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

up at the airport. We’ll have a girls’ lunch in Lexington and shop for Derby hats before going to the farm.”

When Charlotte disconnected, she picked the mail up off the floor and drank the rest of her water. There was no way she would be able to bring herself to have a girls’ lunch or shop for a Derby hat right now. She’d have to tell Meredith that Jack had disappeared when she picked her up.

A fresh surge of tears trickled down her face, tempting her to curl up on the floor and weep some more. She glanced down at the table, drawing patterns in the dust with a forefinger. The letter from Maryland caught her eye again. The damn thing kept popping up. She ripped open the sealed flap and removed two sheets of paper.

Dear Dr. Mallory,

For the past several years, I have been doing research at the Surratt House and Museum on the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln and the trial of the conspirators. I came across a letter which appears to be an original written by one of the conspirators, Jack Mallory. I have not found another reference to this letter. It is possible Mr. Mallory’s attorney put the correspondence in his case file and never delivered it. Mallory addressed the letter to his sister, Charlotte.

I, along with thousands of other researchers, have done extensive research on the Mallory families living at the time of the war, and have found no reference to Jack. The experts believe Mallory was an alias. Whoever he was and wherever he came from are among those mysteries lost to time.

However, I did discover a few things which might interest you, and which I offer as thanks in advance for any assistance you can give me.

I traced your family tree back to Major Carlton Jackson Mallory, who served valiantly in the Army of Virginia during the Civil War. He had a son, Carlton Jackson, Jr., who was only a child at the time. Major Mallory owned a plantation outside Richmond. Vigilantes burned the mansion within weeks of General Johnson’s surrender to General Sherman on April 26, 1865. The family eventually sold the acreage to pay back taxes. Today the property is the home of The Lane Winery and Bed & Breakfast.

I have enclosed a copy of the letter I discovered. I have read it dozens of time, and it makes no sense. In addition, there was no reference to a Charlotte Mallory found in the Mallory family tree until you. It’s probably why it was never delivered. If you have any information about Jack and Charlotte Mallory in your family archives, I would appreciate hearing from you. I’m sure if there ever was any information it would have circulated long before now, but I would be remiss as a researcher if I failed to follow up on this lead.

Thank you for your time and attention. I look forward to hearing from you.

Her hands dropped to her lap, shaking. “Oh God, Jack. History has gotten so screwed up.” From the very beginning, her goal had been to keep history intact, but now…

She read the letter again. The family history was correct. Nothing new there. Her ancestors had moved to Richmond after the plantation burned, and Major Mallory had practiced medicine until he died. His son taught school, as did the next four Carlton Jackson Mallorys, although the last two were college professors. Jack broke the mold when he went to law school and ended up becoming a writer.

Small waves of pointless panic seized her. There was no way anyone could connect Jack to her ancestors. Even if her name was discovered on Lincoln’s second inaugural dinner invitation list or medical records as an attending physician, she couldn’t be linked. She was the first and only Charlotte in a long line of Mallorys dating back to the seventeenth century. Thinking back now over the last few months, she realized she had saved the old house from the torch in the fall of 1864, only to ensure it burned in the spring of 1865.

A strange ripple—like when someone tosses a stone into the water—went through her, and the breath hitched in her dry throat, with a faint rasp. Her actions and Jack’s actions had a rippling effect on the future. She didn’t yet know how far out the ripple extended, but it was there nonetheless.

She gulped painfully when she peered at the second page, recognizing Jack’s eloquent script. The uneven writing, dark where he had dipped the quill, faded slowly through each line until he dipped the nib again.

Dear Charlotte,

I am sorry for the pain my death will cause you. When the police came to arrest me, there was a fight, and I lost your beautiful sapphire eyes in the place of our last good-bye. After an exhaustive search, no one could locate them, so I was unable to travel again. I pray no one finds them now, for I fear they will never understand their uniqueness, and the consequences could be catastrophic. I hope one day you will claim my body and bury me in the family cemetery at the homeplace close to the river I love.

Tears dropped on the page, puckering the paper in her cold hands.

She didn’t know what he was talking about. They had no homeplace. No family cemetery. And what happened to the brooch? Did someone find it? Oh God, what a mess.

She read his letter again, then again, becoming more confused with each reading. No wonder his attorney never delivered it, and who was his attorney anyway? Surely Braham had represented him. A very uncharitable thought occurred to her. His lawyering skills might be on the same level as his spying skills.

Yes, it was very uncharitable. Braham and Jack loved each other dearly. Braham would have moved heaven and earth, and even hell to clear Jack’s name. Which meant someone had planted irrefutable evidence against Jack, but who would have done it…and why? It would all be in the