The Topaz Brooch: Time Travel Romance (The Celtic Brooch Book 10)

by Katherine Lowry Logan

“Until all the soldiers arrived, I did. Now there are so many new people I can’t keep up.”

  “All the shops are still open. I’m surprised.”

  “There’s so much confidence in General Jackson that not one shop or warehouse has closed, nor have any valuables been removed from the city. The women have formed committees to provide lint, clothing, and bed linens. But I don’t feel their confidence.”

  “Does that have anything to do with what happened in France?”

  “Not really. The way I see it, General Jackson is about to fight the strongest military in the world. The British forces just defeated Napoleon. It’s like David and Goliath. How is General Jackson expected to beat an army like that?”

  Sophia put her gloved finger to her lips. “Shhh. Don’t tell him.”

  Marguerite whispered, “He won’t hear it from my lips. But if President Madison were standing in front of me, I’d ask him if he was expecting a miracle.”

  “If free blacks, New Orleans aristocrats, and members of the Choctaw Nation can’t give him one, Old Hickory will do it singlehandedly. He doesn’t have an option. If he loses, America loses. The English have already burned the capitol, and dissenters in Massachusetts want Madison out and a new form of government in operation. They don’t care about the West and most of the south. They want the original thirteen states to be a separate country. That’s why this war has to end with a solid victory. There’s much more at stake than protecting New Orleans.”

  Sophia had peppered Pete with dozens of questions the night before. Her Battle of New Orleans cheat sheet had significant holes, and if she intended to worm her way into General Jackson’s world, she had to know what was happening and why. Philippe was the expert, and she had a list of questions for him, too…or Rhona, if she was up to it.

  “Pete mentioned what was at stake this morning at breakfast,” Marguerite said, “but I can’t see these Tennessee militiamen beating back thousands of well-trained British soldiers.”

  “If you don’t believe Pete, how about Rick? Would you believe him?”

  Marguerite pursed her lips and shook her head.

  The corners of Sophia’s mouth quirked. “How about Remy? I bet you’d believe him.”

  “I might.”

  Sophia chuckled. “Because you think he’s the cutest of the three, or because he’s Cajun?”

  Marguerite’s tongue ran along the seam of her lips as her grin curled.

  “I know you’re not one to gawk, but Remy is gawkable.”

  Marguerite finally laughed. “The student has become the teacher.”

  “I remember the advice you gave me in Paris, but spending time around the MacKlenna men, I’ve learned to enjoy beauty for beauty’s sake, not just for art’s sake, and there’s enough beauty in that family to fill a museum.”

  “If you have a sketch of Remy, will you slip it under my pillow?”

  Sophia burst out laughing. “If you want an evening with Remy, you’ll have to manage that on your own. But I can tell you right now he’s not a bad boy.”

  “I know what Remy is.” Marguerite didn’t elaborate, and Sophia didn’t pursue it. He was too young for Marguerite anyway, although age didn’t always matter when it came to love.

  She and Marguerite clasped hands and ventured into the busy street, dodging wagons and men on horseback to reach the other side of Decatur. Soldiers wearing a hodgepodge of uniforms congregated on the street corners chewing tobacco and spitting on the sidewalks.

  “All these soldiers remind me of Paris at the start of the revolution, but they weren’t chewing and spitting everywhere we walked.”

  “That alone is a good enough reason to raise the hemline just so our dresses don’t drag in their spit.” Sophia lifted her hem and sidestepped an unknown substance. “We shouldn’t complain about them. They’ve come to Louisiana to fight for their country in a lopsided battle.”

  Sophia and Marguerite fell into a comfortable stride, passing the shops and restaurants across from the Place d’Armes. As their pace increased, so did Sophia’s anticipation. Would Jackson agree to see her? She could try stumbling into his arms. She chuckled at that. She didn’t intentionally fall into Thomas’s arms all those years ago, but when she did, an entirely different world opened up to her. Although, as incredible as it had been, it paled when compared to her life with Pete and Lukas.

  The paintings and sketches she did for Thomas, both in Paris and New York City, were the most challenging work Sophia had ever done, mostly because of the historical significance. If General Jackson would let her sketch him while he prepared to defend New Orleans, then the drawings could be used by future artists to portray him accurately at this crucial time in his career.

  “I hope this gift for Mrs. Jackson gets you in to see the general without us having to wait most of the morning. Rhona is expecting us in time for tea,” Marguerite said.

  “General Jackson is rumored to be a gentleman. Although I don’t think anyone who’s participated in a hundred duels could be very gentlemanly. Anyway”—she shook away the thought of dueling pistols and people dying before their time and finished her thought—“The general won’t turn away a woman bearing gifts. And if he’s too busy, I’ll throw a few names around and see if that gets me in the door.”

  “Are you going to mention Mr. Jefferson?”

  “Probably. He helped me arrange sittings with President Washington, Aaron Burr, Alexander Hamilton, John Jay, James Madison, and a few others.”

  When the decision was made to go back in time to find Billie and the Fontenots, one of the first things Sophia did was research Jackson and Jefferson’s relationship. She could hear Thomas railing against Jackson in his mild-mannered way. He wasn’t a fan of Andrew Jackson. According to Thomas, while Jackson was an able military chief, he had little respect for laws and the Constitution, was too passionate, had no self-control, and was unfit to be a US Senator. Sophia checked the date of Jackson’s swearing-in as the seventh president. It occurred three years after Thomas’s passing. Thank goodness Thomas didn’t live, or wouldn’t live, to see it happen. Would her opinion of Jackson match Thomas’s, or would they disagree on yet another topic? She’d go in with an open mind and take it from there.

  “The general’s office is in the middle of the next block,” Marguerite said, interrupting Sophia’s thoughts.

  “Okay,” Sophia said. “I know what I’m going to tell the general. Instead of mentioning Thomas, I’m going to tell the general I know Marguerite Bonnard, owner of New Orleans’s only continental fashion house.”

  Marguerite laughed. “If I had that tag printed on my cloth bags, you wouldn’t need to tell him. He could read for himself.” Marguerite pointed ahead. “The general’s office is on the right, but there’s a guard at the door. Do you suppose he won’t let us inside?”

  “We need a bribe.”

  “I could give him the bottle of wine I brought for the general.”

  Sophia chewed the corner of her lip. “I have an idea. If the soldier tries to stop us, I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse—and I promise it won’t be illegal, immoral, or unethical.”

  They reached a baby-faced soldier wearing the dark hunting frock and tan woolen trousers of the Tennessee militia. He didn’t look old enough to serve, and Sophia doubted he was even sixteen.

  He tipped his hat. “Mornin’, ma’am.” He nodded to Marguerite. “Ma’am.”

  “Good morning, soldier. Are you keeping people out or watching who goes in?” Sophia asked.

  “I don’t stop nobody, ma’am. I just answer questions and make sure everybody gets where they’re wantin’ to go.”

  Sophia studied his strong chin, gently curved mouth, smoky blue eyes, and mussed dark-brown hair, and even though she didn’t need to bribe him to get in to see the general, his baby face was enough to entice her to paint him.

  “Soldier, find me later. I want to sketch you. You have a handsome face, and I bet you have a mother who would love to have a drawing of yo
u.”

  A dopey grin crossed his face, and his eyes widened. “Yes, ma’am. I got married a few months ago, and a picture of me would make the missus real happy.”

  Married? But he’s so young.

  “I don’t have much money, ma’am. How much will it cost me?”

  Sophia stepped aside for another soldier to enter the building. “For you, not a cent.”

  He had a light in his eyes, a suppressed glow of excitement. “Thank you! Would…would this afternoon suit you? Her birthday’s comin’ up soon, and a drawin’ of me would make a mighty fine present.”

  Sophia smiled. “Let me go in and visit the general. When I come out, we’ll schedule a time. How’s that?”

  “I’ll be on duty for another two hours.”

  “If I miss you, my friend, Mademoiselle Bonnard”—Sophia waved her hand toward Marguerite—“owns a dress shop across from the Place d’Armes. I’m staying with her so stop by the shop, and we’ll figure out a time for you to sit for me.”

  “I’ll do that.” He tilted his head, and his dark-brown hair fell over a smoky eye. “Are you gonna draw pictures of the general? His missus would like one, too. I mean, I don’t ’spect you to draw the general for nothin’, but it would be special for Miz Rachel.”

  “That’s why I’m here. I hope he’ll let me.”

  “Shucks, ma’am. If he don’t, I’ll show the general the one you gonna draw for me. Betcha he’ll change his mind then.”

  Sophia put her hand on his forearm and gently squeezed. “I’m sure a recommendation from you would do the trick. Your enthusiasm alone would line up a slew of commissions.”

  He shuffled his feet. “Oh, ma’am. I was exaggeratin’. Nobody would listen to me.”

  Sophia smiled. “I doubt that, soldier. If you yelled, ‘Enemy’s coming,’ everyone would take cover.”

  “Aw, shucks. I guess they would.”

  Sophia had to bite the insides of her cheeks to keep from cracking up. He was adorable, and the thought of what he was here to do was heartrending.

  “Do ya want to go see the general now? He could be in a meetin’, but one of his aides-de-camp should know when you can visit with him.”

  “Is that Mr. Fontenot?” she asked.

  “Mr. Fontenot went out to meet Major General Carroll and his troops. Mr. Livingston is another aide-de-camp. He should be in his office. I’ll take ya up there.” He led the way into the foyer and up the steps.

  “Where are you from?” Sophia asked. “Tennessee?”

  “Yes, ma’am. First Regiment of the East Tennessee Militia. Got called up to come down and fight for the general. It’s an honor, ma’am.” He led them down the hallway to the last door. It was the only closed door in the hall. “The general must be in a meeting. That’s the only time he closes his door.”

  “We’ll wait here,” Sophia said. “He probably won’t be too long. We have a gift for his wife.”

  “He’ll like that, ma’am.” The soldier tipped his hat. “I better get back to my station. I’ll see ya again when ya come out.”

  As he walked away, Sophia asked, “What’s your name, soldier?”

  “Tommy Malone from Nashville, Tennessee, ma’am.”

  Malone?

  Sophia’s breath caught. “This might seem like an odd question, but do you have any children?”

  Tommy beamed. “One on the way, ma’am. Should be here by spring.” He tipped his hat and went back downstairs.

  Was it possible she’d just found Billie’s ancestor? What else did she know about him? Nothing, except he would die and his brother—“Tommy,” she called.

  He stopped halfway down the steps and looked up.

  “Do you have brothers or sisters…uh…who might like a picture of you too?”

  “Only a brother, but I don’t see him no more.” Tommy rolled his shoulders and rubbed the back of his neck. “He drinks too much, and my wife is skeered of him. He won’t want no drawin’ of me.”

  Sophia took a breath so deep her lungs might explode, and then she let it drift out. During all her trips to the past, she’d been careful not to change the future, although she had a few times. This situation was different, and she would do everything within her power to straighten it out—for Billie, for Rick, for Tommy, and most of all, for his poor wife.

  A soldier wearing the dark blue coat and gray trousers of the U.S. Infantry exited the office and closed the door behind him.

  “Excuse me,” Sophia said. “Is the general still in a meeting?”

  “He’s finished, but he’s busy today.”

  “I’m sure he is,” Sophia said. “But we brought a gift for his wife, and we were hoping to have five minutes. Is that possible?”

  “I’ll ask him. Wait here.” He went back inside the office and closed the door.

  Marguerite whispered, “What do you suppose he’ll do?”

  Sophia folded her arms. “If the general won’t see us, we’ll wait right here until he does.”

  The door opened again, and the general walked out. Sophia drew back. The general was tall and so imposing he seemed to suck the air out of the room. She was surprised there was anything left to breathe. But mostly, she was shocked at his appearance.

  “I have a meeting to attend. What can I do for you fine ladies?”

  Sophia knew he was in his late forties, but he looked much older. He was emaciated as if he’d spent the past few months in a POW camp. His complexion was sallow, and his iconic stiff, wiry hair was iron-grey. But a fierce glare burned in his hawklike, haggard eyes.

  His clothes were so threadbare he needed a new shirt and pants and coat. A small leather cap protected his head, and a short blue Spanish cloak hung from his shoulders. His high dragoon boots weren’t polished or blackened.

  Where was his aide? Sophia never altered the appearance of her subjects. She painted what she saw, but she couldn’t paint Jackson as he was now. Even new clothes and a haircut wouldn’t make much of an improvement.

  Sophia extended her hand. “I’m Mistress Orsini, General, and this is my friend, Mademoiselle Bonnard. We have a gift for your wife and a bottle of wine for you. We wanted to give it to you personally.”

  Marguerite handed him one of the cloth bags tied with a purple ribbon and the wine.

  The general took the gifts and brought the gift bag to his nose. “I smell lavender. Whatever is inside, she’ll be pleased. I’ll send it to her today. She’ll want to write thank-you notes. Will you leave your names with my aide-de-camp?” Even as he was speaking, he was walking toward the stairs.

  “There’s something else, sir.” Sophia second-guessed herself. Was this the right time—when he was heading to a meeting—to approach him with her offer? Or was she throwing away her one shot?

  Go for it, Soph. If you don’t venture, you don’t gain.

  How many times had Pete told her something similar when she vacillated about approaching a potential client she had a burning desire to paint? A dozen or more, at least. Decision made, she opened her journal and removed a sheet of letterhead.

  “Would you please read this?”

  Tension and impatience rolled off him, and he gave her a nasty glare, but took the paper and read it. “This is from Secretary of State Jefferson written twenty-five years ago.”

  “I’m aware of that. But nothing the secretary wrote then is any different now.”

  The general glanced up. There was such confidence in his demeanor. “If you’re the same woman he mentions here, then you must have been quite young.”

  Sophia ignored the reference to age and went straight to the offer. “I’d like to do for you what I did for Thomas Jefferson when he was Ambassador to France during the early days of the revolution. President Washington and Mr. Jay said the drawings attached to Mr. Jefferson’s reports gave them a full understanding of the situation in Paris.”

  “The drawings were printed in the newspaper,” Jackson recalled as he continued reading.

  “I know they were w
hen we returned to America and lived in New York City, but I didn’t know they were published when we were in France.”

  He handed the letter back. “I heard you died, Mistress Orsini.”

  She paused and offered him a sympathetic nod, then, repeating Mark Twain’s famous quip, said, “The reports of my death, sir, were greatly exaggerated.”

  Jackson laughed. “Obviously. So you traded Monticello for the Louisiana bayous?”

  “Monticello was never mine to trade. I’m in New Orleans because of you. I want to immortalize this battle and the part you play in winning it. It will make you a national hero.”

  “Or the most hated man in America.”

  “If you lose that might happen, but you won’t lose, will you? There’s too much at stake.”

  Jackson pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “I’d like to attend meetings, travel with you around New Orleans by foot, horseback, or boat. Wherever you stop, I’ll sketch what you see, who you meet, or where you dine. The sketches will be for your eyes only unless you decide to share them with the secretary or President Madison. The president will glean much more from your reports with the sketches attached. One image is worth a thousand words, sir.”

  Tension ticked at the corners of his eyes, and he stared at her, holding her in place with a steely glare. Then he folded his arms and groused, “How can I trust you”—he emphasized you with a pointed finger—“not to pass information to the British?”

  The punch in his words raised her hackles, and she faltered at the unexpected twist to their conversation. Before she could sound off, Marguerite pressed her hand in the middle of Sophia’s back. The warm pressure re-grounded her.

  “My loyalty to this nation has never been an issue,” she said calmly. “President Washington trusted me. General Lafayette trusted me. John Jay, Alexander Hamilton, Aaron Burr, James Monroe, James Madison, and Thomas Jefferson trusted me. You can ask any of them—except Alexander, of course.”

  Her legs shook, but she refused to show weakness, and that included reaching out to the staircase railing for balance. She decided to push once more. If it didn’t convince him, she’d ask Philippe to intervene. “I want to paint you riding Duke. You can hang it in your study at The Hermitage.”