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.
“If you won’t show me your orchid, may I show you somenewly 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 meticulouslypressed, 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.
