Read The Sapphire Brooch (The Celtic Brooch Trilogy Book 2) Online

Authors: Katherine Lowry Logan

Tags: #Romance, #Time Travel

The Sapphire Brooch (The Celtic Brooch Trilogy Book 2) (2 page)

BOOK: The Sapphire Brooch (The Celtic Brooch Trilogy Book 2)
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Over the past fifteen years, with the help of her tailor, makeup artists, and drama instructors, she had created a character so authentic that other reenactors failed to see the woman camouflaged under layers of wool, Ace bandages binding her breasts, and theatrical makeup. When she was in costume she rarely broke character. Even under the heat of a summer sun—“hotter than a witch’s tit in a brass bra,” as her Grandmother Mallory used to say—the beard, wig, and makeup remained in place.

Satisfied there was nothing unauthentic about her uniform to cause another reenactor to accuse her of being a Farbie, she donned her medical service cap with the letters MS embroidered in silver, folded her gauntlets over her belt, and practiced her best Ashley Wilkes smile. Actually, she’d much rather play a character like the scalawag Rhett Butler, but it wasn’t the personality of her six-times-great-grandfather. Was it hers?
Nope
. She was safe and boring. She didn’t even own a cat.

After grabbing the coffee cup and car keys off the table, she turned on the security system, closed the door, and sauntered out onto the double portico. A beautiful, brisk fall morning welcomed her. She paused on the steps of her family’s two-hundred-year-old Georgian manse, located a half hour outside of Richmond, and sipped the black brew. Although she no longer resided in the mansion full time, this house would always be her home.

She raised her hand to shade her eyes from the bright sun glinting off the gold-leafed oak tree which had flourished between the house and the James River for over three centuries. Wafting off the water this morning was the warm scent of smoky campfires. Was it her imagination, or did the river shed memories of its own?

She went down a couple of stairs, thinking of the other soldiers in the family who had marched down them. Her ancestor, Major Mallory, had been the second one. The major had mounted his horse and ridden off to fight in the War of Northern Aggression. He’d been one of the lucky ones, though, and had come home in the spring of 1865 in one piece. Afterwards, he had spent a decade as a U.S. Senator working on reconstruction. The same Senate seat had been held by members of Charlotte’s family until her mother, who had picked up the mantle following her husband’s death, had died in office during Charlotte’s junior year in high school.

The day was starting out perfectly, blessed with mild temperatures, a cloudless sky, and fall colors abounding in brilliant leaf showers. The planners of the 150
th
Reenactment of the Civil War Battle of Cedar Creek couldn’t have wished for a more beautiful day.

This was Jack’s kind of morning, too. Her older brother, a New York Times and internationally bestselling mystery author and the full-time resident of Mallory Plantation, was in the mountains, out of cell phone range, finishing the edits on his Revolutionary War mystery. He was tossing around ideas with his agent for his next book, but hadn’t come up with anything specific. Inspiration would come. It always did, and then he’d rush off in a reckless dash, chasing his muse.

Charlotte reached her car, paused at the driver’s door of the SUV, and took another lingering look around the grounds of Virginia’s first plantation, settled in 1613. The current mansion, built in the early eighteen hundreds, replaced the original homeplace. Although the land was no longer an operating estate, its renowned beauty and history kept it at the top of the Commonwealth’s most touted historic sites. If her work didn’t require her to be closer to the hospital, she would live here. Her medical practice, though, was worth the sacrifice.

She climbed into the driver’s seat, buckled up, and went through her checklist one last time, nodding as she mentally checked off each item. Confident she had everything she needed for the two-day event, she headed down the plantation’s long driveway.

The oversized rural mailbox at the end of the drive was stuffed with magazines, bills, invitations, and announcements. She thumbed through the stack quickly. Most of her mail went to her house in Richmond, but occasionally acquaintances who didn’t have her city address sent letters to the plantation.

In the back of the mailbox was a package wrapped in brown paper and addressed to her. The return address label listed Digby McIntosh, Solicitor, of Edinburgh, Scotland as the sender. She shook the box. Nothing rattled, but the timer on her iPhone beeped. She had set it as a drop-dead reminder. If she wasn’t turning out of the driveway onto the main road when it went off, she’d miss the start of the battle. She tossed the package onto the passenger seat and drove down the lane. Her curiosity would have to wait until she reached Middletown.

Before turning onto the highway, she shot a quick glance over her shoulder for a police car hiding in the shadows. No policemen with grumpy faces were waiting in their usual hiding place.
Good.
If she got another moving violation, she’d have to go to traffic school.

At least twice a week she stewed at intersections, tapping her fingers against the steering wheel, waiting on lights regulating traffic on empty streets in the middle of the night. Nine times out of ten, she ran the red, and frequently a policeman pulled her over. She would then explain to the officer the minutes she lost sitting at traffic lights—when there were no other cars on the road—put her patients’ health in jeopardy. Unless she discovered a better alternative, she’d continue to violate traffic laws in those situations and pray a traffic court judge didn’t yank her license permanently, as the last one had threatened to do.

Besides, every so often she needed a whiff of danger.

Although she was often late, this morning’s delay was unavoidable. After rounds, the chief resident had called her in for a consult. The patient had been shot in the abdomen during a liquor store robbery and was about to go to surgery. Over the course of her residency and practice in general surgery, she had operated on hundreds of gunshot victims and had become the go-to person for difficult cases. Most of her department and the nursing staff had known she was in a hurry to get out of town for the weekend to attend the reenactment, but medicine still came first.

During the two-hour trip to Middletown, she rehearsed the Civil War medical spiel she would give at the living history demonstration later in the day. She had given it many times but always added a new twist, some tidbit to entertain anyone in her audience who had heard her speak in prior years.

For today’s talk, she added information on Mary Edwards Walker, a surgeon in the Union Army and the only woman to receive the Medal of Honor. The doctor had also been a spy and was imprisoned in Castle Thunder in Richmond for four months until she was released in a prisoner exchange. Charlotte was inspired by Walker’s bravery and humanitarianism, and she often wondered if she would have had the fortitude to risk her life as Mary had done.

With fifteen minutes remaining before the battle began, she pulled into the battlefield parking lot. Drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, she drove up and down rows until she found a spot between a tree and a camper where she could squeeze in her SUV.

Whether she would have enough room to open the door was debatable, but operating in tight spots was a regular occurrence in her life. She held her breath while she pulled in. When she didn’t scrape off paint, she let her breath out. If she scooted flat against the side of the car, she’d be able to exit the vehicle. Years of running had kept her long and lean, not
skinny
, in spite of what her brother and colleagues were fond of saying.

So what? Skinny could be sexy, too, right? Although, judging by the dearth of men in her life, maybe not.

The car’s cargo space was packed with all the supplies she would need for the weekend: coolers, change of clothes, makeup case, cot, blankets, and food.

Before locking the car, she grabbed the package from Scotland and opened it. Inside was a Japanese puzzle box about six inches long. “Cool.” She loved puzzle boxes, and the challenge this box promised gave her a little surge of excitement. She flipped it around in her hands, twisting here and there like a Rubik’s cube.

“Major Mallory.”

She glanced up to see Ken, her medical school classmate and longtime friend, waving from the other side of the parking lot. It had been a couple of weeks since she had talked to him, and she was anxious to hear about the new woman in his life.

She waved back, calling out, “General Ramseur.” She slipped the box into her haversack, slung the bag over her shoulder, and forged a path through the throng of reenactors and spectators.

“I was worried,” he said. “You’re late. You okay?”

“A consult slowed me down.” She gave him a hug before stepping back and giving him a once-over. “I like the new uniform.”

He slipped his right hand inside his tunic, resting it over his heart, and placed his left hand on the hilt of his sword as if posing for the camera. “Worth every penny, don’t you think?”

She straightened his collar. “You didn’t find this on eBay. It looks custom made.”

“It is. Your tailor does good work.”

Brushing crumbs from the power bar she’d eaten in the car off her own uniform, she mentally counted the handful of times she’d worn it, grimacing at the low number. “He keeps altering my uniform. As little action as these threads get, it’ll last a century.”

“Then use it more often. Go to Gettysburg or Perryville with me next year. Get out of the rut you’re in.”

“I’m not in a rut, and besides, I can’t take the time off.”

“The hospital will survive a few days without you,” he said.

“Sure. The hospital would be fine, but what about my patients?”

He threw his hands up in mock surrender. “There’re a dozen attending physicians in your department. You cover for them all the time.”

“I can’t ask them.”

Ken frowned, and the deep vee between his eyebrows made his disapproval obvious and also darned annoying. “What you’re really saying is you
won’t
.”

This was a sore spot, and they both treaded its boundaries carefully. Ken accused her colleagues in Richmond of taking advantage of her. She didn’t think they did. The other surgeons had families and lived in the suburbs. She lived alone in a house a few blocks from the hospital. Plus she was happy to help her associates out.

She made a tee with her hands. “Time out. Let’s change the subject.”

“Okay. Who are you inviting to escort you to the reunion next month?”

She fidgeted with the standup collar, which seemed to squeeze tighter at the mention of the soiree. “I don’t know.”

“I have a lawyer friend in Winchester who would—”

She shook her head, anxiety scoring the back of her throat. “You know the rules. I don’t try to fix you up and you don’t try to fix me up.”

“Come on, Charlotte. You haven’t been on a date since medical school.”

“I haven’t had a date lately, but I did have one this year. I’m too busy. I run early in the morning, I operate and lecture during the day, and I’m on call twice a week.”

“You’re not any busier than I am, and I find time to socialize. So, what’s the real problem?”

Her tension turned into exasperation. “Can you believe men find me intimidating? The few who don’t are egotistical workaholics who only want to get laid. I want more. I want to wake up next to a loving partner, and have breakfast with him, too. There aren’t any romantics left.”

Ken gave an exaggerated sigh, rolled his eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding.
You
want to be romanced? What happened to friends with benefits? You said it fit your life style.”

“It doesn’t work for me anymore.”

She looked away, through the trees and above the red-roofed barn, toward the northern end of the Massanutten Mountain range. Ridges etched by thousands of years of wind and rain snaked down its sides. In 1864, tears and bloodstains had soaked the ridges and gullies when so many died on a foggy October morning. Like the land, she too was etched with crevices, or at least it’s what her therapist had told her before she gave up counseling in favor of long-distance running. A rush of endorphins gave her more peace and satisfaction, involved far less hassle, and except for running shoes, cost almost nothing.

“Now I want more,” Charlotte repeated. “And there’s no one around to make adjusting my schedule worthwhile.”

“You aren’t looking in the right places.”

“Oh, yeah? Where should I be looking?” she asked in a voice heavy with sarcasm.

“There’re thousands of men here today. There’s got to be one you might find interesting.”

“I don’t need a real or pretend soldier in my life. They play with guns. Guns shoot people. And then I have more work to do.”

“So why are you here?”

“Because modern medicine started during the Civil War, and I find that piece of history fascinating.
I
don’t come for the women and guns.”

He pressed his hands against his chest in fake humility. “I feel so shallow.”

“You said it. I didn’t.” She fiddled with the twisted haversack’s strap, which reminded her of the puzzle box packed inside and the mysterious sender. If she mentioned the gift to Ken, he would tease her about having a secret admirer, and she wasn’t in the mood to be teased.

“What’s wrong with you?” he demanded. “You need to get laid, don’t you?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me a ten-miler won’t cure.”

“God, Charlotte. Running is a solo sport. Do something which forces you to interact with people. With men. Hell, with anyone.”

“What do you think I’m doing here today?”

“Lecturing. You talk
at
people. You don’t talk
with
them. There’s a difference. Borrow a horse. Ride with the cavalry.”

“I have my own horse.”

“But you didn’t bring him. Why not?”

A trail of ants near her feet suddenly became more interesting than the conversation. “If you
must
know, I didn’t have time to get a current Coggins certificate, and they wouldn’t let my horse in without one.”

He shook his head, giving her a sigh with more than a hint of frustration. This bantering happened every time they got together, which was why they’d never dated. He loved her and wanted her to be happy. She understood his concern, and no one else had the courage to get into her face the way he did. He knew he could tell her the truth. Whether she listened to him or not, well, it was up to her.

BOOK: The Sapphire Brooch (The Celtic Brooch Trilogy Book 2)
3.35Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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