Ten minutes later she was walking the six blocks to her new position at the Department of Agriculture. Her spirits lifted as she admired the extraordinary experimental gardens outside the building, for they were probably the finest and most exotic in the entire country. There was talk of someday clearing all these gardens to build a large green lawn, a mall that would let people admire unobstructed views all the way from the White House to the Washington Monument. For now, the land showcased the bounty of America with manicured gardens, experimental crops, and an arboretum.
The Department of Agriculture was housed in an imposing building with two wings and a grand marble staircase leading up to the main entrance. She was met on the front terrace by the gangly, middle-aged botanist who would be her coworker in the cereal lab.
“I’m Horace Greenfield, chief botanist for cereal grasses,” he said. “Get it? Greenfield? I was born with that name, and my mother always said it was destiny I would go into agriculture. We’ll be sharing a laboratory, but first, a tour!” He held the door open for her.
While the outside of the Department of Agriculture projected stately grandeur, the interior took her breath away. The vestibule was decorated by a hand-painted fresco of twining, leafy-green vines that stretched up and over the coffered ceiling. Vibrant panels of American landscapes during all four seasonscovered the walls. The hallways were embellished with friezes of carved birch, black walnut, and mountain ash, a celebration of the American woodlands, and Annabelle felt ridiculously proud to know she now belonged here.
The main floor was for display, but the second floor was primarily laboratories for chemists and horticulturalists. Other floors contained the agricultural library, a museum, and an office for the statisticians. The biggest surprise was in the basement, where sixty employees worked at long tables, preparing free packets of seeds for distribution to the farms and kitchen gardens of America.
“We send more than a million packets of seeds all over the United States,” Horace said with pride. “Bulbs, vines, legumes, you name it. If we can wrap it inSphagnummoss or put it in an envelope, we will ship it.”
After touring the basement, Horace led her into a stairwell to climb to the top floor, where their laboratory was located. “Now,” he said amiably, “tell me how you got this position. We only learned this morning that we were to make space for you.”
She opened her mouth, but how could she say this was a payoff for betraying a friend? All she could do was scramble for the few scraps of truth that could be shared. “I’ve been preserving botanical samples at the Smithsonian, but Dr. Norwood thought I’d be better off here.”
Horace looked confused, but only for a moment before he launched into another stream of gossip. “Fair enough! My mother always said there is a place for everyone in this world. She never met Dr. Norwood, though! I heard he spent almost a thousand dollars importing a single rare blue orchid from Bombay. Can you believe it?”
He led her inside the laboratory where she’d be working. “Good! Our supervisor isn’t here.” He leaned over to whisper. “Mr. Bryant is a real stick-in-the-mud. Look at the stain on this table.” He gestured to a splotch in the center of the glossy blacklab table where the surface had dulled. “Two years ago, I spilled a little bleach on the slate. I wiped it up immediately, but not before it left that stain. It’s harmless, but Mr. Bryant points it out at every opportunity.” He brightened. “Not to worry! Tell me, I’ve heard that funding for a new wing at the Smithsonian is being held up because a congressman suspects one of the Smithsonian explorers is tampering with his wife. Is it true?”
Annabelle blanched at the unsavory gossip. “I have no idea.”
“But has there been a delay in the funding? Because if so, I’ll bet it’s true.”
She was saved from answering by the arrival of a white-coated man who frowned beneath his walrus mustache. He had a bald head, a sober expression, and a cynical voice as he tersely introduced himself as Milton Bryant, supervisor of the cereal grain laboratory.
He shot a surly glare at Horace. “Miss Larkin isn’t here to fuel the gossip mills. She is to test leavening agents on newly imported strains of wheat.” He turned his eyes to her. “Has Greenfield trained you on that yet?”
She shook her head.
“Then get on it, Mr. Greenfield. And try not to spill anything else on that stain.” Mr. Bryant picked up a file and left the lab.
“Didn’t I warn you he was a glorious shaft of sunlight?” Horace asked.
It was probably best not to reply. “What sort of wheat are we testing?”
Horace finally got around to showing her the various tests they were conducting, mostly on durum wheat. Soon she was seated at the lab table, a beaker of grains before her. They were studying its hardiness, suitability for milling, ability to withstand drought, and cold tolerance. This wasexactlywhat she’d been hoping for. It was what her father needed to know if he was going to turn his failing crops around. It was as if God Himself had guided her to this lab.
An uneasy weight settled in the pit of her stomach. She wasn’t proud of how she had earned her place here. It was a wonderful lab, filled with brand-new equipment and a lovely window overlooking the experimental gardens.
But all she could see was the splotch of old stain on the slate table before her. The stain of what she’d done to Luke Delacroix would be with her forever too.
She bowed her head. Had she done the right thing? It seemed that blessings were raining down on her. The increase in her salary meant she could send money home to her parents. She would learn the latest research for developing cereal grains suitable to the American landscape. Most importantly, Elaine could stay in Washington forever.
Annabelle ought to be happy, but the moment Horace stepped outside the lab to fetch another microscope, she clasped her hands and said a prayer for Luke.
Sometimes prayers weren’t answered, and it was doubtful her prayers could save Luke. Perhaps the best she could hope for was that Gray would never discover her role in his brother’s downfall.
Nineteen
As soon as Gray arrived in Cuba, he wasted no time seeking out the commander of the American military base, where he learned that Luke was being held at a Cuban prison near the northwest tip of the island.
“He’s a civilian,” the general said. “It doesn’t look good to detain a civilian in a military prison, so we turned him over to the Cubans to hold until the trial.”
Which was bad news. A Cuban prison would probably be worse than an American one, and Gray’s fears were confirmed when he met with a planter he’d done business with in the past. They sat on the verandah of Marco Salazar’s plantation, ceiling fans slowly rotating overhead, while Gray accepted a thin cheroot. He’d never been much for smoking, but he knew how to mingle among different cultures, and these rituals were important. There were going to be bills to pay, favors to call in, and dicey negotiations until he could get Luke out of prison.
“Plenty of Cubans resent the American occupation,” Marco said. “After the Spanish were defeated, we thought we’d finally won our independence, but when the Spanish flag was lowered, the American flag was run up the staff. It’s creating a problem, my friend.”
How well Gray knew it, but Marco had not stopped talking.
