The Spice King Read online

  She returned the handshake with vigor and a healthy smile, for this man was her first hurdle in getting to Mr. Delacroix. “Nice to meet you, Otis. Is there a towel I could borrow to dry the artifact? It’s very rare.”

  Otis nodded. “Have a seat in the parlor, and I’ll fetch a cloth so you can dry the . . . the artifact,” he said with a curious glance at both the rolled map and the bulky portfolio.

  “I’d be grateful,” she said. She walked into the front room, where nautical maps and a shiny brass captain’s wheel decorated the walls. Old floorboards creaked as she moved farther inside. Well-made but simple colonial furniture sat in groupings before a brick fireplace.

  Otis returned, standing before her with a cloth at the ready. “Ma’am?”

  She wasn’t accustomed to being waited on, and it took a moment to realize he was prepared to help dry the map.

  “Yes, here. Thank you.” She unrolled the map to blot the back, but Otis flipped it over to study the front.

  “What a fantastic map,” he said with a laugh. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Isn’t it delightful? I saw it and immediately thought of Mr. Delacroix.”

  Otis nodded. “I agree. On a good day, I think he might like it very much.”

  “Otis!” a voice roared from somewhere deep in the house.

  “One moment, sir,” the young man called down the hall, then handed the map back to her. “Wait here. I’ll be back in a minute.” He dashed down the hall with admirable agility.

  Why did women have to be burdened by so many skirts and layers? On the farm she usually wore her father’s old denim pants to scramble up into haylofts or tend the goats, but that probably wouldn’t go over well in Washington.

  Muffled voices leaked out from a closed door at the end of a hall, and a few moments later, Otis returned with his hand outstretched.

  “Mr. Delacroix overheard our conversation. He wants to see the map.”

  Annabelle tightened her grip on it. If Mr. Delacroix wanted to see the map, he could meet her like any other civilized person. “Oh dear . . . it is a very valuable map. I hate to let it go. Perhaps I can make an appointment to come back and show it to him at a more convenient time?”

  Given the uneasy look on Otis’s face, it didn’t feel right to paint him into such an awkward position, but she needed to meet Mr. Delacroix in person.

  “Otis, send her back here,” the grumpy voice hollered.

  Hope welled inside her, and she followed Otis down the hallway. More antiques hung on the wall, where dour-looking people in white wigs frowned from old family portraits. She was shown through a door into a book-lined study. When she got a look at the man behind the desk, she gasped.

  The surly expression on his face darkened. “Don’t worry. I’m not contagious,” he said.

  But he looked horrible! He wasn’t even dressed properly, wearing only a loosely tied dressing robe. He had bloodshot eyes and unkempt black hair, but most appalling was his skin. He was sickly white and soaking wet, with trails of perspiration rolling down his face and dampening his robe. His untidy appearance didn’t stop him from rudely looking her up and down.

  “You’re short,” he said.

  She straightened. Her height was always the first thing people noticed about her, but rarely were they so rude as to comment on it. “And you are very ill.”

  “But not contagious,” he said bluntly. “And I want to see this valuable map. Where is it?”

  Maybe he wasn’t contagious, but there was something seriously wrong with him. She took a single step forward and extended the rolled map, then retreated the instant he snatched it.

  While he unfurled the map across his desk, she took a deeper look at him, for he was a handsome man despite the sickly pallor, with finely molded features and deep-set eyes. But most fascinating to her was his jaw. It was strong and chiseled, the kind of jaw that spoke of strength and looked like it was accustomed to carrying the weight of responsibility. She loved the way he rubbed it as he scrutinized the map, and his gaze morphed from skeptical to curious to interested.

  To her amazement, a slow smile crept across his face. A raspy, weak laugh started, but it was only a single breath, as though he didn’t have the strength to finish it off.

  “I love it,” he said. He put on a pair of spectacles and leaned closer to the map. “Ha! They’ve got the cloves wrong in Malabar. They ship them dried, not green.” He leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingers on the desk. “So you’re the tedious Miss Larkin from the Smithsonian.”

  “I am Miss Larkin from the Smithsonian.” It was hard not to smile, for it was obvious he was testing her, but he had no idea who he was up against.

  “And you come bearing gifts. Hoping to soften me up.”

  “Is it working?”

  “Not yet. I’m curious, though. My last letter to you was final, and you have zero chance of changing my mind, so why are you here?” He spoke with no sign of hostility, only genuine curiosity. It made her believe there was hope.

  “You wouldn’t respect me if I gave up too easily.”

  “What makes you think I respect you at all?” A challenging glint lurked in his dark eyes, and it was oddly intriguing. How could a man be so rude and yet appealing at the same time?

  She rose to the test. “As a human being, I am worthy of respect by default. And as one botanist to another, I think you and I should cooperate.”

  “I’m not a botanist. I’m a businessman.”

  “I won’t hold it against you, Mr. Delacroix. Especially if you don’t hold my association with the Smithsonian against me.”

  He took off his spectacles, then mopped his face with a handkerchief before looking at her through bloodshot eyes. “The Smithsonian has been trying for years to get their hands on my vanilla orchid, but this is the first time they’ve sent a woman to try for it. I’ve actually got it quite well guarded, and I’m protective of my plants, so I’m afraid your visit here is going to be fruitless.”

  So he knew the value of what he had. “Can you tell me how you managed to keep it alive during transportation?”

  “No.”

  “Perhaps you could tell me how you are caring for it. As a tropical vine, Virginia must be a challenging environment for it.”

  He shrugged and remained silent.

  “Come, Mr. Delacroix,” she said. “Science shouldn’t be performed in a vacuum. Why can’t we pool our resources and expertise?”

  “Because I don’t trust the government,” he stated flatly. “I know exactly what you would do if I gave you a cutting from my orchid.”

  “And what is that?”

  “You would slice pieces off to study under a microscope. You’d press the rest of it, glue it onto parchment, and store it away in one of your attics. Am I right?”

  Actually, they stored their specimens in metal drawers, but mostly he was right. If the sample was large enough, they might try to reproduce it and establish another vine. But why did he have to be so intrinsically hostile to the entire principle of scientific study?

  “The Smithsonian is curious about all forms of plants, which are constantly evolving. Yes, of course we need to collect and preserve samples.”

  He nodded to the sunflower brooch pinned to her collar. It was the only jewelry she wore, a reminder of Kansas. “Is that what you specialize in? Sunflowers?”

  “My specialty is cereal grasses. All kinds of wheat, barley, and in a pinch, I know a little about millet. I wear the sunflower because it’s impossible not to smile when you see a sunflower.” The corners of his mouth twitched, and she pounced. “See? Even you can’t do it. Just thinking about a field of sunflowers is making you smile. Go ahead, admit it.”

  For the first time she saw a genuine smile from him, along with another weak laugh as he conceded defeat. He gestured for her to take a seat in the chair opposite his desk, and she sensed she had successfully cleared her first hurdle. She sat, then lifted the portfolio onto her lap.

&n
bsp; “If you won’t show me your orchid, may I show you some newly arrived specimens of vanilla orchids from the African coast?”

  It was the right thing to say. He straightened, his entire attention swiveling to her portfolio. “Is that what’s in your bag?”

  “Yes. Eight newly arrived species of vanilla orchids.”

  It was as if a bolt of electricity shot through him. His nonchalant air vanished, and he pushed her cheap map aside and cleared the surface of his desk. When he stood to reach for the portfolio, he lurched as though about to keel over. She instinctively rushed to his side, propping him up. His skin was scorching!

  “Can I get you something? A glass of water? Or call for someone?”

  He shook his head but lowered himself back into his chair, as though winded by that momentary burst of energy. “I’m fine. I should know better than to stand so quickly. No more delays. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  His complexion was even paler than before. He said he wasn’t contagious, but his fever was shockingly high, and she couldn’t risk getting ill. She noticed a large bottle of quinine on the corner of the desk.

  “Malaria?” she guessed.

  He gave a brusque nod. “And I assure you it isn’t contagious.”

  She understood. Too many of the scientists the Smithsonian sent to the tropics eventually contracted malaria, and it was a wretched, debilitating condition that could haunt a person with periodic bouts for the rest of their life. Quinine was the only known remedy, but all it did was treat the symptoms, it could not cure it.

  It was hard to imagine a man this sick would want to see botanical specimens, but he took a magnifying glass from his drawer and waited as she opened the portfolio. After unbuckling the straps of the deep interior pocket, she lifted out the first of several specimens. The plants had been meticulously pressed, then secured with tiny strips of gummed linen to the parchment.

  He used his magnifying glass to scrutinize the leaves and stem. “What’s in the envelope?” he asked, nodding to the packet taped to the bottom of the page.

  She opened the flap to extract a pod and dozens of tiny seeds, laying them on the white parchment for closer examination. He denied being a botanist, but the fierce way he studied the seeds could have fooled her.

  When he spoke, he said the last thing she expected.

  “You have no idea how badly I want to taste those seeds.”

  “You can’t!” she gasped.

  “Why not?”

  “They are valuable scientific specimens,” she sputtered.

  “Bah! They’re useless to mankind unless we know how they taste. There are over a hundred varieties of vanilla orchids. How can I know if this one is worth cultivating without a taste?”

  She swept the seeds into her palm and carefully replaced them in the envelope. She risked a glance at him and was once again caught off guard by the humor glinting in his eyes.

  She stilled. “Were you joking?”

  “Were you trying to pass off a cheap reproduction as a valuable map?”

  She sent him a helpless smile. “I needed to get my foot in the door.”

  “And you succeeded. Let’s see the rest of what you’ve got. I promise not to wolf down any of your valuable samples. Besides, as a botanist, you ought to know that vanilla seeds aren’t all that special. Most of the flavor is in the skin of the pod, and even then, it’s not fully developed until it has been processed.”

  They spent the next hour studying the eight specimens she’d brought. The world of orchids was a mystery to her, and she listened in fascination as he explained how he cultivated thousands of vanilla orchid vines in the steeply sloped hills of Madagascar. Vanilla orchids were fussy plants that required hand pollination and bloomed for only a single day each year. That day could make or break a harvest. The vanilla orchid would have been driven to extinction but for the farmers and spice traders who rescued it.

  The way he spoke with such passion about vanilla was appealing. He probably knew as much as any of their botanists, most of whom worked only in a laboratory. She gazed around his library, the shelves brimming with books and heavy scientific binders.

  “Where did you study?” she asked.

  “I never went to college, if that’s what you’re asking. I studied in the belly of a ship. Tromping through jungles and deserts. Talking to people. Trial and error. I envy you, Miss Larkin.”

  She couldn’t imagine someone like him envying four years at the Kansas State Agricultural College, but there was no doubting his sincerity, for the longing on his face was profound.

  She could have stayed all afternoon, learning about his tropical fields, but she had responsibilities in town. Elaine was depending on her.

  “I should go,” she said.

  “Do you have to?”

  Her gaze locked with his. Despite his haggard appearance and illness, it seemed he genuinely wanted her to stay. She wished she could, but Elaine was waiting.

  “I have responsibilities,” she said, standing to slide the specimen pages back into the portfolio. “I hope you will keep the map.”

  He rolled it up and pushed it toward her. “It’s yours.”

  “Oh, please keep it. I can’t imagine anyone who would appreciate the world of the spice trade as much as you. Even if the mapmaker got his cloves wrong.”

  He stood more carefully this time, bracing a hand on the desk as he slowly pushed to his feet. “I don’t like to be indebted. I’ve enjoyed your visit, but you must understand that I am violently opposed to sharing anything with the Smithsonian. It will never happen, so I’d feel better if you took your map back.”

  She leaned over to pick up her portfolio. She’d lingered far too long as it was, but she wasn’t going to leave with that map. It had cracked open the door to his world, and she wanted him to feel indebted, even if only for a foolish trinket.

  “It’s yours,” she said simply. “Do with it as you like.”

  She felt his gaze on her back as she walked down the hallway and out the door. Her heart pounded the entire way, partly from her minor victory, but mostly from something else she was afraid to name.

  Annabelle silently urged the streetcar to move faster as it traveled down Second Street toward the Library of Congress, where her sister volunteered five days a week. It was this chance for Elaine to do productive work that had brought them both from the heartland of Kansas all the way to the nation’s capital. Only two months earlier, neither of them had traveled more than fifty miles from the farm where they’d been born.

  Now they had ventured across the country, found and leased their own apartment, learned to use the streetcar system, and were embarking on a new way of life. Annabelle prayed it would be the answer for Elaine. If this didn’t work, she wasn’t sure what else could be done to save her adored older sister.

  Annabelle bit her lip as the streetcar made yet another stop at East Capitol Street. So many people getting on and off! She was already forty minutes late picking up Elaine, and she silently urged the two jabbering businessmen to hurry up and disembark.

  At last the streetcar was on its way, and Annabelle grabbed the hold bar as she moved to the front so she could be first off at the next stop. Elaine must be out of her mind with worry by now. So far their system had worked quite well, for the Smithsonian was only a few blocks from the Library of Congress. Annabelle escorted Elaine to work each morning and picked her up at the end of the day, but the trip to Alexandria had taken longer than expected.

  A gust of relief escaped her when she saw Elaine waiting safely at the bench on the corner of Second and Independence Avenue. The streetcar door opened, and Annabelle was the first person off.

  “I’m here, Elaine,” she called out the moment her feet touched the ground.

  Elaine swiveled her head, her blue eyes staring sightlessly past Annabelle. “Oh, thank heavens,” she said on a shaky breath.

  Forty minutes might not seem like a lot to a sighted person, but the city was a new and terrifying envi
ronment for Elaine. Instead of birdsong and wind rustling through wheat fields, the busy street corner had honking horns, rattling streetcars, and hucksters shouting their wares. Any move from the safety of the bench might send Elaine straight into the path of a streetcar or over the edge of the curb.

  Annabelle joined her sister on the bench, taking her hand. “Were you all right?”

  “Of course I was,” Elaine said. “One of the security guards walked me here at five o’clock. What time is it now?”

  Annabelle glanced at her pocket watch. “Twenty minutes to six. Alexandria didn’t look that far away on the map. I’m so sorry.”

  “Well . . . it’s all right,” Elaine said after a pause. “At least I had a productive morning.”

  “Tell me about it,” Annabelle coaxed. They still had a few minutes before the Green Line streetcar arrived, and she hoped conversation would divert Elaine’s thoughts from the frightening forty minutes she’d spent alone on a street corner.

  “The Library of Congress bought a new brailler,” she reported. “The machine seems like a regular typewriter, but the keys are different. I’ve asked to be trained on how to use it. Then I can communicate on my own instead of asking you to write everything out for me.”

  Annabelle’s smile was pained. She liked reading and writing for Elaine. It was little enough she could do to make up for the catastrophe that had befallen her sister. “I don’t mind,” she said.

  “No, no,” Elaine insisted, a little of her old gumption coming to the fore. “I refuse to be any more of a burden than necessary. The more I can learn, the better off we’ll both be. But please . . .” She swallowed hard, and when she spoke again, her voice was barely a whisper. “Please don’t ever leave me alone on a horrible bench like this again. You can’t imagine how awful it was.”

  It was true, and another wave of guilt raced through Annabelle. “I’m so sorry,” she said again. If she lived to be a hundred, she could never apologize enough, for Elaine’s blindness was her fault.

  Elaine squeezed Annabelle’s hand. “Don’t feel bad,” she said. “Even though I’m blind, I can tell there is regret all over your face. I’m fine,” she added in a reassuring voice. “It will only take me a little longer to get familiar with these loud city streets, and soon I’ll be using the streetcars without any help.” She flashed a smile. “I can do anything. Anything, Annabelle.”