The Pearl Brooch

by Logan, Katherine Lowry

  “You probably already know I’m thirty-seven. When I turned thirty, I realized my art was my life and that I probably would never marry and have children. I made two significant decisions and opened a studio to bring kids into my life. I’ve loved every minute of it. But I am curious. Do Thomas and I have children?”

  He looked at her closely, probably trying to decide if she could handle the truth.

  “If you’re wondering if I can handle the disappointment, I can,” she said.

  “No, you never have children.”

  Her face twitched, and she suppressed the urge to cry. “Hurts more than I thought it would.”

  Matt propped one hip on the edge of her desk. “We argued about what to tell you. Our inclination was to go to Paris and intercept you before you met Jefferson. But Kit MacKlenna Montgomery disagreed.”

  “Is she related to James MacKlenna?”

  “His great-granddaughter, I believe, but that’s a long story.” Matt paused before continuing. “Kit believed you should be told about your art and marriage to Jefferson. She said you should have all the facts before you decide what to do. Now that you know about the success of your paintings and your marriage, the decision is more difficult.”

  “What do you think I should do?”

  Matt did a finger rat-a-tat-tat on the desk. “I believe you’ve significantly altered American history. From what I know so far, it’s worked out to America’s and Mr. Jefferson’s benefit, but we’ve got to dive a lot deeper to know for sure. You stopped one war from happening. People lived who should have died. But what else has changed? We don’t know yet.”

  “I’m not a student of American history, so I don’t know how much help I can be. But I can’t think about it anymore today. I’m caught in the middle of two radically conflicting desires. What I ultimately decide to do can’t be based on what’s best for me, can it?”

  “I’m afraid not, Sophia. When my daughter traveled back in time, she was concerned about changing the outcome of a railroad war. You hold a war with England in your hands.”

  42

  New York City (1790)—Sophia

  Sophia relaxed on a quilt in Bowling Green Park, sketching the president’s house across the street. Sitting on the ground wearing stays wasn’t so bad, but getting up without assistance was nearly impossible. She usually imposed on someone she knew to help her up, but so far today she hadn’t seen any of the regular park walkers.

  She and Thomas had a wonderful evening dining with the president and Mrs. Washington the night before. The president complimented her on the hidden picture and agreed to sit for her. She was ecstatic, and the look of pride on Thomas’s face touched her immensely.

  On the way to her house following dinner he said, “When I came to pick you up this evening, I was prepared to tell you I was still considering your conditions but was not as averse to them as I’d been originally. After Mr. Washington agreed to sit for you as soon as he finished sitting for John Trumbull, I saw your face and I knew I could never deny you anything.”

  She kissed him. “Thank you. I hope I never do anything to cause you to regret your decisions.”

  “My policy has been and always will be that I’ll offer no public response to personal attacks, but I will respond to you, if your actions cause public embarrassment.”

  “I would expect no less, sir.” She kissed his cheek. “To change the subject, tell me your impressions of the president. Just between us.”

  “He’s often distant and aloof, incapable of fear, meeting personal dangers with the calmest unconcern. Perhaps the strongest feature in his character is prudence, because he never acts until every circumstance, every consideration is weighed in a rational, mature manner. I’m less impressed with his intellectual gifts. His mind is great and powerful, but without being of the very first order. His penetration is strong, though not so acute as that of Newton, Bacon, or Locke. His temper is naturally irritable, and one must always be careful around him.”

  “How…interesting.” She would take Thomas’s insights into consideration as she planned Washington’s portrait. “What’s his opinion of you?”

  “You’ll have to ask him.”

  “I will,” she said. “I’ll let you know what he says.”

  Thomas kissed her hand that he was holding. If the day hadn’t been so traumatic, she would have invited him in for a glass of wine, but when her past collided with her present, she had to settle one before she could live happily in the other. And so far, there’d been no settling.

  The president’s house sat on the corner, and from her vantage point she could see everyone who went in and out. Alexander Hamilton appeared a few minutes ago, but he hadn’t gone inside. He just paced back and forth on the sidewalk. Washington and Hamilton’s strong partnership would last well over two decades, so it was unusual for Hamilton to be outside pacing instead of inside discussing a problem with the president directly.

  Hamilton looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His hair was disheveled, standing on end, as if he’d been ripping it out. His clothes were rumpled, his gait awkward. He prided himself on always appearing dapper and polished, but today he was dejected and haggard, almost as if he’d been caught having an affair. But that wouldn’t happen until next summer, and would be one of America’s first sex scandals.

  Sophia was so engrossed in Alexander’s strange behavior and how to interpret it in a drawing, that she didn’t notice when someone sat down next to her until he cleared his throat. She jerked in surprised.

  “Pete! You scared me.”

  “I’m not sure you would have heard a gunshot, you were so into what you’re doing.”

  “I would have noticed that.”

  He pointed with his chin. “Who’s the man?”

  “Alexander Hamilton. He’s in bad shape today. He’s trying to start America’s bank, and he doesn’t have the votes to get his debt plan through Congress.”

  “So that’s Hamilton.” There was a slight lift in Pete’s voice. Since he was a former NYPD detective, it would take a lot to impress him. Obviously the first secretary of treasury did.

  Pete’s deep brown eyes conveyed focused interest. “I saw the musical Hamilton a few months ago in London. If the history in the show was accurate, then I guess the secretary is concerned about his banking plan.”

  “He’s hinted he’ll have to resign if it fails. Of course we know it won’t.”

  “The pressure is on. The big dinner with Jefferson must be soon. Wouldn’t you like to be in the room?”

  She dropped a couple of off-key bars of “In the Room Where It Happens.”

  Pete twisted his finger in his ear. “You still can’t carry a tune.”

  She laughed and gave him a playful shove on the chest. “I still love music, though, and I sing and rap in my studio when I’m by myself.”

  She had a flashback to the CDs he made for her in high school with their favorite music: “Truly Madly Deeply” by Savage Garden, “I’ll Be” by Edwin McCain, “Iris” by Goo Goo Dolls, “A little More Time” by NSYNC, “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing” by Aerosmith, “Always Be My Baby” by Mariah Carey, “I Think I’m in Love With You” by Jessica Simpson, “Nothing Compares to You” by Sinéad O’Connor, “My Heart Will Go On” by Celine Dion.

  Where were those CDs now? She left them in New York when she was sent to Italy, and she hadn’t found them in her parents’ house when she cleaned it out following their deaths. There were still some boxes of her clothes and schoolbooks she hadn’t gone through yet.

  Her parents tried to scrub Pete out of her life, and they might have succeeded—if they’d done a heart transplant.

  A small smile played around Pete’s face as if he, too, remembered the CDs.

  “So when were you in London?” she asked, hoping to pull both their trains of thought into neutral territory.

  “I’m in and out of there every few weeks.”

  “We could have passed each other at Heathrow and not even known it.�
�� Before she finished the sentence, she wished she could reel it back in. There was no way she could pass by Pete and not know him. But then she remembered yesterday. She’d walked right by him and hadn’t recognized him.

  “Trust me, Soph-darling. If I’d been anywhere near you, my antenna would have sparked.”

  She let the comment and his pet name for her go without a verbal response and moved the conversation back to Hamilton. Unfortunately, she couldn’t do anything about the tingling sensation up her back hanging on like a slow, dying light in the sky. “If you’re curious, the meeting is happening tonight. Thomas invited Alexander and James Madison to dine with him.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to be in the room?”

  “I’m always in the room,” she said. “Thomas journals everything that happens in his life, and these days he adds my sketches to fill out his reporting. So it’s not a matter of whether I’ll attend his meetings, but how much paper to bring with me.”

  “It’s weird to hear you call him Thomas, but I guess if you’re going to marry the guy you should call him by his first name.”

  “It was a while before I could separate the man from the historical character—” She quit talking when she spotted Thomas exiting Washington’s residence. The two men had a confidential and cordial relationship. She wasn’t surprised to see him there, but he must have gone inside before she arrived at the park. Hamilton was just reaching the door with his back-and-forth pacing, and the two men collided.

  “Is that Jefferson?” Pete asked.

  “Yep. America’s third president. The sage of Monticello.”

  “Will he get mad if he sees me with you?”

  “No, but I’d rather not have to explain who you are.”

  “Does he know you were married before?”

  She nodded. “He knows.”

  Jefferson and Hamilton talked for a few minutes, then Jefferson sauntered off without appearing to notice her.

  “Why didn’t he see you? I would have.”

  “He probably did, but his mind is on the myriad of problems the government has right now.”

  “Will he care?”

  “He was jealous of my color merchant in Paris, but he got over it. He does have a weird envy of Mr. Washington, though. As for other men, he’s so used to seeing me with male clients that he rarely comments these days. But he’ll be curious about you and wonder how I know someone he doesn’t.”

  Pete picked up the stack of sketches and looked through them, glancing up at her in obvious appreciation. “I saw your Mona Lisa. It was extraordinary. You have incredible talent.” He flipped to the next sketch and the next without saying a word, but his jaw clenched tighter and tighter with each flip. It was easy to read between the lines. He was wondering the same thing she had often wondered. If they had stayed married, would she have pursued her art?

  He cleared his throat and set down the drawings. “Do you keep up with all of Jefferson’s business?”

  “Most of it. One day, I suppose, I’ll be the first White House photographer, but instead of taking photographs, I’ll sketch meetings and events.”

  Pete looked crestfallen. “It sounds like you’ve made the decision to stay.”

  She set the drawing she’d been working on and the pencils aside and turned to face him. “When I arrived in Paris, the city was insane. There were thousands of people in the streets, and I was swooped up into the middle of the hostilities. It was July 14. The day they stormed the Bastille. I was this close”—she held her thumb and index finger an inch apart—“to being set on fire in a horrible case of mistaken identity, and I’ve never been so scared.

  “I was rescued by Jacques-Louis David, who’s considered the preeminent painter of the era. He was also very political, and a player in the revolution. When I told him I had just arrived and lost my possessions in the riot, he suggested I go see the American Ambassador. I did.”

  “Did this David guy just let you go? Couldn’t he take you there?”

  “We went to watch a beheading first.”

  “Tell me it ain’t so.”

  “Unfortunately, it is so, or was. We were hoping no harm would come to the man, but the crowd smelled blood. In the commotion, we got separated. When I couldn’t find him, I ran away.

  “I ended up on the Champs-Élysées. That’s where I met Thomas. I ran toward him to get off the street, stepped into a pothole, wrenched my knee, and couldn’t walk for a month. He felt so guilty he insisted I stay at his home, the Hôtel de Langeac. I thought I would only be there for my annual two-week holiday. But my brooch never heated up. I was stuck in the eighteenth century.”

  “You aren’t stuck now. You can go home.” His tone was pleading, and it tugged at her heart.

  She glanced away and bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying. “Funny, how the thing you thought you wanted most loses its importance when you discover you can’t have it. Once I accepted my fate, I found something I didn’t expect.”

  “And ended up in America,” Pete said.

  “I thought if I went to Scotland, I might find a MacKlenna or a Digby who would trade brooches with me. I mentioned their names to Thomas, and he said Mr. MacKlenna and Mr. Digby were Virginia legislators and would be in Richmond when he arrived back in America. I figured it was safer on the other side of the pond while a revolution was taking place on the continent.”

  Her mouth was dry, and she licked her lips. Pete offered her his canteen, and she took a long draw, smacking her lips at the sweet taste.

  “What happened when you met MacKlenna?” he asked.

  “He smashed my last, best dream when he told me I couldn’t switch brooches because the one I had brought me to my soul mate.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “Who was I to contradict the Keeper’s descendant, especially after he told me I couldn’t get another brooch?”

  “Do you love him?”

  “I assume you’re asking about Thomas, not Mr. MacKlenna.” She gave Pete a wry smile. “I do love him.”

  Pete remained stoic, but a tick at the corner of his eye told her he was anything but.

  This had to be as uncomfortable and painful for him as it was for her, but she needed to make him understand she was where she was supposed to be. Almost everything she ever wanted was here. She glanced at his left-hand ring finger. There was no tan line indicating a ring had ever been there.

  “Thomas is an incredible man,” she said. “Most of the time I think I’m starstruck and maybe I am, but the man is brilliant, with a wonderful sense of humor. He’s passionate about life, art, and wine, and has an unrelenting curiosity. I enjoy every minute I’m with him, even though I get furious with his archaic views on women, but even those views are softening.”

  “If you want to be starstruck, come home with me, and I’ll take you to the Montgomery Winery reopening event next month. The most famous people in the arts, entertainment, and politics will be there.”

  “I had cocktails with George and Amal Clooney at a Venice art show six months ago, and I did a painting for them. But that’s not what I meant by starstruck. When I’m around men like Washington, Adams, Hamilton, Jay, even Burr, I feel like I’m in the presence of greatness. It’s weird, because I know how great they are, but they don’t. They’re just ordinary men doing extraordinary work. And I get to witness it and document it.”

  “This isn’t a role to play. This is your life, Soph-darling. You’re not here to draw pictures of them in meetings and dinner parties. That’s not what’s important. History nerds don’t care about the small stuff.”

  “You’re wrong, Pete. We do,” a man said from behind them.

  Sophia glanced up to find Jack and Matt standing over Pete’s shoulder. She had spent several hours with them that morning comparing histories. Almost all the changes they identified were to America’s and Thomas’s benefit, which helped solidify her decision to remain in the past.

  “We care a great deal,” Matt said. “A record of tho
se details rarely exists outside of the materials Sophia left behind.”

  Pete looked up, growling. “Thanks. I was working a different angle, trying to convince her it didn’t matter.” He looked at Sophia and shrugged. “I want you to go home. Not because I want to pick up where we left off—”

  “Left off? Peter Francis, we didn’t leave off anything. We were physically torn asunder.”

  It was an electric moment, and nobody moved until Jack raised his eyebrows theatrically. “Peter Francis? Sounds like a Pope’s name.”

  “How’d you two get the same middle name?” Matt asked.

  Sophia struggled to control her temper. “It’s not the same. It’s spelled a different way.”

  Pete climbed to his feet, his eyes had the shocked, uncomprehending look of a man who had just been sucker-punched in the gut. “Father Francis was our priest. He retired a decade ago, thank God. He can’t give out more lousy advice to young, brokenhearted parishioners.”

  “What’d he tell you?” Sophia asked.

  “Nothing.” Pete gave her a facial shrug, lips downturned. “Nothing I should have listened to anyway.”

  Jack pointed across the street. “Who’s that man? He looks familiar.”

  “Alexander Hamilton,” Pete said. “Can’t you tell? He’s screwed up like the rest of us. Looks like he’s been on a ten-day drunk.”

  “Let’s take a walk.” Matt slapped his hand on Pete’s shoulder, but he twisted his body, and Matt’s hand fell away.

  Sophia made a move to stand. “Let me help you.” Jack helped her up, then gathered her papers and portfolio and folded her quilt. “May I escort you home?”

  “Thanks, but why don’t you and Matt go over and talk to Alexander? You can give him advice he won’t get anywhere else.”

  “Do you think we should?” Matt asked.

  “I think you’re the only two people in the world right now who can talk him off the ledge. You know how it turns out. Give him some confidence. Let him know Thomas and James Madison are ready to compromise.”