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

The father refilled his cup at the stove, then went over to the window and pushed aside the homespun cotton curtain. After a moment, he dropped the fabric but continued to stare while holding the cup in his unmoving hand. Finally, he said, “If you showed a signed order requiring you to check on sick prisoners and decide if they’re fit enough to be evacuated, the guards wouldn’t bother you.”

Charlotte’s fragile bubble of hope expanded with the heat from Jack’s scowl. “How do I get an order?” she asked.

The father rubbed his stubbled chin. “I can have a forged order ready tomorrow afternoon. But if you get yourself into the dungeon, be prepared to see things you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

Her mind quickly flashed to the inhuman conditions and atrocities she’d witnessed in Afghanistan, and the horrific displays of inhumanity on display at the Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington. Nothing shocked her anymore, but it always saddened her. Knowing Braham was incarcerated under similar conditions chipped away at her heart. He was strong and healthy and could withstand deprivation and pain for a while.

“What name should I use on the order?” the older man asked.

“Major Carlton Mallory, Surgeon, Second Corps Army of Northern Virginia.”

The older man responded with a grunt, staring bleak-eyed into some invisible distance for a long time and saying nothing more. Then, coming out of his trance or bleary consideration, he said, “A basket of flowers will be delivered to Elizabeth’s house tomorrow afternoon. The order will be inside the false bottom.”

Jack had been following the discussion, elbows propped on his knees, chin resting in his hands. He straightened up and said, “Sis, I don’t know if I can stand by doing nothing while you do this.”

She chewed her lip, thinking. “You’re the mystery writer. Come up with a better plan fast, because right now this is the only one with any chance of succeeding.”

“I don’t have one.” Jack’s voice was distant and distorted. Charlotte was often the brunt of his frustration when his muse misbehaved. She didn’t like it any more than he did.

She gave him a cool look, folding her arms across her chest. “Okay. Let’s play what-if. What could happen if I use old Mallory’s identity to get inside the prison?”

The wavering candlelight caught his profile and threw the stubborn set of his facial bones into sharp relief, the reflection of the flame visible in his dark pupils. “Well…if someone recognizes you, they’d wonder why you’re in Richmond and not with the Second Corps.”

She threw up her hands. “Okay, then what? Help me out here.” An invisible cord seemed to stretch between them, drawing taut and then snapping back on her, bringing along the rejection she had experienced when he wouldn’t help her write term papers. There was no life lesson for her to learn now, as he had claimed when she was a teenager. So why was he being so obstinate? “I need your help, Jackson Mallory. Braham needs your help.”

Jack slapped the tops of his thighs, stood, and did a tight-formation pace while his fingers plucked at his chin. Five sets of eyes observed pensively. Finally, he stopped and lifted one eyebrow, glancing at the people sitting around the table.

“Can you limp?” he asked Charlotte.

“What? Replace my perfected swagger with a limp? Are you kidding? It’s part of my persona.”

He made a derisive noise in the back of his throat. “Don’t reject it out of hand. If you can limp, it will give you a plausible backstory.”

“Sure I can limp, but I’d probably forget which leg was the bad one.”

“Put pebbles in your boot,” the father said. “You’ll have a fine limp, and you won’t forget.”

Elizabeth set her cup of tea on the table. “If anyone asks why you’re not with your unit, tell them you were recently wounded and sent to a Richmond hospital to recover.”

There seemed to be a consensus among the two men and two women as they chatted and nodded, pleased they had solved the dilemma and thus the argument between the siblings. Elizabeth pushed away from the table and wrapped her cloak around her.

“Thank you for meeting with us under such short notice. It’s late, and we must return home now.”

Charlotte allowed Elizabeth to leave the room first before she turned back to the family and looked at the younger man. “I believe you were infected with consumption while in prison. Cover your mouth with your arm when you cough,” she told him. “You need to isolate your son,” she said to the mother, “or both you and your husband will catch the disease from him. Wash your hands and the dishes in very hot water. When food becomes available, be sure he gets a wholesome diet and fresh air.”

Their eyebrows furrowed with obvious doubt.

“Are you a real doctor?” the young man demanded.

Charlotte nodded. “I’m a surgeon. Unfortunately, there is no medicine for your disease.” Not yet, anyway.

She glanced around the small room, where germs would probably pass from one family member to the other until the disease killed them all. “Rest as much as you can, and everybody wash your hands.” Charlotte left the house, doubting they would listen to her advice and wishing she could do more.

Charlotte and Elizabeth locked arms and moved quickly through Richmond’s dark streets, with Jack trailing a short distance behind, watching them with a protective eye. Once back at the mansion, the threesome relaxed in the library, drinking whisky and reviewing their impressions of the meeting in the farmhouse.

A frown rippled over Jack’s face, like a stone thrown into a puddle of muddy water. “You understand what could happen to you if the guards suspect you aren’t who you claim to be?” His sober voice matched the seriousness of his concern.

Charlotte wasn’t sure what to say to relieve his worry, so she remained silent. If she did speak, her voice would betray her, exposing the fear clogging her throat. If Jack knew how