The Topaz Brooch

by Katherine Lowry Logan

  She rolled in her bottom lip, then nodded. “Mademoiselle sent remnants from your leather pants. I can cut a circle and tie a ribbon through it, and I can make blue dye from red cabbage.”

  “Can you do it now?”

  “Let me get my basket.” Estelle left the room and returned with her sewing basket and a swatch of black leather. She cut a circle, then threaded a black ribbon through it. “I doan know why you want to ruin your face with this. It makes you look like a pirate.”

  Billie laughed. “Good. Because that’s the look I want.”

  Estelle tied the ribbon around Billie’s head and settled the patch over her eye. “You doan look at all like the woman wearing a queen’s jewels.”

  Maybe I can fool the British into believing the woman they met no longer exists.

  Estelle then went to the kitchen to boil red cabbage and returned sometime later with a blue paste. “I doan know how long this will last in your hair.”

  “It doesn’t have to last very long.”

  Estelle used a brush and painted it on Billie’s hair. When it dried, she combed it carefully, framing Billie’s face with ribbons of subtle blue. The color wouldn’t walk into the room before she did, but combined with an eye patch, expertly applied kohl eyeliner, and fitted leather pants with tall boots, she made a bold statement—sort of Gothic biker chick. But Billie usually preferred a more direct, don’t-fuck-with-me statement.

  After praising Estelle’s artistry, Billie returned to the parlor, looking like a fireworks display. Her new attitude was everything. Lafitte and Dominique were continuing their discussion of Jackson and didn’t notice her return, so she sat and swung her black booted foot over the arm of the chair.

  “I’ll share what I have with the general—” Lafitte stopped mid-sentence and gave her his one-eyed look. “The British officers would never recognize you now. Is that your intention?”

  She studied her fingernails, swinging her leg. “It wasn’t originally, but it works, don’t you think?”

  “Your bruises are more noticeable now,” Dominique said in a soft but clipped tone.

  She flicked her blue-ribboned hair, giving them a full view of the handprint bruises on her neck and the side of her face. “I want them to be visible, so I removed the makeup. Wearing the eye patch on the same side as the bruises makes me look fierce.”

  Jean turned away, refilled his glass. “I’d prefer you covered them up, but if that’s the look you want, you’ve achieved it. I probably would have shot you that night instead of turning you over to my men.”

  “Fuck you!” She went back to studying her broken fingernails. “The bruises tell a story, so I won’t have to make something up.”

  Picking up the broken pieces of her mind and welding them back together wasn’t as easy as Billie wanted it to sound. The ogre had traumatized her that night, and she knew the welding was only temporary. Knowing she was still fragile affected her profoundly. But with the help of leather pants, blue hair, and an eye patch, she intended to fake it until she fully kicked ass again.

  “I read a story when I was in school about Jackson and Chief Red Eagle of the Creek Nation. It says a lot about him. Do you want to hear it?”

  “Since you’re into storytelling today, tell us.”

  Jean’s intoxicating accent couldn’t hide his irritation, or maybe guilt, and honestly, she couldn’t resist throwing jabs at him occasionally.

  “I will, as soon as you stop being a bastard.”

  Dominique laughed. “We don’t have that much time. Tell your story, Penny the privateer.”

  She swung her leg, a thin ray of sunshine glinting off her boot. “When Jackson defeated the Creeks at Horseshoe Bend, the chief went directly to him, marched right into his tent. Most commanders would have executed the chief on the spot or held him for a civil trial. But not Jackson. He was impressed with the man’s courage, but he was also anxious to enlist the chief’s service in subduing other Red Sticks. Once that happened, he’d be able to turn his attention to the Gulf Coast region.”

  “Did Jackson keep his word?”

  “He released Red Eagle and sent him on a mission to bring the Indian Wars to an end. The general is a realist and a pragmatist. He desperately needed Red Eagle, so he let him go. Now he needs you for powder, shot, and flints. He needs your crews for the ships, and your men to fire the cannons.”

  “And if I make the offer, he’ll keep his word the way he did with Chief Red Eagle?” Jean asked.

  “He respects courage.” She swung her leg around and pushed to her feet, hands fisted at her waist. “And there’s no lack of it in this room.”

  Okay, Billie was borderline mind-fucked over what was about to go down, and unsure why she was feeling like a cocky rock star playing on the same stage with Jean Lafitte and Andrew Jackson. But it was all part of that faking it until she could kick ass again.

  As if on cue, a knock sounded on the door. “It’s showtime.” Her heart started racing, and her thoughts jumped in for a good run. Break a leg, Penny.

  Lafitte tipped his hat. “Mademoiselle Penny Lafitte, would you do the honors?”

  She removed her plumed hat and gave him an elegant leg, as he had once given her. “Certainement, mon cousin.” And with that, she opened the door.

  “Veuillez entrer, General Jackson.”

  32

  New Orleans (1814)—Sophia

  Sophia followed the general and Mr. Livingston up to Lafitte’s rooms on the second floor of a building on Bourbon Street. She had used up half of her paper supply sketching the two generals, and if this meeting turned out to be as artistically challenging as the previous one, she’d run out of paper long before she ran out of ideas. It had never happened before, so she was operating without a backup plan.

  Well, she could draw on the walls. How would Lafitte feel about a mural: The Dawning of a Partnership by SF Orsini?

  First, though, her pencils needed sharpening. She usually sharpened several at a time with a single-edge razor blade, which was the only way to have control over the quality of her lines. But she didn’t have time. She did have a backup sharpener, but when she sharpened pencils with it, they dulled quickly, and she had to pause to sharpen it again. Drawing was hard enough without working against her materials.

  Where was her usual efficiency?

  “I wouldn’t lead you astray, General,” Mr. Livingston said. “Commander Lafitte can provide the men you need to sail Patterson’s sadly understaffed ships. The USS Louisiana and the USS Carolina are your only two fighting ships, and without men, they’re useless.”

  The heels of the general’s boots clacked against the treads as he climbed the steps. “I have agreed to listen. That is all.”

  Mr. Livingston caught Sophia’s eye, and she smiled. She’d already given the general her opinion of Lafitte, and she’d already learned that saying the same thing over and over irritated him, so she didn’t add her two cents now.

  They reached the second floor, and Livingston knocked. A woman with blue hair, Kohl eyeliner on one eye, an eye patch on the other, and decked out in black leather pants opened the door.

  “Veuillez entrer, General Jackson,” she said in a soft French accent.

  “Merci beaucoup,” Livingston said since Jackson didn’t speak French.

  The woman gave off a Goth style and beauty, but Sophia would get back to her later. Right now, her focus was on the striking man shaking hands with the general. Both men were over six feet, but Lafitte was a decade younger, with a chiseled face and a trim beard only on his chin. Dark, wavy hair fell to the collar of a conservative black fitted jacket. A white linen shirt open to the waist showed off an impressively chiseled body and suntanned skin with a short, light teasing of dark chest hair.

  Lafitte’s six-pack abs made her think immediately of Pete. She tried not to worry about him, but she did—always. There was a war going on, and as much as they both wanted to believe he was still a warrior, it had been years since he was in a combat zone,
and his edge wasn’t as honed.

  She let her breath go and directed her mind back to her subjects, and holding the pencil loose and relaxed in her hand.

  The swarthy man next to Lafitte was several inches shorter and twice as broad, with flashing black eyes. There were burns on the left side of his face, and if she painted him, she wouldn’t ignore the burn scars. After spending so much time with Jacques-Louis David in Paris, Jacques-Louis’s facial abnormalities became invisible to her. She sensed that once you got to know this man, his scars disappeared as well.

  The woman in black leather pants was something else. As many trips as Sophia had made to the past, she’d never seen blue hair. In the future, for sure. Even soccer moms had blue hair, but not in 1814. The woman was ahead of the curve, and striking. But the bruises on her face and neck and the black eye patch gave her an intimidating presence and created an asymmetry to her face.

  She didn’t have an evil vibe, though. If Pete saw the gold-hilted cutlass at her side, he would call the woman a badass babe. Sophia would hold off scrutinizing the BAB more closely until after she sketched the woman’s exotic face.

  She pulled out paper and pencils and started sketching the background, a sparsely furnished parlor, but clean except for the window. A fire crackled in the fireplace. The room was nondescript. Three empty glasses sat on a silver tray next to a decanter. They must have shared a drink while making last-minute preparations for the meeting.

  When Lafitte started introductions, Sophia paid attention.

  He pointed to the shorter man. “General Dominique Youx is an expert artillerist. His skill surpasses the best in the entire British fleet.” Then he pointed to the woman. “My cousin, Captain Penny Lafitte, has many useful skills, but her knowledge of local geography is second only to mine.”

  Captain Penny Lafitte folded her arms and stood with feet slightly apart. The woman was a warrior, an Amazon, and a battle-hardened edge spiked off her. In another time, she’d be tatted on her arms or back, maybe both. Her attitude almost begged someone to try messing with her. Someone had accepted the challenge, and she ended up with bruises and several broken fingernails. What happened to her attacker? Sophia almost chuckled. The man probably had a few broken bones and deep scratches.

  Leather Chick was a badass for sure.

  Sophia turned back to Jackson, hoping to pinpoint the moment Lafitte impressed him, and Jackson jumped on board the Lafitte Fan Club. What would it take? Would it be an offer? Or would it be Lafitte’s presence, which he had in spades—and hearts, too? Or would it be his persistence? Or maybe his commitment to America’s survival?

  “General, you’re outmanned, and the Baratarians want to help. I’ve got a thousand men under my command, and they have a genuine desire to fight the British.”

  That was a good offer. But Jackson’s expression didn’t change, and he folded his arms. Sophia sketched quickly.

  “If you want our help, say the word, and you’ll have the benefit of our expertise, our courage, and our artillery. We can assist with the defenses between Barataria and the city, and I have maps and documents you will find useful.”

  Jackson’s eyes opened wider. Lafitte had his interest now. She picked up a tic at the side of the pirate’s mouth. He knew he had him. So how would he play it?

  “Dominique and Renato Beluche can begin immediately to organize three companies of artillery.”

  Jackson’s stance relaxed, but he kept his arms folded.

  “I can supervise obstructions of the bayous west of the city and direct the transport of arms and ammunition to your headquarters.”

  Jackson unfolded his arms. Bingo!

  “And with Captain Lafitte’s extraordinary knowledge of local geography, she would be an asset to your staff.”

  Jackson glanced at Leather Pants, then back at Lafitte. Sophia couldn’t tell by his quick sweep how interested he was in her, but he didn’t turn his body away, so he was open to what she could offer.

  “I’d like to see your maps,” General Jackson said.

  Lafitte extended his arm. “Shall we go into the other room for refreshments? The maps are spread out on the table.”

  Sophia was the last one to enter the room. She found an inconspicuous spot in the corner, sat in a wingback chair, and quietly sharpened her pencils.

  First, she drew the elements in the room, then narrowed her focus to the two men. They were the most important subjects, and she wanted to get them right.

  When Dominique Youx realized what she was doing, he brought in a small writing desk that fit neatly in her lap, then set a cup of coffee on the table next to her. Sophia was now in her element. She sketched several quick drawings of Lafitte and Jackson poring over maps while Dominique pointed to locations where his artillery companies could be most effective.

  Once she had several good sketches of Lafitte and Jackson, Sophia turned to Leather Pants and sketched her quickly, drawing the shape of her face, her nose with a little bump, probably from a break. The bruises she had now were not from her nose injury. They were handprints and fingerprints. She’d recently been in a fight. How many other bruises did she have that weren’t visible?

  Leather Pants had full, sumptuous lips in a beautifully shaped Cupid’s bow, along with high cheekbones. Her skin, other than the bruises, was flawless. Beneath her hard-ass demeanor, she was model gorgeous.

  The eye patch bothered Sophia, and she wanted to see what the woman looked like without it. She erased it and drew a left eye to match the right, along with a finely arched brow. When the woman’s full face stared back at Sophia, she dropped her pencil on the floor.

  Oh, my God.

  Sophia didn’t dare glance up until the shock heating her face faded away. Had she drawn a face from memory? Or had she drawn Leather Pants accurately? She’d never looked at a subject and sketched someone else before. Why would she do it now?

  She wouldn’t. She only drew what she saw.

  She grabbed the pencil off the floor, opened her journal, and thumbed through the pages to find the sketches she’d done of Billie from pictures on her website. She flipped back and forth, comparing the two women. They were either identical twins born centuries apart or the same woman. But how did she end up with Jean Lafitte, an eyepatch, bruises, and blue hair? Probably the same way Sophia ended up falling into the arms of Thomas Jefferson—her brooch’s wicked sense of humor.

  Good God. What happened to her? And who beat her up?

  Maybe she was a captive. Sophia stopped drawing and watched the woman. She was confident and seemed to be in her element. If she was afraid of Lafitte, she wouldn’t be standing so close to him, close enough to touch his hand, his arm.

  “General, your men need something to shield them,” the woman said.

  Sophia paid attention, hoping answers would reveal themselves in what the woman was about to say.

  “Here’s a suggestion. Your men could dig out the old grass-grown Rodriguez Canal here”—she pointed with a ragged fingernail to a place on the map in front of her—“and throw up the mud to form breastworks.”

  Jackson glanced at Livingston. “I’d have to requisition every shovel, spade, wheelbarrow, and wagon in New Orleans to accomplish that.”

  “If you can declare martial law, you can requisition the implements you need to save the damn city,” Livingston said. “The plantations will have to provide all the labor they can. Then add in some of your soldiers, and you’ll have enough men to do the work.”

  “If Mississippi and Feliciana horsemen patrol the field in front of you and the Carolina keeps up the bombardment, you could extend the barricade from the river to the cypress woods.”

  “That’s not far enough, cousin,” Lafitte said. “The barricade needs to go through the woods and into the swamp. That will keep the enemy from turning the left end of your line, General.

  “In my opinion,” the woman said, with an emphatic finger tapping on the map, “this is where the main battle will take place.”

&nb
sp; “With my cannons and men, it would be an impenetrable line,” Dominique added.

  “If you take empty barrels and sugar casks, line them up at intervals along the canal, and fill the gaps between them with dirt, you’ll have a ten-foot-wide canal protecting your barricade. But you can’t wait. Work has to be started on this immediately,” she said. “And Dominique needs to get his cannons here quickly.”

  Sophia was dying to text Pete an update on what was happening and let him know about Billie, so she reached in her pocket for her phone, but it wasn’t there. She had a moment of panic, believing she’d lost it. Then another moment of panic when she remembered there were no phones or phone service in 1814. She had no way to reach him. He might as well be at home in the twenty-first century.

  Okay. What would Pete do? He’d get Billie—and Sophia was now convinced the woman was Billie—away from Lafitte and Dominique Youx. They couldn’t be around when Sophia approached her. If the Fontenots had been in the past three years longer than they’d been gone in the future, then Billie could have been here for weeks. That was more than enough time for Lafitte to brainwash her.

  Billie’s bruises were greenish and turning yellow, which meant they were seven to nine days old.

  So what gives?

  If Lafitte hurt Billie, she wouldn’t be as comfortable with him as she appeared to be. She bumped elbows with him, and he touched her shoulder. Their fingers collided on the map, and she didn’t jerk them back. And when she looked at him, they stared at each other. They didn’t break contact and avert their glances. There was trust there, but was there more? Were they lovers?

  That would undoubtedly complicate everything.

  Sophia was usually sensitive to emotions in the air around her. But other than Jackson’s stress, she didn’t sense anything else. There was no sizzling energy between Lafitte and Billie. If Sophia had to guess what was going on between them, she’d say they weren’t lovers, but it could change.

  So what was her next step? Arrange a clandestine meeting with Billie? How?