Elliott handed the brooch to her, and she quickly turned it over to David. “You steer this trip.”
He gave it back. “I can’t. This trip is yer destiny. Not mine.” David looped the straps of his bags around his shoulders.
“Are you armed?” she asked.
He flipped open his jacket, revealing a revolver tucked in its shoulder holster.
“Good. If we land in the midst of a battle—”
He gave her a thumbs-up signal. “I got yer back.” David’s dark brows drew together as though the late afternoon sunlight bothered him now that he was without his aviators. He caught her eye, and gave her a wry grin.
She tried to give the Frasers a smile, but her lips felt stiff. Days of preparation had led to this moment. Her heart hammered suddenly in her ears. God, she couldn’t believe she was doing this again. It was going to be the last trip. A trickle of sweat ran down between her bound breasts as the brooch heated in her hand.
David tapped her on the head. “Hold on to yer hat.”
The tension broke, her anxiety faded, and she smiled. “I’ll hold on to my hat. You hold on to me.” She opened the stone, took a breath, and then stammered through the Gaelic spell once more. As the fog swirled around her feet, she added a silent prayer.
79
MacKlenna Farm, Lexington, Kentucky, 1865
When the fog lifted, Charlotte found herself on a tree-lined drive leading to the MacKlennas’ front porch. Instead of asphalt, the driveway was a dirt road full of muddy potholes. The fragrant smell of burning wood hung in the air. When she and David had left the future, the buds of the trees had been bursting open in the springlike breezes. Now brilliant sunshine streamed through the dense stand of elm trees. Dark green, fully leafed branches formed a canopy on both sides of the road. The season had jumped ahead from late March to May or early June. It wasn’t hot enough to be summer.
She glanced at David. His face was unreadable, but not his eyes, which were scanning the landscape. He was perfectly still, a warrior assessing danger and weighing risks. Then he seemed to relax and adjusted the weight of his two large carpetbags. “The wee farm looks the same but different. If ye had put me in the paddock out of sight of the house, I would have still known where I was.”
“It’s beautiful, regardless of the century. Do you think the architect intended the Doric columns to resemble sentries guarding the house?”
“Thomas MacKlenna designed the house to resemble Monticello. In 1790, they probably needed protection.”
Charlotte hopped over another mud puddle and around the next one. “Do you know what you’re going to say?”
David drew a long breath, and his shoulders squared beneath his well-fitting jacket. “Thought I’d leave it up to ye.”
“Well, thanks. I guess.” She hadn’t given much thought to meeting Sean MacKlenna. To her, he was a necessary stop on the way to Washington. Although she was interested in meeting him, she didn’t want to delay their departure. A cup of tea, a friendly chat, then they’d ask for transportation to the train station. “I’ll tell Mr. MacKlenna I’m a friend of Braham’s.”
David stepped aside to let Charlotte climb the portico stairs ahead of him. “Braham might have told him about ye.”
“Probably. Or maybe he just mentioned a doctor. He had to explain how he came from the future somehow.”
Reaching the front door, David clanged the big brass door knocker. “Shall we see who’s at home, then?”
Charlotte fingered a bullet hole. “These look recent.”
“Aye, they do. Looks like they repaired some of the holes but left others. Wonder why?”
A butler dressed in fine livery opened the door, and Charlotte forgot all about the holes. “May I help you?”
“Aye, is Mr. MacKlenna at home?” David asked. “We’re out-of-town acquaintances and have business to discuss.”
The butler opened the door wider and invited them inside. “Sur. You’n wait in ’a parlor.”
Other than stains on the hardwood floors which seemed lighter, and the paint on the walls more vivid, the residence hadn’t changed. The same or similar eighteenth-century antiques filled the rooms.
David studied the painting hanging over the fireplace. “I wonder what happened to this painting. As many years as I’ve been visiting the mansion, I’ve never seen it.”
A man shorter than David with lanky brown hair and intelligent eyes entered the room and noticed David admiring the painting. “Eilean Donan Castle close to—”
“Dornie,” David said.
“From yer accent, I’d wager it’s not far from yer home.”
“Not far,” David agreed.
“I’m Sean MacKlenna.”
“I ken yer name. I’m David McBain. As a lad I spent time at the MacKlenna estate”—he paused—“with yer niece Kit.”
Sean glanced from David to Charlotte, then back to David. “Ye came through the time portal, then?”
Charlotte extended her hand. “I’m Charlotte Mallory.”
A line furrowed between Sean’s brows as he searched her face.
She gave her beard a little tug. “You’ll have to excuse the disguise. We thought it would be safer for me to travel as a man.”
A devilish spark rallied in his eyes. “Ye’re the surgeon who saved Abraham’s life.”
Her cheeks flushed, and she nodded. “Yes, sir. I didn’t give him a choice in the matter, and then he wasn’t pleased when I wouldn’t take him back.”
“He also said he wasn’t in love with ye, but ye could see the denial on his face as easily as the scratch on his nose. He kens the stone’s power, but he’s fighting against it.”
She looked at Sean wide-eyed and interested. “It’s true, then, what Elliott said about the stone and finding love?”
“Aye, lass, ’tis true. The stone will lead ye to the one of yer heart.”
She pursed her lips with disappointment. The sapphire brooch might have led her to Braham, but it had no power to hold them together. She eased her shoulders with a little sigh and placed thoughts of hearts and stones on the back burner to simmer indefinitely.
“We’re in a hurry to get to Washington,” she said. “I hope it’s still 1865.”
“The date is May 5, 1865,” Sean said.
She glanced at David. “It’s soon enough, right? Nothing’s happened in the trial yet.”
David nodded. “Nothing yet.”
“Thank goodness. Oh, here,” she said, dropping the brooch into Sean’s hand. “You can put this back inside the desk.”
“Elliott is going to wear it out. I just popped it into its wee box, and here it is again.” Sean placed the brooch in his jacket pocket. “I’ll return it shortly. Elliott might decide to pay a visit, too.”
“When his son is older,” David said, “Elliott will make the jump. He misses Kit. I do, too. Have ye heard from her lately?”
“Aye, a telegram last week, but Cullen arrived this morning from Chicago. He’s on his way to Washington.”
A warbling whistle came from down the hall, beautiful music from a talented whistler. The tune might have been Bobby McFerrin’s Don’t Worry, Be Happy. Charlotte cut a quick glance toward David. The corner of his lip tilted up. The whistling preceded a man’s appearance in the doorway. “Did I hear my name, Uncle?”
Charlotte blinked at the tall, dark-headed, John Kennedy-esque man who entered the room, smiling. His powerful presence wasn’t just because of the Kennedy look. It was charisma. She couldn’t explain it or define it, but it oozed from his pores. She wasn’t easily impressed by looks, fame, fortune, or celebrity status, but Cullen certainly got her attention.
“I was telling our visitors ye arrived this morning.”
Cullen approached her, extending his hand, studying her with eyes which held her enthralled. “I’m Cullen Montgomery.”
“I’m Charlotte Mallory,” she finally managed. So this is the ghost of MacKlenna Farm. David had told her all about Cullen’s hauntings.
At first, she found it hard to believe, but why not? The farm was enchanting. It might as well have a ghost, too.
Staring at her oddly, Cullen’s outrageously long dark lashes fluttered as he blinked several times. Obviously, he didn’t trust what his eyes were telling him.
She tugged on her beard. “I don’t look like a Charlotte, do I?”
His laugh was almost musical—full and vibrant and contagious. “Aye, my wife wears trousers, too, but she has no facial hair.”
Charlotte grinned. “You know what they say. You can take a girl out of the twenty-first century but you can’t take the twenty-first century out of the girl.”
Sean and Cullen exchanged glances then both threw back their heads and laughed.
“I’m sorry Kit isn’t here to meet ye.” Cullen wiped tears from his eyes. “Ye came through with the brooch, aye?”
Charlotte removed the wig, shook out her hair, and then slowly peeled off the beard. “David and I have come back to save my brother.”
“What happened to him?” Cullen asked.
She shifted uneasily and threw a glance at David. He shifted, too, moving closer to her. If they were going to be thrown out of the house for being connected to one of the conspirators, he’d be there to protect her. She cleared her throat and steeled herself. “He was arrested for conspiring to kill the president.”
Cullen’s eyes widened, but otherwise he hid his emotions. “Jack Mallory?”
She tensed and nodded with only a slight lift and dip of her chin.
Cullen pressed his fingertips together, bouncing them slowly off each other, moving to the silent tick of a metronome. Finally, he stopped tapping his fingers and put his hands on his hips. “Braham sent me a telegram to come to Washington.”
She gasped, clutching her chest. “He did? When?”
“A week ago. He asked me to come to Washington to help him defend one of the conspirators. Why?” Cullen asked.
She broke into a relieved smile. “It’s a long story, but thank God he’s all right. We’ve been worried.”
Sean gestured down the hall. “Let’s retire to my office. We’ll have more privacy there, and ye can tell us yer story.”
“We have a tradition,” Cullen said. “The person telling the story brings the whisky.”
David dug into one of his carpetbags and pulled out a bottle. “Woodford Reserve. From a local distillery, or will be.”
Cullen took the bottle and read the label. Then he clapped David on the back. “Unless yer story is longer than an hour, we won’t die of thirst.”
The group entered the room with the familiar vast mahogany desk, full bookshelves, and floor-to-ceiling windows with glorious views of the pastures beyond the house. Charlotte came to a standstill right inside the doorway, taking in the scents of tobacco and leather. While the room appeared the same, the absence of Elliott made it seem somehow smaller.
“Do ye want a drink, Charley?” David asked.
“Yes, please.” She was drawn to the open window behind the desk and inhaled a lungful of afternoon air, cloyingly warm for early spring, but fresh and sweet from the roses beneath the window. There weren’t roses outside Elliott’s window.
“Here’s yer drink, lass,” David said, handing her a half-filled crystal glass. “Come, sit down. Today is the last time ye’ll need to tell yer story.”
Sean rearranged the chairs so they could sit in a circle. Charlotte began her story, and when she reached the part about Braham’s disappearance, David picked up the tale. From there, Sean added to the story, telling them about Braham’s appearance and the fight with the Reb deserters.
Charlotte shook her head, groaning. “I was afraid it might happen before he fully recovered. Are you sure he wasn’t hurt?”
“Aye, a wee scratch from broken glass. I told him I’d send him back to ye if he got shot.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t surrender right then,” she groused.
Sean laughed, but she hadn’t meant it to be funny.
Sean finished his story and Charlotte continued with the next part of hers, ending with her return to MacKlenna Farm. Three hours later, with everyone up to speed, David poured a final round of whisky, emptying the bottle.
Not long after Charlotte had begun the story, Cullen had stopped her to fetch a journal and pencil, and had taken notes. Now he flipped through the pages. “Why do ye think Braham didn’t go home with ye after the assassination? His boss was dead. The war was over, and, knowing him as well as I do, I’m sure he was in love with ye.”
She stared at her hands and considered Braham’s state of mind the last time she saw him. “I’m not sure I can explain it.” She looked up into Cullen’s eyes, seeing warmth and understanding, and she knew she could trust him.
She straightened, saying, “I think several things combined to keep him here. After almost dying at Chimborazo, his degrading treatment and abuse in Castle Thunder, and his failure to save Lincoln, he was compelled to reclaim his honor. Although he’d never lost it, he believed he had. He was looking for a way to restore what he lost. Will he find it? I don’t know.”
“His honor pulled him into the war when I tried to keep him out of it. But he had made a pledge to General Sheridan in 1852. A pledge he shouldn’t have made, but I’m thankful he did.”
“Stubborn man.” Charlotte pulled a tissue from her pocket and wiped her nose.
Cullen chuckled. “He’s a McCabe and a Highlander. Ye can’t expect anything less.” Then he eyed her speculatively. “And what about ye? Do ye love him enough to give up the life ye have and stay here with him?” Cullen asked in a low, even voice, but it resonated throughout the quiet room. She could tell from his tone he wasn’t judging her. But beyond the simple question was an undercurrent of more than curiosity. She pressed her lips together to avoid giving him a hasty answer. He deserved more than a quick yes or no.
David opened one of the carpetbags at his feet and withdrew a stack of papers. “We have a copy of the complete record of the conspiracy trial.” The interruption was transparent to everyone, and Cullen turned his attention to David, politely leaving his question hanging in the air unanswered.
“The evidence against Jack is circumstantial, but Stanton doesn’t care. There’s no due process, no presumption of innocence, no jury of their peers, and no appeal. The trial is only a formality before guilty verdicts are handed down.”
“The New York Herald predicted the trial will start next week,” Cullen said.
“On the tenth, the commission will ask the defendants if they’d like to seek counsel. We have to be there then and prepared to represent him,” Charlotte said.
Cullen made a notation in his journal. “The earliest train leaves in the morning. Until then, I’d like to study your documents.”
David handed over a six-inch stack of papers. “These are the pertinent pages relative to Jack. There are more than forty-six hundred pages of testimony. We have the entire record with us.”
Cullen stared at the bags on the floor next to David’s chair. “Forty-six hundred pages won’t fit in the bags ye’re carrying.”
“I have the rest in another format and it’s easily accessible,” David said.
“When you read through the transcript, you’ll notice Braham’s name is never mentioned. We don’t know why. We thought he might have been killed before the trial, but since he sent you a telegram, we know he’s alive. But we don’t know what part, if any, he played in the trial,” Charlotte said.
“Is my name there?” Cullen asked.
“No,” she said, shaking her head.
Cullen thumbed through some of the pages. “Who represented him?”
David flipped through a few pages then pointed. “A Mr. Patterson. We don’t know anything about him, and he did a lousy job.”
Charlotte frowned. “Quite an understatement.”
“I’ll start reading immediately. Anything else I should know before I begin?” Cullen asked.
Charlotte put her h
ands on her knees and leaned forward. “We don’t know if I’ve been implicated, too. It’s why I intend to arrive wearing a disguise.”
Cullen picked up the papers and fanned them. “Are ye mentioned in any of these pages?”
She shook her head. “I’m worried I might…”
“…be considered guilty by association,” Cullen said.
“That could be what happened to Mary Surratt. Her son, John, had well-known ties to Booth, but the police were unable to find John. So Stanton went after Mary, hoping John would surface to protect his mother. He didn’t.”
Sean reached into his pocket and pulled out the brooch. “Since ye don’t have the sapphire, ye best keep this. Ye may need to make a quick escape.” He returned the stone to Charlotte. “When ye find the sapphire, give the ruby to Cullen. He can bring it back when he makes his return to trip to California.”
Charlotte pinned the brooch to the inside of her jacket’s lapel. “Let’s pray we find it, or we might have bigger troubles than changing the outcome of the trial.”
“Don’t worry, lass. Ye’ll find the stone, or the stone will find ye. It’s not finished with ye yet,” Sean said.
Cullen nodded as if he agreed completely. “Ye can be sure of it.”
80
Washington City, 1865
Three days later Charlotte, Cullen, and David arrived in Washington, dirty and tired. Delays in Cincinnati, Parkersburg, and Baltimore had tacked an additional day onto their two-day journey. While Cullen and David had remained calm throughout, Charlotte had been pissy with conductors, snappy with fellow travelers, and downright rude to anyone who mentioned the conspirators. The food on the train was barely edible, the accommodations were atrocious, and the overcrowded cars had made it impossible for them to discuss Jack’s situation. Thank goodness Sean had insisted they bring a basket of food with them, or she would have starved.
When they disembarked in Washington, she was so thrilled to be off the train with its never-ending clacking, she almost knelt down and kissed the ground. She didn’t, but she did squint against the glaring overcast sky. Ragged clouds streamed in from the south, and the scent of ozone heralded stormy weather ahead. Nothing new.
The Sapphire Brooch Page 53
