“Thank you,” he whispered.
He had never been much of a praying man, but God had blessed him with the foundation of a strong family. Luke and Caroline were both on their way to becoming admirable, successful people, and for the first time in a decade, Gray truly believed everything was going to be all right.
Eleven
Annabelle wrestled with how best to approach Gray to gain access to his house, but finally she simply opened the negotiation the same way they’d first met. Through a letter.
Gray,
My work at the Smithsonian will be light for the next week until a delivery of moss from Australia arrives. While I await the moss with bated breath, I hope to take advantage of the unexpected freedom to explore your extensive library of herb and spice lore. May I visit?
Annabelle
She was at her bench in the workroom, carefully emptying the contents of a seed pod from some Australian eucalyptus, when a messenger arrived with a reply from Gray.
Annabelle,
Come to my bottling factory. I want to show you what I’m working on. Come quickly. It won’t last long.
Gray
Postscript: In the interest of full disclosure, I confess an embarrassing desire simply to see you again. I miss your smile.
The sweet message pricked her conscience. Everything about her deceitful motives felt wrong, but she needed to stop thinking of this as spying. Her mission was to exonerate Gray. She didn’t believe he was a traitor, but the government did.
The address of his bottling factory was at the bottom of the letter. The generals had told her that the most likely place to find evidence of espionage was in Gray’s townhouse, but how could she decline this invitation? He was eager and wanted to share his work with her.
An ache twisted her abdomen, and she curled over in her chair. She drew a ragged breath and prayed for guidance. A moral person had an obligation to protect her country and thousands of people. How dare she let her growing affection for a man interfere with that? It made her ill, but she knew what she had to do.
“Mr. Delacroix wants to know if you can come now,” the messenger boy said. “If you can’t, I’ve got another letter I’m supposed to give you.”
“You can’t,” Mr. Bittles said from across the room. “I want those seed pods cataloged by the end of the day. I’m allergic to eucalyptus oil, so I’m not touching them.”
But all Annabelle could see was the edge of the second letter peeking out from the boy’s coat pocket, and it was irresistible. “Let me see that other letter,” she said, and the boy handed it over.
Annabelle,
Quit being such a rule follower. The Smithsonian will survive if you play hooky for an afternoon. What I have to show you will not.
Gray
Now she was dying of curiosity, and Dr. Norwood had granted her all the time she needed where Gray Delacroix was concerned. She stood and tipped the remainder of the seeds into an envelope, then returned them to the box of eucalyptus samples.
“I’m going on an errand for Dr. Norwood,” she told Mr. Bittles. “I don’t know when I’ll be back.”
Her nerves were stretched tight the entire journey to the factory. Everything about this felt wrong. She wasn’t a woman of tremendous valor or daring heroism, but she’d always tried to lead her life in a way that would honor Jesus through small acts of goodness every day. Hour by hour, brick by brick, these small choices had slowly built a life of integrity. How could she reconcile that view of her world while betraying Gray’s trust?
At the end of her life, she wanted to know she had made a difference for the better, and that meant she couldn’t avert her eyes while treason or sabotage found a foothold. She couldn’t overlook it because of her affection for a single man. All she could do was use her best judgment and pray.
The sooner she began this awful task, the sooner she could exonerate Gray and move forward with her life.
Gray sat at his factory office desk, forehead in his hands as he tried to will the pain away. He should have known he was in trouble as soon as he awoke this morning, but he’d assumed it was a simple headache as he set off for the ten-minute carriage ride to the spice factory.
This wasn’t a simple headache. This was a malaria relapse, but with luck it wouldn’t be too bad for at least another day. He’d already taken a dose of quinine and a swig of iodine for good measure, so he ought to be able to get through the day.
He straightened to gaze into the factory through the window in his office door. He wanted more than to “get through theday.” He wanted to show his magnificent production facility to Annabelle, possibly the only woman of his acquaintance who would appreciate the dovetailing of science, botany, and culinary usefulness. He wanted to show her their technique for creating vanilla extract, even though he knew she might take that information straight back to the Smithsonian. He didn’t care. He just wanted to spend time with her and savor the way she made him feel.
He walked onto the production floor, stepping carefully so as not to awaken the pounding in his head. The scent of herbs surrounded him. Workers at the nearby tables labeled bottles of thyme and bay laurel while the drying ovens at the far end of the factory were being prepared for the next batch of cumin seeds.
