The Signature of All Things

Even in his foul temper, even in his semideafness, even in his sleep , he had somehow garnered exactly who was sitting at his table: an orchid expert who had justspent nearly two decades of study in and around Mexico. And vanilla, Alma now remembered, was a member of the orchid family. Their visitor was being put to the test.
    “ Vanilla planifolia ,” Mr. Pike said.
    “Exactly,” Henry confirmed, and set down his wineglass on the table. “That is what we planted in Tahiti. Go on.”
    “I saw it all over Mexico, sir. Mostly around Oaxaca. Your man in Polynesia, your Frenchman, he was correct—it is a vigorous climber, and it would happily take to the climate of the South Pacific, I suspect.”
    “Then why are the blasted plants not fruiting?” Henry demanded.
    “I could not say for certain,” Mr. Pike said, “having never laid eyes on the plants in question.”
    “Then you are nothing but a useless little orchid-sketcher, aren’t you?” Henry snapped.
    “Father—”
    “However, sir,” Mr. Pike went on, unconcerned with the insult, “I could posit a theory. When your Frenchman was originally procuring his vanilla plants in Mexico, he may have accidentally purchased a varietal of Vanilla planifolia that the natives call oreja de burro— donkey’s ear—which never bears fruit at all.”
    “He was an idiot then,” Henry said.
    “Not necessarily, Mr. Whittaker. It would take a mother’s eye to see the distinction between the fruiting and nonfruiting versions of the planifolia . It is a common mistake. The natives themselves often confuse the two varieties. Few men of botany can even tell the difference.”
    “Can you tell the difference?” Henry demanded.
    Mr. Pike hesitated. It was evident he did not wish to disparage a man he had never met.
    “I asked you a question, boy. Can you tell the difference between the two varieties of planifolia ? Or can you not?”
    “Generally, sir? Yes. I can tell the difference.”
    “Then the Frenchman was an idiot,” Henry concluded. “And I was a bigger idiot to have invested in him, for now I have wasted thirty-five acres of fine lowland in Tahiti, growing an infertile variety of vanilla vines for the past fifteen years. Alma, write a letter to Dick Yancey tonight, and tell him to yank up the entire lot of vines and feed it to the pigs. Tell him to replaceit with yams. Tell Yancey, too, that if he ever finds that little shit of a Frenchman, he can feed him to the pigs!”
    Henry stood up and limped out of the room, too angry to finish his meal. George and Mr. Pike stared in silent wonder at the retreating figure—so quaint in his wig and old velvet breeches, yet so fierce.
    As for Alma, she felt a strong surge of victory. The Frenchman had lost, and Henry Whittaker had lost, and the vanilla plantation in Tahiti was most certainly lost. But Ambrose Pike, she believed, had won something tonight, during his first appearance at the White Acre dinner table.
    It was a small victory, perhaps, but it might count toward something in the end.
----
    T hat night, Alma awoke to a strange noise.
    She had been lost in dreamless sleep and then, as suddenly as though she’d been slapped, she was awake. She peered into the darkness. Was there somebody in her room? Was it Hanneke?No. Nobody was there. She rested back into her pillow. The night was cool and serene. What had broken her slumber? Voices? She was reminded for the first time in years of the night that Prudence had been brought to White Acre as a child, surrounded by men and covered with blood. Poor Prudence. Alma really should go visit her. She must make more of an effort with her sister. But there was simply no time. There was silence all around her. Alma began to settle back into sleep.
    She heard the sound again. Once more, Alma’s eyes snapped open. What was it? Indeed, it seemed to be voices. But who would be awake at this hour?
    She rose and wrapped her shawl around her, and expertly lit her lamp. She walked to the top of the stairs and looked over the banister. A light was on in the drawing room; she could see it glowing from under the door. She could hear her father’s laughter. Who was he with? Was he talking to himself? Why had nobody woken her, if Henry needed something?
    She came down the stairs and found her father sitting next to Ambrose Pike on the divan. They were looking over some drawings. Her father was wearing a long white nightdress and an old-fashioned sleeping cap, and he was flushed