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

A clear crystal chandelier with silver finish accents hung above the table. Below it, Jack lounged at one of two place settings. Growing up she had been well schooled in china and silver patterns, but the azure china with its embossed bead edge was not a pattern she recognized. The Grecian pattern flatware by Gorham, she did. “Impressive.”

“I hope you remember the finer details of this room. I’m only writing down what I see as important, like how many guests can fit at this table,” Jack said, chuckling.

“Without looking down, tell me the color of your china plate,” she said.

His eyebrows scrunched as he thought. “Green?”

She shook her head. “You’re right. You won’t remember. How about the paintings?”

He gave her an I-gotcha-there smile. “I may not notice china patterns and seat cushions, but I do notice paintings. The one behind me with the four boats is a Birch. My agent has a copy hanging over the receptionist’s desk. The other three,” he said, waving his finger around, “show the same technique in the clearly painted waves, so I assume they’re also by Birch.”

She poured a cup of coffee from a silver pot on the sideboard. “A townhouse in Lafayette Park—across from the White House—and Birch originals. I’m—”

“Impressed?”

“And surprised. Aren’t you?”

“Not really. He’s well-traveled, educated, and wealthy.”

“Where’d his money come from? Do you know?”

“He inherited money from his father, but a controlling interest in a California gold mine substantially increased his net worth.” Jack folded the newspaper and pushed away from the table. “Will you be all right while I go out?”

“Depends on how long you’ll be gone.”

“Most of the day. I want to get a lay of the land. Our man’s not in town yet, so I’ll use this week to acquaint myself with the landmarks.”

Charlotte winced, knowing Jack was referring to Booth. They had agreed not to use his name.

“According to my notes, he’ll be here on the seventeenth.”

Charlotte took her coffee cup to the table, sat next to her brother, and whispered, “Do you think Braham knows?”

“Sandburg’s books are very detailed. We have to assume he’s fully aware of the man’s comings and goings over the next four months. Today I’m also going to visit the epicenter for journalists, talk to a few reporters.”

“You mean there’s a general location where they all hang out?” Her voice rose in disbelief. “They’re not roaming the streets harassing people like they do in Richmond?”

“It’s between Fourteenth Street NW near the Willard and the Ebbitt Boarding House, and you need to get over your press phobia. So stay away from there. I don’t want you arrested for attacking the press.”

“Me? Attack them? Maybe I can convince the Confederate Army to target the area and blow them all to smithereens. I’ll even send them the coordinates.”

“I don’t think a bomb would take out the entire newspaper row.”

“Dang,” she said, snapping her fingers. “What’s at the location now? I mean in our time? Has to be better than a swarm of reporters.”

Jack laughed. “The National Press Building.”

She rolled her eyes. “I hate the press.”

“You do?” Jack grinned and changed the subject. “It might be decent enough this afternoon for you to take a stroll through the park.”

“I don’t know all the social etiquette, but I don’t think it’s proper for a lady to go out alone.”

“No, but the colonel said he would call on you. Maybe—”

She plopped her elbow on the table, chin in her hand. “I’ll see him today and ask him if he knows anyone who can help me get approved to work in one of the hospitals. I’ll feel better if I can work while I’m here, even if it’s only for a short time. Apparently, he knows a lot about Washington and the people who live here, but if I have to be on guard, it’s not worth socializing with him.”

“It’s either make the effort or be bored. At least today he can take you to the park.”

“Oh,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “Should I give him a leash to put around my neck?” She grabbed her throat with both hands and made exaggerated gagging noises.

Jack took a large bite, murdering a plate of scrambled eggs. “The colonel might have news of Braham today.”

“He might, but I doubt it. The odds of finding him, especially if he doesn’t want to be found, aren’t good. The odds of stopping him are even slimmer. I’m resigned to being here for at least four months.” Except for the mission to Afghanistan, she’d never been away from her patients for more than a week, two at the most. And although she had planned for an extended leave, the knowledge that she could be gone for months created an odd emptiness beneath her breastbone.

“Then you have to find a project. Don’t you have two journal articles to write? Work on them.”

She snarled, putting the full force of her frustration—at the restrictive status of nineteenth-century women and her pique at her errant cousin—into the long growl. “Longhand? You’re suggesting I write and edit a detailed medical article by hand? I need my data, a computer, and the Internet to get past the outline.”

He wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin, grinning. “A surgeon needs to keep her fingers nimble.”

She swatted her napkin at him. “There’s a difference between keeping them nimble and writing with a quill pen until they cramp.”

Giving her a broad wink he said, “They use dip pens now.”

“Great. Just what I want. Ink all over my fingers.”

35

Washington City—1864

After Jack left to go wandering about the city, Charlotte asked Edward for pen and paper. He brought her a metal nib pen, inkwell, and a sheaf of Braham’s letterhead. She set up shop at the table in front of the window and outlined a promised article on the improvements in computer simulation as a teaching adjunct for robotic surgery. Because she didn’t want to waste paper, she took her time, composing sentences clearly in her mind before she