The Topaz Brooch

by Katherine Lowry Logan

  Secret meetings weren’t Sophia’s expertise, but Remy would know what to do. If only she could wave her hand and say to Billie, “Meet me outside.” Short of that, she could write her a note and pass it to her on the way out. Or Sophia could do what she did best. Draw a picture with elements only Billie would understand.

  But what elements? Whatever they were, they had to be clear to Billie but no one else. While she did another sketch of Billie and Lafitte, three elements materialized.

  “Private Orsini,” Jackson said.

  S0phia heard her name, but she couldn’t stop. She had one more element to add.

  “Private Orsini,” the general said again.

  Sophia finally looked up. “Sorry, sir.”

  “We’re done here,” the general said.

  Sophia finished up, then stacked everything on top of the writing desk and carried it across the room to set it on the table with the coffee urn. After packing her supplies in the cross-body bag, she smiled at Billie and left the room. As the door closed behind Sophia, she was confident she’d put Billie’s rescue into motion.

  The next step would be up to Billie herself.

  33

  New Orleans (1814)—Billie

  Billie watched the artist, a woman hiding behind a man’s uniform, leave the room, and the door quietly clicked shut. What was up with Jackson and a female artist? That hadn’t been in any historical record she ever read. Matter of fact, the iconic painting of Jackson at the Battle of New Orleans was painted a hundred years after the battle and was full of historical inaccuracies.

  But the artist wasn’t the cause of Billie’s sense of imminent doom. A gut feeling that something was amiss brushed back and forth across the hairs standing up on the back of her neck, and it had her in its clutches. She collapsed in a chair and went limp, as if all her bones had dissolved, leaving only her bruised skin and blue hair.

  “What do you think of the general?” she managed to ask, even though she knew the answer.

  Lafitte poured a drink and offered it to Billie, but she shook her head, as did Dominique. “I believe the story about Chief Red Eagle and General Jackson is true. Does that tell you what you want to know?”

  “More or less,” she said, without enthusiasm, and without bothering to look at him. “What’s your next move?”

  “Dominique and I have to return to Barataria for the cannons and men.”

  “First, we have to load up the ammunition stored in the munition depots near The Temple,” Dominique said, “and bring it back to New Orleans. The general’s waiting for it.”

  “That’ll take too long. We can cut the trip to Barataria down to a day and a half if we take enough men to row day and night, but we can’t stop to deliver powder to Jackson’s magazine on the west side of the river.”

  “Then give the job to someone else. Who do you trust to do it?” Dominique asked.

  Jean rolled his lips into his mouth, shutting his eyes for a moment longer than a blink as if trying to decide who he trusted most. “Send Beluche.”

  “He’ll have to stay here organizing artillery companies.”

  “Find Pierre. Send him.”

  “He returned to Barataria this morning.”

  “When we get there, we’ll send him to The Temple,” Lafitte said.

  “That will cost us two days. It has to be someone already in the city.”

  “Damn it, Dominique. Stop telling me what won’t work and tell me what will. You’ve become as contrary as Wilhelmina.”

  “The answer is in front of your nose,” Dominique said.

  Lafitte held his hand up in front of his face. “You expect me to do it?”

  “No, I expect you to ask the only person competent and available for the task.” Dominique turned toward Billie and crossed his arms.

  Billie squared her shoulders and tried to ignore their conversation that suddenly grew legs, kicked her in the gut, and drove the breathable air right out of her lungs.

  Lafitte followed Dominique’s gaze. “Wilhelmina? You want to entrust her with getting the ammunition? No. Give me someone else. She doesn’t even know where The Temple is.”

  She shot him a droll glance. “You pointed it out on the way here. We talked about the shells and bones and auctions. You think I don’t remember?”

  He grinned.

  “I can find my way back there without a map,” she boasted because she couldn’t help herself, although she knew it could land her in a shit pile of trouble.

  “Good.” Jean double-clapped. “You need to leave immediately.”

  “What?” Her arms and legs went still as petrified stone. She glared at him and then Dominique. “What the hell happened here? You just set me up.”

  There was a snort of laughter from Dominique and a reluctant grin from Lafitte. “Take a dozen men with you, mon Capitaine. Load up the ammunition in the warehouse and bring it back to the general.”

  This wasn’t right. But wouldn’t she rather be doing something constructive for the war effort than sitting on her maudlin ass waiting for the battle to start? “I can do that. But I’m not sure how I’ll get it back. Can I load the ammunition on mules?”

  “Take mules from here and leave them on the other side of the lake from The Temple. You’ll have to ferry the ammunition from The Temple back across the lake.”

  “How do I get them across the Mississippi?”

  “On a ferry.”

  “I know that, damn it. I’m thinking out loud. Logistics without modern transportation is more complicated.”

  “If it wasn’t complicated, I would give the task to one of my men.”

  “You don’t have anyone else you trust,” she grumbled.

  Lafitte stood in front of her, hands on his hips, feet spread. “Something knocked the wind out of your sails, mon Capitaine. What? You look defeated, and the battle hasn’t even begun.”

  “It’s a feeling I can’t explain.” She slung her leg over the arm of the chair and put her head back. “Have you ever been at sea when the winds are calm, and you know a storm is coming, but you can’t explain how you know?”

  He tapped his fist above his heart. “I know it here.” He tapped his forehead. “And here.”

  “Yet, a storm is coming, and you don’t seem to feel it in your head or your heart.”

  “I’m not at sea.”

  “Urggg.” She yanked off the eye patch and tossed it onto the table.

  He held out his hands. “What do you want me to say?”

  “I don’t know.” She scrubbed her face. “Something’s wrong, Jean, and I don’t know what it is. It’s bugging the crap out of me.”

  “You need a drink.” Dominique picked up the writing desk, set it aside, then reached for the decanter…but stopped and picked up a sheet of paper. “The artist left a picture of you and mon Capitaine. It looks just like you.” He held it out to Jean.

  Jean walked over to the window to examine the picture in the best light. “It looks like the picture of you from California.” He handed it to Billie. “What do you think?”

  She held the sketch up. “I think she’s very talented, but I wonder why she hid it. Why not just give it to us?” The artist even drew the bruises on her face and neck. She flung the picture back at him. “She didn’t have to draw the bruises.”

  “You wanted to show them off.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  He straightened out the crinkles. “Did you see this object on the floor in the sketch? Do you know what it is?”

  “I didn’t notice.” He turned the drawing around for her to see, and she nearly gagged. “Damn!” Her skin turned cold and clammy.

  “What is it?”

  She looked up at him, and although she tried, she couldn’t hide the fear she knew lurked in her eyes. She hadn’t imagined a growing sense of doom. The doom was here. “It’s the topaz brooch, right down to the scuffs on the sides.”

  “The one with the mysterious chant engraved.”

  Billie jumped
out of the chair and paced. “They found me, but how? None of this makes sense. The British won’t be looking for me until after they receive news of the treaty. Who does that artist work for?”

  She swallowed another damn lump in her throat. She needed to get out of the city, but where could she go without money or transportation?

  She punched her finger at the drawing. “They know I’m here. I’ve got to leave. I’ll take the men to The Temple and load up the ammunition, but I won’t come back to the city.”

  She rubbed her thumb lightly over the burn. “None of this makes any sense. Maybe I’m reading this wrong and letting my imagination run wild. I’ve been wrong about everything since I got here.” She turned in a half-circle and paced back in the other direction. “I’ve got to think this through. I can’t run off half-cocked. I need a plan.”

  “Go to The Temple and stay there until I fulfill my obligation to the general. Then I’ll come to you, and we’ll sail away from here.”

  “No, I have to come back. I made commitments to the general too. We must do everything we can to help Jackson win this battle. He can win without my help, but not yours. Not without Dominique’s.”

  “What do you want me to do, Billie?”

  She threw her hands up. “Whoa! Billie? Where’d that come from?”

  His pallor grew noticeably paler. “What the hell am I supposed to do? Tell me!”

  Her skull was shrinking, giving her a headache that a handful of Ibuprofen couldn’t touch. “Hug me. Tell me it will all be okay.”

  He gave her the one-eye. “A hug? That’s what you want?”

  “I just told you. Why can’t you ever take me at my word?”

  “Because most of the time, I don’t understand you.”

  “Are you saying we have a communication problem?” She folded her arms and sashayed over to him. “Well, fuck that, Lafitte! We’ve had a goddamn communication problem since your men threw me at your feet.”

  He grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her hard on the lips.

  She slapped him. “Don’t you ever do that again!”

  “I’m not a rapist.”

  She grabbed the hilt of the cutlass. “There’s not much difference between a rapist and a goddamn facilitator.”

  Dominique barged his way between them. “Stop it! I don’t know what’s happening here, but you’re both acting like you’re scared to death.” He glared at Lafitte. “Sit down.” Then he glared at Billie. “You too, but in the opposite corner.”

  Billie sat down, crossed her legs and arms, and glared out the window, swinging her leg.

  Lafitte turned the drawing around to get a better view. “Dominique, look at this.” Dominique put his hand on Lafitte’s shoulder and bent to see where he was pointing. “See what she drew outside the window?”

  Dominique turned around and stared out the window. “It’s not the same building. The artist was sitting over there, so she had a direct view of what’s across the street. But she drew a house located on Dumaine Street. Why?”

  “Good question,” Lafitte said. “Send men over there to watch the house and report back. I want to know who lives there.”

  Dominique rolled the ever-present cigar in his mouth. He took it out and pointed with it. “I already know. I looked at it when it was for sale. But Philippe Fontenot beat me to it. He’s one of General Jackson’s aides-de-camp.”

  Billie jumped out of her chair again. “Fuck! No!”

  Both men turned and stared.

  “What the hell?” Lafitte said. “Have I told you how much I enjoy you in a gown and tiara? This vulgar”—he waved his hand at her—“version of you is annoying.”

  “I don’t care. Listen. This is important.” She crossed over to the table, flipped a chair around, and straddled it. “I know Philippe Fontenot. Well, I know of Philippe Fontenot. It could be the same person.” The headache scratched at her temples or rather clawed. “I bought the brooch from his estate. The agent told me Fontenot disappeared seven years ago.”

  “Mr. Fontenot and his wife have been here at least a decade.”

  “Where’d they come from?” she asked, rubbing her temples.

  “I assumed France,” Dominique said.

  “But you don’t know for sure?”

  Dominique shrugged.

  “It has to be them.” She stood and headed toward the door. “I’m going over there.”

  Jean beat her to the door and leaned against it. “Not so fast, mon Capitaine.”

  “Move.” She pushed on his chest, but it was so damn hard he didn’t budge. “You can’t stop me.”

  His jaw twitched, and his eyes hardened. “I can. And you know it.” Although his accent purred softly, his tone left no room for misunderstanding.

  She swallowed the saliva-laced adrenaline that came with visualizing exactly how she could take him down. She thrust her hands on her hips in a pose meant to challenge him. “Just. Try. It.”

  “Don’t. Tempt. Me.” A raspy growl purred through lips so close she could taste the whisky on his breath.

  Her chin tilted as she reached out to hit him again, but he caught her hand and pulled her in close, squashing her breasts, and she went boneless against him. He kissed her a second time. “Damn you.” She wiped her free hand across her mouth. “I told you not to do that again.”

  The charged air crackled at the back of her neck, and he let her go, but tension sizzled through her veins with each angry breath.

  “You’re not thinking, Wilhelmina. You could be walking into a trap. Is that what you want?”

  “Of course not.” Her mind instantly transported her to that moment in Afghanistan. Even a place that seemed safe hadn’t been. “You’re right. We need to do some recon. Find out about the artist. Since she’s on the general’s staff, we can assume she knows the Fontenots.”

  “I’ll send men to watch the house,” Dominique said.

  “Send two more to the general’s headquarters to spy on the artist. Find out who she is and where she’s staying,” Jean said.

  “We’ll wait until dark to go over there. We can surround the house and position men on the roof,” Dominique said. “If there’s trouble, we’ll have plenty of men to handle it.”

  Billie picked up the eye patch and wound the ribbon around her finger. “The Fontenots are stuck here, and the artist must be too. But how did they know about me?”

  “You knew about Fontenot. It would make sense if the next person knew about Fontenot and you,” Jean said.

  “And we’re all stuck.”

  Dominique left the room and returned shortly. “I sent a man out with instructions to send men to watch for the artist and others to spy on the house.”

  He poured drinks and passed them around. “Just give me the bottle,” Billie said. “This isn’t enough to settle my stomach.” She tossed back the drink and closed her eyes for a minute. “They probably don’t have any idea what’s about to happen as soon as the British find out I can foretell the future.”

  “We’ll find out soon,” Jean said.

  Billie sat back down at the table and studied the drawing. Was there something else she hadn’t noticed? She unfocused her eyes, then looked at the picture again. She lightly touched the brooch, the house.

  “Do you see anything else?” Jean asked.

  Billie pushed the drawing aside and rested her head in her hands. “She left me a calling card. I don’t get it, but I have to respond.”

  “Let’s make sure it’s not a trap,” Dominique said. “My men will watch the house, so we know who’s there. Then we’ll make our move.”

  “What am I supposed to do until then?”

  “Figure out how you’re going to get the ammunition from The Temple to New Orleans,” Jean said.

  “Urggg.”

  Billie spent the next few hours going over the maps with Jean. Just after sunset, Dominique returned. “I just got word on the artist. My man talked to a soldier named Tommy Malone from Tennessee.”

&nbs
p; Jean glanced at Billie. “Is he a relative?”

  “How would I know? I live two hundred years in the future. He could be.”

  “What’d you find out?” Jean asked.

  “Her name is Sophia Orsini. She’s a famous portrait painter who painted President Washington, President Jefferson, President Madison, and others. She met Thomas Jefferson in Paris in 1789 where she hired—”

  “Marguerite,” Jean said.

  “The dressmaker?” Billie asked. “The woman who was here this afternoon is in her late thirties, early forties. If she painted the Founding Fathers twenty-five years ago, she was a child protégé.”

  “She wasn’t a child then,” Jean said.

  “How do you know?” Billie asked.

  “Because I’ve heard the story about the woman who hired Marguerite to be a lady’s maid and then set her up in business in New York City years ago. Marguerite told me that woman drowned in the James River. She was shocked when she turned up in New Orleans this week.”

  Billie felt like she was in a paintball fight, and splatters of intel were plopping down everywhere. She needed to draw lines and connect the splatters. “Since you’re on such good terms with the dressmaker, I wonder if she’s your—”

  “It’s none of your business.” Jean gave her the one-eyed look. “What’s so interesting about the artist is that her associate is the one who told me about warrior women from another time.”

  “Holy shit,” Billie said. “Then it’s possible the artist knows how to come and go through the time portal. Instead of drowning—I’m just guessing here—she returned home, and whoever reported her death knew the truth.” She glanced up at Dominique. “Do you know who that was?”

  Dominique chewed on his cigar. “Thomas Jefferson.”

  34

  New Orleans (1814)—Billie

  Billie climbed the steps of the Fontenots’ residence on Dumaine Street, following Lafitte to the second floor. Although she’d dressed as one-eyed Penny Lafitte, her confidence didn’t match the privateer she pretended to be.

  She’d lost hope of going home, but now that Sophia Orsini had thrown Billie a lifeline and the possibility existed, she was scared shitless it would be snatched away again. She reached for Lafitte’s hand for reassurance. Would he be there for her if the worst happened, or would he sail off for Galveston and continue living his life as a privateer?