The Signature of All Things

by his face ashe was by hers. If Alma did not look like Beatrix Whittaker, then this man most certainly did . It was a most marked similarity—her mother’s face all over again, but elderly, male, bearded, and, at the moment, suspicious. (Well, to be honest, the suspicion only heightened his resemblance to Beatrix.)
    “Whatever became of my sister?” he asked. “We heard of the rise of your father—everyone in European botany did—but we never heard from Beatrix again.”
    Nor did she hear from you, Alma thought, but she did not say it. She did not really blame anyone in Amsterdam for never having attempted to communicate with Beatrix since—when was it?—1792. She knew how the van Devenders were: stubborn. It would never have worked. Her mother would never have yielded.
    “My mother lived a prosperous life,” Alma replied. “She was content. She made a most remarkable classical garden, much admired throughout Philadelphia. She worked alongside my father in the botanicals trade, straight up to her death.”
    “Which was when?” he asked, in a tone that would have befitted an officer of the police.
    “In August of 1820,” she replied.
    Hearing the date caused a grimace to cross her uncle’s face. “So long ago,” he said. “Too young.”
    “She had a sudden death,” Alma lied. “She did not suffer.”
    He looked at her for a while longer, then took a leisurely sip of coffee and helped himself to a bite of wentelteefje from the small plate before him. Clearly, she had interrupted an evening snack. She would have given almost anything for a taste of that wentelteefje. It looked and smelled wonderful. When was the last time she’d had cinnamon toast? Probably the last time Hanneke had made it for her. The aroma made her weak with nostalgia. But Uncle Dees did not offer her any coffee, and he certainly did not offer her a share of his beautiful, golden, buttery wentelteefjes.
    “Would you like me to tell you anything about your sister?” Alma asked at length. “I believe your memories of her would be a child’s memories. I could tell you stories, if you like.”
    He did not respond. She tried to imagine him as Hanneke had always depicted him—as a sweet-natured ten-year-old boy, weeping at his older sister’s elopement to America. Hanneke had told Alma many times of howDees had clung to Beatrix’s skirts, until he’d had to be pried off. She’d also described how Beatrix had scolded her little brother to never again let the world see his tears. Alma found it difficult to picture. He looked dreadfully old now, and dreadfully grave.
    She said, “I grew up with Dutch tulips all around me—descendants of the bulbs that my mother took with her to Philadelphia from right here at the Hortus.”
    Still, he did not speak. Roger sighed, shifted, and curled up even closer to Dees’s legs.
    After a spell, Alma changed tack. “I should also let you know that Hanneke de Groot still lives. I believe you may have known her long ago.”
    Now a new expression crossed the old man’s face: wonderment.
    “Hanneke de Groot,” he marveled. “I have not thought of her in years. Hanneke de Groot? Imagine it . . .”
    “Hanneke is strong and healthy, you’ll be happy to hear,” Alma said. There was a bit of wishful thinking in this statement, as Alma had not seen Hanneke in nearly three years. “She remains the head housekeeper of my late father’s estate.”
    “Hanneke was my sister’s maid,” Dees said. “She was so young when she came to us. She was a sort of nursemaid to me, for a while.”
    “Yes,” said Alma, “she was a sort of nursemaid to me, too.”
    “Then we were both fortunate,” he said.
    “I agree. I consider it one of the finest blessings of my life, to have passed my youth in Hanneke’s care. She formed me, nearly as much as my own parents formed me.”
    The staring recommenced. This time, Alma allowed the silence to stand. She watched as her uncle took a forkful of wentelteefje and dipped it in his coffee. He enjoyed his bite unhurriedly, without making so much as a drip or a crumb. She needed to learn where she could procure such fine wentelteefjes as this .
    At last, Dees wiped his mouth on a plain napkin and said, “Your Dutch is not awful.”
    “Thank you,” she said. “I spoke much of it, as a child.”
    “How are your teeth?”
    “Quite well, thank you,” said Alma. She had nothing to hide from this man.
    He nodded. “The van Devenders all have good