The Sapphire Brooch Katherine Logan (best beach reads TXT) 📖

sent shivers from her nape to her tailbone. “We’ll talk about it when you’re up and moving around.”

“I’m getting up,” he said. “Where’s Edward?”

Edward entered the room so quickly he must have been sitting by the door waiting. “I’m here, sir.”

Braham rolled over onto his left side, hissing between his teeth. “Help me up. I want a bath and a shave.”

Charlotte got out of Edward’s way, swallowing a lump of relief. “You have stitches in your forehead and right shoulder. A bath would do you good, but keep the area around the stitches dry.”

She stood at the bottom of the stairs and gritted her teeth as she watched Braham shuffle up, one slow step at a time. When he disappeared onto the landing, she returned to the dining room.

“Do patients always wake up so grumpy?” Jack asked.

“On the crotchety side, but he wasn’t so bad. Some patients wake up swinging. I think he woke up remembering what happened and didn’t want to talk about it.”

“I don’t blame him. For months he’s been focused on one goal, and he failed. I wouldn’t be happy either.”

“History survived, and if he thinks we’re happy because he didn’t prevent the assassination, he’s dead wrong. Last night I wanted him to succeed,” she said.

Carefully, she wrapped the mortar and pestle in velvet and placed the pieces in her bag next to the pill containers, and then she fastened the clasp, letting her fingers rest on the handle. “If he’s going to shut us out, there’s no point in staying any longer.”

Jack put his arm around her. “We’re not going to rush off. You two need to settle things between you.”

She leaned into him, sighing. “Why don’t you go up and help him? He might be interested in hearing the news.”

Jack gave her a squeeze. “I’ll do it, but you need sleep. If you’re going to make decisions in the next few hours, you need to be rested. You don’t want to leave here with regrets.”

No, she didn’t, but it was impossible not to. Of course she would have regrets. She pressed her hand on her lower belly. There was one thing which could make leaving him more bearable, but even if it happened, it would never be a substitute for her soldier’s love.

71

Washington City, April 1865

Every few hours Charlotte either knocked or rattled the doorknob or stomped noisily back and forth in front of Braham’s locked bedroom, but he refused to talk to her or let her come in. After the second day, Jack gave her a trumpet, very tongue-in-cheek-ish, and said, “Blow this for six days. On the seventh day, the door should fall flat.”

She closed her eyes, exasperated, blew hot air into the mouthpiece, and then shoved the damn instrument against his chest. “You blow it.” She had then nodded smartly, turned on her heels, and left…only to return a few hours later and rattle the doorknob again.

At night, she sat on the floor with her back propped against his door. She’d roll skeins of yarn she would never use into perfectly shaped spheres while she talked to Braham about random events in her life and travels through Europe and Asia with Jack. The clink of bottle against crystal told her he was awake. Did he hear her? She didn’t know, but occasional footfalls near the door made her believe he did. Otherwise, she had no real sense of what he was doing, other than grieving and avoiding company.

Whenever she knocked and pounded, pleading with him to let her in, he yelled at her to leave him alone. Her patience had worn as thin as the line she tried not to cross. He didn’t owe her anything. She was a guest in his home, and if he preferred she didn’t change his dressings or share his grief, she couldn’t very well have him arrested or committed to an asylum, although it was tempting.

Tuesday following the assassination was a warm day, and a spring breeze fluttered the curtains framing the windows in her bedroom. In spite of the warmth, gooseflesh rippled up her arms while she considered what to do next.

If Braham wouldn’t talk to her, she might as well go home. Would he even care? Maybe not, but she would. She wanted to see him before she left, partly to check his wounds, but mostly to say good-bye. Short of blasting a hole in the wall, gaining entry was unlikely. Frustrated, she snatched up a pair of boots and pretended they were grenades, lobbing them one by one against their adjoining bedroom walls.

“Great.” She didn’t blast a hole to climb through, but her bad aim had lodged one of the boots between the wall and the wardrobe. Grunting, she pushed against the oversized piece of furniture, but it wouldn’t budge.

“I’m going to the White House. Lincoln is lying in state in the East Room. Do you want to come?”

She glanced around to see her brother loitering in the doorway, his jacket slung over his shoulder and hanging by two fingers. “Yes. When’s the funeral?”

“Tomorrow, but it’s limited to six hundred people. We can’t get in, but I’m sure Braham’s on the approved list.”

She stopped pushing and leaned against the side of the chest, gasping. “Do you think he’ll go?”

“He should, but he’ll have to come out of seclusion.” The lines of Jack’s face cut deep and weariness shadowed his eyes. He took a slow breath and moved his shoulders a bit, as though his necktie was too tight. “By the way, what are you doing?”

She pushed against the wardrobe again, giving it all she had. “What does it look like?”

“Taking your frustration out on a six-foot-high mahogany wardrobe.”

She pushed harder on the side of the massive piece of furniture. “Well, I’m not. I’m saving the physical violence for when I get my hands on a particular Union major. Come here and help me. I can’t reach my shoe.”

He idled in and dropped his jacket onto a chair. “How’d it