The Sapphire Brooch

by Katherine Lowry Logan

  “The wind could change again,” Jack said. “We’ve got to get past Main Street. Then we might be safe.”

  “Go over to Sixth Street,” she said.

  They plunged back through the narrow street. Firelight as bright as day dazzled their eyes and scorching heat seared their already tender skin.

  “Hurry.” Braham pulled Charlotte behind him. Unsteady on her feet, she stumbled, so he picked her up again and ran.

  “Let me carry her,” Jack said. “You can’t have much strength left.”

  Braham had nothing left except his instincts to survive and protect. He refused to let go of her, willing himself forward. “If we can work our way around and get to Capitol Square, we’ll be safer. I can make it there.” Every part of his body was screaming in agony, but he wouldn’t stop now.

  “Let me down. I can walk,” she said.

  Braham snugged her closer to his chest. “I’m not putting ye down. Cover yer mouth with the blanket.”

  The crash of falling timbers nipped at his heels, and the roaring crackle of burning wood harried them along. They ran up a side street then veered onto another. They twisted and turned, trying to outrun the mounting flames and heavy black smoke stealing air from their lungs. Buildings collapsed in their wake as they dashed uphill.

  “Run,” Jack yelled.

  The Capitol finally came into view as Braham wound himself up for one final push, even though the muscles in his arms and legs burned as hot as the blaze chasing his heels. He led the way to the far end of the square, close to Capitol Street. There he crouched on his knees, cradling Charlotte and grimacing as jolts of pain reminiscent of his bucking torture whipped him with the cutting edge of a lash. He arched his back and gasped for breath, coughing out particles of soot.

  “The air is smoky here, too. At least it’s not burning our lungs. We can rest for a few minutes,” Charlotte rasped.

  She didn’t make a move to leave the protection of his muscle-twitching arms, but she did shudder. Memories could be painful, and she would remember the young legless soldier for the rest of her life, while Braham would see the ceiling collapsing toward the exact spot where she was standing. He clutched her tighter until finally his arms gave out. Then he set her down, but kept her close, sheltered by the curve of his body. She held on, too, her arms wrapped around him.

  Airborne ash fell in profusion, even where they were sitting. He constantly had to brush it off his clothes and his head and the parts of Charlotte his body couldn’t shelter. They sat there for some time while more Richmonders arrived carrying bundles on their shoulders and family and friends on litters. They were all searching for a safe place away from the fires.

  “We can’t stay. We have to find fresh air.” Charlotte eased out of his embrace and stood, using Jack’s shoulder for support. Stretching backward with her hands pressed against her lower back, she groaned, shuddering slightly, as if she were sloughing off her aches and pains. “I can walk now. Just don’t ask me to walk fast.”

  She laid her hand on Braham’s shoulder, and he squeezed it reassuringly. He studied her carefully, narrowing his eyes, darting them all over her to be sure she was unhurt. Thank God, she was dressed appropriately. If she had worn scrubs, the sparks and glass which had burned and cut holes in her dress would have shredded the thin surgical fabric from her body. Although in pain and exhausted, the thought of her naked led directly to thoughts of bedding her, which lifted his spirits with a flood of renewed energy.

  They plodded down Broad Street, passing through block after block of stragglers, dense smoke, and tongues of flames still leaping to the sky.

  Charlotte’s eyes glazed over and her shoulders slumped, but she kept moving, shuffling one foot forward and then the other. Even in a tattered dress and soot-covered face, she was beautiful. He wasn’t sure he’d ever loved a woman other than his mother and Kit, but he had no doubt of the depth of his love for Charlotte.

  He took her hand, squeezed it, then put it to his lips and pressed a kiss on her fingers. Life-giving fingers. How could he say good-bye again? Before he did, he wanted one night to superimpose over the memory of the falling ceiling; one night to fill himself with the soft, satiny feel of her beneath him; one night to love her as he would never love another.

  62

  Richmond, Virginia, April 2, 1865

  Charlotte sat hunched on a stool with her back to the fireplace, brushing out the damp curls of her shampooed hair. The two things she missed most from home were hot showers and hairdryers. This morning, though, a copper tub filled with buckets of tepid water had been a sybaritic blessing. She had soaked and scrubbed until the patches of her uninjured skin glistened.

  Her post-trauma body was in surprisingly good condition, considering she had run through Richmond’s fiery streets twice and had spent a couple of hours rescuing wounded soldiers from a burning building. The cut on her head needed only a butterfly bandage. The first-degree burns on her arms would heal without leaving scars. The scrapes on her knees and elbows were minor. The skin on her face had a burn similar to sunburn after a day at the beach. The skin would peel, but as a child she’d had worse. The fire had singed the hair on top of her head, but her scalp wasn’t burned. If she hadn’t been so muscled and toned, she wouldn’t have made it home under her own power, since neither Jack nor Braham had stamina enough left by the end of the night to carry her.

  The memory of the legless soldier’s clutched hand yanked from her wrists—and echoes of his dying screams—ricocheted around her mind, leaving her body and soul empty and grieving. The disbelief on the young man’s face when Braham tore her away would haunt her to the end of her days. She squeezed her eyes closed and shook her head, trying to dislodge the memory’s grip. She didn’t want to forget him—the nameless soldier—not tonight, not ever. She would always remember his sacrifice.

  She had lost patients before, but the loss of this soldier was different. And it hurt. A lot.

  A soft knock on her door forced her to bite her lip and swallow back the lump in her throat. Until the house settled down and she had a bit of solitude, she had to hold her emotions in check. When time allowed, and she could pull her thumb from the hole in the dyke, the flood of tears might drown her.

  Jack didn’t wait for her permission. “Sis, c’mon, I’m dying of curiosity. Tell me about Mallory. How’d you meet him and when—”

  Another knock. “Can I come in, too?” Braham stepped into the room. Neither man had put a razor to the tender flesh of his face. Both had wet hair brushed back, and they were both patched like quilts with bandages on chests and arms and heads.

  The faint tremor in her fingers which had begun a couple of hours earlier still lingered. She set her brush aside and clasped her knees to still them. “Why do I bother to close the door? What time is it? Feels like next year.”

  “Almost five o’clock,” Braham said. “Elizabeth has her Federal flag ready to unfold.”

  “The Union Cavalry should be riding into town about now. We should go welcome the sun and the soldiers,” Jack said.

  Outside fires still raged and random cannons roared. The parts of the city not engulfed by fire were covered with smoke and soot and ash. “I think we’ll hear the bands playing ‘Yankee Doodle’ from here.”

  “Don’t you want to watch?” Jack asked.

  There was weakness in her knees and a hitch in her breath as she rose to her feet, grimacing from the stiffness. “Coffee on the portico sounds lovely, as long as there’s a comfortable chair.”

  A restless current stretched among them, leaving a silent thrum in the air. The night’s reign of fiery terror had changed them all. It would take a while, at least for her, to come to terms with how close she came to dying. She retreated from the intensity of Braham’s eyes by lowering hers. Jack shifted, clearing his throat. “I’ll go make arrangements and meet you two downstairs.”

  The door clicked as he closed it behind him.

  “I need to tell ye—” Braham said.
<
br />   “I haven’t had a chance to say—” Charlotte said.

  She smiled nervously, wondering if she should run into his arms or wait for him to come to her.

  “Ye first,” he said.

  “No, you go first,” she said.

  “I’m sorry about the soldier.” He stepped closer, his arms moving awkwardly at his side, as if he wanted to touch her but wasn’t sure if it was the right move. “When I saw the roof about to collapse on ye, I only thought of holding ye while we both died. I didn’t think we’d survive.”

  “Thank…you.” Her voice quavered, and then she broke down, sobbing. She rushed into his arms and buried her face on his chest, crying gut-wrenching tears. “I was so afraid, but I couldn’t leave him behind just to save myself. I didn’t think…”

  “Let it go, lass.” He took a shaky breath and let it out in a loud rush, as if he, too, was letting it all go.

  And she did. All of it. The ash and smoke, the screams and the unbearable heat, and the fear. She let it all out until her legs went weak and wobbly, and she slumped against him. He reached down and gathered up her legs, his other arm nestled her close, and, as he held her, his muscles twitched hard against her.

  With jerky steps, he carried her to the settee, where he edged down onto the cushions and cradled her against his shaking body, his heart pounding in her ear. Months of pent-up guilt and failure, exacerbated by another close brush with death, crashed down on her. Her hands clutched fistfuls of his shirt, squeezing and twisting the fabric.

  After several long minutes, or it could have been hours, the rising sun sliced a trail from the open window to the far side of the room. Dust particles floated in the brilliant stream of early morning light. The strange tightness around her heart snapped like a popped rubber band—instantly and permanently.

  Her crying trailed off into short gasping noises. Braham pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. “It’s clean. Blow yer nose.”

  Her grip on his shirt relaxed and she blew her nose several times, dabbing at her eyes with a clean edge. Gently, his hand nestled her head to his chest. She let it rest there, breathing slowly and deeply, taking in the mingled scents of him and starch and soap and shampoo, and faintly, of smoke.

  A hoarse chuckle found its way up from somewhere in her chest, and she looked at him and tried to smile apologetically. “I had fantasies of having wild sex with you. Crying in your arms wasn’t anywhere on my list of things to do.” She angled her head and studied him, so beautiful, from skin to bone to soul, and was surprised to see glistening streaks on his cheeks. Tenderly, she wiped away the moisture.

  She wiped her face, too, or tried to, with the back of her wrist. “I don’t think anyone other than Jack has ever seen me cry before.”

  “Ye surprise me. I’ve always seen ye as having matters well in hand. I know the lad’s death upset ye. I’m glad ye let it out.”

  “I only pretend to be made of stone,” she said.

  He nodded, as if she’d confirmed his suspicions instead of refuting them. “Never thought ye were. Yer heart longs to feed the world. Most of the time, though, ye forget to feed yerself.”

  She didn’t argue; she merely shrugged her tired, achy shoulders and settled back into his embrace.

  He kissed the top of head. “I hear ‘Yankee Doodle.’ We should go down with the others. Wash yer face while I go change my shirt.” He set her on her feet and stood, accompanied by popping and cracking in his joints.

  “Between your stiff joints and mine, we could create a symphony.” On tiptoes, she kissed his lips without lingering. “Thank you. I know I’ve already said it, but I needed to say it again.”

  He pulled her close and snugged her into his embrace. “Every nook and cranny of my being is calling yer name.”

  His statement was like a punch to a place low within her. His words made her want to take the leap her heart had always resisted taking. She moved against him until she found perfect alignment, one which sent heat jolting through her. His arousal spoke not only from his heart but from his need. Angling her head to see him clearly, she gazed into his face, lined with character and honor, and tumbled headlong into his huge eyes, her heart saying what words couldn’t express.

  She took his hand and studied the ropy veins with her fingertips. This hand had grabbed her and saved her life. Lovingly, she pressed it against her breast, close to her fast-beating heart. The universe was contained in this moment, the heat and texture of his skin, his touch, rough and tender and so alive. His nostrils flared, breathing in the scent of her as she did of him. But there was another scent in the air, the musk of desire. She wanted to consume him like the fires they had escaped, to burrow inside him and know him, every inch of his flesh and blood and heat.

  Her name escaped as a moan while his lips rushed over her face. His tongue slipped into her mouth, giving and taking. She cried out, and she pressed herself against him, clawing to be closer to his skin. He devoured her mouth, his short whiskers rasping her chin. Holding the back of her head with one hand, he moved the other slowly, crossed over her breasts and up her shoulders to her neck, where he held the side of her face with his large callused hand. His thumb rubbed her cheekbone rhythmically and intoxicatingly, making her giddy with anticipation.

  With his breath warm against her face he said, “If we’re going to stop, we have to stop now.”

  “If you stop, I’ll scream.”

  “I’m protecting yer reputation. There’s a house full of people downstairs waiting for us.”

  “I don’t care.”

  He looked at her, into her, and she was barely able to pull herself back from the raw and powerful need in his eyes. He wanted to claim her as much as she wanted to be claimed.

  “We’ll go to Washington tomorrow, to the Georgetown house, and spend a few days together without interruptions.” He took her hand and placed it over his arousal. “Never doubt my need for ye.”

  She closed her eyes against the immensity of wanting to make love with him. His warmth was beginning to seep through the layers of clothing between them, but she needed the feel of him against her skin. She rucked up her skirt and placed his hand where he could touch the heat of her desire. His fingers tossed her beneath a giant wave, sweeping her tumbling helplessly in the tide. With her lips against his, she whispered, “Never doubt mine for you.”

  They nestled quietly against each other in the shadows of dawn, and from outside the window they heard horses rousing and murmured voices. It was almost the end of the war, but not the end of their story. Their end wouldn’t come until April 15.

  63

  Richmond, Virginia, April 3, 1865

  Elizabeth, Charlotte, Jack, and Braham sat in the drawing room lamenting the damage the out-of-control fires had wreaked on Richmond’s business center. Twenty square blocks, from Eighth Street to Fifteenth Street, and a half mile from the north side of Main Street to the river lay in smoky ruin.

  Charlotte stirred cream into her china teacup while biting hungrily into a biscuit, the first food she’d had in twenty-four hours. Following the arrival of the Union Cavalry the previous morning, she had collapsed and slept until about an hour ago. She put the spoon on the saucer and picked up the cup, drinking greedily. “Do they know how many buildings were lost?” she asked between gulps.

  Elizabeth thumped a finger on the front page of the Richmond Whig in her lap. “The paper is reporting from six to eight hundred public buildings and private residences were burned to the ground. The heart of the city is in charred ruins.”

  Charlotte got up, leaned over the back of Elizabeth’s chair, and read the report. At the top of the article was a rudimentary engraving, resembling modern day clip art of burned-out buildings, showing virtually nothing left except chimney stacks and jagged bits of walls. A few pieces of furniture still holding their fragile shapes were tossed out into the street. Gooseflesh prickled down her arms, her chill as much from the picture as from her memories of the roaring flames and shattered glass
crunching under her shoes.

  Braham pulled a small sheet of paper from his inside breast pocket and unfolded it. “All the banking houses, the Columbian Hotel, the Enquirer Building, the American Hotel, the Confederate Post Office, and”—he flicked the paper with his index finger—“the courthouse have all been lost.”

  Elizabeth handed the newspaper to Charlotte and picked up her teacup, sighing heavily. “There wouldn’t be a building left standing if the Union troops hadn’t extinguished the fires. The city should be grateful.”

  “I’m sure the city government is convinced if the Federal Army hadn’t been standing on their doorstep, the warehouses wouldn’t have been burned to begin with,” Jack said.

  “True,” Elizabeth said, “but they didn’t show up unannounced night before last. They’ve been bombarding Richmond for months…” Elizabeth paused, interrupted by Braham’s jaw-cracking yawn, and then she continued as if nothing had happened. “City officials refused to prepare for evacuation, convinced the day would never come.”

  Braham patted his fist against his lips as another yawn slipped out. “There’ve been no complaints. The mayor said the citizens aren’t complaining about the soldiers, and the soldiers aren’t complaining about the citizens. There’s no fear of rape and pillaging, and the peaceful occupation has eased the city’s anxiety.”

  When Jack had told her Braham had been at the White House of the Confederacy in constant meetings with General Weitzel and his staff, she had been tempted to march over to the general’s office and demand he give Braham time off to heal. But she knew even if Weitzel ordered Braham to rest, he wouldn’t.

  Charlotte returned to her seat on the sofa and studied Braham over the top edge of the newspaper. Even with his shadowed eyes, cuts, bruises, singed hair, and minor burns, she found his presence soothing.