The spice king, p.9
The Spice King, page 9
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 the day.” 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.
“Jacob, can we get this floor swept?” he asked one of his employees.
Jacob set down a rack of thyme bottles. “It’s just herb grit, nothing dirty.”
“It looks messy. We’ve got a visitor coming, so please sweep it up.”
Jacob nodded and went for a broom. Normally they didn’t sweep until the end of the day, but Annabelle should see the factory at its best.
Their facility was spotlessly clean, with dozens of tables covered by a sheet-metal alloy to ensure near-sterile conditions. The painted concrete floor was swept and mopped with a disinfecting solution daily. Huge windows let in plenty of light, which was good, because the factory floor was an entire acre, and it would be gloomy without natural light.
Jacob had just finished sweeping when a carriage arrived outside. Gray grinned and jogged toward the door. The pain that roared to life in his head forced him to slow down, but he still smiled like an idiot as he helped Annabelle alight from the carriage.
“You look spectacular,” he said. The loose bun in her hair allowed tendrils to dangle and float around her face, but it was her smile—that smile—that captured him. It lit up her entire face, and he could have stood there and admired it all day.
“I can’t wait to see your factory,” she said. “This is where all the famous Delacroix spices get bottled?”
“Right here,” he said, holding an arm out to lead her into the factory.
He loved the way she gaped at the stainless-steel spice mills, for they were twelve feet tall with automated grinders for pulverizing material fed in through the hopper. He stopped at each mill, letting the operator explain the unique features of the various machines they used. Some were customized for lumpy plants, while others were designed for seed. The hammer mills used rotating weights to pulverize dry spices like cinnamon, coriander, cloves, and allspice. Calibrated machines produced the exact particle size for each spice in a reliable, consistent fashion, while high-oil spices like mace and nutmeg needed to be processed by a roller mill.
Annabelle asked all the right questions, but the noise from the hammer mill was ratcheting Gray’s headache up to unbearable levels. A trickle of sweat rolled down his back, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the drying ovens or if his fever was on the rise. He should have doubled his dose of iodine that morning.
“Let me show you the vanilla,” he said over the din. “It’s done in a separate building out back.” Anything to get away from the heat and noise.
“You have a whole building just for vanilla?” she asked.
He nodded. “Vanilla is very delicate. It can’t be exposed to heat once the processing begins. We just added the pods this morning, so you can catch a glimpse of this early stage.”
He breathed a sigh of relief as they left the main factory and headed to the brick building behind it. This facility was the last project he and his father had completed together. It was their finest accomplishment, both a scientific and a commercial marvel. It looked like a plain brick building on the outside, but as they stepped inside, the pair of five-hundred-gallon gleaming steel vats dominated the view. There was no one inside, for once the process had begun, vanilla distillation required little attention.
He glanced at Annabelle to gauge her reaction, but her eyes were closed and she looked in ecstasy. Her hand was over her heart as she breathed deeply.
“I think I can die happy now,” she said. He was used to the aroma but loved watching Annabelle experience it for the first time. The smooth, luscious scent was flowery, sweet, and a little milky. It was possibly the most universally beloved scent in the world.
“We developed a cold extraction process,” he explained. “Most vanilla extract is made by heating the pods, which means it only takes four or five days. Vanilla has a complex bouquet of flavors, and heat will kill off most of them, leaving a one-dimensional taste. My cold process takes almost a month, but you can smell and taste the difference.”
A small crate of vanilla beans sat on the worktable. They arrived from Madagascar in a dried state, looking brown, shriveled, and a little oily. He used a blade to slice a bean down the center, then grabbed a butter knife to scrape out the seeds.
“Give me your hand,” he said, then spread the grainy paste on her fingertip.
She looked delighted as she touched, smelled, and scrutinized the oily seeds. “Can I taste it?”
“Please,” he said with pride. “The grains are only a piece of the flavor. I’ll show you how we prepare the mash.”
He chopped the skin of the vanilla pod into one-inch sections, then added it to the paste. “We prepare several pounds of vanilla pods just like this. Scrape out the seeds, chop the skins, then add it to a screen. We use a cold infusion of water and alcohol to continually bathe the mash. That’s what’s going on in those tanks behind you. A pump is circulating the liquid through the mash, and over time it absorbs the flavor.”
“It sounds like a coffee percolator.”
He smiled. “It’s exactly like a coffee percolator, but with cold water instead of hot. It would be faster if we heated the water, but it would destroy what makes our extract so fine.”
“I’ll bet you charge a lot for it.”
“It’s the best. Of course I charge a lot for it.”
“Do you have this process written down anywhere?”
His headache started to pound. “No. And if I did, I wouldn’t give it to you.”
“You don’t have to sound so gruff,” she said. “I was merely curious.”
Other people took shortcuts. Heating vanilla pods was one way to reduce costs, and of course, the Magruders avoided the hassle of dealing with vanilla pods altogether by using chemicals instead. Thinking about the Magruders made his head hurt even worse, and he pushed the thoughts away.
“Can I see the rest of your facility?” Annabelle asked.
It was a strange question. The vanilla distillery was the only unique operation he had. He’d wanted to show it to her as a sign of trust, but she didn’t seem all that interested. Instead she was looking out the windows at the main factory and the storage sheds.
“You already saw the spice bottling. There’s not much else to see.”
“But there were some rooms near the front of the factory. And the sheds. What’s in there?”
“Follow me.” He ushered her outside and toward the first shed, hauling the sliding door open. “Wagons,” he said shortly. He dragged the door shut and went to the next, opening both double doors so she could look to her heart’s content, because the cold-press extraction of vanilla obviously didn’t excite her. “Hardware, cleaning supplies, and a roller mill in need of repair. Come on, let’s go see the rest of the main factory.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
He didn’t break stride. “Come along. You wanted to see everything, so I’m showing you.”
He blotted his forehead with a handkerchief. It was a warm day, but this sweating had nothing to do with the weather. All the symptoms were roaring to life—the muscle aches, the violent headache, and now a ringing in his ears that made it hard to hear.
He moved quickly, striding ahead of Annabelle so he could get to his office first. She scurried behind him but couldn’t keep up. The second he was in his office, he reached for the bottle of iodine and stole a quick swig, wincing at the metallic taste that scorched its way down his throat. It was so revolting it threatened to come back up, but Gray forced it down, holding his breath until the nausea passed.
The bottle was still clutched in his hand when Annabelle entered the office. He slipped the bottle into a drawer and slid it shut, wincing at the noise. She said something, but he couldn’t understand.
He had to get ahold of himself. It wasn’t her fault he was sick or that she wasn’t impressed with a cold-extraction process for vanilla. He forced himself to be calm and turned to face her.
“I didn’t hear what you said. Can you repeat it?”
“Is it the malaria?” she asked. He could barely hear her through the ringing in his ears.
He nodded. “I’m sorry. It’s coming on fast.”
He lowered himself into his desk chair, wondering how this day had collapsed so quickly but fairly certain it was all his fault. He gestured to the chair before his desk. “Have a seat. Please.”
She looked hesitant, which was odd for the fearless Annabelle.
He managed a smile and spoke softly. “I promise not to bite your head off.”
She sat, but her face was still closed and cautious.
“I first contracted malaria in Ceylon. I’ve always known that I would have to live with it for the rest of my life, but I can’t predict when the relapses will happen. I’ve been trying to find a cure, or at least something to make these episodes more bearable.”
He opened the drawer and took out the iodine, setting it on the desk before her. Then the bottle of quinine. Then the bottles of cinchonidine, feverfew, and valerian root. He’d tried them all but found only limited relief.
“I’ve been looking for a cure for years, but ever since I met you, it’s gotten more important. I know I get bad-tempered. I’m sorry for how short I was with you in our first letters, and I’m sorry for today. The pain is real, and it’s bad, and it’s bound to come back again and again, so I apologize in advance.” He was losing his energy, but he raised his eyes to her and spoke straight from the heart. “Annabelle, I’m so sorry.”
Her eyes were sad as she picked up the bottle of iodine. “You actually drink this?” she asked in a horrified voice.
“I wouldn’t recommend it,” he said dryly. “It tastes awful, it gives me cramps, and the ringing in my ears is so loud I can barely hear what you’re saying. But, Annabelle . . . I need to get better. I know a ship captain who drinks iodine, and he swears it helps.”
“Have you ever heard a doctor say that?”
A gulp of laughter escaped, making his head hurt. “No,” he admitted. “My doctor warned me against it.”
“But you drink it anyway.”
He sighed. Annabelle was vibrant and healthy; she probably had no idea what pain could drive a man to do. His head hurt so badly he could barely see straight, and the ringing in his ears would make it impossible to sleep tonight. “I don’t think it’s going to help, but I had to try. Annabelle . . . I don’t want to risk losing you over this.”
For some reason that seemed to upset her. “Don’t kill yourself for me. I’m not worth it.”
“I disagree.” Their friendship had flared quickly, but maybe he needed to let her see this angry, difficult side of himself, because he wanted to be completely open and honest with her. Such a thing didn’t come naturally to him, but he could learn. He wanted her too badly to fail.
“Maybe you should go home and rest,” she said gently. “The factory will keep running even if you aren’t here. You should be in bed.”
“I couldn’t get out of bed for two weeks the first time I got clobbered with malaria, but I’ve worked through every relapse since.”
“Why?”
His answer was matter-of-fact. “Because that’s what a man does. I have a business to run. I’ve got forty employees and a family to support.”
Her eyes looked pained with sympathy as she shook her head. “You have a ridiculously successful company. The wheels will keep turning even if you aren’t here for a few days. And if you go home and rest, maybe you won’t feel so compelled to imbibe dangerous home remedies overheard from ship captains. Stay in bed for a few days. Relax. Read a good book.”
He snorted. “The only books I read are trade manuals and science reports.”
“No novels?”
“I don’t have time for fairy tales or make-believe.”
“Oh, Gray.” He loved the way she said his name, a combination of exasperation and fondness. “I think it’s time for you to get lost in the world of Charles Dickens. Or perhaps Jane Austen. I could bring you a copy.”
“I don’t read girly literature.” He threw it out as a deliberate provocation, just to see how she would respond. She took the bait and came alive.
“Jane Austen is a master of social satire,” she said. “Her novels are a salvo against the pompous egos of her age.”
“And you think I could benefit from her instruction?”
A fascinating array of emotions crossed her face. She opened and closed her mouth several times before looking at him again. A gorgeous flush bloomed across her cheeks.
“I hate to admit it,” she said, “but I think Jane Austen might cast you as a hero in one of her novels, much like a Mr. Darcy or a Colonel Brandon. Jane Austen loved her serious, sober men.”
He fought to keep his face immobile. “She sounds like a font of wisdom and should be required reading for all our youth. Perhaps starting with my brother and sister.”
Her laughter was like a pure, clear waterfall. Before long she was summarizing a novel featuring the long-suffering Colonel Brandon, who sounded like a bit of a bore to Gray, but he didn’t care. He loved listening to her. He leaned back in his chair to watch her through half-closed eyes and wallowed in her soothing voice. She was better than any medicinal tonic. What was it about her that kept him so captivated? A few minutes ago he was racked with pain and surly to the world. Now he was completely pacified, total putty in her hands while she rambled about Jane Austen. The pain was still there, but he didn’t mind it so much anymore.
He only minded that he hadn’t been much use to her. She teetered on the edge of collapse if she couldn’t secure her position at the Smithsonian, and he desperately wanted to help her.
“How is the quest for a permanent position at the Smithsonian?” he asked gently and was sorry to see her sag a little.
“Not so good. I’m still on the hunt for something to make myself indispensable.”
He curled his hands around the arm of his chair, debating his options. He didn’t want her to go back to Kansas. He wanted to step up his courtship of her. If all went well, he could easily provide for her and Elaine both, but it wasn’t his nature to be impulsive.
He could still help her, though.
“Come to my townhouse in Alexandria,” he said. “You asked about seeing my library. My father amassed an impressive collection of botanical observations gathered over forty years. You can have free rein, although I’ll warn you, it is a mess. Dad crammed all his papers into boxes and binders. He was also a packrat, so there’s a lot to go through.”
Her eyes widened in surprise and something else. Trepidation? He smiled. His study wasn’t that terrifying.
“You’ll really let me explore your study?” she asked, and he had the strangest feeling she hoped he would say no.
“Of course. The study will be entirely yours. I won’t need it, as I plan on taking your advice. Actually, taking my doctor’s advice. Every doctor I’ve ever consulted has recommended the same thing.”
“And what is that?”
“Bedrest. And a little quinine if I can tolerate it.” He got his feet beneath him and managed to stand. “I’ll ask the foreman to summon a carriage. You can come with me to the townhouse today if you like, or come any time this week. I’ve had enough of these attacks to know I’ll be laid low for around five days. You can have complete run of the rest of my house.”
She walked around his desk and slipped an arm around his middle. He was capable of walking without help, but he loved that she offered it.
“I’ll come home with you,” she said. “I’d like to get started today.”
He had the oddest feeling she was about to cry.
Twelve
In the end, Annabelle couldn’t do it. By the time the carriage arrived at Gray’s townhouse, there was only an hour before she needed to escort Elaine home, and she seized on the excuse to delay the inevitable task of spying.
It meant that she arrived at the Library of Congress with plenty of time to spare, so she headed upstairs to the blind reading room, where two actors were performing a reading from a Shakespeare play. She spotted Elaine, who looked entranced while listening to the actors perform the classic banter of Benedick and Beatrice from Much Ado About Nothing.
Close to a hundred people, both blind and sighted, had gathered to listen to the performance. From the back of the room, Annabelle had a good view of Elaine. It had been years since she’d seen her sister look this happy. As the actors came to the end of the reading, the crowd showered them with applause, and Annabelle wended her way toward Elaine, who was taken aback by the sound of her voice.
“Annabelle! I didn’t expect you up here.”
“My work finished early.”
Elaine was strangely flustered as she adjusted the cuffs at her wrists. “Oh. Well! I’d like to introduce you to some people. This is Harry Talbot, the soldier I’ve told you so much about. And this . . .” She fumbled, and an older man grasped her hand. “This is Walter, his father. And Margaret and Sally, his sisters. The Talbots always come for the Tuesday readings. The actors are from the National Theatre company, so it’s a real treat.”
