Ghost Image (13 page)

He arched one eyebrow. “Did you bring it?”

“A copy, not the original.”

I got it out of my camera bag and passed it to him. He picked up a pair of glasses and read while I drank my coffee and watched him. Though he kept his face neutral, I could see his eyes flicking back and forth over the page as though he was
either surprised or startled by what he read, and my own heart started beating faster.

When he had finished, he looked up. “May I ask where the original is?”

“I don't have it.”

He smiled like a patient teacher waiting for a student to figure out the right answer to the question. I smiled back.

“Look,” he said, “let me tell you something about Kevin. Here at Monticello we're trying to restore Thomas Jefferson's garden to what it was in his day, no mean feat because Jefferson grew three hundred and thirty types of vegetables. You might think a man who kept a detailed
Garden Book
for nearly forty years and wrote twenty thousand letters in his lifetime would have meticulously recorded the proper names for the plants he grew, but you'd be wrong. Jefferson had a habit of describing plants by their appearance or some identifying characteristic—like ‘the flowering pea of the plains of Arkansas'—that has made trying to figure out what he meant something of a botanic treasure hunt. We wouldn't be nearly so far along as we are if it weren't for Kevin, who was tireless in helping my predecessor and, for the last few months, helping me track down some of those lost plants.” He leaned forward, palms squarely on his desk, and looked me in the eye. “So if I can do something to repay a debt Monticello owes Kevin, I'd like to do it.”

“I see.”

He sat back and folded his arms across his chest. “So that's my story. What's yours? And, while I'm at it, how'd you get hold of the letter? Kevin was in touch a few weeks ago asking questions I now realize had to do with it. He didn't say a word about this”—he tapped the letter—“so I figure he had a reason for keeping it quiet. Now he's dead and you show up. Are you working on a newspaper or magazine story maybe?”

The folksiness in his drawl was gone. He thought I was trying to cash in on Kevin somehow.

I straightened up in my chair and looked him in the eye. “No. It's nothing like that.”

“Then what is it?”

I told him about finding Kevin the other day in the monastery garden, his fears of being stalked, and my belief that his death was somehow tied to the letter.

When I was finished, Ryan said in a stunned voice, “Good Lord, Kevin thought someone was after him? Who would do something like that?”

“I don't know. But the letter was inside a Solander box with a book.
Adam in Eden.”

“Are you implying the book also had something to do with his death?”

“I think it's possible. That's why I'm here. I was hoping you could tell me about Francis Pembroke. And about
Adam in Eden.
”

Ryan looked perplexed. “I know the book, of course. The author was William Coles. Jefferson didn't own a copy, but I'm sure he knew about it. He used Philip Miller's
Gardeners Dictionary
, which was published a century later, as his primary gardening reference. Miller's book was a classic, far more than Coles's was. Anyone who was a serious gardener in those days had a copy of Miller's dictionary. Jefferson owned three editions, including the last one in which Miller finally began using the new Linnaean system of binomial nomenclature.”

From high school biology I dredged up binomial nomenclature. “The Latin system for naming plants?”

“Actually for naming and classifying all living things. Unfortunately, Jefferson didn't use it or we'd know what we were looking for in his garden.”

“And who was Philip Miller?”

“Curator at the Chelsea Physic Garden in London during the 1700s. One of the most influential botanists of his time. He was succeeded by William Forsyth—for whom forsythia was named—and John Fairbairn succeeded him.”

“Why would the head of the Chelsea Physic Garden be writing to a doctor in Leesburg, Virginia? It was obviously an ongoing correspondence. Who was Francis Pembroke?”

Ryan stood and got the coffeepot, holding it up by way of asking if I wanted a refill.

I shook my head, so he filled his own mug. “Francis Pembroke was a wealthy physician who, as you already know, was a cousin of Meriwether Lewis. Before Lewis and Clark left on their western expedition, Thomas Jefferson, who got Congress to fund this journey, insisted Lewis have some medical training to equip him for whatever might come up in the wilderness. So Jefferson asked Francis Pembroke to train Lewis. In return, and as thanks, Jefferson gave Pembroke many of the new and unknown herbs Lewis and Clark brought or sent back, which would be of obvious interest to a colonial doctor who treated his patients with herbal remedies. Jefferson also asked Pembroke to see whether he could cultivate anything, or what use he could make of these new plants.”

“There was a pressed plant in Kevin's copy of
Adam in Eden
,” I said. “It was on the page that described hyssop, the plant John Fairbairn said Francis Pembroke misidentified.”

Ryan gave me a thoughtful look, rubbing his fingers across his lips as though he were considering something. He picked up the letter. “I'd like to make a copy of this.”

“Go right ahead.”

When he was done, he returned my copy and said, “You still haven't told me where the original is. Though, presumably, it's with the book.”

“I don't own the book or the letter, so an antiques dealer friend made arrangements for them to be stored in the vault of another dealer whose specialty is rare books. They're quite safe.”

“How did you get hold of them in the first place?”

“I had the key to a locker where Kevin kept them.”

“And—?”

“And I found the book and brought it to my friend.” We were still dancing around, but he'd pushed hard enough. I hadn't told him about the hand-colored prints or that the book belonged to Isaac Newton. But until the thorny matter of who now owned it was sorted out, the fewer people who knew, the better.

“Look,” I said, “Kevin didn't get to finish something he started. I want to help out if I can, do something in memory of a dear friend. That's all.”

He gave me a long assessing look. “Let's go see the garden. Afterward I want to show you something in the mansion.”

“I'd like that. But does the ‘something in the mansion' pertain to the letter? Because you haven't explained to me why it was significant to Kevin.”

He gave me an enigmatic smile. “No, I haven't.” He pointed to my camera bag. “Take that with you. We won't be coming back here.”

I obeyed and followed him outside. Though Charlottesville is a hundred miles south of Washington, give or take, the trees were as bare as they were at home and the grass was the washed-out yellow-green it always is at the end of winter. Thomas Jefferson's beloved mansion came into view, long and low with its octagonal dome and neoclassical lines reflecting his love of ancient Rome and the elegant symmetry of Palladian architecture.

“First we're going over to the west lawn,” Ryan said, “the side of the house you see on the back of a nickel, and then to the vegetable garden before we go inside the mansion. By the time we're through, you'll know as much as I do about why Kevin thought the letter was important.”

I had seen a few tourists at the gift shop on this damp, gray day as we walked over to the west lawn, but just now Monticello seemed deserted and we had the wide gravel path that Ryan called “the winding flower walk” to ourselves. Today there were only some early heirloom tulips, daffodils, and rosemary in bloom, and the brilliant yellow of the forsythia.

Halfway around the flower walk when the mansion was directly across the lawn from us, Ryan stopped and pointed down. “Look.”

A brass plaque, maybe twelve inches in diameter, was set into the ground.
CORPS OF DISCOVERY II—200 YEARS TO THE FUTURE
formed a ring around two hands extended in friendship, a peace pipe crossed over a tomahawk, and the words
PEACE AND FRIENDSHIP
.

“It's based on the original silver peace medal Jefferson had the mint make for Lewis and Clark to trade,” Ryan said as I knelt to photograph it. “The marker commemorates the two hundredth anniversary of the day he wrote Congress asking for funds for their trip.”

He waited until I got up, and then went on. “That trip was a really big deal in its day, the modern-day equivalent of traveling to the moon. No one knew what Lewis and Clark would find, but Jefferson was passionate about exploring the new territory he'd just acquired and establishing an American presence there. So Jefferson, who thought botany was the most useful of the sciences, told Lewis and Clark to collect as many plants as they could, learn about them from the Indians, and send or bring as much as possible back to Washington.”

“Including the pressed plant in
Adam in Eden
,” I said.

“You're getting ahead of the story. You've got to let me tell this my way. Come on. Now I'm going to show you the garden.”

We walked down the sloping lawn to the lower garden, which was cut like a terrace into the side of the hill. Directly in front of us was Jefferson's spectacular thousand-foot-long garden, stripes of pale green grass dividing large patches of tilled earth, many of which sprouted new plants pushing out of the clay soil or the straw-colored remnants of something that would be renewed in spring. Perched as if it were sitting on the edge of a cliff, where the terrace dropped away to a lower level, was a small brick pavilion with arched windows and a view of the Piedmont countryside stretching to the horizon, as wide and blue as an ocean.

“What you're looking at was a lot more than a place to grow vegetables for Thomas Jefferson's dinner table. It was a laboratory where he experimented with new crops, including vegetables Lewis and Clark brought back with them. See those markers?” Ryan pointed to a row where a small sign with the initials
TJ
also indicated it was planted with French artichokes. “Those are Jefferson's seeds. Anything with an
LC
marker, many different kinds of corn, beans, squash—vegetables the Indians cultivated—came from Lewis and Clark.”

I looked at where he was pointing, row after row of neatly labeled plants.

“What made the Lewis and Clark seeds so important and exciting to Jefferson was that these were plants and vegetables the rest of the world had never seen. For the Founding Fathers, the potential economic and commercial opportunities of so many new native American species, especially trading with Europe, was huge.” We had started walking along the perimeter of the garden, and Ryan went on. “Don't forget, all those men were farmers who believed the economic future of their new country would be as an agricultural nation. One of the things they did to encourage that—and Jefferson probably more than the others—was swap seeds among themselves, enclosing seed packets of new plants they'd come across in their letters to each other. Later they'd compare notes about what grew and what didn't on their various plantations.”

He knelt next to a small garden bed that butted up against the hill where half a dozen planks lay in a row on top of the soil. He lifted the first one and grunted in satisfaction.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Checking the peas.” He lifted the other planks. “It didn't freeze last night, but it came awfully close.” He said with a grin, “Don't worry, the peas aren't expected to grow through the wood. We take it off when the weather warms up. Come on, let's go up to the house.”

He stood and brushed the dirt off his hands. “The letter you brought me is important,” he said as we retraced our steps, “not only because of the misidentified plant—and I'll get to that after I show you something in the mansion—but also because it talks about Washington and Jefferson actually doing something to establish a national botanic garden.”

“What do you mean?”

“A few years before George Washington died in 1799, he wrote to the commissioners for the brand-new capital of Washington and suggested that a botanical garden be incorporated into the design plans for the city. He even proposed a few locations for it, along with the idea the garden could also be part of a national university. The next time anything happened was 1820, when Congress approved funding for the project, and James Monroe, who was the president, agreed the garden could be established on a tract of land near the Capitol.”

“Where the Botanic Garden is located today.”

“Nope, not exactly. They moved it later to where it is today, and let me tell you, there was blood on the carpet when that happened because of all the trees that had to be destroyed.”

By now we had reached Jefferson's mansion. Ryan climbed the steps to the columned portico two at a time as though there were some urgency in what we were doing, and I followed.

“Francis Pembroke's letter, which was written in 1807, talks about Washington and Jefferson having already selected plants, or seeds, for a national botanic garden,” I said as he held the door for me.

“That's right, and that's what I'm going to show you.”

We stepped inside Jefferson's spacious light-filled two-story entrance hall, part museum, part art gallery with classic busts and sculptures from Europe alongside a wall with a display of Native American artifacts from Lewis and Clark's expedition. For the first time, we weren't alone, and Ryan touched a finger to his lips and motioned for me to follow him down a corridor
to a steep, narrow staircase that wound to the second floor like a tight coil. To my left was a doorway that led to the balcony overlooking the entrance hall. We turned right and entered a small octagonal room.