The Sapphire Brooch (The Celtic Brooch Trilogy Book 2) (17 page)

He switched his attention back to their surroundings. “You know a lot about the city.”

Charlotte put coins in a box on one of the poles lining the street. “Jack had an internship between his second and third year in law school. I spent most of the summer here with him and learned my way around.”

Braham turned in a slow circle, taking a picture with his mind’s eye. “It’s hard to believe it’s the same Washington.”

“What do you notice most?”

He glanced up and down the street, shaking his head. “You have to pay to park your Range Rover.”

She shrugged. “Yeah, well, it’s the price you pay for a premium parking space.”

“You don’t have to give it water or hay, but I’m sure you feed it some type of fuel. What makes it run?”

“Gasoline.”

He puzzled through the tidbit of information for a moment. “Do you buy gasoline at a livery stable?”

“Hmm. Not exactly. We call them gas stations. You can find them throughout the city and at all the exits along the highway. The next one I see, I’ll point it out.”

He nodded again, checking items off a mental list.

“What else is different about the city?”

He gently took her elbow and led her down the sidewalk. He wanted to control their pace, but mostly he wanted to touch her. “There’s no space between buildings. The streets are paved. It doesn’t smell bad, but there’s a distinct odor I can’t identify.”

She sniffed. “Exhaust from the cars, probably. What else?”

He closed his eyes for a moment to conjure up a picture of Washington in his time. Then opened them, blinking. “Troops aren’t marching up and down the streets. It’s noisier now, but much cleaner.”

She pointed to a sidewalk running perpendicular to the one they were on. “Let’s go that way. I want you to see a monument. We can take the elevator. There’re too many stairs for you to climb.”

His heart gave a leap at the thought of getting into another moving box. “I didn’t like the hospital elevator. Too confined, and it went too fast.”

“This one is slower. I don’t think you’ll mind.”

He shook his head. “Smaller would be even more confining. I’ll take the stairs.”

The trees along their route shivered in the wind. The red and gold leaves glistened in the late morning sun. He would never have described Washington as beautiful, but he saw beauty now. War made cities ugly. Made life ugly, too. For a few moments, he would breathe in peace and beauty and let it calm his restless soul.

Charlotte pointed ahead. “Here’s what we brought you to Washington to see. It’s called the Lincoln Memorial.”

He stared at a Greek Doric temple and the door slammed on any chance of calming his restless soul. Grief welled. “Did you think seeing this would change my mind?”

“I don’t know if anything will change your mind. But you need to see what Lincoln means to the American people today.”

“Don’t you understand?
I don’t care how people feel today
.” His throat was thick, raspy with grief, and the words came out hoarse and unrecognizable. He closed his eyes, hands clenched hard into fists at his sides.

She shook his arm. “Braham, look at me.” He opened his eyes but looked away. She moved to stand in his line of sight. “If Lincoln hadn’t been assassinated, he never would have gained immortality. If you love him, how can you possibly take that from him?” She pressed her hand to her chest. “I’ve met him. I stood before him in awe. Do you think I would have grown to hold him in such high esteem if he had died an old Illinois country lawyer?”

“At least he would have lived
to be
an old country lawyer.”

She gestured toward the memorial. “But he wouldn’t have all
this,
and he wouldn’t have six million visitors every year.”

Tears welled up in his eyes, and he could feel the burn of them. His upper lip quivered as he fought for control over his emotions. “Do
you
believe marble is an adequate substitute for a person’s life? Because I don’t.”

“I think leaving a lasting legacy that symbolizes the expansion of rights and equality to people across the spectrum of color and backgrounds is a good thing.”

His eyes flashed briefly before going dark and intense. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“
Equality—
the President’s legacy.”

Her statement made the rising mix of anger and grief harden. He didn’t want a legacy. He wanted the man—alive, well, and leading the country.

She studied him with her huge blue eyes, a touch of tears shimmering in them. “I don’t know what else to say. Come on. Let’s go back to Richmond.”

Charlotte had saved his life. He didn’t want to hurt her. She had rearranged her day to bring him here. The least he could do was visit the monument. He didn’t have to like it, but he owed her that much. “If what I suspect is up there,” he paused and glanced over his shoulder, “I’ll show the President the honor he deserves.”

She wiped away a tear with the heel of one palm. “The elevator is this way,” she said, nodding toward the side of the memorial.

He steeled himself, breathing through his mouth, preparing for what he knew would be more painful than a punch at the site of his wound. The impact would rip him open. “I’ll not take the easy way up.”

She shuttered, aghast. “There’re
fifty-seven
steps to the top.”

“I don’t care if there are a hundred and fifty.” Logic and the law were things he understood, and there was nothing logical about climbing those stairs in his condition, but he would not be seen as a coward. He raked fingers through his hair until they stuck in windblown tangles. He gave up on the tangles but not on his decision.

He took the first five stairs easily enough. By twenty, sweat poured down his face. His heart bumped hard against his chest, but he kept climbing. He counted each and every step. By the forty-fifth, he was winded and had to stop for a rest.

Charlotte wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “Let’s sit for a minute, please.”

He shook his head. “No.”

The exertion burned his legs and the seams of his jeans strained around his bulging thigh muscles. The last seven stairs took him the longest. When he reached the top and had a full view of Lincoln immortalized in marble, Braham’s legs faltered. He would have crumbled to the ground if not for a fluted column next to him. He clung to it, digging his fingers into the grooves.

Charlotte rushed to his side and put her arm around him, her face tense with concern. “Please rest. You can barely stand.”

“It’s not the hike weakening my legs, it’s the view at the top.” Despair cut through his voice.

After a moment, he regained his legs and took one step, and then another. His hands knotted into fists, and his jaw clamped tight to the point of shattering. He would not approach as a grieving friend, but as a soldier reporting to his commander. He willed his jaw, and then his fists, to relax. In Braham’s heart his President was not dead.

He reached the base of the statue, which was surrounded by a rope enclosure. He unconsciously reached out, but the marble was too far away to touch. Shivering, he stared, lost in thought, and then finally read the inscription above Lincoln’s image:

In this temple, as in the hearts of the people for whom he saved the Union, the memory of Abraham Lincoln is enshrined forever.

Tears etched tracks of anguish down his cheeks. If Lincoln had only died an old man instead of being assassinated, Braham would lift his hands with joy at the breathtaking monument. But he didn’t die of old age. And if Lincoln had lived, nothing would have stopped him from receiving the accolades he so richly deserved. The heat of vengeance, unlike anything Braham had ever felt before, seared him, leaving him rough-edged and blackened. He
would return
to his time, and he
would find
a way to stop Booth, or he’d die trying.

Charlotte joined him at the base of the statue, slipping her cold hand into his.

“The sculptor depicted him as I know him,” Braham said, his voice quavering. He breathed slowly, fighting for control, and he rubbed Charlotte’s fingers against the side of his leg to warm them. “Worn, but strong. One hand is clenched, representing his determination, the other more open, showing his compassion. He was a humble man. He would never have agreed to a memorial of this magnitude.”

“He deserved a memorial equal to what he did for the country,” she said.

“He died too soon.” Braham’s pain echoed in his gravelly voice. “If the President had lived his full life, they couldn’t have built a memorial big enough to equal his contribution. I
will
go back, find the people responsible, and stop the assassination from happening.”

“The conspirators were tried, and convicted, and four,” she said, holding up her fingers, “were hanged.”

Braham dropped her hand he’d been holding, turned, and headed for the stairs. He wanted to run away and grieve for the man he loved, whose friendship he cherished and whose wisdom he sought. Who would advise him now?

Charlotte followed him. “Braham, wait.”

When he reached the top of the stairs, he grabbed the column for support again and stared out over a pool of water and the Washington Monument. “The conspirators won’t need to be punished, because the assassination will never happen.”

She glanced around, then leaned in, and said in a low voice, “You can’t stop it. You can’t undo all this.” She waved her hands to encompass the building and grounds.

He started down the stairs, ignoring her plea. Although she had met Lincoln, the President was still only a marble statue to her. She didn’t love him. If she did, she would want to right this wrong, too.

“I. Won’t. Take. You. Back.”

The breath froze in his lungs. No one had ever told him they wouldn’t do what he wanted done or used such a tone of voice—not a client, not an employee, not a soldier, and
certainly
not a woman.

He gritted his teeth and turned to look up at her, the sun shining in his eyes. A shadow passed over. Then, as if lightening had struck, the pieces of his plan fell into place. He knew how he was going to get back, and he didn’t need Charlotte or her brooch to get there. When the sun shone again, he said calmly, “We’ll work this out.”

“Yes, I believe we will.” Charlotte’s flat tone and blank stare managed to convey the exact opposite.

He fell silent for several moments, then roused himself as though coming awake after a bad dream. “Where are we having lunch?”

She checked her phone for a message. “Jack made reservations at the Occidental Grill & Seafood at the Willard Hotel. They have the best seafood in Washington.”

Braham raised one eyebrow and crooked up a corner of his mouth in a too-knowing grin. “The Willard is still in operation? If so, I wouldn’t eat the seafood.”

Smiling, she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. “The food has improved since you were there. I heard they hired a new chef.”

18

Mallory Plantation, Richmond, Virginia, Present Day

A
fter dinner Charlotte
and Braham took their coffee to the library so Charlotte could teach him how to use the iPad. “You can access the digital musical collection from here,” she said, pointing to an icon. Braham selected an overture by Mozart. When the music streamed from the hi-fi wireless speaker, his feet hit the floor.

“Where’s the music coming from?”

“The speaker over there, on the bookshelf next to the window.”

He found the source nestled on a lower shelf in the bookcase and knelt to examine it. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t take her eyes off him. The plaid sport shirt Jack had loaned him stretched tight across his back and shoulders, highlighting his muscles. His hair, still damp from a shower, hung loose over his collar in tousled waves. She had seen almost every inch of his body, and she marveled at how beautifully God had knitted him together. Perfect proportions. Eye-catching. And he’d certainly caught her eye. She snapped pictures of him using the iPad camera. Then chastised herself for drooling over her patient. There were lines doctors didn’t cross, and she was tiptoeing along the edge.

She took a breath, desperately needing a distraction. She tapped her fingers on the iPad cover. “Now you know how to turn on the iPad and have listened to Jack’s long explanation of the Internet, what other questions do you have? Or, would you prefer to give me something to research?”

He stood and searched the titles of the books on the shelf in front of him. He pulled one out and leafed through it. “See if Montgomery Winery is still in existence.”

Charlotte typed in the name. “This isn’t your winery, is it?”

“My friend Cullen Montgomery owns it, or did in 1864.”

The website opened and she clicked on the
About
page. “Looks like his descendants own it now. Meredith Montgomery is the current President, and the winery has been in the family for more than a hundred and sixty years. She’s married to renowned Thoroughbred breeder Elliott Fraser.”

Braham grabbed the edge of the bookcase, rattling knick-knacks on the shelf.

She looked up, startled by the noise. Braham’s face had lost all color. She leaned forward in her seat with a slight pang, knowing he didn’t want to be coddled, but she was prepared to go to him if he needed help. “Are you okay?”