The Sapphire Brooch (The Celtic Brooch Trilogy Book 2) (60 page)

He grabbed his trousers off the back of a chair, shoving his legs into them.

“I’ve given you my heart, in spite of knowing it will break.” She placed the sapphire on the table and closed her burning eyes. Her breath seemed to run out of her forever, like a final sigh.

67

Washington City, April 14, 1865

B
raham balanced on
the rear legs of a straight-back chair in John Nicolay’s White House office, reading newspaper reports of the surrender at Appomattox. If the meeting between Lee and Grant had taken place earlier in the week, he would have attended, but he couldn’t risk being out of town tonight.

Lincoln entered the office holding a sheaf of paper, looking bemused. He appeared neatly combed, a marked contrast to his usual rumpled appearance. The legs of Braham’s chair dropped to the floor with a loud thump, and he quickly came to his feet, straightening his coat.

“Come with me to the War Department,” Lincoln said, seemingly cheerful for the first time in many months.

Braham folded the newspaper and dropped it on the seat of the chair. “Yes, sir.”

They walked out into the hall, empty of the day’s crowd, where Braham picked up his slouch hat and gauntlets from a table near Nicolay’s door. “I thought you promised Marshal Lamon you wouldn’t go out at night while he was out of town.”

A guard armed with a revolver, one of the four members of the President’s security detail, followed close behind. Lincoln adjusted his top hat and shuffled along toward the War Department. “My reply was evasive. I’ve gone to the War Department every night for the last four years.”

“Lamon’s concern was not your nightly trips to the War Department. It’s going to the theatre that concerns all of us. When you’re moving, you’re not a sitting target. Although, wearing the stovepipe, you do stick out in a crowd.” The corners of Braham’s mouth twitched to contain a smile.

He held the door as they emerged into a promise of spring in the air. The temperature had already teased the blooms in the dogwood trees, and young leaves rustled a serenade in the breeze. Occasional fireworks lit up the sky over a populace who had grown accustomed to streaks of canon fire. Braham walked on one side of Lincoln, the guard on the other.

The President put his arm around Braham’s shoulders, and while Lincoln’s careworn face revealed nothing, he took a deep, shuddering breath before saying, “I had a dream of a corpse the other night. The sound of people sobbing drew me from my bed. I asked who was dead in the White House and a soldier said, ‘The President. He was killed by an assassin.’ I didn’t sleep the rest of the night.”

Dread coalesced into a cold snake running down Braham’s backbone to coil in his gut. He halted and turned to Lincoln. “Stay home, sir. An attempt will likely be made on your life tonight, tomorrow, or the next day. There are more people out there like Count Adam Gurowski making caustic comments about your policies, and some are actively conspiring to kill you.” He stared helplessly into the President’s dark eyes. How could he convince Lincoln his life was truly in danger without coming right out and telling him John Wilkes Booth would assassinate him at Ford’s Theatre in only a few hours? Braham had to prevent the shooting, but short of locking up the President for the night, how could he? “If you insist on going, I’ll stand outside the theatre box and guard the door.”

“I have a guard, and I believe the Mallorys are still visiting. Go home to your company. Enjoy the celebrations.”

“The Mallorys will not be offended by my absence if they know I’m protecting you.”

The skin at the corner of Lincoln’s mouth wrinkled with a smile. “I have seen Doctor Mallory’s eyes following you. I would not like to displease her more than I have already.”

“She’s not displeased.”

Lincoln gave no more than a brief snort in reply. Then he took Braham’s hand, clasped it, and continued his slow, ambling gait. “This is a critical time, Braham. I don’t want the country to know it’s necessary to protect the President from assassination. It’s unwise to admit a lack of confidence in the people. I have a twenty-four hour guard.” Lincoln gestured by nodding his head toward the much shorter plainclothes officer at his side. “Tonight I must go to the theatre. The papers today announced both General Grant and I would see
Our American Cousin
. I cannot disappoint the public.”

A sudden rush of fear and helplessness staggered Braham. He couldn’t rid his mind of the photographs he had seen while in the twenty-first century of Ford’s Theater and William Petersen’s house. Lincoln needed to understand the depth of Braham’s worry and concern. “If Grant had given you a plain refusal yesterday or early this morning, you would have been able to cancel without as much disappointment. I understand. But, I promise you, the public will be far more upset if you’re assassinated at the theatre.”

Lincoln smiled at Braham with what looked like an attempt at confident reassurance. “You cannot escape the responsibility of tomorrow by evading it today.”

A trickle of sweat ran down the back of Braham’s neck, under the queue tied at his nape. “But, sir—”

Lincoln held up his hand to silence further argument, and while there was sympathy in his eyes, there was determination, too. For Lincoln, the matter was closed, but it would not vanish like a vapor, it would manifest into extreme anxiety for Braham. A free fall of perspiration trailed down his back.

They continued in silence until they reached the War Department. “What’d you decide about arresting Jacob Thompson?” Braham asked.

“I told Assistant Secretary Dana, when you’ve got an elephant by the hind leg, and he’s trying to run away, it’s best to let him run.”

“Guess it means the Confederate marauder is going to escape to England.”

The President merely lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Secretary Stanton wasn’t pleased with my decision.”

The guard reached the entrance to the War Department first and held the door for Lincoln and Braham. The President went immediately to the telegraph desk to check for messages from General Sherman, and afterward remained there with one hand on his hip, his lips pursed, reading the telegrams.

“Sherman is occupying Raleigh. It’s only a matter of time before he meets with Johnston and negotiates a surrender.”

Braham gave the President’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “It’s almost over.”

After Lincoln had read the telegrams, he and Braham returned to the White House, strolling past the gaslights glittering on the surrounding evergreens and the flags. Lincoln remained lost in thought as he shuffled back to his office, where he met with Illinois Governor Richard Oglesby and a group of friends. Braham remained outside the President’s door, listening to stories and laughter, but his mind was so fixed on what was about to happen, he couldn’t enjoy Lincoln’s obvious pleasure.

Braham sat with his head bowed and propped on his hand. His fingers were splayed through his hair, massaging his forehead as he slowly rotated his head back and forth.

“Never seen you so worried, Major,” Nicolay said. “Does it have anything to do with the rumors I’ve heard about you being seen several times this week in the company of a beautiful woman?” Nicolay leaned forward, wearing an expression of amused bewilderment. He lowered his voice. “I’ve also heard tell she’s the doctor the President sent to Richmond to rescue you from Chimborazo.”

Braham moved his powerful shoulders in a partial shrug, and he flashed Nicolay a ghost of a grin. “Don’t believe everything you hear, John.”

Braham leaned his chair back against the wall as he had earlier and closed his eyes. He didn’t move when the President’s company departed and Lincoln left to join his family for dinner. Knowing the President was safe for the time being, Braham nodded off.

A gentle touch on his shoulder startled him out of a light sleep. He blinked several times as Charlotte’s wavy image took form and shape.

“What a surprise.” He rose slowly from the chair, still stiff and achy from his Richmond ordeal, and very little rest since returning to Washington. He and Charlotte had made love all night for the last three nights, so he certainly wasn’t complaining about his lack of sleep.

A flush appeared on her cheeks. “I’m sorry to wake you.”

He stretched, yawning. “The President went to dinner with his family, and I dozed off. I’m glad to see you.”

“I didn’t mean to disturb you. I know you’re tired.”

He was certainly glad to see her, but he sensed immediately she wasn’t paying a social call. The visit had to be her last plea. Throughout the week they had skirted around and outright avoided any discussion of Lincoln. But, by some unspoken yet mutual consent, the subject had lurked still, dull and gray and ominous.

“Let’s go out into the hall. There’s a corner where we can have some privacy,” he said.

They left the office for a quiet alcove. Their mingled shadows floated together on the wall. Braham pulled her into his arms, pausing to appreciate the fragrance of vanilla from lotion she used on her face. A distinct scent he would forever associate with her. As if under a spell, his eyes were drawn to her lips, parted and full, and the sound of her breathing filled him with desire. He kissed her hard and thoroughly, his tongue teasing hers. The kiss had lasted only a few seconds before she stepped away, ending it abruptly and decisively.

She chewed on the corner of her lip, looking as if she wanted to say something, but she wasn’t sure what or if she should. Finally, she said, “Jack and I are leaving in the morning, regardless of what happens tonight. I’ll ask you one more time. Please don’t interfere.”

“How can you ask that of me? You’ve sat at his knee and hung on his every word. The country needs him desperately. I don’t care about the future. I care about right now.”

Charlotte’s breath hitched. She shook her head, and her unbound gold hair released the faint scent of amber and vanilla. She turned to leave, but he grabbed her arm. The area was quiet, except for the gentle crack of settling timber in the fireplace in the President’s nearby office.

He tried to slow his breathing and stop the racing of his heart. He loved her, but she didn’t understand that, to him, Abraham Lincoln wasn’t a marble statue. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

“I don’t think there is another meaning. But tell me this, if you stop Booth tonight, what will you do tomorrow, or the next day? The President wants you to chase down the gold. Are you going to stay and guard him for the rest of his term? If you take out Booth, someone else will come along with the same hatred.”

Someone behind Braham cleared his throat and said, “Excuse me, Major.”

Braham turned on his heels, quick as a panther, to find Nicolay several feet away holding out an envelope with a shaking hand. “Yes, what is it, John?”

“The President would like you to deliver this to Secretary Seward.”

Braham backed away from Charlotte and took the envelope, giving it a cursory glance. He made a rough noise in his throat. His jaw muscles bulged, his limbs trembled, but he kept his temper in check. He didn’t want to leave the White House unless it was to guard the President, but he couldn’t explain why to Nicolay. He paused for a moment, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, as though to rid himself a lingering rancid taste.

“Why me?” Braham asked.

Nicolay flinched slightly at this; his lips compressed. “You were with him at the War Department this evening and can answer the Secretary’s questions, if he has any.”

Braham frowned, contriving to look menacing as he once again gathered his hat and gauntlets from the table. “Don’t let the President leave for the theatre until I return.”

“I’ll ask him, but I can’t make any guarantees,” Nicolay said.

The color had left Charlotte’s face, and she stared at Braham with a glint in the dark blue of her eyes, watching intently, brow creasing with new worry. “Lewis Powell will try to murder Seward tonight,” she told him quietly. Tiny pinpoints of perspiration glistened on her forehead, reflected by the light of the hall sconces. “Be careful.”

Braham’s narrow-eyed glance roamed hungrily over her slender form. How could he still desire her with such intensity? He had taken her several times during the night and again early this morning. If they were in his bedroom, he would have her once again. He swallowed, worked his jaw, and finally with effort asked, “How’d you get here?”

“I walked. I’m only across the street. Go on.”

“I’ll go with you to the corner.”

They reached the front door of the White House and a soldier jogged up to meet them, wearing an urgent expression on his flushed face. He took a moment to catch his breath, and then said, “Major, Secretary Stanton wants to see you right now, sir.”

“I’m on my way to Secretary Seward’s house. I’ll stop on the way,” Braham said.

The soldier saluted then ran back across the lawn, holding his hat firmly to his head.

Charlotte and Braham walked in silence side by side, barely touching. Her satin skirt swished about her legs, and the breeze blew tendrils of hair around her face. There was a small love bite on her neck where the muscle curved into the shoulder. The memory of morning light on her face, her lips, and nibbling on the silky flesh made him feel a bit wistful and reflective, in spite of his fears for Lincoln.