The Sapphire Brooch (The Celtic Brooch Trilogy Book 2) (72 page)

79

MacKlenna Farm, Lexington, Kentucky, 1865

W
hen the fog
lifted, Charlotte found herself on a tree-lined drive leading to the MacKlennas’ front porch. Instead of asphalt, the driveway was a dirt road full of muddy potholes. The fragrant smell of burning wood hung in the air. When she and David had left the future, the buds of the trees had been bursting open in the spring-like breezes. Now brilliant sunshine streamed through the dense stand of elm trees. Dark green, fully leafed branches formed a canopy on both sides of the road. The season had jumped ahead from late March to May or early June. It wasn’t hot enough to be summer.

She glanced at David. His face was unreadable, but not his eyes, which were scanning the landscape. He was perfectly still, a warrior assessing danger and weighing risks. Then he seemed to relax and adjusted the weight of his two large carpetbags. “The wee farm looks the same but different. If ye’ had put me in the paddock out of sight of the house, I would have still known where I was.”

“It’s beautiful, regardless of the century. Do you think the architect intended the Doric columns to resemble sentries guarding the house?”

“Thomas MacKlenna designed the house to resemble Monticello. In 1790, they probably needed protection.”

Charlotte hopped over another mud puddle and around the next one. “Do you know what you’re going to say?”

David drew a long breath, and his shoulders squared beneath his well-fitting jacket. “Thought I’d leave it up to ye’.”

“Well, thanks. I guess.” She hadn’t given much thought to meeting Sean MacKlenna. To her, he was a necessary stop on the way to Washington. Although she was interested in meeting him, she didn’t want to delay their departure. A cup of tea, a friendly chat, then they’d ask for transportation to the train station. “I’ll tell Mr. MacKlenna I’m a friend of Braham’s.”

David stepped aside to let Charlotte climb the portico stairs ahead of him. “Braham might have told him about ye’.”

“Probably. Or maybe he just mentioned a doctor. He had to explain how he came from the future somehow.”

Reaching the front door, David clanged the big brass doorknocker. “Shall we see who’s at home, then?”

Charlotte fingered a bullet hole. “These look recent.”

“Aye, they do. Looks like they repaired some of the holes but left others. Wonder why?”

A butler dressed in fine livery, opened the door, and Charlotte forgot all about the holes. “May I help you?”

“Aye, is Mr. MacKlenna at home?” David asked. We’re out-of-town acquaintances and have business to discuss.”

The butler opened the door wider and invited them inside. “Sur. You’n wait in ’a parlor.”

Other than stains on the hardwood floors which seemed lighter, and the paint on the walls more vivid, the residence hadn’t changed. The same or similar eighteenth-century antiques filled the rooms.

David studied the painting hanging over the fireplace. “I wonder what happened to this painting. As many years as I’ve been visiting the mansion, I’ve never seen it.”

A man shorter than David with lanky brown hair and intelligent eyes entered the room and noticed David admiring the painting. “Eilean Donan castle close to—”

“Dornie,” David said.

“From yer accent, I’d wager it’s not far from yer home.”

“Not far,” David agreed.

“I’m Sean MacKlenna.”

“I ken yer name. I’m David MacBain. As I lad I spent time at the MacKlenna estate…” he paused, then continued, “with yer niece Kit.”

Sean glanced from David to Charlotte, then back to David. “Ye’ came through the time portal, then?”

Charlotte extended her hand. “I’m Charlotte Mallory.”

A line furrowed between Sean’s brows as he searched her face.

She gave her beard a little tug. “You’ll have to excuse the disguise. We thought it would be safer for me to travel as a man.”

A devilish spark rallied in his eyes. “Ye’re the surgeon who saved Abraham’s life.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she nodded. “Yes, sir. I didn’t give him a choice in the matter, and then he wasn’t pleased when I wouldn’t take him back.”

“He also said he wasn’t in love with ye’, but ye’ could see the denial on his face as easily as the scratch on his nose. He kens the stone’s power, but he’s fighting against it.”

She looked at Sean wide-eyed and interested. “It’s true, then, what Elliott said about the stone and finding love?”

“Aye, lass, ’tis true. The stone will lead ye’ to the one of yer heart.”

She pursed her lips with disappointment. The sapphire brooch might have led her to Braham, but it had no power to hold them together. She eased her shoulders with a little sigh and placed thoughts of hearts and stones on the back burner to simmer indefinitely.

“We’re in a hurry to get to Washington,” she said. “I hope it’s still 1865.”

“The date is May 5, 1865,” Sean said.

She glanced at David. “It’s soon enough, right? Nothing’s happened in the trial yet.”

David nodded. “Nothing yet.”

“Thank goodness. Oh, here,” she said, dropping the brooch into Sean’s hand. “You can put this back inside the desk.”

“Elliott is going to wear it out. I just popped it into its wee box, and here it is again.” Sean placed the brooch in his jacket pocket. “I’ll return it shortly. Elliott might decide to pay a visit too.”

“When his son is older,” David said, “Elliott will make the jump. He misses Kit. I do, too. Have ye’ heard from her lately?”

“Aye, a telegram last week, but Cullen arrived this morning from Chicago. He’s on his way to Washington.”

A warbling whistle came from down the hall, beautiful music from a talented whistler. The tune might have been Bobby McFerrin’s
Don’t Worry, Be Happy.
Charlotte cut a quick glance toward David. The corner of his lip tilted up. The whistling preceded a man’s appearance in the doorway. “Did I hear my name, Uncle?”

Charlotte blinked at the tall, dark-headed, John Kennedy-esque man who entered the room, smiling. His powerful presence wasn’t just because of the Kennedy look. It was charisma. She couldn’t explain it or define it, but it oozed from his pores. She wasn’t easily impressed by looks, fame, fortune, or celebrity status, but Cullen certainly got her attention.

“I was telling our visitors ye’ arrived this morning.”

Cullen approached her, extending his hand, studying her with eyes which held her enthralled. “I’m Cullen Montgomery.”

“I’m Charlotte Mallory,” she finally managed.
So this is the ghost of MacKlenna Farm.
David had told her all about Cullen’s hauntings. At first she found it hard to believe, but why not? The farm was enchanting. It might as well have a ghost, too.

Staring at her, oddly, Cullen’s outrageously long dark lashes fluttered as he blinked several times. Obviously, he didn’t trust what his eyes were telling him.

She tugged on her beard. “I don’t look like a Charlotte, do I?”

His laugh was almost musical—full and vibrant and contagious. “Aye, my wife wears trousers, too, but she has no facial hair.”

Charlotte grinned. “You know what they say. You can take a girl out of the twenty-first century but you can’t take the twenty-first-century out of the girl.”

Sean and Cullen exchanged glances then both threw back their heads and laughed.

“I’m sorry Kit isn’t here to meet you.” Cullen wiped tears from his eyes. “You came through with the brooch, aye?”

Charlotte removed the wig, shook out her hair, and then slowly peeled off the beard. “David and I have come back to save my brother.”

“What happened to him?” Cullen asked.

She shifted uneasily and threw a glance at David. He shifted, too, moving closer to her. If they were going to be thrown out of the house for being connected to one of the conspirators, he’d be there to protect her. She cleared her throat and steeled herself. “He was arrested for conspiring to kill the President.”

Cullen’s eyes widened, but otherwise he hid his emotions. “Jack Mallory?”

She tensed and nodded with only a slight lift and dip of her chin.

Cullen pressed his fingertips together, bouncing them slowly off of each other, moving to the silent tick of a metronome. Finally, he stopped tapping his fingers and put his hands on his hips. “Braham sent me a telegram to come to Washington.”

She gasped, clutching her chest. “
He did? When
?”

“A week ago. He asked me to come to Washington to help him defend one of the conspirators. Why?” Cullen asked.

She broke into a relieved smile. “It’s a long story, but thank God, he’s all right. We’ve been worried.”

Sean gestured down the hall. “Let’s retire to my office. We’ll have more privacy there, and ye’ can tell us yer story.”

“We have a tradition,” Cullen said. “The person telling the story brings the whiskey.”

David dug into one of his carpetbags and pulled out a bottle. “Woodford Reserve. From a local distillery, or will be.”

Cullen took the bottle and read the label. Then he clapped David on the back. “Unless your story is longer than an hour, we won’t die of thirst.”

The group entered the room with the familiar vast mahogany desk, full bookshelves, and floor-to-ceiling windows with glorious views of the pastures beyond the house. Charlotte came to a standstill right inside the doorway, taking in the scents of tobacco and leather. While the room appeared the same, the absence of Elliott made it seem somehow smaller.

“Do ye’ want a drink, Charley?” David asked.

“Yes, please.” She was drawn to the open window behind the desk and inhaled a lungful of afternoon air, cloyingly warm for early spring, but fresh and sweet from the roses beneath the window. There weren’t roses outside Elliott’s window.

“Here’s yer drink, lass,” David said, handing her a half-filled crystal glass. “Come, sit down. Today is the last time ye’ll need to tell yer story.”

Sean rearranged the chairs so they could sit in a circle. Charlotte began her story, and when she reached the part about Braham’s disappearance, David picked up the tale. From there, Sean added to the story, telling them about Braham’s appearance and the fight with the Reb deserters.

Charlotte shook her head, groaning. “I was afraid it might happen before he fully recovered. Are you sure he wasn’t hurt?”

“Aye, a wee scratch from broken glass. I told him I’d send him back to ye’ if he got shot.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t surrender right then,” she groused.

Sean laughed, but she hadn’t meant it to be funny.

Sean finished his story and Charlotte continued with the next part of hers, ending with her return to MacKlenna Farm. Three hours later, with everyone up to speed, David poured a final round of whiskey, emptying the bottle.

Not long after Charlotte had begun the story, Cullen had stopped her to fetch a journal and pencil, and had taken notes. Now he flipped through the pages. “Why do you think Braham didn’t go home with you after the assassination? His boss was dead. The war was over, and, knowing him as well as I do, I’m sure he was in love with you.”

She stared at her hands and considered Braham’s state of mind the last time she saw him. “I’m not sure I can explain it.” She looked up into Cullen’s eyes, seeing warmth and understanding, and she knew she could trust him.

She straightened, saying, “I think several things combined to keep him here. After almost dying at Chimborazo, his degrading treatment and abuse in Castle Thunder, and his failure to save Lincoln, he was compelled to reclaim his honor. Although he’d never lost it, he believed he had. He was looking for a way to restore what he lost. Will he find it? I don’t know.”

“His honor pulled him into the war when I tried to keep him out of it. But he had made a pledge to General Sheridan in 1852. A pledge he shouldn’t have made, but I’m thankful he did.”

“Stubborn man.” Charlotte pulled a tissue from her pocket and wiped her nose.

Cullen chuckled. “He’s a McCabe and a Highlander. You can’t expect anything less.” Then he eyed her speculatively. “And what about you? Do you love him enough to give up the life you have and stay here with him?” Cullen asked in a low, even voice, but it resonated throughout the quiet room. She could tell from his tone he wasn’t judging her. But beyond the simple question was an undercurrent of more than curiosity. She pressed her lips together to avoid giving him a hasty answer. He deserved more than a quick yes or no.

David opened one of the carpetbags at his feet and withdrew a stack of papers. “We have a copy of the complete record of the conspiracy trial.” The interruption was transparent to everyone, and Cullen turned his attention to David, politely leaving his question hanging in the air unanswered.

“The evidence against Jack is circumstantial, but Stanton doesn’t care. There’s no due process, no presumption of innocence, no jury of their peers, and no appeal. The trial is only a formality before guilty verdicts are handed down.”

“The
New York Herald
predicted the trial will start next week,” Cullen said.

“On the tenth, the commission will ask the defendants if they’d like to seek counsel. We have to be there then and prepared to represent him,” Charlotte said.