The Sapphire Brooch (The Celtic Brooch Trilogy Book 2) (12 page)

Mallory Plantation, Richmond, Virginia, Present Day

T
wo days later
Charlotte released Braham from the hospital. Although he had pleaded with her to send him back to his time, she had refused, and instead sent him home with Jack, along with a long list of restrictions. He rode in a wheelchair to the front door of the hospital, where he sat waiting until a big black conveyance drove up and parked in front of him. Jack got out and came around to help Braham into the front seat.

“What do you call this conveyance?”

“A Land Rover.”

Kit had referred to her conveyance as a car.
This must be different
. “Are all conveyances called land rovers?”

“Vehicles come in different makes, models, and prices. Land Rover is the brand name. There’re different models within the brand. This is the Range Rover Sport.” Jack showed Braham how to buckle his seatbelt.

Braham immediately unbuckled it. “I don’t want to be strapped in. If I hadn’t been so sick when I rode in the ambulance I would have yanked off the restraints.”

“If we crash, you’ll go through the windshield. Put it back on,” Jack said.

Braham shook his head. “I’ll take the risk.”

Jack turned in his seat, glaring. “It’s not your life I’m worried about. I don’t want two hundred pounds landing on me. Put the damn belt on. We’re not going anywhere until you do.” Jack pulled his phone out of his pocket and pecked on it, ignoring Braham as he wrestled with the idea of being restrained.

“Don’t like it,” Braham said, securing the belt around him.

Jack’s lip twitched as he pocketed his phone and started the vehicle. “You’ll get used to it.”

“I don’t plan to be here long enough.” Braham stared out the window at the unrecognizable city: paved streets, no grass, few trees, and hundreds of conveyances. “Looks like there’re enough for the entire city.”

Jack pulled away from the hospital and merged into a long line of vehicles, all different shapes, sizes, and colors. “Certain times of the day you’d think everyone who had a car was out on the roads. Traffic’s a nightmare.”

Braham rubbed his hand across the leather seat, the sparkling glass, and odd textures that weren’t metal or wood or stone. “Your Land Rover looks rich, expensive. How much did it cost?”

“About ninety-five thousand.”

“Dollars?” Braham whistled. “I’ve seen the war through the lens of economy and I understand inflation. What’s the difference in the value of the dollar between 1865 and now?”

“When I stop at the traffic light, I’ll look it up.”

Braham spotted a light strung on a wire stretching from one side of the street to the other. The light turned from green to yellow to red. The conveyances going in the same direction and in the opposite direction all stopped, while the vehicles on his left and right moved forward. “I crossed this street a few days ago, dodging wagons and marching soldiers. Risked life and limb to get to the other side. The…traffic light?” he glanced over to see Jack’s nod. “It’s very clever.”

Jack punched the keys on his phone again. Then the light turned green, and he proceeded through the intersection. He handed over the phone. “Read this. Then you’ll understand why we call our phones
smart
phones.”

Braham read the words on the tiny, colored glass. “Compute the Relative Value of a US Dollar Amount.”

Jack reached over and pointed to the letters fixed to little squares underneath the colored glass. “Enter the year, 2014, and the amount, $95,000, in those boxes. Then click calculate.”

“The relative value in 1865 is $6,530.00.”

What other kinds of questions could he ask this smartphone? His fingers itched to punch the letters and ask the one question weighing on his heart every waking moment:
What year will the War of the Southern Rebellion end?
He curled his fingers into his palm. His nails bit into his skin. The urge grew stronger, searing him with the urgent need to know.

He punched the W, then the H, then the E. He bit down on his lip. Hard. He punched the N. “How do you start a new word?”

“Hit the space key.”

He ignored his inner voice shrieking to stop. His conscience. His moral compass. He hit the space key. Then entered the words
when will the war of the Southern
—“What do you do if you make a mistake?”

“Hit the arrow with the x.”

He erased all the words and started again.
When did the war
—his breathing became labored. He closed his eyes. Sucked in his lip. Deep inside his soul he found the strength to resist. He returned the smartphone, Satan’s tool, to Jack.

Jack glanced at the phone then shot a stern glance at Braham.

“When you say US dollar, do you mean United States?”

“The United States is referred to as—”

“You mean the United States
are
referred to?”

“It was changed after the Civil—” Jack stopped mid-sentence, his jaw noticeably tightened. “It’s your intention to return to your time, isn’t it?”

“As soon as your sister will take me.”

“Then there are topics we can’t discuss. Not even something as simple as a verb.”

“Your use of the verb told me the states will be united again. Stronger than before. It will be easier to wait for it to happen, knowing it will.” Tension eased from his body. He settled back into the plush seat and closed his eyes. The car swerved violently to the right, to the left, and back to right. Braham’s eyes popped open. The seat restraint grabbed him. He slammed his feet against the floor.

“God damn it,” Jack swore. “Get the son of a bitch off the damn road.”

Braham’s heart cannon-fired inside his chest. “Are you trying to
kill
us?”

“I’m not, but that son of a bitch is.” Jack pointed to a red car moving significantly more slowly than all the other vehicles on the road. “You okay?”

Braham patted the restraint across his chest. “Thanks to this. I’m sorry I was initially resistant. It saved me from landing on you. All two hundred pounds. The stitches in my belly would have come undone and you could have had my guts in your lap.”

Jack resumed his casual one-handed driving, laughing. “I can do without the imagery, thank you.”

Now he had confidence in Jack’s driving skills and the vehicle’s maneuverability, Braham took more interest in details of the interior.

The seat was ample for his large frame and the leather was supple, but the interior had an offensive smell unlike anything he’d run across during his travels in Europe or across the western part of the country. He had invested large sums of money in real estate in San Francisco and his vineyards in the Napa Valley, all wise investments made in consultation with his bankers. He wasn’t at all sure Jack’s investment in this vehicle had been a wise one. The vehicle picked up speed. Jack changed lanes and pulled up behind a car small enough for the Land Rover to squash.

“Why would anyone drive a small vehicle?” Braham asked.

“Gas mileage, wear and tear.”

“In other words, it costs less.”

Jack changed lanes again and increased the speed. Braham gripped the seat, needing a distraction. “What are the parts called? The dials, the different colored lights, and the map.”

“The map is a Global Positioning System. You can plug in any address and the map will show you how to get there. There’s an owner’s manual in the glove box in front of your knees. The manual will explain what’s what. This car almost drives itself.”

“A car won’t get me home.”

“No, but it sure will make life easier while you’re here, especially at the plantation. You might like to get out and see the place. It’s beautiful this time of year.”

“Do you have horses?”

“Not as many as we used to have, but I doubt Charlotte will let you ride.”

“I’ve ridden every day since I could walk. It won’t hurt me.”

“Butting heads with her might prove you’re stronger, but she’s smarter when it comes to healing and medicine. Had to go a few rounds with her myself before I learned my lesson.”

Not since his mother died had Braham been forced to listen to a woman tell him what to do or when to do it. He doubted he’d change for Charlotte’s benefit. Then he chuckled at his lapse of memory. Another blonde-haired lass had told him what to do, and he’d listened, but Kit was the exception.

Being in the future unsettled him. Kit had expressed constant fear over how her actions in the past might affect the future. He had believed she worried needlessly. How could the actions of one small woman change the future? Now he was living in her time, he had decided to put on blinders so he could return ignorant of what was to come, but his natural curiosity was making the decision difficult, if not impossible.

He didn’t understand the customs of the day, which drove him to seek understanding. The more understanding he had, the more insight into the future he acquired. When he returned to his time, would he be able to put his knowledge aside, or would he use it for personal gain and disrupt the future?

He’d consider the problem in more depth later. For now, he had to convince Charlotte to take him back. His country was suffering from an intolerable war, and his President was waiting for vital information.

Time travel, as he’d learned from Kit, was a persnickety venture. While days passed in one time period, months passed elsewhere. The war could have ended by the time he returned. Would Lincoln think Braham had been executed, or would he know Braham had disappeared? He realized, with a disturbing sensation in the pit of his stomach, that dying seemed preferable to living with failure.

“Are you hurting?” Jack asked. “Charlotte said the trip to the plantation would be uncomfortable.” He pushed back his sleeve and looked at the timepiece he wore on his wrist. “You can have pain medication now.”

“It puts me to sleep. I want to be awake in the event I’m crushed beneath a pile of metal and glass,” Braham said without humor. The scenery flying by made him dizzy. He needed another distraction. He opened what Jack had referred to as the
glove box
and removed the manual he had mentioned earlier.

Twenty minutes later Braham closed the book and put it back.

“A bit overwhelming,” Jack said.

Braham closed the compartment door. “I know all the parts now, but I’m not sure, if I disassembled the vehicle, whether I could put it back together again.”

Jack drew in his eyebrows, looking skeptical. “Twenty minutes and you know all the parts?”

Braham shrugged at Jack’s disbelief. “I have a good memory.”

Jack pointed to the roof. “What’s this called?”

“Full size panoramic roof.”

He pointed to Braham’s head restraint. “And this.”

Braham fired right back with the correct answer.

Jack pointed to the multimedia instrument panel. “And this?”

“Hard disk navigation system, Bluetooth phone connection, eight inch touch-screen, MP3 compatible audio disk.”

Jack was slack-jawed. “How—”

“I told you. I have a good memory.” God forbid, if Charlotte’s brooch didn’t work the way Kit’s did, and he was forced to remain in the future, all he had to do was observe, read, and listen. If he did, he’d quickly learn all he needed to know about life in the twenty-first century.

“That’s not a good memory,” Jack said. “That’s an eidetic memory. Do you retain everything you read?”

“Shakespeare, Plato, legal treatises, I retain after one reading. A technical or ordinance manual, similar to the Land Rover’s, I would read again to confirm my knowledge.”

Jack gave him an incredulous glare. “Only one person has been tested and proven to have long-term eidetic memory. I have an excellent memory, but I can’t do what you do. Scientists would have an orgasm studying a time traveler with an eidetic memory.”

Braham turned to look out the window, managing a grim smile. “I won’t be here long enough to be studied.”

Jack turned onto an open stretch of country road. “We’re about ten minutes from the plantation.”

“Beautiful country,” Braham said. “I see the telegraph is still widely used. There are poles on every road.”

“The poles actually hold lines for power and communication, not telegraph. The telegraph is mainly used these days for text telephone machines operated by the deaf.”

A list of questions concerning the use of the telegraph immediately came to mind, but when he smelled brackish water and fish, it reminded him he was hungry, and he shoved the questions out of the way. “We must be close to the river.”

Jack pointed off into the distance. “The James River is about a half mile away. The house backs up to the river. Beautiful view. I think you’ll appreciate it after a week in the hospital.”

Jack turned off the road onto a tree-lined drive and drove past a handful of brick outbuildings leading to a three-story Georgian white-brick manse with double-sided porticos, looking like an elegant fortress.

“Welcome to Mallory Plantation,” Jack said. “My ancestors founded the place a few years after the settlers arrived in Jamestown in 1607. Charlotte and I are the tenth generation to live here.” He pulled to the front of the house, cut the engine, and pointed toward the residence. “Flemish bond brick, dormers, even a three-foot welcoming pineapple on the peak of the roof.”

“How’d it survive the war?”

“The pineapple? I guess no one was hungry for fruit?”

Braham frowned, once again stymied by the man’s unusual sense of humor.

Jack rested his arm on the back of his seat and turned to face Braham. “If you posed your question to a resident of New York, they’d assume you were asking about the Revolutionary War. But if you posed the question to a person from the south, like me, I’d say, ‘You mean the War of Northern Aggression?’

Braham tensed, preparing for the same arguments he’d listened to for the last three years. “New Yorkers are fighting in the rebellion, too.”

“Granted. But the south never—” Jack stopped and took a deliberate breath. “Never mind. We don’t need to have this discussion. The short answer to your question is, the house sits way back off the main road. Soldiers making the trek in here would have to have come specifically to burn it down. They never did.