The Sapphire Brooch

by Katherine Lowry Logan

  Braham dropped his robe on a chair and stood naked by the bed, opening the bottle. She looked at him with heavy-lidded eyes, leisurely studying the solidness of his superbly conditioned body, and the molded contours of chin and hip and thigh. His incision was still pink, but no one, other than a surgeon, would ever take time to notice such a minor imperfection. Her muscles tightened in exquisite anticipation and pure, raw desire, which warmed her thoroughly.

  He handed her a glass of vibrant ruby wine with touches of orange around the edges. “This is from my vineyards.” He lifted the glass to his nose and sniffed. “Gentle, yet striking. Tell me what ye think.”

  She gave the glass an open-air, freestyle swirl, observing the legs of wine as they ran down the sides of the goblet. Her mouth watered. As her nose hovered above the rim, she gave several quick, short sniffs, and then she sipped. “Hmm. Fresh aromas of lime, grapefruit, and earth. Delicious.”

  His face split into a huge grin, and his eyes, dark and penetrating, fell on her with an appreciative light. He stacked his pillows before climbing back into bed and pulling her into the curve of his arm. Once settled, he picked up the food and placed the plate on his lap.

  She nibbled on a slice of cheese while he combed her hair—now wild and curly and tangled—with his fingers. She tilted her head to look into his eyes. “I read a quote once which said something like: ‘Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along.’ It’s how I feel about you. You’ve always been a part of me and always will.”

  He gently traced the curve of her cheek and chin with the look of an artist studying her before creating a masterpiece. He set her glass aside and picked up a small box from the tray he’d carried into the room. “I have something for ye.”

  He removed a ring from the box, took her hand, and slipped it on her right-hand ring finger. “This belonged to my grandmother.” Longing suffused his voice.

  A brilliant sapphire came alive in a flash of firelight, twinkling and dazzling. Charlotte stared at her hand, speechless, the implications unclear at the moment. “It’s beautiful, but I can’t accept it. It’s a family heirloom.”

  He set the box aside and refilled his glass. “Of course, ye can,” he said lightly. “It’s mine to give.”

  “But it’s not mine to accept,” she said, turning to face him with clear irritation in her voice. “This is for your future wife. Unless…” She trembled as a soft, stirring, hopeful desire unrolled from a secret place inside her, then curled upward, spiraling like a candle flame. “Are you asking me to…to marry you?”

  He raised his eyebrow in a silent question, and his pursed lips curved into what might have been the shadow of a smile.

  “Because if you are, I’d marry you this minute, but only if you intend to return to the twenty-first century.”

  His eyes pinned hers, and he said, “And if I’m not?”

  She glanced at the ring and tugged at it. “I can’t accept this.”

  He stilled her hand and held her fingers closed. “Wear it for now.”

  She slapped his hand away and slipped the ring off over her knuckle, surprised by how perfectly it fit her finger. “No, I won’t. And you can’t buy me with a sapphire.”

  He quickly banked a flash of anger. “I’m not trying to buy ye.”

  “It looks like it to me. I’m a bottom-line person. Unless you want to go home with me, we have no future. And I refuse to accept a ring which should belong to your wife.”

  He stared off into the stream of light now peeking through the drapes, his chest heaving. “Then what we shared means nothing to ye.”

  Oh God. How did this get so twisted?

  The turmoil in her stomach turned into a whirlwind, and her head became weightless. Blinking, she tried to see through the forming tears. “Of course, it does, and I’m in love with you, but…”

  He came to his feet, knocking over the plate of cheese, which crashed to the floor, shards pinging against the wall. “No buts, Charlotte.”

  Time washed over her as if she were nothing more than a woman made of sand who would dissolve in the ever-changing flow of life, her life. “I can’t stay here. This isn’t where I belong.”

  He grabbed his trousers off the back of a chair, shoving his legs into them.

  “I’ve given you my heart, in spite of knowing it will break.” She placed the sapphire on the table and closed her burning eyes. Her breath seemed to run out of her forever, like a final sigh.

  67

  Washington City, April 14, 1865

  Braham balanced on the rear legs of a straight-back chair in John Nicolay’s White House office, reading newspaper reports of the surrender at Appomattox. If the meeting between Lee and Grant had taken place earlier in the week, he would have attended, but he couldn’t risk being out of town tonight.

  Lincoln entered the office holding a sheaf of paper, looking bemused. He appeared neatly combed, a marked contrast to his usual rumpled appearance. The legs of Braham’s chair dropped to the floor with a loud thump, and he quickly came to his feet, straightening his coat.

  “Come with me to the War Department,” Lincoln said, seemingly cheerful for the first time in many months.

  Braham folded the newspaper and dropped it on the seat of the chair. “Yes, sir.”

  They walked out into the hall, empty of the day’s crowd, where Braham picked up his slouch hat and gauntlets from a table near Nicolay’s door. “I thought ye promised Marshal Lamon ye wouldn’t go out at night while he was out of town.”

  A guard armed with a revolver, one of the four members of the president’s security detail, followed close behind. Lincoln adjusted his top hat and shuffled along toward the War Department. “My reply was evasive. I’ve gone to the War Department every night for the last four years.”

  “Lamon’s concern was not yer nightly trips to the War Department. It’s going to the theater that concerns all of us. When ye’re moving, ye’re not a sitting target. Although, wearing the stovepipe, ye do stick out in a crowd.” The corners of Braham’s mouth twitched to contain a smile.

  He held the door as they emerged into a promise of spring in the air. The temperature had already teased the blooms in the dogwood trees, and young leaves rustled a serenade in the breeze. Occasional fireworks lit up the sky over a populace who had grown accustomed to streaks of cannon fire. Braham walked on one side of Lincoln, the guard on the other.

  The president put his arm around Braham’s shoulders, and while Lincoln’s careworn face revealed nothing, he took a deep, shuddering breath before saying, “I had a dream of a corpse the other night. The sound of people sobbing drew me from my bed. I asked who was dead in the White House and a soldier said, ‘The president. He was killed by an assassin.’ I didn’t sleep the rest of the night.”

  Dread coalesced into a cold snake running down Braham’s backbone to coil in his gut. He halted and turned to Lincoln. “Stay home, sir. An attempt will likely be made on yer life tonight, tomorrow, or the next day. There are more people out there like Count Adam Gurowski making caustic comments about yer policies, and some are actively conspiring to kill ye.” He stared helplessly into the president’s dark eyes. How could he convince Lincoln his life was truly in danger without coming right out and telling him John Wilkes Booth would assassinate him at Ford’s Theatre in only a few hours? Braham had to prevent the shooting, but short of locking up the president for the night, how could he? “If ye insist on going, I’ll stand outside the theater box and guard the door.”

  “I have a guard, and I believe the Mallorys are still visiting. Go home to your company. Enjoy the celebrations.”

  “The Mallorys will not be offended by my absence if they know I’m protecting ye.”

  The skin at the corner of Lincoln’s mouth wrinkled with a smile. “I have seen Doctor Mallory’s eyes following you. I would not like to displease her more than I have already.”

  “She’s not displeased.”

  Lincoln gave no more than a brief
snort in reply. Then he took Braham’s hand, clasped it, and continued his slow, ambling gait. “This is a critical time, Braham. I don’t want the country to know it’s necessary to protect the president from assassination. It’s unwise to admit a lack of confidence in the people. I have a twenty-four-hour guard.” Lincoln gestured by nodding toward the much shorter plainclothes officer at his side. “Tonight, I must go to the theater. The papers today announced both General Grant and I would see Our American Cousin. I cannot disappoint the public.”

  A sudden rush of fear and helplessness staggered Braham. He couldn’t rid his mind of the photographs he had seen while in the twenty-first century of Ford’s Theatre and William Petersen’s house. Lincoln needed to understand the depth of Braham’s worry and concern. “If Grant had given ye a plain refusal yesterday or early this morning, ye would have been able to cancel without as much disappointment. I understand. But, I promise ye, the public will be far more upset if ye’re assassinated at the theater.”

  Lincoln smiled at Braham with what looked like an attempt at confident reassurance. “You cannot escape the responsibility of tomorrow by evading it today.”

  A trickle of sweat ran down the back of Braham’s neck, under the queue tied at his nape. “But, sir—”

  Lincoln held up his hand to silence further argument, and while there was sympathy in his eyes, there was determination, too. For Lincoln, the matter was closed, but it would not vanish like a vapor, it would manifest into extreme anxiety for Braham. A free fall of perspiration trailed down his back.

  They continued in silence until they reached the War Department. “What’d ye decide about arresting Jacob Thompson?” Braham asked.

  “I told Assistant Secretary Dana, when you’ve got an elephant by the hind leg, and he’s trying to run away, it’s best to let him run.”

  “Guess it means the Confederate marauder is going to escape to England.”

  The president merely lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “Secretary Stanton wasn’t pleased with my decision.”

  The guard reached the entrance to the War Department first and held the door for Lincoln and Braham. The president went immediately to the telegraph desk to check for messages from General Sherman, and afterward remained there with one hand on his hip, his lips pursed, reading the telegrams.

  “Sherman is occupying Raleigh. It’s only a matter of time before he meets with Johnston and negotiates a surrender.”

  Braham gave the president’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “It’s almost over.”

  After Lincoln had read the telegrams, he and Braham returned to the White House, strolling past the gaslights glittering on the surrounding evergreens and the flags. Lincoln remained lost in thought as he shuffled back to his office, where he met with Illinois Governor Richard Oglesby and a group of friends. Braham remained outside the president’s door, listening to stories and laughter, but his mind was so fixed on what was about to happen, he couldn’t enjoy Lincoln’s obvious pleasure.

  Braham sat with his head bowed and propped on his hand. His fingers were splayed through his hair, massaging his forehead as he slowly rotated his head back and forth.

  “Never seen you so worried, Major,” Nicolay said. “Does it have anything to do with the rumors I’ve heard about you being seen several times this week in the company of a beautiful woman?” Nicolay leaned forward, wearing an expression of amused bewilderment. He lowered his voice. “I’ve also heard tell she’s the doctor the president sent to Richmond to rescue you from Chimborazo.”

  Braham moved his powerful shoulders in a partial shrug, and he flashed Nicolay a ghost of a grin. “Don’t believe everything ye hear, John.”

  Braham leaned his chair back against the wall as he had earlier and closed his eyes. He didn’t move when the president’s company departed and Lincoln left to join his family for dinner. Knowing the president was safe for the time being, Braham nodded off.

  A gentle touch on his shoulder startled him out of a light sleep. He blinked several times as Charlotte’s wavy image took form and shape.

  “What a surprise.” He rose slowly from the chair, still stiff and achy from his Richmond ordeal and very little rest since returning to Washington. He and Charlotte had made love all night for the last three nights, so he certainly wasn’t complaining about his lack of sleep.

  A flush appeared on her cheeks. “I’m sorry to wake you.”

  He stretched, yawning. “The president went to dinner with his family, and I dozed off. I’m glad to see ye.”

  “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I know you’re tired.”

  He was certainly glad to see her, but he sensed immediately she wasn’t paying a social call. The visit had to be her last plea. Throughout the week they had skirted around and outright avoided any discussion of Lincoln. But, by some unspoken yet mutual consent, the subject had lurked still, dull and gray and ominous.

  “Let’s go out into the hall. There’s a corner where we can have some privacy,” he said.

  They left the office for a quiet alcove. Their mingled shadows floated together on the wall. Braham pulled her into his arms, pausing to appreciate the fragrance of vanilla from lotion she used on her face. A distinct scent he would forever associate with her. As if under a spell, his eyes were drawn to her lips, parted and full, and the sound of her breathing filled him with desire. He kissed her hard and thoroughly, his tongue teasing hers. The kiss had lasted only a few seconds before she stepped away, ending it abruptly and decisively.

  She chewed on the corner of her lip, looking as if she wanted to say something, but she wasn’t sure what or if she should. Finally, she said, “Jack and I are leaving in the morning, regardless of what happens tonight. I’ll ask you one more time. Please don’t interfere.”

  “How can ye ask that of me? Ye’ve sat at his knee and hung on his every word. The country needs him desperately. I don’t care about the future. I care about right now.”

  Charlotte’s breath hitched. She shook her head, and her unbound golden hair released the faint scent of amber and vanilla. She turned to leave, but he grabbed her arm. The area was quiet except for the gentle crack of settling timber in the fireplace in the president’s nearby office.

  He tried to slow his breathing and stop the racing of his heart. He loved her, but she didn’t understand that, to him, Abraham Lincoln wasn’t a marble statue. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

  “I don’t think there is another meaning. But tell me this: if you stop Booth tonight, what will you do tomorrow, or the next day? The president wants you to chase down the gold. Are you going to stay and guard him for the rest of his term? If you take out Booth, someone else will come along with the same hatred.”

  Someone behind Braham cleared his throat and said, “Excuse me, Major.”

  Braham turned on his heels, quick as a panther, to find Nicolay several feet away holding out an envelope with a shaking hand. “Yes, what is it, John?”

  “The president would like you to deliver this to Secretary Seward.”

  Braham backed away from Charlotte and took the envelope, giving it a cursory glance. He made a rough noise in his throat. His jaw muscles bulged, his limbs trembled, but he kept his temper in check. He didn’t want to leave the White House unless it was to guard the president, but he couldn’t explain why to Nicolay. He paused for a moment, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth as though to rid himself a lingering rancid taste.

  “Why me?” Braham asked.

  Nicolay flinched slightly at this; his lips compressed. “You were with him at the War Department this evening and can answer the secretary’s questions, if he has any.”

  Braham frowned, contriving to look menacing as he once again gathered his hat and gauntlets from the table. “Don’t let the president leave for the theater until I return.”

  “I’ll ask him, but I can’t make any guarantees,” Nicolay said.

  The color had left Charlotte’s face, and she stared at Braham with
a glint in the dark blue of her eyes, watching intently, brow creasing with new worry. “Lewis Powell will try to murder Seward tonight,” she told him quietly. Tiny pinpoints of perspiration glistened on her forehead, reflected by the light of the hall sconces. “Be careful.”

  Braham’s narrow-eyed glance roamed hungrily over her slender form. How could he still desire her with such intensity? He had taken her several times during the night and again early this morning. If they were in his bedroom, he would have her once again. He swallowed, worked his jaw, and finally with effort asked, “How’d ye get here?”

  “I walked. I’m only across the street. Go on.”

  “I’ll go with ye to the corner.”

  They reached the front door of the White House and a soldier jogged up to meet them, wearing an urgent expression on his flushed face. He took a moment to catch his breath, and then said, “Major, Secretary Stanton wants to see you right now, sir.”

  “I’m on my way to Secretary Seward’s house. I’ll stop on the way,” Braham said.

  The soldier saluted then ran back across the lawn, holding his hat firmly to his head.

  Charlotte and Braham walked in silence side by side, barely touching. Her satin skirt swished about her legs, and the breeze blew tendrils of hair around her face. There was a small love bite on her neck where the muscle curved into the shoulder. The memory of morning light on her face, her lips, and nibbling on the silky flesh made him feel a bit wistful and reflective, in spite of his fears for Lincoln.

  She glanced at him for a moment, and then her eyes traveled to some indeterminate spot to the side of him and grew distant, as if looking into the future. “If Lincoln dies tonight—”

  “He won’t.”

  “If Lincoln dies tonight,” she continued, “he’ll be remembered as the greatest president the country ever had. If you change history, you change how he’ll be remembered through the ages.”