Chapters (51)
- Cover
- Books by Elizabeth Camden
- Title Page
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Historical Note
- Questions for Discussion
- In 2020, look forCaroline Delacroix’sstory in
- About the Author
- Back Ads
- Back Cover
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 starkly different 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.