The Sapphire Brooch (The Celtic Brooch Trilogy Book 2) (63 page)

The six-inch gash on his forehead was still oozing blood, but it was a bruise on the side of his head which made her recheck her pocket for the brooch. The impact was close to the site of his previous head trauma, which she suspected to be the cause of his frequent headaches. She opened each eyelid and brought a candle close. The pupils reacted. Good.

“How is he?” Jack’s voice was jittery with worry and concern.

“He’s stable. Heart and lungs seem okay. He’s lost a fair amount of blood, but not enough to be life-threatening. I can’t tell yet how much damage has been done to his shoulder, and he could well have a concussion.”

“What can I do?” Jack asked.

“I need light, then hold him down. I’m going to examine his shoulder wound for deep bleeders, and then sew up the shoulder and facial lacerations. If he wakes up, he’s not going to like the pain I’ll be causing him.”

While Charlotte organized her surgery table, Edward set an armload of logs onto the brass dolphin andirons and stirred the glowing embers until the fire roared to life, bringing light and heat to the room. He hurriedly lit every candle he could find to supplement the light from the gas lit chandelier.

Charlotte sterilized the instruments and a small tray in a pot of water a house servant set on the fire.

“I need a bottle of whiskey,” she said.

Jack grabbed a bottle and handed it to her. “Can’t you wait until you fix him before you start drinking?”

“Remind me to laugh later. Now pour some over my hands and the wounds. I don’t want to touch the bottle.” She checked her instruments, which were cooling on the tray, needle and thread, the position of the lights, and Braham’s blood pressure. “Hold the candle close.”

Jack moved to the head of the table, holding the light.

Her examination of the shoulder injury revealed a three-centimeter puncture wound. “There’re a couple of little vessels I need to tie off. There may be some functional damage, but I can’t evaluate it right now. If he’s lucky, his shoulder will heal with reasonable function. As soon as I close this, I’ll work on his forehead.”

Braham woke briefly in an agitated state. Charlotte hit a tender area, and he flung out his free arm, then passed out again. She talked to him to determine his level of cerebral function, but he only responded to pain.

“Do you need anything else, Miss Charlotte? Will the major recover?”

“Grab some pillows and blankets and put on a pot of coffee. And, yes, he’ll recover. The major’s like a cat, and he still has a few more lives left in him.

Edward left the room and returned shortly with a stack of linens. Following on his heels, was one of the kitchen servants carrying in a tray of food and a carafe of steaming coffee. She set the tray on the sideboard with cups, plates, and silverware.

“A buffet in the operating room. A luxury I could get used to,” Charlotte said.

An hour later, she had cleaned and tied off all the little bleeders she could find, and closed his wounds. The head wound had been more tedious to repair. It was a clean cut, but long and down to the bone. She had closed it in layers. Because the repair would be forever visible, she had taken care with each stitch.

Braham had barely stirred while she worked on his head, and it concerned her. To see if he would respond to pain, but with some reluctance, she pushed on his shoulder wound. He moaned and opened his eyes for a second.

“How’d this happen? Do you know?” she asked.

“No.” Jack shook his head, looking sober. “I found him on the steps up to the Petersens’ house with his saber in his hand, as if he was guarding the door. He was barely conscious.”

“I saw him earlier this evening. He was on his way to the War Department and then to Seward’s house. I bet he was knifed trying to protect the Secretary.” She cut the last thread and set aside the needle.

“Nice job,” Jack said. “You worked the old scar into the new one.”

“I guess the assailant skimmed the knife across his forehead, then straight down into his shoulder.” She had read the report of what happened at the Secretary’s house in the history books. It had been a bloodbath. Had Braham’s appearance changed the outcome? He shouldn’t have been there, because he should have died at Chimborazo. Maybe the Secretary’s injuries weren’t as bad as they would have been.

“Let’s try to get him to sit up and open his eyes. See if he can swallow a sip of water. If he can, I need you to get the mortar and pestle from my bag and crush two Keflex and two Aleve. We’ll have him swallow the drugs mixed with a bit of water.”

“Is he going to be okay?” Jack asked.

“He’s been on an antibiotic since Richmond, so he shouldn’t get an infection. If his brain recovers, yes, he’ll be okay.”

“Does this mean you plan to stay for a while?”

“Only until I’m sure he’s on the mend. I have to get back. I have a medical practice which might disappear if I stay away much longer. Let’s see how he is in a couple of days.”

With Jack’s help, they brought him to a sitting position. Braham grimaced, and his eyelids fluttered. She brought a glass to his mouth and tipped in some water. “Braham, swallow.” He did, and the action warmed the chill in the pit of her stomach, but only by a degree or two.

“Get the mortar and pestle and start crushing,” she said.

Jack dug the ceramic bowl out of her bag, dropped in the pills, and used the pestle to crush the medicine into powder. “He’s been shot, tortured, caught in a fire, and now stabbed. His body can’t take much more.”

He’d also had several sleepless nights in bed with her. “Occasionally people who suffer concussions lose their memories. This memory might be a good one to lose. Will you check the newspapers tomorrow and see what you can find out?”

Before laying Braham back down, they gave him the medicine mixed with a sip of water. Then, very carefully, they shifted him to pad the table for comfort and elevated his head on goose down pillows to decrease the intracranial pressure. He groaned but didn’t open his eyes again.

“I’ll sit up with him. Why don’t you go rest?” Jack said.

“No. These first few hours are critical. I want to be close by to check his level of consciousness hourly.” She shrugged against an almost staggering feeling of helplessness. “There isn’t much I can do if he starts to deteriorate.”

“If it happens, I won’t object to you taking him to the hospital.”

“It might be too late.”

Jack screwed up his nose as he peered intently into Braham’s face. “He doesn’t want to go.”

She unfolded a quilt and pulled it up over Braham, tugging it to his chin. Had she done everything she could for him? She rubbed a finger between her brows, mentally rewinding the tape of the last hour, then playing it again. Yes, she had. Satisfied, she straightened the creases in the blanket, tucking it neatly under his sides. “Let’s see how he does over the next hour.”

“Do you want me to move a sofa in here so you can stretch out?” Jack asked.

“It would be more comfortable, thanks.” She blew out the extra candles and turned down the gaslights. In the dimness Braham was no more than a dark shape on the table, his breathing slow and hoarse.

Edward and Jack pulled the sofa into the dining room. With cups of coffee in hand, she and Jack eased back against the cushions as quiet descended into the room.

After several minutes, Jack said, “He’s a fine man.”

“Fine and stubborn.”

Jack tilted his head to one side, eyes narrowing. “You’re in love in with him, and he’s in love with you, but you won’t stay, and he won’t leave.”

“It’s hard to imagine never seeing him again.”

“After all you’ve been through,” Jack said.

“I’d rather not dwell on it. Let’s get him well first.”

They sat there listening to Braham’s breathing and the crackling fire.

Jack interrupted the silence by clearing his throat. His voice shook slightly when he said, “It was horrible.”

Sleep was encroaching on her consciousness, but she heard him speak and jerked upright, shaking herself hard. “What?”

“What happened at the theatre was horrible.”

She reached for him, and his arm was tense beneath her hand. He shied away, not wanting to be touched.

“I never imagined it would be…well, like that. I was focused on the play, waiting for the lines Booth believed would produce the most uproarious laughter from the audience and cover the noise of the shot.
‘Don’t know the manners of good society, eh? Wal, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal…’

“When I heard the lines spoken from the stage, something clicked inside me, and I had what I could only describe as an out of body experience. I was there, but I wasn’t.”

Jack turned away from her, and his eyes fixed somewhere beyond the room, inward probably, where he wouldn’t have to share his thoughts or emotions with her. Tonight she wouldn’t intrude, would simply give him room to say what he needed to say. She didn’t move except to breathe more deeply and hide her knotted fists within the folds of her skirt.

“Lincoln never knew what happened to him. His head dropped forward; his chin hit his chest, and he sagged against the upholstered rocking chair. It didn’t sound anything like twenty-first century gunfire. It was more of a
poof
that echoed to the ceiling, and to the stage, and then reverberated through the theatre. No one moved. People weren’t sure at first whether it was part of the production, or a celebration, or what.

“Major Rathbone was the first to realize something was wrong. I was sitting close by and had been watching for his reaction. He glanced up, so did I. The smoke from the pistol swirled in front of the gaslights, and gave the crimson upholstery and wallpaper in the box a devilish glow. Booth looked like a demon. His face seemed ghostly against the black of his clothes and hair and moustache. In his right hand he brandished a big knife—bright as a diamond in the stage lights—as he leaped from the box onto the stage.

“I was the only person there who had read the script and knew the storyline. It all happened as history recorded, and everyone played their roles perfectly.” Jack’s voice fell to an anguished whisper. “Only it wasn’t a play. It was real…and the bastard killed one of greatest and finest men who ever lived.”

Jack bunched his fists up so tightly they turned white, and the veins throbbed from fingertips to forearm. His eyes closed for a moment to keep her from seeing in too far.

“What happened then?” she asked.

“From the moment of the gunshot to Booth vanishing into the wings, no one in the audience moved. Some gasped; others thought it was part of the play. Major Rathbone shouted,
‘Will no one stop that man?’
and then the actress Clara Harris cried out,
‘He has shot the President.’

“Then fifteen hundred people went wild. Some men climbed up on the stage; women fainted, and half-crazed voices shouted to kill the murderer, but by then Booth had left the building.”

Jack paused, drinking his coffee.

“What’d you do then? How’d you find Braham?”

Jack looked at her; his eyes searched her face, as if her features held important answers. “Panic erupted, and people shoved each other to get out. I stood there, unable to move. Finally I made my way to the lobby and ended up following behind the bearers who carried Lincoln’s body across the street. I kept waiting for the police to rush in and impose order, but they never came. Lincoln almost died in the middle of a dirt street surrounded by a frenzied mob.”

Jack didn’t move; he merely intensified his stare. “It was real, sis. Not a goddamn reenactment, or a movie, but real.”

The anguish on his face made her heart slam against her ribs. She opened her arms, and he fell into them, hugging her tightly. Tears dampened her shoulder as he poured out the fathomless grief of a man who had grown up honoring a marble sculpture until at last he grew to love the man who had inspired it.

Charlotte wasn’t the only one who would bear the emotional scars of this trip back in time. These new wounds would be indelibly etched on the whole of Jack’s being.

70

Washington City, April 15, 1865

C
harlotte reclined on
the sofa next to the dining room table, grateful for the morning sun’s warmth and light, while she reviewed the chart of Braham’s vital signs and medication. She chewed her lower lip as she considered what to do next. During the night, after Jack had fallen asleep, Braham’s agitation had increased, and she hadn’t been able to calm him.

As a last resort, she had climbed up on the table and lain next to him with her hand on his chest keeping track of the rise and fall of each breath. She had kissed his lips, cradled his head against her breasts, smoothed his tousled hair back from his face, and whispered the words of her heart. Words he would never remember, but they had calmed him nonetheless. The warmth of his body seeped through her clothes, dispelling the chill of the night, but not the chill of their upcoming separation.

He had not been fully awake since Jack brought him home hours earlier. He had moaned, and sipped water laced with medication, but he hadn’t fully opened his eyes, or followed basic instructions other than to drink what was offered. She fluffed the pillows and edged smaller ones beneath his neck and back. She yawned, stretching. The night had been very long, and she hadn’t slept.