why not July 14 when she almost died at the Bastille? That was when she needed him. She didn’t want him here. Her work had never been more challenging, people more enthralling, and Thomas more loving.

  She replayed that last thought…Thomas more loving. In her heart she knew he would meet her halfway. It might mean Marguerite would have to accompany her to Federal Hall so she wouldn’t be the only woman there. But he would find a way to compromise. He wanted her that much. And in all honesty, she wanted him.

  She hadn’t slept with him yet. Fear of an unwanted pregnancy kept her from surrendering. So she fantasized about him and sketched them in various sexual positions. The drawings weren’t pornographic. They were erotic.

  Well, maybe borderline pornographic.

  And Thomas found them on her desk.

  Let’s be clear. She didn’t leave them in a conspicuous spot. They were in a stack of sketches from the morning’s session at Federal Hall that she had yet to organize, to throw out the ones that weren’t any good, to set aside the drawings to take to the newspaper, or file those she wanted to keep for future reference.

  When she caught him holding the drawings, wide-eyed, pink-faced and speec
hless, she went on the offensive. “You’re not looking at anything your mind hasn’t already conjured up. Are you?”

  His mouth moved like a fish, but no words came forth. Eventually he found his voice, although only a whisper. “You pulled these directly from my imagination.” His ears pinked, and his cheeks pinked even darker.

  She hugged him. “They’re my fantasies as well.”

  His eyes darkened, and she knew exactly where the conversation was heading. His pulse beat visibly in a vein at the side of his neck. “How can they be yours? Even in Europe, female artists don’t paint nude males. You couldn’t have drawn these without extensive training. Look at these lines, the musculature. I see in these sketches the true sensual majesty of the classical nude. How did you learn?”

  At The Florence Academy of Art she worked from life under natural north light, in the tradition of the masters. She didn’t idly copy both female and male nude subjects, but learned to translate nature in a way that was both anatomically accurate and artistically appealing. She understood the male body, and she knew Thomas’s even though she’d never seen him undressed.

  Her interest in the male physique, though, began much earlier. And now his question—how did she learn?—churned the water, stirred up her past, and forced a confession.

  “I heard once that a realist embraces honesty of emotions and the essential beauty of sexual truth. But, set that aside…”

  She was stalling, and the small hairs began to prickle on the back of her neck. Confessions always came with a price. What would hers cost her? Thomas believed she was a virgin.

  “I was married once, for twenty-four hours. My parents had the marriage annulled and sent me to live with my grandmother in Italy.”

  He cocked his head and gave her a queer look that went straight through her. She couldn’t read it. Did he feel sorry for her? Was he confused? Disappointed?

  “How old were you?”

  “Seventeen.”