Beyond All Dreams (11 page)

Despite their temporary truce at the McPherson Square trolley stop, five days later the inspiring man who urged her to write an improbable biography was gone, replaced by the annoying congressman barking demands at her.

“O'Brien!” he yelled upon entering the map room. “I need the data on the mollusk harvest.”

“I'm sitting ten feet away; you don't need to shout,” she said from behind a mound of books. She no longer took offense at his abrupt demeanor. That would be like resenting a locomotive for barreling ahead at full steam. This dynamic, oversized personality was simply the way he was designed. “Here is your report.”

He skimmed the document before tossing it back at her. “This is only last year's harvest. I need at least ten years' worth of data.”

“Then why didn't you say so in the first place?” she asked in exasperation.

“Because I didn't realize I needed it until just now. These
numbers look low. I want to know if this is a trend or just a bad year. Please have it by tomorrow.”

It rankled her the way he was so dismissive. “That's it? I bring you pearls from the East, and all you can do is toss the file on the table like it's rubbish?”

“You brought me the mollusk report, not pearls
.
” A hint of laughter lurked in his eyes, and she suspected he was deliberately goading her. “Have you started on that biography of mapmakers yet?”

“I haven't had time. I've got ten years of mollusk data to scrounge up.”

He winked at her. “Excuses, O'Brien.”

“Don't
wink
at me,” she whispered, but he was already striding out the door, whistling in that annoyingly charming manner.

The more Anna worked on Mr. Callahan's requests, the odder they seemed. It was understandable that he'd want information on oysters and mollusks. Even his request for twenty years of budget expenditures seemed legitimate. But why did he need information about cranberries, or corn? He wanted to know about the engineering of hydraulic sawmills and why the government was giving it preferential treatment.

The technical design of hydraulic sawmills was beyond her ability to analyze, so she brought the problem to Neville at the Patent Office.

As usual, Neville's work area looked like the laboratory of a madman. She ducked to avoid the model of a hot air balloon dangling from the office ceiling. Blueprints and charts covered the walls and the surface of his desk, stacked high with patent applications and models of mechanical contraptions. Anna drew up a chair so they could look at the designs of the hydraulic sawmills together.

“It's a brilliant design,” Neville said, “but traction engines
may start giving them competition. I can pull a few examples from the patent archives if it will help.”

Anna stared at the papers spread out on the table before them. “I just wish I understood why Mr. Callahan needs this information. Most of it doesn't relate to his appointment on the Fisheries committee. Sawmills? Cheese? For heaven's sake, he wants to know everything about the cranberry industry for the past thirty years. And apparently he has quite the thing for Elizabeth Barrett Browning and romantic poetry.”

“Did you know you start flushing whenever you speak of him?” Neville asked.

She grabbed the sheaf of papers to fan herself, wishing she had a bucket of ice water to plunge her head into. How could she explain this tangle of complicated feelings? Luke Callahan was the embodiment of the type of person she always avoided. Showy, brash, overconfident, someone who lorded over underlings like her and Neville while he paraded around the Capitol like a peacock. She decided to ignore Neville's question.

“There's no rhyme or reason to his research requests. I can't understand what he's really looking for.”

Neville flipped through the ten pages of Mr. Callahan's research requests, his face tight with concentration. He was silent as he scanned them, scrutinizing Anna's carefully printed notes in the margins. As he neared the end, a small smile tugged at his mouth, finally breaking into a grin when he finished the last page.

“I see it,” he said, triumph resonant in his voice.

“See what?”

“I see the pattern in his thinking. Come on, Anna! Don't you see what all this is driving at? Think! Who does Luke Callahan dislike more than anyone else in Congress?”

“The Speaker of the House.”

“Correct. And where does Speaker Jones come from?”

Anna glanced at the research notes. Cheese, cranberries, timber, sawmills . . .

“Wisconsin?”

“Exactly!” Neville said. “I'm not sure what Callahan plans to do with this information, but you can bet it has something to do with undermining the Speaker of the House. Why else would he be so curious about how much funding has been directed to the industries important to Wisconsin?”

Anna closed her eyes to think as the pieces began falling into place. “I think it's a lot bigger than that,” she said. “Next month the Speaker is going to try to raise the tariff. It's a hugely controversial vote, and Mr. Callahan is probably trying to tarnish the Speaker's name so that it won't pass.”

It was worrisome. At a time when the library operated with a skeleton crew as the move to the new building was under way, to be used as a foot soldier in a congressman's private feud against the Speaker of the House could be a problem.

“I think I should tell Mr. Spofford,” she said. “I don't know if it's right to let ourselves be drawn into this sort of vendetta.”

“Careful,” Neville warned. “Callahan is an influential congressman. He's been knocked down a peg, but don't underestimate him. He's got a lot of sway on Capitol Hill, and it doesn't pay to make enemies without good cause.”

How could a man who loved romantic poetry be anyone's enemy? Against her better judgment, she was coming to like Luke Callahan. Maybe a little too much. And a woman in her situation couldn't afford to let such rumors take root.

“O'Brien, this is perfect!”

The voice shattered the silence in the map room and nearly
gave Anna a heart attack. She whirled around to glare at Mr. Callahan, who was holding aloft her latest batch of research.

“This is a library,” she said, trying to calm her heart to a normal rate. “We generally try to avoid howling like banshees.”

She braced herself, knowing that Luke Callahan's visits rarely happened without a slew of new demands on her time, but perhaps today would be different. He seemed pleased as he held her latest report. Perhaps he was there to thank her for the research and leave her in blessed peace.

“This is exactly what I hoped you'd find,” he said. He propped his hip against her desk, invading her sense of privacy. “I need you to present this data before a special committee I've convened.”

Every scrap of pleasure she had from his praise evaporated. “No.”

“No?” He raised a brow and sent her a pointed look, as though if he waited long enough she'd change her mind.

“I don't speak in public,” she said, her throat already starting to ache at the idea. “I can ask Mr. Spofford to make the presentation—”

“But you were the one who gathered the data. You'd be the best person.”

“Mr. Spofford makes the formal presentations to Congress. I merely compile the data.”

Mr. Callahan fiddled with one of his fancy cuff links while he pinned her down with a challenging stare. “That doesn't seem very logical. What if members of the committee have additional questions?”

She wished the rush of acid in her stomach would go away. She got hot and sweaty at the very thought of speaking before a group of strangers. She pushed away from her desk and paced the tight confines of the map room. “I can't speak in public,” she said as she twisted her hands.

“Can't, or don't want to?”

“I physically
can't
. My throat will close up, and all I'll be able to do is croak like a frog.”

“Why are you so sensitive about your voice?”

The question startled her. Her hand instinctively flew to protect her throat. She glanced around the map room, praying no one else had heard this mortifying conversation. There was no one else there, but it was still an embarrassing topic.

“Why would you ask such a thing?” she asked.

“Because you nearly bit my head off that first morning when I complimented your voice. And you cover your throat when anyone mentions it.”

There was no point in evading the topic. It wasn't as if it were a big secret, for everything that happened to her was a matter of public record. He could even look it up if he was so inclined.

“My throat got badly burned when I was twelve years old. It's never been quite the same.” She hoped he would let it go at that, but he leaned forward in curiosity.

“How did your throat get burned?”

Even thinking about it summoned the caustic scent of lye. She'd probably always be haunted by that stench whenever she remembered that night. “I lived with my aunt and uncle after my father's ship went down. I, uh . . . I wasn't the easiest child. I had a terrible habit of swearing when I got angry.”

His brow quirked in surprise. True, she was a quiet person today, but as a child? She could curse a blue streak when she got angry, and she'd thrown some royal temper tantrums.

“My uncle was very strict about swearing and always washed my mouth out with soap if I said a bad word. One night he'd been drinking. I don't remember why I was so upset, but I sassed him and he reached for the soap. When he couldn't find it, he grabbed a bottle of lye instead. I saw him heading my way.”

She knew what that bottle meant. Once she'd helped Aunt Ruth with the laundry and some lye splashed on the back of her hand. It took only a few seconds to burn painful red splotches into her skin. Anna dashed for the door, but her uncle caught her, hauling her off the ground and back to the washroom. She still remembered the smell of his hand over her face as he pried her lips open, the glass bottle clicking against her teeth, the wash of caustic liquid down her throat. The smell, the burn . . . she gagged and tried to throw it up, but he clamped a hand over her mouth, holding the liquid in until it slid back down her throat. White, searing pain . . .

She didn't remember much after that, except that her throat swelled up so much it was hard to breathe and she ended up in the hospital. It hurt to talk, but she still had a little bit of a scratchy voice left. Within a week scar tissue built up in her esophagus, gradually robbing her of the ability to speak at all.

“He made you drink
lye
?” Luke's voice was filled with horror. He shot up so quickly that his chair tipped over, clattering onto the floor. He paced the narrow space between the table and a stack of atlases like a lion in a cage. His eyes glittered with a fierce emotion she couldn't place. Rage? Revenge? Whatever it was, it was frightening. She averted her eyes.

“Yes,” she said simply.

“There is nothing I despise more than a man who mistreats a woman.
A child
, no less. Did anything happen to your uncle because of this?”

“He was sentenced to three years in jail.” Aunt Ruth had never been enthusiastic about taking Anna in, and after Uncle Henry was sentenced to jail, the atmosphere at home got even chillier. It was hard to stand still, and Anna went to set Luke's overturned chair back upright. She kept her hands braced against the chair for support.

“Anyway,” she said, “I wasn't able to speak for a couple years because of the damage to my throat, but I had an operation and things got better. I still don't sound like I did before. The doctors say my voice will never get any better than it is right now. I sound awful, I know.”

“You have a beautiful voice.”

She scooped up an armful of atlases and began shelving them so she wouldn't have to look at his face. She didn't need pity or lies to make her feel better.

“You also use it as an excuse to hide up here and shirk the normal responsibilities of a librarian.”

She dropped an atlas. “I do not!”

“I've seen other female librarians make presentations before committees. That music librarian, the one with the big shoulders . . .”

“Gertrude?”

“I don't know her name, but I heard a presentation she made on some Mozart manuscripts the library wanted to buy. Your voice functions perfectly well, but it is a convenient excuse to avoid work you don't want to do.”

He could be really irritating. People like him had no conception of how hard it was to stand up before a group of intimidating men and speak with authority.

“Maybe some people crave the limelight, but I don't,” she said as she slid a heavy atlas back onto the shelf so hard it banged into the back wall.

“Look, we've all had challenges in our lives,” Mr. Callahan said. “If we lick our wounds and rehash old grievances, we'll never move forward. It's time for you to shake this off, O'Brien. I need a competent research assistant to attend an important meeting, and I'm not letting you off the hook.”