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

they did. My contacts now extend to the very bowels of the White House. Someone will talk. Someone always does. We’ll find Braham. It’s just a matter of time.”

“Yes, but time is one of many things not on our side.”

37

Washington City—February 1865

Moments before Gordon arrived, there was a crash in the kitchen followed by a glass-shattering scream. Charlotte and Jack ran to the back of the house to find one of the women servants holding up her scalded hand, crying hysterically.

Charlotte gave Jack’s arm an urgent squeeze. “Get my medical box.” Then she turned to Edward. “Get a bottle of whisky.”

Gordon arrived in the midst of the confusion and demanded that Charlotte abandon the servant to her own devices. Incensed by his attitude, she wanted to tell him to screw himself, but instead she told him to go sit in the parlor with Jack, have a drink, and wait for her, or go to the theater by himself.

“I’ll wait. You have ten minutes.”

It took fifteen minutes to settle the woman, treat the injury, and send her off to bed. Dealing with Gordon’s passive-aggressiveness wouldn’t be so easy. He barely spoke during the carriage ride.

At Ford’s Theatre, the usher escorted Charlotte and Gordon down the aisle to their seats in the front row of a packed house. The production was minutes from starting. Gordon was fuming, and on their way down the aisle, he made a production out of speaking to everyone he knew except her.

She scooted into her seat and arranged her dress. “How did you manage to get such excellent seats?”

“I imposed on a personal connection and told him I needed to impress a beautiful woman.”

She smiled and tried to make her appreciation sound as sincere as possible. “Thank you. I am impressed, and I’m also sorry we’re late.”

“I should be used to it,” he said with a slight snarl in his voice. “You make us late to almost every function.”

She concealed an exasperated sigh behind her hand. Nothing she could say would appease him. If she was lucky, the show’s humor would defuse the tension. If it didn’t, and he was still as unpleasant after the show, she would insist he take her home and not out to dinner. Walking on eggshells around him made for very tender feet.

Since Gordon wasn’t speaking to her, she surveyed the theater and compared the architecture with the present-day venue. The presidential box, built into the proscenium arch, was draped with American flags and a portrait of George Washington. Charlotte’s mother had held several Senate campaign fundraisers in the twenty-first century Ford’s Theatre. Looking at the interior now, Charlotte was amazed at how accurately the building had been restored.

Gordon tapped her arm. “The show’s starting.”

The gaslights were turned down, the orchestra began to play, and Charlotte settled in for the performance. Then, moments after the music began, the conductor abruptly stopped. The crowd seemed to be poised, electric, waiting.

Charlotte leaned over to Gordon. “What’s happening?”

He turned in his seat, craning his neck to see over the crowd behind him. “A special guest is about to enter, but I don’t know from where.”

The orchestra played the distinctive four ruffles and flourishes of Hail to the Chief.

“Lincoln’s coming,” she said to Gordon.

Heart pounding, she could scarcely contain herself as she watched the entrance to the presidential box with shivers of excitement. She dug into her drawstring-beaded handbag for her camera, and then stopped herself. This wasn’t the twenty-first century, where every moment must be captured on someone’s cell phone, sent to Twitter or Instagram, and then out into the world.

Lincoln, followed by General Grant, entered the presidential box.

She came to her feet, joining the audience in a rousing standing ovation. In her lifetime, she had met the Carters, Bushes, Clintons, Obamas, and Lincoln. Now, the sight of him in the presidential box, where in two months he’d be murdered, saddened her. How could she live with herself if she did nothing and allowed Booth to succeed with his diabolical plan? Wouldn’t she be as guilty as the conspirators if she didn’t try to prevent the assassination?

“You’re shaking. Are you ill?” Gordon asked with noticeable irritation.

She gave him a tight smile. “No.” But she was ill. She was sick at heart.

Was Braham’s plan to stop the assassination the best course? Would the country ultimately be better off if Lincoln survived? How could she do nothing and allow such a noble man to die long before his time? She studied the shadowy hollows and deep lines etched in angles across his cheekbones—so care-worn and weary. The job and the constant demands on his time were literally killing him.

He waved to the audience and Grant nodded. Then Lincoln took his seat in a comfortable parlor rocker and turned toward the stage. His hearty laugh could be heard throughout the performance. When the curtain fell, she didn’t remember much of the play, but the president’s laughter would echo in her heart for the rest of her life.

Following the performance, Gordon begged off a dinner invitation with fellow officers and spouses also in attendance. As they left the theater, Charlotte said, “I would have enjoyed dinner with your colleagues.”

“I’m not in the mood to share you with anyone tonight.”

“Jack invited us to join him.”

“I’m not sharing you with your brother either. We’ll dine alone.”

Any other night, his possessiveness would have irritated her, and she might have insisted on going home, but tonight she couldn’t see beyond her worry over Braham’s plans. So she said nothing. She merely lifted one shoulder in a half shrug of acknowledgement and climbed into the carriage.

He grimaced when he climbed in, and she realized part of his problem was he was in more pain than usual. Maybe he would want an early evening, too. The rest of the night didn’t bode well for either of them.

38

Washington City—February 1865

Charlotte and Gordon were seated in a quiet, candlelit corner of the Willard dining room, drinking champagne. The bubbly