Beyond All Dreams (22 page)

At five o'clock in the afternoon, Ainsworth Spofford closed the door to his office for the final time. Carrying the last of his personal effects in a small box, he headed toward the grand double staircases that descended toward the rotunda of the Capitol.

He froze when he saw the staircases filled on both sides with people, all standing solemnly. He glanced at them, uncertain what to make of the hundreds gathered all the way down to the first floor and filling the rotunda, but as he began descending the stairs, the applause was deafening.

Anna stood at the base of the stairs. Every senator in the building had agreed to stand in support of Mr. Spofford. All nine of the Supreme Court justices joined in, as did members of the House, military officers, and every employee with the Library of Congress. Hundreds of mail room clerks, telegraph operators, congressional pages, the secretarial staff, the cooks from the lunchroom, even the janitors were assembled. All of them applauding. Anna clapped so hard, the palms of her hands stung.

Mr. Spofford paused on the landing, looking around at the throng, and probably for the first time that day a smile graced Mr. Spofford's face as he nodded in acknowledgment. The applause continued as he finished descending the stairs, crossed the rotunda, and left the building for the final time. It didn't stop until the door had closed behind him.

Beside her, Gertrude, the music librarian, bawled like a baby. Anna had to blink back tears as well. Although she was glad she'd done what was needed to assemble this show of respect and appreciation for Mr. Spofford, it didn't change the fact that the man had lost his job. Tomorrow Anna would try to slink back into complete anonymity in the map room, but for today she was grateful that her voice had been heard.

When Anna reported to work the next morning, she was relieved to have a hearty backlog of cartographic questions awaiting her attention. It appeared Mr. Spofford had been true to his word, and Luke's few remaining questions had been reassigned to other librarians. At last, she could return to her safe world of maps, gazetteers, and atlases, never having to worry again about political infighting or audacious congressmen or what made the color of tourmalines so dazzling.

Would she ever see Luke Callahan again? Yesterday he'd sent
a note pleading for her to meet him at a streetcar stop, but she'd ignored it. They had nothing to say to each other, and since they no longer worked in the same building, there was no reason for their paths to cross again. That was for the best. Of course it was . . . and yet she couldn't help but regret it just a little.

A message from Neville arrived late in the afternoon, suggesting she visit his office after work to play with a new tabulating machine that had just been submitted for a patent. She loved toying with the new inventions that flooded the Patent Office, and Neville always helped her put things in perspective and reel her in from whatever doomsday scenario was taking shape in her mind.

When she arrived at the top floor of the Patent Office, the building looked deserted. Most of this floor was filled with the cavernous model room, where glass-fronted cases displayed thousands of models for new inventions. It had the look of a library, except the shelves were filled with mechanical models instead of books.

She headed toward Neville's office, where the low rumble of men's voices could be heard. She tipped her head forward so that Neville would know she'd arrived. From behind his desk, he sent her a guilty smile and shrugged his shoulders. She understood why when the man sitting opposite him turned around.

“Hello, O'Brien,” Luke said.

She shot Neville a glare, but he took it in stride. “You need to bury the hatchet, Anna,” Neville said.

“In his skull?” she asked.

Luke rose and faced her. “Anna, can we talk? I need to apologize.
I'm sorry
. I'm an idiot and a fool, and I deserve to be boiled in oil for dragging your name into this mess.”

She didn't want to hear it. Turning on her heel, she stormed toward one of the aisles in the model display room. If she hur
ried, she could find cover among the display shelves. She hiked up her skirts and darted to the far side of the room, but his footsteps were right behind her.

A firm hand grasped her elbow and slowed her steps. “Anna, I'm sorry,” he said again.

She whirled to face him. “Do you know what happens if I lose my job? I don't have any family. No one I can turn to for help.”

“You're exaggerating again. You're not going to lose your job.”

“You don't know that.” Yesterday Anna might have believed she was safe, but no one was indispensable if Mr. Spofford could be fired.

“If you lose your job, I'll help you get another.”

“There
is
no other job like the Library of Congress!” Her voice sounded loud in the normally silent model room. “I'm proud to be working for Congress. I was the girl who other children teased and laughed at behind their hands, the girl who never fit in. I wasn't supposed to amount to anything, yet now I work at the
Library of
Congress
. Maybe most people don't understand what that means, but it's the whole world to me.”

“I know what it means.” The corners of Luke's mouth were turned down, his eyes deep pools of regret. Maybe he did understand. This was a man who'd escaped a chaotic childhood by fleeing into the world of poetry. Who'd bought a railway car so that he could bring books to the young men working in logging camps.

“All I can say is that I'm sorry,” he continued. “From the moment the words left my mouth, I knew it was a mistake, and I've regretted it ever since. I'll use whatever political capital I have to ensure you don't suffer any consequences.”

She sighed and strolled to a window seat cut into the alcove. It was a relief to sit and let some of the tension drain from her
muscles. Luke followed, propping his boot on the window seat and peering down at her with somber eyes. The sadness radiating from him made it impossible to doubt his remorse.

“Okay, I forgive you,” she said.

“You do? Just like that?” His confusion would have been comical if he didn't sound so upset.

“Do you want me to drag it out some more? I suppose I can, but I've never been very good at holding grudges.”

It was dangerous to stew over insults and slights. That kind of bitterness usually turned into self-pity and resentment, poisoning her ability to simply be happy. The greatest irony was how she always found a sense of healing by extending forgiveness.

“I'm pretty good at nurturing grudges,” Luke said wryly. “My father burned a stack of my wretched poems when I was fifteen years old, and I never forgave him for it. I
still
get angry when I think about it.”

Luke had hinted at the stormy relationship with his father, but she had assumed it was the normal clash of two strong-willed people living within the same orbit, not this sort of malicious cruelty. “Did he ever say he was sorry?”

“Never.”

Anna bowed her head. In the months after Uncle Henry forced the lye down her throat, she suffered a bewildering combination of fury mixed with guilt. A piece of her wanted to make Uncle Henry drink lye so he'd feel the scorch of pain with every swallow and the never-ending torment of being mute. That bitter piece of her grew and festered until it tainted all her thoughts, blotting out whatever glimpse of light tried to seep through the dark clouds of her life.

The bitterness vanished within a few seconds of seeing Uncle Henry in that prison cell. The remorse in his eyes washed her anger away, and she raced into his arms. Forgiveness swept away
the bitterness that darkened her world. When she managed a smile for her uncle, he fell to his knees, sobbing, and for the first time she understood the gift of forgiveness. It wasn't for her uncle's benefit. By forgiving him, she was freed of the burden of bitterness and anger. There was no sin that could not be forgiven.

Her uncle had begged for forgiveness, but Luke's father had not. It was harder to extend the grace of forgiveness to someone who was resolute in their sin, but it had to be done all the same.

“My aunt never forgave me for putting Uncle Henry in prison,” Anna said.

Luke's mouth tightened. “You didn't put that man in prison. He did it to himself.”

“Maybe, but my aunt will never accept that. She will go to her grave believing I caused her husband's death. I found it easier to forgive Uncle Henry than Aunt Ruth, because at least Henry was sorry for what he did. Aunt Ruth will always blame me for what happened. Over time I came to accept that we're all imperfect humans. I didn't want to be trapped in a downward spiral of anger just because Aunt Ruth was so shortsighted. Your father was too weak to understand the destruction he brought to his children, but he was an imperfect man who deserves to be forgiven, even if he didn't ask for it. We are all beautiful but broken people. Jesus forgives us, even when we don't deserve it. That's a pretty good reason to be forgiving.”

Luke tilted his head to look at her, a quizzical expression on his face. “It's humbling to be around you, O'Brien. I don't think I can follow your example. Here I am, the beneficiary of your unstinting forgiveness, and I'm still harboring a twenty-year grudge over the acts of a vicious drunk. Those poems weren't even any good.”

“There's no statute of limitations on extending forgiveness. I think you'd feel better about it if you could.”

“Maybe.” He still looked skeptical, though. “I want you to know I took your advice about getting my brother out of jail.”

“You did?” She'd been so immersed in her own problems, she had completely forgotten about Luke's family troubles. “What made you change your mind?”

“You.”

He rolled his palms together, his knuckles cracking under the pressure. “I didn't know about the danger of disease inside a prison. I don't want to punish Jason. I just want . . .” His voice choked off, and he clenched his hands into fists. “I want so badly to save him, but I don't know how to do it.” Luke scrubbed a hand across his face and drew a steadying breath.

“In any event, I've made arrangements for the transfer of funds, and my sister vows she'll keep him on the straight and narrow. I'm not sure this is the right thing to do, but Julia has been able to quit drinking, and she insists she can help Jason do the same. I'm just not sure . . .”

“I'll pray for them both,” Anna said.

She reached out to touch him, then pulled back before she made contact. She needed to snuff out these inconvenient feelings. An awkward silence filled the air. She fiddled with her hands, wondering how to say goodbye to this man who had been her friend.

“Mr. Spofford has reassigned your research to another librarian,” she said. If he understood her hint that this was probably the last time they'd be meeting, he gave no sign of it. Instead, he gave her one of his half smiles.

“I heard about that send-off you arranged for him. Very impressive, O'Brien.”

“You wouldn't say that if you knew how hard I was shaking as I made those rounds. I thought I'd faint before it was all over.”

“But you did it, and in the end that's what counts.”

“Do you know who ordered Mr. Spofford's termination? No one seems to know.”

He shrugged. “It's just politics, Anna. Sometimes these positions are used to reward a loyal supporter. Or to rig the way research will proceed. So much of what drives this city happens behind closed doors for reasons that don't make much sense to the outside world. The way they've circled the wagons to protect Admiral Channing is a perfect example.”

Her shoulders sagged a little. She'd found the courage to speak out for Mr. Spofford, but had failed the fifty-six men of the
Culpeper.
By threatening the employment of the women at the library, the navy had her hog-tied. The eight women working at the Library of Congress were alive and depended on their jobs so as to keep a roof over their heads. The men of the
Culpeper
were long dead, and their families had moved on. . . .

Or had they?

Maybe she'd been too shortsighted by assuming she was the only one who cared about the accuracy of that old report. What if there were other family members like her who cared enough to get involved in what she was attempting to do?

Fifty-six men had disappeared with that ship, which meant there were fifty-six families out there that might be recruited to help. Just as she'd organized the Capitol's employees to stand up for Mr. Spofford, she could organize the surviving families of the
Culpeper
to demand a correction of the official report. And she knew exactly who to turn to for help.

S
ilas Zanetti had been her father's best friend and the chief petty officer of the
Culpeper
. His wife, Maria, had been like a loving aunt to Anna. Whenever the
Culpeper
was at sea, Mrs. Zanetti visited Anna at least once a week, descending on the house like a singing beam of sunshine. Mrs. Zanetti had an amazing operatic voice. Anna and Neville used to plead with her to show off her talent. They'd cover their ears as she warmed up her world-class soprano voice and sang a note so piercing that it could crack a crystal glass.

Mrs. Zanetti stopped singing after the
Culpeper
went down, plummeting into deep depression. Soon she was only a shadow of the laughing, vibrant woman Anna once knew. Only a year after the
Culpeper
was lost, Mrs. Zanetti stunned everyone when she made the abrupt decision to start her life over in the wilds of the Yukon Territory after seeing an advertisement for a mail-order wife placed by a Canadian trapper named John Smith.

Mrs. Zanetti's fate was another aching, unanswered question for Anna. She'd never heard from the woman after she abandoned the comforts of Washington, D.C., for a dubious life in the Canadian wilderness.

It would be a challenge to locate the family members of those lost with the
Culpeper
, who had probably scattered across the country after fifteen years, but she needed to start with Mrs. Zanetti. She was the only family member of the lost sailors Anna personally knew, and besides, she was desperately curious about whatever happened to Mrs. Zanetti. Or Mrs. Smith, as she was now probably known. How could a colorful woman like Maria Zanetti marry a man with such a pedestrian name?

Neville wasn't optimistic about their chances of tracking down Mrs. Zanetti. When Anna descended on his office the following day to plead for his help, he looked at her as if she'd gone insane.

“You want us to go looking for a man you know nothing about, who lives somewhere in northwest Canada, and is named John Smith? Could you have picked a more impossible challenge?”

“I work at the finest library on this continent,” Anna replied. “I have access to records and archives. Yes, I think we can find him, and if we find him, we find Mrs. Zanetti. It's just going to take some legwork.”

Neville tossed a half-read patent application on his desk. “Anna, don't you think you're taking this too far? I have no explanation for why your father's last letter was so strange, but what are the odds of your finding someone by the name of John Smith somewhere in Canada, and that his wife is going to be interested in your campaign to correct the report on what happened with the
Culpeper
? Even if we find her, Mrs. Zanetti has moved on. She probably won't care.”

Anna shook her head. “Her love affair with Silas Zanetti was one for the ages. She will want to know what really happened to her husband. Her
real
husband, not the trapper she settled for in Canada. Mrs. Zanetti will help us, I know she will.”

“Anna, you're crazy.”

“Do you remember what happened when Aunt Ruth tried to abscond with that money set aside for my college education?”

Neville winced at the memory. “Mrs. Zanetti summoned a dozen members of the Bluestocking League to cause a ruckus in the banker's office.”

“That's right, and she was arrested because of it. She's not the sort to tolerate an injustice, and she won't ignore the pack of lies in that old navy report.” After storming the bank with the bluestockings, Mrs. Zanetti was released from prison with only a warning, but Anna would never forget that Mrs. Zanetti had been willing to risk incarceration on her behalf. Furthermore, her bold actions had saved Anna's college money from certain misuse by Aunt Ruth. Even from the remote Canadian wilderness, Mrs. Zanetti was her best ally to help blow away the veil of lies the navy had built around the loss of the
Culpeper
.

Neville sent her a reluctant smile. “I surrender. When do we start?”

Excitement surged through her. “How about first thing Saturday morning? We'll go to the library and spend the day prowling through every document about Canada.”

Neville shifted in his chair and fiddled with a pencil. “Saturday won't work for me.”

“Why not? You never do anything on Saturday.”

“I just can't. Pick another time.”

“How about Saturday afternoon?”

He shot her a pointed look. “Anna, you're going to have to pick another day. I have plans on Saturday.”

She waited for him to provide an explanation—they held no secrets from each other, and Neville told her everything—but he locked eyes with her and refused to say another word about his mysterious plans for Saturday. It was maddening. Now that she was on the hunt again, her blood quickened and she wanted to
tackle the problem immediately. It looked like she'd have to do the work on her own, since waiting until the following weekend was unthinkable.

“Don't worry about it,” Anna mumbled. “I can handle it on my own.”

As if sensing her annoyance, Neville offered an olive branch. “Do you want to come to my parents' house for Thanksgiving dinner?”

“Is your father going to be there?”

“Naturally.”

Anna didn't have anywhere else to go for Thanksgiving, but she was tired of coping with the blatant pressure from Neville's father every time she walked through their door.
“There's little Anna O'Brien,”
he would coo.
“Maybe someday I'll be calling
her Mrs. Anna Bernhard, hmm, Neville?”

Why did everyone assume she and Neville ought to get married? It was embarrassing and awful and she was tired of it. “If I come for dinner, is your father going to have wedding bells ringing in the background?”

Neville winced again. “I'll tell him to knock it off.”

“It's a deal then.”

Although it still annoyed Anna that Neville wouldn't tell her where he was going on Saturday. It wasn't the first time either. Lately he'd been distracted and unreliable, not always where he was supposed to be. It was bothersome, but she had other issues to worry about at the moment.

Like how she was going to find out what happened to the
Culpeper
without getting fired.

On Saturday morning, Anna arrived at the library to begin searching for information connected with Mrs. Zanetti. She
pulled every book the library had about Hudson's Bay Company, the largest employer of fur trappers in Canada. Perhaps she'd find a list of their trappers or points of contact where someone could write for more information.

She lugged the books to the reading room in the new library, a majestic space surrounded by tall marble arches, balconies, and artwork to rival the Louvre. Hours passed, and as Anna learned more about the Yukon Territory, she grew to dislike John Smith. What kind of man enticed a grieving widow to leave her family and friends to go live in the Canadian wilderness? The photographs she found of the Yukon showed primitive buildings and rugged trappers whose skin looked as weather-beaten as old shoe leather.

“Hello, O'Brien.”

How could two words send her heart skittering? Luke Callahan stood beside her desk, a volume of Byron's poems tucked under his arm as he peered down at her. She supposed it was naïve to assume they would no longer see each other after his research had been assigned elsewhere. Luke often spent his free time in the library, and that wasn't going to change now that the new building was open.

He tilted his head to read the spine of her book.
The Directory of Beaver Pelt Traders
of the Canadian Northwest Territories
. “Could you possibly have found a drearier book in the entire library?”

She set her pencil down. “Shockingly, I find it more interesting than mollusks or hydraulic sawmills.”

He accepted the barb with grace. “What wretched member of Congress has set you to this mind-numbing task? Tell me, and I'll go scold him for you.”

“I'm here of my own account. I'm trying to find an old friend.”

He glanced at the photographs printed in the open books before her. “Not one of those hairy cavemen, I hope.”

For all Anna knew, Mrs. Zanetti could indeed be married to one of these long-haired men with weather-beaten faces and hard eyes. Did Mrs. Zanetti know what she was getting into when she left for Canada to marry a complete stranger? It seemed inexplicable, although Anna knew better than anyone how loneliness could grind on a person.

She outlined the problem to Luke, filling him in on the lively woman who made the years living with Aunt Ruth bearable, and Mrs. Zanetti's abrupt decision to become a mail-order bride only a year after the
Culpeper
went down.

“I want to find other family members from the
Culpeper
, but I was so young when it sank, and the Zanettis are the only people I really knew. I'm certain Mrs. Zanetti will help me if I can find her.”

Luke dragged out the chair next to her, its legs scraping against the tiled floor. “Show me how I can help. After all you've done for me, it's the least I can do.”

She glanced at the tower of thick books. She and Neville were accustomed to the glorious monotony of research, but someone of Luke's caliber might not appreciate it.

“This promises to be a long and dull slog,” she warned. As quickly as possible, she provided the scanty facts they had to work with. Maria Zanetti married John Smith in 1883. She was Catholic, but Anna had no idea if the marriage ceremony had been performed in a Catholic church. Because John Smith was a trapper, it was likely he did business with Hudson's Bay Company.

As the oldest surviving corporation anywhere in North America, the Library of Congress had collected and archived all documents relating to the company. This collection was con
stantly being updated with a steady stream of news clippings and financial reports. Anna dug through boxes of uncataloged stock reports and industry statistics, and countless grainy photographs of the trappers and trading posts scattered throughout Canada.

She thought Luke would be bored stiff by such a task, but he seemed to be enjoying himself. “Are you sure I'm not dragging you away from more important things?” she asked.

“And what would those be? Haranguing you to provide me with two decades of data on hydraulic sawmills?”

“You seemed pretty fascinated with it a few weeks ago.”

A little of the light faded in his eyes. “Well, it seems all of our work was pointless. I never found definite proof of corruption coming from the Speaker's office.”

Anna would have thought that to be a
good
thing, but apparently Luke had invested tremendous political capital into justifying a corruption charge against the Speaker of the House.

Luke clenched a pencil in his fist and looked away. “For the life of me, I don't understand that man's power. Cornelius Jones is surly and mean, and he stinks like an ashtray. I was sure he was using his control over the purse strings to buy himself votes. There's no other explanation for why such a frosty reptile could wield so much power.”