The Sapphire Brooch (The Celtic Brooch Trilogy Book 2) (46 page)

Charlotte studied the order, reading each line carefully and analyzing every word to be certain the document couldn’t be misinterpreted. She didn’t doubt Elizabeth, but thoroughly checking patient records and orders was a career habit she didn’t intend to break. Satisfied, she slipped the document inside her jacket, alongside the pills. She then gently touched Elizabeth’s forearm. “One day your contribution to the war effort will be fully understood and appreciated.”

Elizabeth raised a dark, wing-shaped eyebrow. “I’d prefer to remain anonymous, if it’s all the same to you. If the extent of my involvement were known, living here would be impossible. And this
is
my home.”

History would show Elizabeth had been despised, seen as a lonely spinster, and called Crazy Bet. Yet she had the most giving heart of any woman Charlotte had ever met, and she was saner, not less sane, than her accusers. If Charlotte could do anything for Elizabeth when she returned to the future, it would be to put the myth of Crazy Bet in proper perspective. She may have acted crazy at times to throw off suspicion, but she was a pillar of reason in a world gone mad. Jack could write her story—the real story. Maybe they couldn’t save her house, but they could resurrect her good name.

Elizabeth seemed lost in her own troubled thoughts now, if her furrowed brow was any indication. Charlotte tugged lightly on a fold of Elizabeth’s sleeve, pulling her toward the settee, where they both sat, with Elizabeth fidgeting and glancing around.

“It’s going to be an endlessly long night, Elizabeth, but tomorrow the Union forces will be here. All you’ve worked for is about to come to fruition.”

Elizabeth lifted her eyes upward, as if looking toward heaven to pour out her thanks. “I can survive one more bad night, because I know when the sun rises, Yankees will be marching up Main Street.”

Charlotte picked a handful of pebbles from the basket and sorted through them in her palm before dropping several of the small stones into her boot. “They’ll march straight for the Capitol building, where they will unfurl the flag and raise the Stars and Stripes.”

Elizabeth clasped her hands together and pressed them under her chin, as if in prayer. “The Union has always seen Richmond as the holy grail of the war effort, believing when they captured the city the horror would end.”

“Seven hundred fifty thousand dead,” Charlotte told her. “This war will always be a central, tragic chapter in American history.”

Elizabeth clutched her chest as she gasped for a breath, shock on her flushed face. “Seven hundred fifty thousand? My heart breaks for all the wives and mothers and sisters.”

Charlotte got up and tested the feel of the stones, which she’d placed evenly across the bottom of the boot for maximum discomfort, against the sole of her foot. She took a few steps, hissing between her teeth. The sensation was similar to walking barefoot across broken shells on the beach. There was absolutely no chance she’d forget which leg was supposedly injured.

Elizabeth remained sitting, distracted and muttering, her face now pale as she fingered the brooch pinned to her neckline.

Charlotte returned to the settee, relieved to take the pressure off her already-tender foot. She shucked her boot, removed half of the stones, and tried again. She only needed a reminder, not excruciating pain.

“I know you’re curious about the information Jack and I share with you.”

Elizabeth waved her hand in a shooing motion. “No, no. I have no reason to doubt you. Although I do pray the number of war dead is exaggerated.” She fell into a troubled silence for several moments, then roused herself. “How can the country recover from a loss of such magnitude? An entire generation of men—husbands, sons, fathers, brothers, friends—gone.”

Elizabeth reached for the decanter of sherry and crystal glasses on a small table next to the settee. Distractedly, she lifted the narrow-necked bottle while gazing out the window. “You seem to know the future, Charlotte. Tell me this. Will the South ever recover?”

Charlotte took the decanter from Elizabeth and poured two glasses. Then she sipped slowly, considering her answer. Finally, she decided to tell Elizabeth the truth. “The war has decimated the South, as you know. It’s lost its manpower, roads, bridges, railroads, and will soon lose most of the labor force upon which it depends. A cycle of poverty is beginning. Income and wealth have already plummeted and will continue to do so. The Old South will take almost a century to recover before it emerges as the New South.”

Elizabeth tipped up her glass and emptied the contents in one long swallow, her eyes tear-glazed. Her shoulders lifted and dropped on a shuddering breath. “I wasn’t prepared to learn we have such a dire future.”

Letting both warmth and apology show in her voice, Charlotte said, “I could have been less direct. Would you have preferred I coated the South’s future in sugar to make it easier to digest? This devastates me, too. Richmond is my family’s home.”

“We’ve done what we had to do to get through the war. We’ll do what we have to do to recover.” Then the steel in Elizabeth’s voice seemed to melt, though the gritty determination in her eyes did not. “I’ll leave you now to finish your preparations.” Elizabeth left the room, sniffling, and quietly closed the bedroom door behind her.

Charlotte went over to the window and gazed out over the lush gardens toward the James River, listening to the cannon and musket fire in the distance. She didn’t have a view of the river from her house near the hospital, but she enjoyed the view from Mallory Plantation, where she spent most weekends.

She and Braham had ambled along the banks during his recovery. Their animated conversations had skittered across the river’s surface like skipping stones. Had there been any other time in her life when she experienced such contentment? Why was he able to feed her soul in ways no other man ever had? Why couldn’t she have found him in her own time?

She blinked and shook her head, making no sense of it.

Once the brooch had plucked her off the reenactment field, her life was no longer her own. Some puppeteer had a tight hold on her marionette strings, letting her periodically believe she was in charge of her life, but she had actually lost a great deal of control. Someone, or some
thing
, was pulling her strings, directing her movements. It was time to dance to her own music again.

She set her mouth in a hard, thin, resolute line. After today, there’d be no more adventures, no more danger and uncertainty. The twenty-first century was waiting for her return, and she was ready to go.

But wait a minute.
There might still be a chapter to write. If Braham remained in prison, he would be marched south and would be out of Washington on April 14—the date of the assassination. He wouldn’t have a chance to change history…but would he be able to survive until Lee surrendered?

She had returned to the past to stop Braham from changing history. But if she allowed him to die in captivity, she’d never recover from the guilt. She was damned if she did, and damned if she didn’t. She snatched her slouch hat off the bed, forced self-flagellating thoughts from her mind, and limped from the room.

54

Richmond, Virginia, April 1, 1865

D
r. Carlton Mallory
hobbled down 18
^th
Street toward Castle Thunder, humming low in her throat to warm her vocal cords for her male speaking voice. The distant din of cannons thundered over the city. Army supply wagons rumbled through streets clogged with bewildered people who roamed aimlessly. They were all waiting to see what would happen next. If she told the citizens the Yankees wouldn’t hurt them, they wouldn’t believe her anyway.

Over the trees, osprey soared through the warm air, patrolling the shoreline, their sharp, hooked black bills and white heads gleaming in the tranquil blue sky, while the sun dropped slowly in the west. The dang birds were probably more vigilant than the Confederate Army. Too bad they couldn’t swoop down and carry Jack off and drop him in the river. Her brother’s brilliant idea had lost its appeal a couple of blocks back, when jabs of pain from the stones in her boot began to ricochet up her leg. From past experience with running injuries, she knew pain reflected in tightness around her eyes. Ah, well. It would enhance her cover story, although at the expense of her foot and leg.

She patted her breast pocket. The crackling of paper reassured her the signed order was still there. She hoped the sweat trickling down from her armpits and between her bound breasts didn’t soak the order, making it unreadable before she could produce the document for the prison guards. Although it gave her the authority to evaluate all sick and wounded prisoners held in all the Richmond prisons, she certainly didn’t plan to visit all the facilities, but it was imperative the guards believe her assignment wasn’t exclusive to Castle Thunder.

Jack was positioned on the corner across the street from the prison, exactly where he had planned, and was already shouting news of the evacuation to passersby. “It’s time to say your mournful goodbyes,” he yelled from the corner like a man on a soapbox. “The city will soon fall to the hated Yankees.” His shouts provided a beacon for people who were swarming the streets searching for safety. Prison guards remained at their stations, although their glances and mutterings suggested even they were distracted by Jack’s proclamations.

The dark wood of Castle Thunder’s Cary Street entrance loomed closer with each hobbled step. How many soldiers and civilians had been dragged through the passage, wondering if they would ever emerge alive? She imagined men and women clinging to the door frame to keep from being thrown into a forgotten pit. Charlotte didn’t plan to be another quill mark in the prison’s ledger.

Her uniform was fittingly stained and worn and created the perfect costume for the role she was playing in the afternoon tableau Jack had scripted. She was used to telling patients what to do, and expected them to follow her orders. Jack, on the other hand, studied people and had a far better understanding of human motivational and situational behavior. He believed if he added to the guards’ stress, their anxiety would reduce the attention they paid to their jobs and to Charlotte. She wasn’t fully convinced, but she hoped he was right.

She was only a few yards away from her destination when a red-haired soldier skedaddled from Jack’s corner, ran across the street, and dashed toward the door of the prison, where a gaggle of soldiers had gathered on the doorstep.

“
What
? The army’s evacuating?” The reek of the soldiers’ fear surged through the crowd like the leading edge of an incoming tide.

“Yep. Tonight.” The red-haired soldier’s voice wobbled slightly. “Depot’s already pressed with civilians trying to get out of town ’fore the army leaves.”

Another soldier raked fingers through his disheveled hair. “I need to get my family on a train right quick.”

The red-haired soldier shook his head. “Only a few left going to Danville. No room on ’em. Folks are bein’ told to go home or try the packet boats on the canal.”

“Boats? Ain’t no boats to carry nobody anywheres unless you can pay with gold.”

A guard who had been listening from the door came out onto the stoop. “Won’t do no good to go home. Damn Yankees will bust down the door and shoot ’em dead.”

Another soldier rocked back on his heels, leaned against the wall, and shoved his hands under his armpits. “What about President Davis and the rest of the government?”

The red-haired soldier stretched his neck, looking up and down the street like he expected to see the Union Army marching toward him with guns cocked and loaded. “Heard they’re packing up to leave tonight, too.”

The rocking soldier stopped rocking. “Jesus.”

The redhead punched him in the arm, flashing a nervous grin. “Didn’t hear no news about him. Reckon he’ll stay or go, depending on who needs him more.”

There was a smattering of nervous chuckles.

Charlotte hobbled up to the group. “We’re evacuating,” she said. “President Davis is moving the government south. I’m here to count the number of prisoners who can’t walk without support. Step aside. Let me through.”

The soldiers came to attention, saluting. “Yes, sir. We heard. What happens to us if Richmond falls?”

Charlotte leaned on the silver-handled Malacca walking stick on loan from Elizabeth. “You’ll keep fighting. If General Lee believes the Confederate cause is best served by abandoning the capital, you’ll follow him.”

“Can I help you, sir?” the red-haired soldier asked, holding the door for Charlotte to enter. “I’m on guard duty.”

“Good. You can escort me to the sick bay.”

As soon as she stepped past the prison door the smell of rot and decay assaulted her. The building had no ventilation, and the stifling air was like an impenetrable thicket of poison ivy. She angled her body back toward the exit and, without thinking, pressed her foot down hard on the stones, knocking herself off balance in an effort to avoid the pain. She toppled sideways, slamming her shoulder into the wall.

The soldier grabbed her arm. “You okay, sir?”