The Topaz Brooch

by Katherine Lowry Logan

  19

  New Orleans (1814)—Sophia

  Marguerite locked the door and flipped the sign from OPEN to CLOSED. After Pete nodded his satisfaction, he crossed the street and returned to the parade grounds. Sophia watched him until he disappeared around a corner.

  He never looked back.

  He trusted her to do what she said she’d do, and she was determined not to disappoint him. Future adventures would depend on how this one played out. She had several trips she wanted to take, and while the clan never used the brooches for summer holidays, she had. If this one went well, she could pencil in a trip back to Vienna in the early 1900s to commission a portrait by Gustav Klimt, and there were dozens of other artists she wanted to visit: Rembrandt, Vermeer, Mucha, and others. But there wasn’t time to visit them all, and she had to limit herself to the artists who had influenced her art the most.

  When she mentioned a possible trip to Elliott, he’d listened calmly, then said no. But now, with so much at stake, she’d give New Orleans a Broadway-worthy performance and play to an audience of one—Pete Parrino. Maybe an audience of three. Rick and Remy both had Elliott’s ear. Not that Pete didn’t, but they seemed to have a closer connection.

  And then there was JL, Elliott’s daughter-in-law. Those two were so much alike they disagreed on everything from eggs to apples just to be disagreeable. And most of the time, there was no daylight between them. Their bond, though, was unbreakable. If Sophia could convince JL a holiday adventure would be worthwhile, Sophia could not only pencil in a trip, but write it in ink.

  But that was a problem for later.

  Marguerite busied herself, turning down the oil lamps, leaving the room in a smoky glow. “Your husband openly displays his affection for you.”

  Sophia smiled. Pete had never shied away from public displays of affection, not when they were teenagers, and not now, as parents. He wanted the whole world to know he got the girl. “He’s Italian. He emotes, usually with wild hand gestures.”

  “I saw you with him on the beach that day in New York. You were playing in the water like happy children, and when you came home, you were crying. You were never that way with Mr. Jefferson.”

  Sophia picked through silk fabric swatches on the table, selecting ones in her color palette while she considered her response. “I never loved Thomas the way I love Pete.” She angled her face toward Marguerite. “You never mentioned you saw us. Why not?”

  Marguerite pulled out more swatches in shades of brown, deep blue, and cardinal red. “Since you never mentioned him again, I didn’t either.”

  Sophia held each swatch first against her hand, then her cheek. The ones they liked went into one pile, the discards into another. They fell back into their routine for selecting fabrics for Sophia’s wardrobe as if they’d never missed a day.

  Sophia picked through a collection of linen swatches, and she and Marguerite went through the same hand to cheek test until there were a dozen silk and linen swatches in the approved pile.

  “I thought my destiny and Thomas’s were connected, but I was wrong.”

  Marguerite put the approved swatches in a small basket, jotted down Sophia’s name on a piece of paper, and added it to the basket. “But he adored you, Miss Sophia. Why would he let you go?”

  In the twenty-five years since Sophia last saw her, Marguerite had matured and become a very successful fashion designer and entrepreneur. She was no longer the malleable young woman Sophia remembered.

  “Well, we…uh…we saw life differently, and our differences mattered more than I thought they would.”

  “I don’t understand what possible differences could have caused him to send you away. Unless you told Mr. Jefferson about your husband.”

  “Not specifically.”

  Marguerite shook her head and tsked. “I still don’t understand. But I’m sure he had his reasons. Mr. Jefferson never did anything without considerable thought.”

  Usually, that was true.

  “Why don’t we sit in the courtyard?” Marguerite suggested. “We’ll more easily hear the bell when your husband arrives.”

  Marguerite led the way through the sewing room, where she picked up two chair cushions and a towel, then led the way out the back door to the courtyard. Sophia closed the door behind her and took in the grand view of the secluded patio, fragrant with tropical flowers still in bloom. The ivy dangled in festoons down to the cobblestones. Marguerite’s style was evident in the way she’d artfully arranged the flowerpots among pieces of wrought iron furniture.

  “This is beautiful, Marguerite.” Sophia spread her arms to encompass the courtyard. “And it’s all yours.”

  Marguerite, holding the chair cushions in her arms, cocked her head to the side. “And it includes the residence next door.”

  Sophia glanced over at the two-story building. The exterior was drab and stained with rain and fungus, similar to the neighboring houses, but if Marguerite’s home was anything like her shop, the interior had to be a gem, tastefully and richly furnished. She had missed Marguerite’s climb to the top, but she wasn’t at all surprised Marguerite made it there.

  Marguerite dried off two chairs in the sitting area under the second-floor balcony and tied chair cushions to the seats. “These cushions are my best-selling non-clothing items. After I made that cushion for the stool you used in your studio in Paris, I altered the pattern, and now I make them in all shapes and sizes.”

  Sophia moved the two chairs around to catch the amber-colored sun when it peeked from behind a scrim of dirty clouds. “I didn’t have time to pack and had to leave my cushion behind, along with most of my sketches.”

  “Mr. Jefferson invited me to go through your drawings and pick out several I’d like to have. Did you notice the painting of Polly set into the back of the settee?”

  “I did, but I couldn’t imagine how it got there, and I didn’t want to ask.”

  Marguerite’s cheeks flushed. “I hope you’re not offended that I gave your sketch to another artist to paint.”

  Sophia had abandoned her sketches. Did she have a right to complain if an artist painted one of them? “Copying other works of art educates artists in the basics of drawing. That’s how I learned.” But Sophia never copied an artist’s unfinished work and then took credit for it.

  “After Polly died, I wanted a painting of her,” Marguerite said. “So I commissioned an artist to paint her portrait for the settee. The artist was reluctant, but I told her you were dead and wouldn’t mind. She said, based on the sketch, that your painting of Polly would be much better than hers.”

  “The artist used my sketch only as a guide and gave it her interpretation. So who was the artist?”

  “Sarah Goodridge. She paints portrait miniatures.”

  “Goodridge, huh? I might be confusing her with her sister Elizabeth, but I think Sarah studied with Gilbert Stuart. She may be mostly self-taught, but she’s a talented portraitist. She painted a miniature self-portrait of her bared breasts in watercolors and gave it to statesman Daniel Webster, hoping he’d marry her.”

  Marguerite gasped. “How décadente. Did Mr. Webster marry her?”

  Sophia gave a little snort-laugh. “No, he married someone else.”

  “She should have kept herself covered and piqued his interest with a good wine instead,” Marguerite deadpanned.

  That made Sophia laugh even harder. “Oh, my. Marguerite, I have missed you.”

  “As I have you. Painting Polly’s portrait was more about you than it was about Polly. It was memorializing your feelings for her. In that one small painting, I was able to keep you both close.”

  Sophia sat back in her chair and sighed. It was good to be here. In a way, it lessened the pain of her abrupt separation from Thomas, his daughters, and Marguerite.

  “I did a painting of you sewing a dress in the New York City studio. The sun is streaming through the window, highlighting the rich auburn in your hair. It’s my favorite painting from our time in New York Ci
ty.”

  Marguerite smiled, patting the curls framing her face. “There’s more gray than auburn now.”

  “You’re still beautiful.”

  Marguerite chewed on her lip, then said, “You told me to accept compliments and constructive criticism with an open mind and to seek improvement. You don’t waste your compliments. If you say something, it’s the truth, so thank you. I’ve taken care of my skin and my teeth the way you taught me.”

  Sophia groaned internally. Marguerite would never forgive her for all the lies she’d told.

  “In the box full of sketches I examined in Mr. Jefferson’s office, I found two self-portraits of you sitting on your stool while painting his portrait. I took one of those and had it framed. It’s in my bedroom and the last thing I see every night. You look the same today. Nothing has changed about you.”

  The touch of sorrow in Marguerite’s tone hammered every guilty nerve in Sophia’s body. A confession hung on the tip of her tongue, but until she discussed it with Pete, she couldn’t tell Marguerite the truth. It wasn’t that she needed his approval, but if she confessed to Marguerite, Sophia would want to give her friend the option of going to the future to live. Sophia wouldn’t do that without Pete’s agreement.

  “Everything has changed for me,” Sophia said. “It just doesn’t show on my face. I’m part owner of a winery in Tuscany, a member of a large, extended family, a mother, and I’m married to the love of my life—my soul mate.”

  “Isn’t that what you told me Mr. MacKlenna called Mr. Jefferson? Your soul mate?”

  “He did. And here’s the thing about soul mates…at least what I’ve come to understand. There isn’t one person I’m fated to love. My soul mate mirrors me. He’s an extension of my heart, and he awakens my soul. He’s seen me at my best and loved me at my worst. So, Mr. MacKlenna was right. Thomas was my soul mate. He was my love, my guiding light—”

  “But he’s not your soul mate now?”

  “He is not, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still love him. It just means that special bond we had no longer exists.”

  It was broken that night under the willow oak tree and drowned in the James River.

  Marguerite patted Sophia’s hand. “I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

  “It’s not sadness. I have bittersweet memories of Thomas. As the years go by, the regret diminishes, and the sweetness expands.”

  “That’s as it should be, ma chérie.”

  Sophia retrieved a sketchpad and tin of pencils from her bag and flipped to a clean sheet.

  “Do you have sketches of your son?” Marguerite asked.

  Sophia smiled. “If I didn’t, I would draw one for you.” She flipped back through several pages and found one she drew the day before, while FaceTiming with him. She turned the pad around to introduce Marguerite to her son. “This is Lukas. He’s such a joy, and he loves to draw. He asks for his pencils the first thing every morning.”

  Marguerite looked at the picture, but there was a curious emphasis in her tone when she said, “Why…he’s so little. I expected you to have a young man after all this time.”

  “I…uh…didn’t get pregnant right away. We thought we’d never have a child and then…” Sophia snapped her fingers. “It happened.”

  Marguerite studied the sketch. “He has your eyes, your smile, and his father’s nose and mouth. Where is he now?”

  “At home. Pete’s mother is caring for him.”

  “In Italy?”

  It wouldn’t make sense to tell Marguerite that Lukas was in Kentucky, so she answered indirectly. “We have a small vineyard in Tuscany, and I still have my studio in Florence. We travel a lot around Europe and America, and I paint wherever I go.”

  “Is that why you’re here? To paint?”

  Painting portraits was a safer topic. “I’m hoping to get an appointment with General Jackson. I know he’s busy, but I’d like to paint his portrait. I could draw several sketches to work from if he’d let me follow him around for a few days.”

  If she could paint Jackson, the governor, the pirate Lafitte, and a few battle scenes, she could create a Battle of New Orleans exhibition when she returned home.

  “We’re also looking for a friend. Her name is Wilhelmina Penelope Malone.” Sophia flipped through a few more pages until she found one of the sketches of Billie. “Here’s a picture of her.”

  Marguerite looked closely at the drawing. “How long has she been in New Orleans?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe only a few days.”

  “Sooner or later, almost all of the ladies in New Orleans come here for a new dress.”

  Sophia flipped through a few more pages. “We’re also looking for these two people: Mr. and Mrs. Fontenot.”

  Marguerite tapped a fingernail on the paper. “I know them. Mrs. Fontenot calls herself a textile designer and weaver. She makes the most exquisite fabrics, but she’s ill. I haven’t seen her for a few weeks.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Do you know what’s wrong with her?”

  Marguerite shook her head. “No one has said anything.”

  “What about her husband?”

  “Mr. Fontenot owns a shipping company, but I heard he’s working for General Jackson now.”

  If she found Marguerite and the Fontenots, how hard would it be to find Billie? And as soon as they did, they’d go home, and she’d never get any sketches of Jackson and the battle. She had to tell Pete, of course, but did she have to confess right away?

  “What’s on your mind, Miss Sophia? You’re worried about something.”

  “You were always able to read me.” She put her pencils away and closed the sketchpad. “Will you please call me Sophia? You don’t work for me now. Will you do that?”

  Marguerite’s brows furrowed. “I don’t know, but I’ll try.”

  “Good. Now we have that settled, can you recommend a hotel? Preferably one that’s a step up from the hotel in Norfolk.”

  “Oh, my. If those guests hadn’t given up their rooms, I don’t know where Mr. Jefferson would have taken us. But there’s no need for a hotel. I have plenty of room in my home.”

  “I don’t want to impose. And besides, we have two single men traveling with us.”

  “The hotels are all crowded with the general’s officers. You must stay here. I have an apartment over the shop, which is where I lived before I bought the house next door. Your traveling companions can stay there, but I’d like you and your husband to stay at my home.”

  “Are you sure we won’t be putting you out?”

  Marguerite waved away Sophia’s concern, and then refilled the brandy glasses. “Everything I have is because you believed in me.”

  Sophia tipped her glass to Marguerite’s. “To a Happy New Year in New Orleans with my dear friend.”

  Marguerite took a sip and put her glass aside. “What else can I tell you about the city? Is there anyone else you want to paint other than the general?”

  “Jean Lafitte. Do you know anyone who can introduce me?”

  Marguerite stared in open-mouthed shock. “Absolument pas. Mr. Lafitte is a privateer. I would never agree to let you meet with such a man. And your husband would forbid it.”

  Sophia fell silent. Marguerite’s sharp tone and admonition caused Sophia’s heart to whap against her ribs. Kaboom! It took a moment for her to regroup and figure out how to respond.

  “Forbid is a rather strong word, Marguerite. Pete wouldn’t be happy, that’s for sure, but he would never forbid me to do anything. If I take a bodyguard to the meeting, Pete can’t object. All I need is an hour with Lafitte.”

  Marguerite set her mouth in a straight line, crossed her arms, and shook her head. “No. Not even for one hour. Lafitte is dangerous, and his men are barbarians. A woman’s virtue is not safe around them.”

  Frustration wrapped its ugly hand around Sophia’s neck and squeezed until she almost couldn’t breathe. “For Heaven’s sake, Marguerite! I just want to paint him.” Sophia took a deep br
eath. “Surely, Lafitte can refrain from shooting someone long enough for me to do that.”

  Marguerite huffed. “Do you remember what happened when you ignored common sense and Mr. Jefferson back in Paris so you could take Polly and Patsy shopping, and you almost ended up at the mob’s mercy again or drowned in the Seine?

  “But no, I can see your backbone has only gotten stiffer.” Marguerite sighed. “If I don’t make arrangements, you will make your own, and I won’t be there to protect you.”

  “I don’t need your protection Marguerite, just your help.”

  “Then I might know someone with a connection. But you have to keep it between us. The governor is offering a five-hundred-dollar reward for Lafitte’s capture.”

  Sophia barked a laugh. “From what I hear, the Governor is at a greater risk of being taken to Grande Terre and tried for his life than Lafitte is of being punished for his crimes.”

  Marguerite’s mouth turned up into a mischievous smile. “If it was up to the citizens of New Orleans, Lafitte could come and go as he pleases, but the government wants him arrested. And, right now, the city is under martial law. Everyone coming in has to report to the Adjutant-General’s office, or they’ll be arrested. No one can leave without a passport, and no boats can leave the harbor.”

  “That makes it difficult for your partner. How does he get in and out of the city?” Sophia asked.

  “He has his ways. But if you’re found in the streets at night without a pass, you’ll be apprehended as a spy and held for interrogation.”

  “That’s understandable. The British are on the way here. I’ll send Pete this afternoon to the Adjutant-General’s office to get our passes. Then I’m going to call on the general.”

  “You won’t find him as accommodating as Mr. Jefferson.”

  “If I tell the general I sketched Thomas Jefferson’s meetings while he was the Ambassador to France and later during his tenure as Secretary of State, Jackson might let me draw sketches of him to send to President Madison. The president knows me and my work and will find the drawings helpful.”