“The invasion of Richmond is only a few days away. I’m sure they’ll be all right,” she said.
“Braham was arrested with them.”
She dug her fingers into Jack’s wrist. The stiff white edge of his shirt cuff crackled beneath her fingers. “Not again.”
He put his hand over hers, loosened her grip, and held her hand, squeezing gently. “I’m going to Richmond tonight to see what I can do.”
“No. It’s too dangerous,” she said, her voice trembling.
“They evacuate—” Jack paused while a group of soldiers marched briskly around them and crossed the street, dodging several wagons. He waited until the street was clear before escorting Charlotte to the opposite corner. “As I was about to say, the prisoners will be evacuated before the Union troops arrive. If Braham is to be rescued, it has to happen before the prisoners are removed from Richmond.”
She hurried out of earshot of other pedestrians crossing the street. “There’s a network in place with people who can help. They’ve helped him before. Surely they don’t need you.”
“They needed you to get him out last time.” The line between Jack’s brows deepened again. “I thought you cared about him.”
She snorted, and the white mist of her breath purled around her head like cigar smoke. “I do care about him, but he needs a new occupation. He’s a lousy spy.”
“Come on, let’s get inside.”
They continued to the townhouse in silence. When they reached it, Jack said, “If prison officials discover who they have in custody, they’ll hang him. Braham’s already been convicted and sentenced. If I can get to Richmond, I’ll find a way to get him out, or I’ll bribe people to stall the execution long enough for the war to end.”
She stomped up the steps to the front door. “You think you’ve got it all figured out, but you have no idea what it’s like to have bullets flying over your head.”
He put his arm around her and snugged her to his side. “I’m not going into battle.”
She pushed away from him. “Lee’s last offensive will be in two days, at Fort Stedman.”
“Which is at Petersburg, south of Richmond. I won’t be near the fighting.”
She reached for the door. “You’re absolutely right. Because you’ll be here in Washington. You’re not at home where you can jump in a car and drive down the highway.”
“You traveled to Richmond a few months ago without a car. If you can do it…”
She shot him an irritated glance. “Let’s get some things straight. I had a pass from the president, and he arranged transport for me on Grant’s steamer. Those aren’t available to you.”
“I found the pass from the president.” His voice held a little bit of steel.
She was stunned, and her mind refused to accept what he was saying.
“And before you say anything else, it hasn’t expired.”
After a long silence, she stormed into the house, slammed the door in Jack’s face, and hurried to his office, where she ransacked his papers, determined to find the pass and tear it to shreds.
“What are you doing?” Jack asked.
“I’m going to tear it up.”
Jack threw himself down into the chair, and it creak under his weight. “Sit down and get a grip. You’re being irrational. I haven’t seen you like this since…I’ve never seen you like this. What’s going on with you? This isn’t about going to Richmond, is it?”
She dropped into the chair across the desk from him. “You live in a pretend world where heroes always win and lovers find their happily-ever-after, but it’s not the real world, Jack. Heroes die and people live sad, incomplete lives.”
“What does this have to do with rescuing Braham?”
She glanced down at her hands and bit her lower lip, sorting through her jumbled thoughts. Then she glanced up to find him looking at her, a slight smile hidden in the corner of his mouth. “We’re not heroes, Jack, and we don’t have to pretend we are.”
“Is that what happened at Cedar Creek? Were you trying to be a hero?”
She wasn’t sure what to say, so she said nothing.
“You play it safe every day, sis. Yet all your patients and their families see you as their hero. The one time you do something you believe is truly heroic, not only did you almost die, but the plantation was threatened and you were forced into an even more dangerous situation.
“You saved Braham once and, as a result, you’re here now trying to keep him from changing history. We can leave him in Richmond and let him die, and then go home confident in the conviction we’ve made history safe again. Is that what you want?”
“Damn you.” She swiped her hand across the desk, sending a stack of books to the floor. “No. I don’t want him to die.”
“I don’t either. Somehow, I’m going to rescue him.”
“Even knowing what’s about to happen in Richmond, the fire, the devastation, the danger?” She was scared, but not for herself alone. The two men she loved could be taken from her in an instant. Her mother had lost the man she loved and had grieved for him for the rest of her short life.
Jack drilled her with a look of mild exasperation. “I don’t know why the brooch was sent to you, but it was, and subsequently Braham’s life was saved. Call it Fate, call it the work of the Cosmos, call it God working in mysterious ways. Something bigger than both of us is happening here. You once described me as a hound dog on the scent of a story…” His voice trailed away and worry clouded his eyes. “You probably got it right, sis. But there’s one thing I know for sure: I will see this though, with or without you.”
Her heart accelerated, thudding in her chest. “Where I go, you go. Where you go, I go. We’re in this together. If trouble comes, we can leave on a whisper, but we can’t if we’re separated.” The crutch supporting the weight of her resolve to be brave splintered into pieces, and tears hovered very near the surface.
Edward came to the library door dressed in his evening livery, smelling of sandalwood and wax, and calmly announced, “Mr. Gaylord is here.”
Braham’s retainer. Charlotte raised her eyebrows at Jack.
“Give us five minutes then send him in,” Jack said. The fire had burned down and the room held a chill. He tossed in more kindling and poked at the dying embers.
For a moment Charlotte thought she had stopped breathing, though her chest continued to rise and fall. She dabbed at the corners of her eyes, wiping away any telltale gleam of moisture, composing herself quickly.
Jack set down the poker, squared his shoulders, and conjured a smile.
The short, stocky man with a weatherworn face who had escorted Charlotte to Richmond months earlier entered the room. “Mr. Mallory, Doctor Mallory. I’ll get right to the point. Major McCabe has been working undercover in Richmond. Last night, he was rounded up with other sympathizers and incarcerated in Castle Thunder. The major’s instructions were to notify you immediately if anything happened to him while you were still in the city.”
Jack sat on the edge of the desk, twisting the family signet ring around and around the knuckle on the third finger of his left hand. “I heard the news a couple of hours ago. Charlotte and I have been discussing what to do.”
Gaylord’s dark brows went up. “If you intend to attempt a rescue, I’ll see you through the lines and provide an introduction to Miss Van Lew. She’s quite resourceful.”
“A Southern lady or Yankee spy?” Charlotte quoted the opposing labels from a book she’d read about the lady patriot. “How soon can you be ready to leave, Gaylord?”
He lifted a watch fob from his waistcoat, pursing his lips and frowning in thought. The fingers of his right hand twitched as if he were mentally counting. Finally he cleared his throat and said, “It’ll take three hours to gather supplies and make necessary arrangements.”
“Will we travel by horseback or boat?” Charlotte asked, doing her own calculations as to how long it would take her to pack.
“Time is of the essence. I’l
l arrange passage on the fastest ship available.”
“How much money will you need?” Jack asked.
Gaylord waved his hand in a shooing motion. “I have access to sufficient funds.” He then addressed Charlotte. “Since you have the propensity for dressing in men’s clothing, I suggest you travel in disguise, at least until we reach Richmond. There you’ll be safer dressed as yourself. I’ll arrange for the necessary work papers for you, Mr. Mallory, or else you’ll be conscripted and sent to the front lines to guard the city.”
Charlotte exhaled a thin stream of air. “Did you know I was a woman when you guided me to Richmond last October?”
One corner of Gaylord’s mouth curled wryly. “Not at first, but within a few hours of City Point, because of your repeated scurries into the bushes, I suspected. By the time we reached Richmond, I was sure.”
She had the grace to blush slightly. “You should have told me.”
“It would have eroded your confidence.”
She attempted a smile of acknowledgement. “You’re probably right.”
Gaylord made a slight bow. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll see to the preparations.” He departed at once, leaving Charlotte staring out into space, her face scrunched in concentration.
Jack poured two glasses of whisky and handed one to his sister.
“Thanks.” She pointed her glass in the direction of Gaylord’s withdrawal. “I’d call that a dump truck full of malleable concrete quickly set into a plan. No heroics needed. Just go here. Do that.”
Jack raised his drink and gave a chortle. “Nope. It’s the Cosmos working overtime.” He emptied the glass and set the crystal on the table. “I’m going to pack.”
After Jack left the room, Charlotte leaned back in the chair and twirled a pencil between her fingers. It popped out of her hand and hit the floor. When she reached for it, she spotted the corner of a familiar-looking piece of paper peeking out from under one of the books she had swatted off the desk. She picked up the paper embossed with the Executive Mansion. She placed the president’s pass dated October 22, 1864 on top of the desk.
No heroics needed. Just go here. Do that.
Things were rarely so simple, though, and she seriously doubted this would be an exception.
50
Richmond, Virginia, March 31, 1865
Charlotte, Jack, and Gaylord dismounted at the same tumbledown farmhouse on the outskirts of Richmond where they’d paused months earlier. A warm breath of wind carried the sweet scent of flowering dogwoods, and their fragrance and the peace of the new-growth forest soothed her. Of course, the calm was only temporary, but she welcomed the short-term respite with relief.
During most of the trip Jack had jotted notes in his journal. “The novel is taking shape,” was all he would say when questioned, with the added caveat that if anything happened to him, she had to save the journal. If anyone from the nineteenth century read his notes, more than Lincoln’s legacy could be at stake. He didn’t elaborate further, which was typical for him when developing a new story. Later, if she plied him with enough whisky, he might reveal a hint of the plot, but it would require her to drink as much as he did. For the foreseeable future, inebriation wasn’t on her to-do list.
Gaylord gathered the horses in a cozy knot, and left them hobbled and snorting. Vapor from their mingled breaths formed clouds of white in the predawn light. With the horses settled, he pried up a porch floorboard and removed a metal box. Inside were several neatly folded sheets of paper. He gave them a quick perusal then handed them to Jack.
“Those are special passes to get us through to Richmond. The other papers identify us as essential government employees. Without the documents, we could be conscripted and sent to the front lines.”
“We’re bypassing the checkpoints, though, right?” Jack asked.
Gaylord nodded. “If you’re stopped by the Rebs, you’ll need a pass, or they’ll toss you in Castle Thunder.”
Jack stuffed the papers inside his jacket. “If I enter the prison, I’d rather it be on my terms, not theirs.”
While Gaylord returned the box to its hole, Jack sat on the stoop and spread out a map drawn on tracing linen. Charlotte hunched beside him, studying the vicinity of Richmond and the positions of the battery defenses. He pointed to a spot on the northeast side of Richmond. “By my calculation, we’re here.”
Gaylord bent over Jack’s shoulder, hands on his knees, viewing the map. “We’re within the three-mile radius of the city on the northwest side. Both armies have holes in their defenses.” He drew a line with his finger. “We’ll sneak through this way.”
“Is it the way we went last time?” Charlotte asked.
“The Rebs closed the hole we used, but they opened another one.”
“And if the new one is closed?” Jack asked.
Gaylord raised his shoulders in the faintest of shrugs. “We’ll find a way through the woods. Might take longer, but we’ll get there.”
As if acknowledging the truth of Gaylord’s statement, the wind sighed softly through the budding foliage, ruffling the edges of the map.
“Give me the canteens and I’ll refill them,” she said.
Jack’s eyes narrowed to crinkled slits as he scanned the encroaching woods. “Where?”
She jerked her thumb over her shoulder toward the spring Gaylord had shown her the last time. “Your preternatural hearing must need a tune-up.”
Jack’s eyes flicked up, assessing the surroundings, as he smiled enigmatically. “Are you talking about the spring hidden behind the scrubby growth of evergreens to the right of us, or the trickle of water over stone and pebbles to the left of us?”
She gave a snort. “Ha-ha.”
Jack refolded the map and returned it to his saddlebags. “Don’t be gone long.”
She gathered up the canteens and a small hygiene kit before trudging, mud-splattered and achy, off to the creek for her morning ablutions. Imagining a hot shower and breakfast, she momentarily considered zapping herself back to the twenty-first century, but the idea drifted away on the breeze like dandelion fluff. If she quit and went home, she’d have to give up on the task she’d begun, and quitting wasn’t in her genes.
Braham’s incarceration in Castle Thunder, a rat-infested hellhole with sadistic guards, no sanitation, and barely enough food to survive, weighed heavily on her mind. Gaylord told her he’d heard Braham had been dumped into the dungeon, which guaranteed he’d be among the prisoners who were tortured.
She pressed her hands against her chest, feeling hollowness there, an emptiness carved into her heart the night at Chimborazo when she’d looked into Braham’s eyes and known she couldn’t let him die. Putting him back together again after a second rescue wouldn’t be easy. Not that it had been last time, but then she had the advantages of twenty-first century medicine. Until she knew the extent of his injuries, there was nothing she could do except worry, which she chose not to do. As a little girl, she had memorized a worry verse from the Book of Matthew:
Therefore, do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.
Her anxieties firmly squelched, she returned to the farmhouse with refilled canteens and feeling somewhat refreshed.
“If you’ll carry your haversack and water, I’ll carry your carpetbag,” Jack said.
She slung the haversack strap over her shoulder. “Sure. Thanks.”
The weight of the tight strap pressing around her chest triggered a memory of archery class at youth camp. Instead of a quiver of arrows, she now carried a quiver of memories—the musky scent of Braham and the curve of his mouth as it fit perfectly against hers. In a recent disturbing dream, she had looked over the shoulder of a master painter and watched intently while he painted the curve of Braham’s mouth, then painted the curve of hers, making one mouth. When the artist completed the painting, he sliced the canvas in half, leaving two unfinished works of art. She had awakened in a cold sweat and ended up spending th
e hours until sunrise sitting in a rocking chair, thinking.
Dawn was coming now, casting a bluish-yellow glow above a landscape dotted with wildflowers. When the sun came up, so would a profusion of brilliant colors, the work of a true master painter.
Gaylord made a roundup motion with his finger. “Let’s go.”
She stopped ruminating and hefted the bag again, hoping the physical weight would distract her from the increasing weight of her worry. Pressing her right boot into the damp soil, next her left, then her right and left again, she eased into a comfortable stride which would keep her from lagging too far behind the men.
Allowing herself a small smile, she couldn’t help thinking if Braham knew she and Jack were risking their lives to rescue him, the force of his explosive reaction would register on the Richter scale. But Braham’s opinion in this case was irrelevant.
Jack had promised he would devise a plan by the time they reached Richmond. As far as she knew, he had yet to make it to the first rung on his plotting ladder. She was in favor of carrying Braham off to the future again, but it would only solve the immediate problem. He would merely turn around and come back to the nineteenth century, and there was no way she was going to live in a Groundhog Day time loop.
“Jack.” She hurried up next to him, ducking under a low-hanging willow branch. “Do you have a plan yet?”
He slowed, pushing aside the hanging veil of branches to make room for her on the path and letting Gaylord gain a few yards on them. When they were safely out of earshot, Jack said, “The prisoners will be evacuated Sunday night for a forced march south.”
She repositioned her haversack to ease the load on her shoulders, thinking about what dangers the evacuation would mean for Braham. “Hmm. Then we have to get him out before then.”
“I don’t think so. We can use the evacuation to our advantage.”
“What are you going to do? Pull him out of line while they’re marching out of town? What if he’s disoriented and resists?”
The Sapphire Brooch Page 30
