The Sapphire Brooch (The Celtic Brooch Trilogy Book 2) (32 page)

“Oh, well, yes, I asked Secretary of War Stanton about him.”

“And?” Her voice climbed a notch in anticipation.”

“He wanted to know why I asking. I told him Braham’s cousin from Richmond was in town looking for him. He said he found it very curious and didn’t have any information he could pass along. However, as I was leaving, Secretary of State Seward stopped me and extended an invitation to a small dinner party at his home this Friday. Would you like to accompany me?”

“He lives on the other side of the park, does he not?” she asked.

“Near the corner of Pennsylvania and Madison Place.”

“May I send you my reply tomorrow?”

He gave her a half grin. “If the answer is yes, tomorrow will be fine.”

For a moment she didn’t reply. Then she said, “I’d like to mention it to Jack first, to be sure he hasn’t committed us to another engagement.”

The case clock in the corner struck four.

“I must be going,” Gordon said, standing. “I have a five o’clock appointment. Tomorrow I’ll call on Doctor Letterman at the Medical Department and inquire as to a position which might be appropriate for a woman with your qualifications.”

“I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

He lifted her hand and kissed her fingers. “And I look forward to hearing from you.”

Charlotte stood at the window scrubbing her hand to get rid of the sensation of his lips. She had painted herself into a corner. Lincoln and Stanton had sent her
father
to rescue Braham. Now she showed up claiming to be his cousin and wanting to know his whereabouts.

Good God, what was she doing? Playing with history. Playing with people’s lives.

Life was much simpler when all she had to worry about besides her patients, teaching, and piles of medical records, and whether or not she was going to get another speeding ticket.

36

Washington City—February, 1865

J
ack stood in
the doorway to Charlotte’s bedroom, twirling his pocket watch by its long silver chain. “Big date?”

“I’m going with Gordon to Ford’s Theatre to see the comedian J. S. Clarks. He wouldn’t take no for an answer, and I do want to see the production.”

Jack leaned against the doorframe and pocketed his watch. “I would have taken you.”

“I know.” She removed her grandmother’s cameo from its secret hiding place in her knitting basket and pinned it at the center of the low, square bodice of her blue silk dinner dress. “I don’t want to complain, though. Getting me a job at the hospital racked up lots of points for him. And he can be quite charming when he’s not in pain or doped up on medication. Then he’s unpredictable.”

“Do you think he’s dangerous?”

She swirled from side to side, checking her reflection in the long mirror. “He can be aggressive, but when I’m firm, he backs off. The trouble is, I never know which personality is going to show up.”

“A real Jekyll and Hyde. Now you’ve told me, I’m not sure I like the idea of you going out with him.”

“He’s got connections and knows all the movers and shakers in Washington. I don’t think we’d get invitations to important dinner parties and balls without him. Although none of them have led to a smidgeon of information about Braham.”

“Stop seeing him, then. You don’t care about the parties, and if they’re not fruitful, there’s no reason for you to go.”

“You enjoy them, though,” she said.

“I do. But I don’t need Gordon to get an invitation.” Jack sat in the chair next to the door and stretched out his long legs. “Do you think it’s serious with Gordon? An unrequited love affair could get messy.”

She stopped primping and studied Jack’s face. On the surface he appeared relatively calm, but she sensed an undercurrent of concern. His tense neck and chin contradicted his relaxed posture.

“God, I hope not. I have no interest in him at all,” she said.

“Because you’re just not
into him
,” Jack said, using air quotes, “or because of the difference in time zones? You can’t have missed the way he looks at you.”

“I’ve noticed the lustful looks, but I ignore them.”

Jack smiled charmingly. The sort of smile that caused women to add their phone numbers and addresses to his contact list, then sneak a peek at his cell number in case he didn’t call them for a date within the next forty-eight hours.

“Would he fit the bill as a sperm donor?” he asked.

“Hmm.” She pulled her lower lip through her teeth. “He has the physique, intelligence, and voice. But there’s something missing. Chemistry, I guess.”

“What’s chemistry got to do with choosing a sperm donor?”

She scrunched her face, thinking. “It does seem odd, doesn’t it? I think I want my donor to be anonymous. Just a picture and facts on a piece of paper.” She patted the sides of her hair to herd stray wisps back into place. The current style of parting a woman’s hair in the middle, smoothing the sides over her ears, and then pinning a roll at the back of her neck, didn’t work for her natural curls.

“Whatever you decide to do about Gordon, please do be careful. I don’t want to have to beat him up because he misbehaves. Or, you could fix him. Then he might give up painkillers… unless he’s already addicted.”

“The bullet presses on a nerve in his back. Riding horseback aggravates the injury, and he can’t get any relief from the pain. I wish I could help him, but I wouldn’t attempt the surgery even in our time. Neurosurgery isn’t my specialty.”

“Don’t worry about Gordon. Forget him. Braham’s my ideal brother-in-law. He’s a lawyer, he likes to hunt and fish, and he quotes Shakespeare, too.”

“Pshaw. Braham? Our elusive
cousin
?” She collected her white leather gloves and slapped them against her palm. “I wouldn’t be surprised to discover he’s back in town and trying to avoid us.”

Every moment her mind wasn’t otherwise occupied, it drifted toward him like smoke from a tipi-shaped fire, spiraling in one direction—his. Even in the midst of minor surgeries the hospital had, out of necessity, allowed her to perform, her thoughts were of him—yearning to see him and wondering if he was well. The image she carried in her mind was of him sitting on a bar stool in the kitchen at the mansion, drinking Jack’s coffee and laughing. His bright green eyes held a magical twinkle. The twinkle was what kept the pain of his betrayal manageable.

“By the way,” she said, dragging her attention back to the conversation. “Did you finish your article on the inauguration? Gordon said he’d like to read it before it goes to print.”

Jack crossed his ankles and folded his arms across his belly. “It’s on my desk. I’m submitting it to the
Daily National Intelligencer
tomorrow. It was one of the hardest articles I’ve written.”

“You’re writing in the present tense. You have to back away from the historical Lincoln and write about him from today’s perspective. It has to be difficult. What’s the opening line?”

“Lincoln’s second inauguration isn’t taking place in a small country town startled by the arrival of a handful of soldiers, but in a city approaching triumph.”

“I like it,” she said. “You’d think with the scent of victory in the air, the sources you’ve cultivated would be freer with information. Someone has to know where Braham is. Have you tried John Nicolay or John Hay? They’re the President’s gatekeepers.”

“And they keep his secrets well. Believe me, I’ve tried both of them. So has everyone else. They don’t leak anything.”

“And one day
the boys
will be responsible for writing the President’s history and creating his legacy.”

“And they’re so young,” Jack said. “I wish I had information to trade. They know where Braham is. I’d bet on it.”

“Write a few good articles about the President and gain their trust. Might help.”

Jack rose and went toward the door. “The article I’m submitting tomorrow will be a good start. Certainly won’t hurt.”

She returned the knitting basket to its place on the table and turned down the gas lamps in the bedroom. “Do you have plans tonight?”

“I’m dining at the National Hotel. Why don’t you and Gordon join me for a late dinner?”

“I’m not up for your rowdy crowd, but thanks.”

She sashayed out of the bedroom, her skirt swishing in the quiet hall. “Come downstairs with me.”

“Why? Do you need protection from lover boy?”

“If I needed protection, you’d be going with us. I don’t yet trust myself on the stairs in a long dress with all these petticoats.”

“Ah, you do need my protection.”

She gave Jack a knuckle punch to his bicep. His arms were so muscular, her light punch bounced off like a penny on a desktop. “You’re arms feel like punching bags filled with cement. No wonder you don’t have a girlfriend. Who’d want to snuggle up to those rocks?”

“You’d be surprised,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.

“Egads. Get me out of here.” Jack had been her protector since childhood, and she depended on him far more than she’d admit. Although she gave him grief over having no soft edges, she appreciated how hard he worked to stay fit, saying nothing of how her pride was tickled when he dressed in a tux.

“You didn’t tell me about your meetings today. Did they go well?”

Jack looped her hand around his bent elbow and they started down the stairs. “Yes, they did. My contacts now extend to the very bowels of the White House. Someone will talk. Someone always does. We’ll find Braham. It’s just a matter of time.”

“Yes, but time is one of many things not on our side.”

37

Washington City—February, 1865

M
oments before Gordon
arrived, there was a crash in the kitchen followed by a glass-shattering scream. Charlotte and Jack ran to the back of the house to find one of the women servants holding up her scalded hand, crying hysterically.

Charlotte gave Jack’s arm an urgent squeeze. “Get my medical box.” Then she turned to Edward saying, “Get a bottle of whiskey.”

Gordon arrived in the midst of the confusion, and demanded that Charlotte abandon the servant to her own devices. Incensed by his attitude, she wanted to tell him to screw himself, but instead she told him to go sit in the parlor with Jack, have a drink, and wait for her, or go to the theatre by himself.

“I’ll wait. You have ten minutes.”

It took fifteen minutes to settle the woman, treat the injury, and send her off to bed. Dealing with Gordon’s passive-aggressiveness wouldn’t be so easy. He barely spoke during the carriage ride.

At Ford’s Theatre, the usher escorted Charlotte and Gordon down the aisle to their seats in the front row of a packed house. The production was minutes from starting. Gordon was fuming, and on their way down the aisle, he made a production out of speaking to everyone he knew except her.

She scooted into her seat and arranged her dress. “How did you manage to get such excellent seats?”

“I imposed on a personal connection and told him I needed to impress a beautiful woman.”

She smiled, and tried to make her appreciation sound as sincere as possible. “Thank you. I am impressed, and I’m also sorry we’re late.”

“I should be used to it,” he said with a slight snarl in his voice. “You make us late to almost every function.”

She concealed an exasperated sigh behind her hand. Nothing she could say would appease him. If she was lucky, the show’s humor would defuse the tension. If it didn’t, and he was still as unpleasant after the show, she would insist he take her home and not out to dinner. Walking on eggshells around him made for very tender feet.

Since Gordon wasn’t speaking to her, she surveyed the theatre and compared the architecture with the present-day theatre. The Presidential box, built into the proscenium arch, was draped with American flags and a portrait of George Washington. Charlotte’s mother had held several Senate campaign fundraisers in the twenty-first century Ford’s Theatre. Looking at the interior now, Charlotte was amazed at how accurately the building had been restored.

Gordon tapped her arm. “The show’s starting.”

The gaslights were turned down, the orchestra began to play, and Charlotte settled in for the performance. Then, moments after the music began, the conductor abruptly stopped. The crowd seemed to be poised, electric, waiting.