Which was why she waited with pained anticipation for Mr. Delacroix’s response to her second letter. It arrived the following morning, and Mr. Bittles snatched it out of the delivery boy’s hand before she could intercept it.
“That’s my letter,” she gasped, trying to grab it from Mr. Bittles as he dangled it well above her head. Sometimes it was horrible being short. She made a leap for it, and Mr. Bittles stifled a giggle as he continued waving it just beyond her reach.
“But it’s addressed to the Botanical Department, of which I am the supervisor,” he said, yanking the single page from the envelope. Frustration nearly choked her as his eyes traveled along the lines of the letter. He shook his head in mock despair. “Such a pity,” he murmured.
“What does it say?”
A smile hovered over his face as he read the letter aloud. “‘Dear Miss Larkin. Under no circumstances will I grant you access to my plant collection. Stop asking. Sincerely, Gray Delacroix.’” He didn’t hide his gloat as he gave her the letter.
She turned away to read it, praying Mr. Bittles was only being cruel, but it was exactly as he had said. She masked her discouragement as she tucked the letter into her satchel, for she wasn’t ready to give up yet.
“I’m going downstairs to tell Dr. Norwood of this latest development,” she said. “It’s time to shift strategy.”
“Best of luck,” Mr. Bittles said with a sarcastic wink.
That wink renewed her determination as she headed to the director’s office. Mr. Bittles had been rude and bad-tempered from the very beginning, but bad tempers didn’t frighten her. She had come of age on the plains of Kansas, where she’d battled ice storms, wind storms, crippling droughts, and plagues of locusts that literally darkened the wide prairie skies. Thereweren’t many things she feared, but losing her job at the Smithsonian was one of them.
Dr. Norwood’s office was a reflection of his obsession with orchids. Rows of the exotic flowers lined the windowsill, and their sweet, spicy scent perfumed the air. Maps on the wall documented orchid fields around the world, and fossilized blossoms filled a bookshelf.
Wiry, balding, and bespectacled, Dr. Norwood was pruning a vibrantCephalantheraorchid when she entered. He didn’t even look up from his work as she summarized Mr. Delacroix’s latest rejection, but he paid fierce attention when she proposed a different approach.
“I have a feeling that as a man of business, Mr. Delacroix will respect forthright dealing,” she said. “Perhaps if we directly ask for access only to that single vanilla orchid, he would be more forthcoming.”
Dr. Norwood shook his head. “Vanilla is one of the most valuable commodities in the world, and Delacroix only wants that orchid for its monetary value. His father was different. His father could be reasoned with, but ever since the old man died, Gray Delacroix holds the keys to the kingdom. He has no respect for scientific marvels, only monetary profit.”
Between the two, Annabelle had more sympathy for monetary profit, but maybe that was her practical farming heritage coming to the fore. Nevertheless, she would do whatever was necessary to please Dr. Norwood.
“Sir, I am painfully aware that the clock is ticking on my temporary appointment. If you want that orchid, Iwillfigure out a way to get it. All I need is your permission to approach Mr. Delacroix directly. Face to face. I think I can reason with him.”
Dr. Norwood set down the pruning shears and looked her in the eyes. “When your college professor recommended you for this position, he claimed you were one of the sunniest, most optimistic people he’d ever met.”
“I am,” she admitted with a pleased smile.
“That’s the kind of person who drives Gray Delacroix insane,” Dr. Norwood said. “He is all business and has no patience, no manners, and is immune to female charm.”
Which was why Annabelle planned a different strategy. Mr. Delacroix might be rude, but everything she knew about him indicated he had a deep and abiding passion for the plant world, and on that level, they could connect. His travels spanned the globe, and wherever he went, he collected a seed, a bulb, a cutting, or a root. She admired a man like that.
“If you want that orchid, I’ll get a cutting,” she told Dr. Norwood confidently. “And Mr. Delacroix will be smiling as he hands it over to me.” She outlined her unconventional plan that would only cost a blow to her pride if it didn’t work.
Dr. Norwood seemed intrigued. “I suspect he’ll laugh you out of his office. It’s likely to be a complete failure.”
“The Smithsonian has had years of failure,” she said. “Nothing else has worked. You might as well let me try.”
Dr. Norwood picked up his pruning shears, trying not to laugh. “You are likely to fall flat on your face, but I wish you luck.”
Two
Two days later, Annabelle took a series of streetcars to the nearby town of Alexandria, where the Delacroix family had lived for generations. Instead of asking favors, Annabelle had come prepared to offer Mr. Delacroix something first. She’d brought a charming gift to honor his fascination with spices and plants, and new plant specimens to demonstrate how the Smithsonian could help his business if he would cooperate with them. The oversized portfolio made walking ungainly, but the gift she carried was neatly rolled up beneath her arm.
She’d first spotted the whimsical map in a curio shop shortly after arriving in Washington. Printed on soft leather, it looked like a Renaissance map that could have been carried by an old-world conquistador. Compact illustrations covered the fanciful image, like a treasure chest on the Malabar coast brimming with peppercorns and a Spanish galleon near the port of Genoa carrying ginger and nutmeg. A dragon frolicked in the treacherous waters along Cape Horn. The useless map was a charming celebration of the flavors of the world, and maybe it would help get her foot in the door. It was a spice map for a spice king!
The oversized portfolio was cumbersome after she disembarked from the streetcar in Alexandria, a port town starklydifferent from the classical splendor of Washington. Alexandria had a quaint charm, with worn brick sidewalks carrying an echo of its colonial past. Linden trees shaded the narrow streets where townhouses abutted coffee shops and lawyer’s offices, and the Potomac River could be glimpsed in the distance.
By the time she reached the street where Gray Delacroix lived, the shops and townhouses seemed grander, but most impressive were the ladies who strolled through the shopping district. Did women really dress like that on an ordinary Thursday afternoon? They wore elegant ensembles of wraps, sashes, and scarves. Annabelle wore a practical cotton dress of maroon gingham with sensible buttons down the front. While the other ladies had their upswept hair styled with jeweled clips, Annabelle’s dark hair was worn in a simple braid down the center of her back.
A drizzle of rain caused her to quicken her steps, the bulky portfolio banging against her hip. The cobblestone street eventually came to the three-story townhouse belonging to the Delacroix family. Glossy black railings led up a flight of steps to a home that looked like it had been there for centuries. Probably because it had. When Mr. Delacroix’s forefathers built their shipping empire in Virginia, Annabelle’s ancestors had been pulling potatoes out of the rocky soil in Ireland.
She hurried up the short flight of steps to knock on the front door. The black man who answered looked about her age but was a lot taller.
