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The Sapphire Brooch
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The Sapphire Brooch
The Celtic Brooch Series, Book 3
Katherine Lowry Logan
Copyright © 2014 by Katherine Lowry Logan
Kindle Edition
This book is a work of fiction. The characters and names are entirely the product of the author’s imagination and there are no references to real people. Actual establishments, locations, public and business organizations are used solely for the intention of providing an authentic setting, and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Edited by Faith Freewoman
Cover Art by Damonza
Interior Design by BBeBooks
Website: www.katherinellogan.com
Dedicated To
~
Charlotte and Lincoln
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Part Two
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Part Three
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Part Four
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Author’s Notes
Bibliography
About the Author
The Celtic Brooch Series
Part One
“History, despite its wrenching pain cannot be unlived, but if faced with courage, need not be lived again.”
—Maya Angelou
1
Chimborazo Hospital, Richmond, Virginia, October 1864
Death waited on the other side of the partially shuttered window, pointing its long, bony finger at Michael Abraham McCabe. He didn’t fear death, never had. Dying slow from a gut shot was preferable to dying at the end of a rope. Either way, the shutters would open fully and Death would sling Braham’s body over its shoulder and haul him the short distance to Hell.
Braham crawled his hand along the curve of his swollen belly. The bullet had branded him with a sizzling, red-hot poker, burning flesh and sinew down to the bone, and his body contorted in brutal agony.
Through dry, cracked lips he exhaled one word, “Water.” He didn’t need much. Only a sip to quench his thirst would do. He tried licking his lips but his thick tongue wouldn’t slide across the chapped skin.
Behind his half-opened eyelids, wavy figures shambled around him. He blinked and tried to focus on the rows of beds filled with moaning men, wounded Confederate soldiers, not Yankee spies like him.
Johnny Rebs had tossed him onto a bed. “Don’t let the bastard die,” they had told the surgeon. “We intend to hang him.”
The nurses called him a dead man walking toward the gallows.
That’s what he was, but would Death take him by the hand before the hangman could put a noose around his neck? The soldiers had tried to beat the names of Richmond’s underground network out of him. They couldn’t. So, they intended to strip him of what he cherished most—his honor. He would die the dishonorable death of a spy. And who would care? He was alone. Not only on this ward but also in life. He had no family. No son to carry on his name. All a man had at the end of the day was his honor, and the Rebs intended to dump his into an unmarked grave.
The door at the end of the building opened and rattled shut. “Where’s the prisoner?” the man asked in a distinctive Virginia drawl.
Feet shuffled. A chair scraped across the floor. “Down there. Number twelve. If’n you ask me, the man’s gonna die right soon,” a young lad said.
“Are you the night nurse?”
“Yes, sir.”
Bootheels thudding purposefully against the floorboards grew louder, sharper. Brisk movements churned up the air throughout the ward. Men turned in their beds to see the newcomer. Braham turned, too, and rerouted his attention from the sharp stabs of pain in his belly to the man striding toward him wearing a gray officer’s tunic. He hadn’t seen this surgeon before. Would he do anything different from what the others had done? Five or six surgeons had already examined him. Afterward, they had walked away shaking their heads, saying, “There’s nothing we can do for that one.”
“Sir, we ain’t got no other Yanks. Why’s he here?” the lad asked.
“What? Oh…well, he was caught down by the railroad tracks. Quicker to bring him here. President Davis believes he can identify spies living in Richmond. Has he said anything?”
“I been here all day. He’s yelped some but ain’t said nuthin’.”
The surgeon reached Braham’s metal-framed bed and read the paper ticket hanging on the end of the frame. He had wondered what was written on the paper other than his name, date of admission, and injury. Instead of entering information about his regiment, had they written Yankee spy. Would they tie the paper to his toe when they buried him?
The surgeon tugged on his hickory-colored beard and furrowed his brow. “Is there an exit wound?”
“Nope. Still got that minié ball in his gut. If it don’t kill him, the ha
ngman will.”
The surgeon pressed his fingers against the inside of Braham’s wrist and held them there. His touch was gentle, with an almost silky feel to his skin, and there were no slight pricks from sharp or ragged nails. Hands told a lot about a person, especially when they fanned a deck of cards or tended a wound or touched him in tender places.
Braham clenched his teeth against the chill brought on by another bout of rigors. “Water.”
The surgeon’s forehead creased as he lifted the dressing, pulling scab and crusted dirt from Braham’s wound. When he pressed his fingers into Braham’s belly, pain lanced through him, and he cried out, “Ahhhh.”
“Sorry.” The surgeon withdrew his fingers and straightened, mumbling under his breath. Then he looked at the wound again. “How long has he been shaking like this?”
“Awhile, I reckon. How long you ’spect he’s gonna live?”
“At this rate, only a few hours.” The surgeon’s baffled look pinched his brow. Braham had seen similar expressions on other officers weighing difficult decisions. What concerned this surgeon that hadn’t concerned the others? It didn’t matter. Not really. His pain would end in a matter of hours—one way or another.
Flickering candles threw enough light for Braham to look into the doctor’s almond-shaped, blue eyes, now studying him with penetrating scrutiny. He tugged on the man’s sleeve. “Water.”
The surgeon turned toward the nurse. “Bring me clean bandages.”
“My orders are to leave him be.”
“I’m not going to watch a man die without trying to make his last moments comfortable. Now go.”
The nurse gave the doctor a brusque nod, then spun on his heel. His boots scuffed along the floor, growing fainter with each hurried step.
The surgeon sat on the edge of a spindle-back chair and scooted it closer, scraping wobbly legs against the floor. Dust fountained off him, as if he’d ridden for a month without care for himself or his mount. He took Braham’s bruised hand between both of his.
A velvety whisper sounded in his ear. “I’ve been sent to rescue you, Major. I’m getting you out of here.”
Was he already dead? Was the Angel of Mercy upon him? Forcing words through his cotton mouth he asked, “Am I dead?”
“No, and you won’t die today if I can help it.”
“My legs won’t carry me very far.” Braham’s shallow breathing grew quiet for a moment, and he remained motionless, save for a twitch of a small muscle beneath his right eye.
The surgeon let go of his hand and leaned closer. “Hold on. We’re going for a ride.”
Braham didn’t know how it was possible, but he believed the surgeon would rescue him, and his spirit ignited with hope. Maybe Fate wasn’t leading him to a slow death or a noose around his neck, but to a life filled with love, and a soul healed in the fertile soil of his vineyards.
The surgeon opened a sapphire brooch, held Braham’s hand again, and stumbled through barely recognizable Gaelic. “Chan ann le tìm no àite a bhios sinn a’ tomhais an gaol ach’s ann le neart anama.”
Braham sniffed, turning his head to pull air deep into his lungs. The autumn scent of burnished gold leaves and fermenting grapes lingered gently on night’s breath. Where the scent came from he didn’t know, but as fog engulfed him, he closed his eyes and translated the Gaelic in his mind—Love is not measured by time or space. Love is measured by the power of the soul. Then he took in another deep breath and exhaled, long and slow.
2
Battle of Cedar Creek, Virginia, Present Day
Charlotte Lynn Mallory’s bootheels clicking against the hardwood floor echoed through the quiet house as she swaggered out of the kitchen, down the long hall, and into the mansion’s foyer, carrying a travel cup of black coffee. When she caught sight of her reflection in the gilt-framed mirror hanging over the acorn-patterned mantel, gooseflesh rippled on her forearms. She stopped and cocked her head left, then right, and then left again, but nothing changed. The image reflecting back in the polished glass was still not her own, but that of her six-times-great-grandfather, Major Carlton Jackson Mallory.
“Good morning, sir,” she said in her deepest voice. “Looking good today.”
She glanced over her shoulder, saluting sharply to his portrait, which hung at the bottom of the square-ridge staircase that rose three floors. Her leg muscles still burned from her half dozen trips to the top floor to gather her reenacting equipment.
The portrait artist had painted her grandsire in full Confederate uniform. His left hand, which bore the family acorn signet ring, was prominently displayed on the hilt of his saber, and his other hand rested affectionately on his wife’s shoulder. Not only did Charlotte’s uniform match his down to the Virginia seal buttons, but so did her Lincoln-style beard and brown wig.
She squinted into the mirror, grimacing at a stray blond curl peeking out from beneath her shoulder-length wig. Well, that won’t do at all. She tucked in the errant strands then scrutinized her face and head. Was there anything else amiss? Earrings? Nope. Lipstick? Ha. That’s funny. At the rate she used the Bobbi Brown pinky-brown lip color in her purse, the tube would last another five years.
Charlotte set the coffee cup on the mantel and patted her hands down the front and sides of her dark blue trousers, checking for loose threads. Her tailor had reinforced the stitches where the black velvet side stripes and gold cords attached to the pants. He had also added extra padding to the cadet gray officer’s tunic to give her a bulkier shape. She had dropped a few pounds while training for last month’s marathon in Charlottesville, so the tailor padded the jacket instead of taking in seams he might have to let out later.
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 inauthentic about her uniform to cause another reenactor to accuse her of being a farb, 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 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. Afterward, he had spent a decade as a US 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 aboundin
g in brilliant leaf showers. The planners of the 150th 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 best-selling 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 Mr. Digby, 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.