Beyond All Dreams (23 page)

She sighed and opened another box of documents tracking Hudson's Bay Company. Founded in 1670, the company was proud of their history and sent photographers all across Canada to document their far-flung empire. Many of the photographs showcased the spectacular beauty of the Canadian wilderness and the country's remote trading posts. Some of them depicted long-ago traders standing beside the indigenous people of the area, while others appeared to be newer photographs that included recently built trading posts.

She scanned a recent photograph of the Grey Wolf Trading
Post, with members of the local community lined up in rows before the clapboard building to have their photograph taken. Anna studied their faces, quickly spotting a lone woman in the crowd.

“I found her!” she cried. Her voice echoed and bounced off the high-domed ceiling, and Luke nearly fell off his chair at the sound. She slid the photograph across the table for him to see. “There she is! That's Mrs. Zanetti.”

The date written on the back of the photograph indicated it'd been taken only three years ago. Going by Mrs. Zanetti's fine sealskin coat and beautiful gloves, it looked as if her husband supported her quite well. Anna glanced at the others in the photograph. Most of them appeared to be rugged, tough-looking men.

Her gaze then landed on the man standing next to Mrs. Zanetti, and her breath froze.

“What's wrong?” Luke asked. “You look like you've seen a ghost.

Because she had. For standing beside Mrs. Zanetti, staring directly at the camera, stood Silas Zanetti, the chief petty officer of the
Culpeper
. And he looked alive and well.

“Are you sure it's him?” Luke asked for the third time, his voice loud in the quiet of the map room.

Immediately after spotting Silas Zanetti in the picture, Anna grabbed the box of photographs and fled upstairs to the map room, where they could speak in private. Only the main part of the library was open on Saturday, and they had complete privacy in the map room. Maybe she was getting paranoid again, but she didn't want to be overheard by anyone.

“I'm almost certain of it,” Anna said. “Silas had a huge nose with a dent right at the top. My father always teased him about
it, saying Silas could hang a picture from the dent in his nose. That is the exact same nose.”

“I don't see a dent,” Luke said.

“Look closer.”

Rather than examine the photograph more carefully, Luke looked at her, pity in his eyes. “Is it possible you're imagining it, Anna? That you want so badly to believe this man is this Silas Zanetti person, perhaps you're seeing things that aren't there? I don't see a dent on the man's nose.”

The photograph was grainy, and maybe it was just a shadow or a smudge of dirt. Most of the men lined up for the photograph seemed rather grubby. The man in the picture looked much older than Silas, but it had been fifteen years since she'd last seen him. Of course his hair would be thinner, his face more gaunt. Besides, the moment she clapped eyes on that man, every instinct cried out that she was looking at Silas Zanetti. It also explained why Mrs. Zanetti had abandoned the comforts of Washington for the Canadian wilderness to marry a total stranger, as she knew John Smith was no stranger.

Forget the picture. There was something much bigger going on. “I need to know what happened to the
Culpeper
,” she said in a voice vibrating with tension. “The navy knows, and they've been lying to the world for fifteen years. The story they told you about Admiral Channing is hogwash.”

Luke's expression turned somber. “Anna, have you considered that it could have been a mutiny?”

It was a terrible thought, making her feel light-headed. Her corset pinched, and she sat straighter to drag more air into her lungs. It was hard to imagine her father being involved in such a scandal, but sometimes officers had little choice. The
Culpeper
's captain had a reputation as a stern man, but a mutiny?

Yet a mutiny made the most sense when compared to any
other scenario she'd considered. In the interest of preserving discipline among the men, the navy might have suppressed any mention of a mutiny and used the coincidence of the hurricane to explain the disappearance of the ship. No crew member participating in a mutiny would return to the United States to face certain execution. Look at what the mutineers of the
Bounty
had done. They'd settled on a remote Polynesian island and scuttled their ship so they'd never be found again. If there was a mutiny on the
Culpeper
, her father might not be dead.

It was a stunning and exhilarating thought.

“What if my father is still alive?” Again her voice echoed in the silent map room. Now that she'd spoken the words aloud, hope began blossoming. At the time she'd been too young to leave Washington and follow her father into a rugged, unknown world. But what if he was still alive and hoped to one day see her again?

Luke's warm palm encircled her hand. “Anna, don't do this to yourself. If your father was alive, don't you think he would have contacted you by now?”

She closed her eyes. For so many years, the possibility that her father was still alive had been her dearest wish. Over the years she'd sent up thousands of prayers to heaven, begging for a miraculous explanation for his disappearance. A mutiny would explain everything.

Could her father have been a traitor? It sickened her to even think such a thing. She grabbed the photograph and scanned the face of every man lined up before the Grey Wolf Trading Post, looking for her father.

He wasn't there. No man participating in a mutiny would ever dare to return home. Silas never did, though somehow he made contact with his wife and got her to meet him in Canada. The fact that the Zanettis had changed their name to Smith
indicated they were trying to cover their tracks. It gave further credence to the likelihood of a mutiny.

Maybe her father's last letter was intended to let Anna know he was headed to Cuba. He couldn't tell her directly, so he veiled his message in riddles and secrets, hoping she would one day solve the puzzle and go in search of him.

Could he really be alive? It seemed impossible, but no less farfetched than Silas Zanetti's inexplicable appearance in this photograph.

“Could you help me?” she asked Luke, who looked a little baffled. “The story about Admiral Channing is nonsense and you know it. I need help figuring out what really happened and don't know who else to turn to. Please . . .”

Luke's confusion was replaced by humor as he struggled to suppress a smile. “Anna, forgive me, but may I assume you're a literate person who has the ability to write a letter?”

She blinked. “What are you suggesting?”

He stood and picked up the photograph with Mrs. Zanetti's picture, holding it before her eyes. “This woman has all the answers you need!” he said, too loudly. “She's your Oracle of Delphi, your Rosetta Stone. The Alpha and Omega of every question you've got about the
Culpeper.
Pick up one of those newfangled pens you're so fond of and ask her about the large-nosed man standing beside her. Either he is Silas Zanetti and can explain exactly what happened to the
Culpeper
, or your imagination is running wild once again. Either way, the answer you need is right here.”

His exuberance cracked through her knot of anxiety, and she started laughing, even though she ought to be appalled by the way he was practically shouting in a library. How could this man always coax her into laughter, even in the midst of such a stressful situation?

“I really do hate it when you are both obnoxious
and
right,” she said.

“Do you? I rather thought this afternoon was the most fun I've had since coming to Washington.”

He looked at her with that gleam in his eyes again. She looked away. When he was flushed and alive with such humor, it was like looking straight into the sun, dazzling but dangerous.

And he was right—it
had
been fun. The entire day had been exhilarating, and a bit frightening too. It appeared her suspicions about the
Culpeper
might be built on a solid foundation after all, and there was no one she'd rather have beside her on the hunt than Luke Callahan.

Which was odd. Normally she wanted Neville for companionship, but Neville had been so distracted and unreliable lately. Neville's scientific mind always worked along the lines of logic and proof, and those things had been failing in their search for the truth regarding the
Culpeper
. Luke trusted instinct. His wild, passionate nature seemed a perfect counterpart to her methodical outlook on life.

“Will you help me with the letter to Mrs. Zanetti?”

Luke cocked a brow at her. “You need help with your writing skills?”

It was embarrassing, but she explained to him the paranoia that had plagued her ever since noticing the flaw in the navy's report. “I feel like people are watching me. The other day I posted a telegram to an army outpost in Wyoming. It was for legitimate library research, but I noticed a young boy followed me all the way to the Capitol and back. It was the strangest thing. When I asked him why he was following me, he stammered and denied it, but I'm almost certain he was spying on me. If I post a letter to the Yukon Territory, it wouldn't surprise me if someone intercepted it and read it before it could be sent.”

“Well, they won't intercept
my
mail,” Luke said.

“You'd post it for me?”

“Of course. Now let's get down to business.”

Too many people had seen her and Luke together that morning in the main part of the library for Anna to feel entirely safe spilling all her questions into a letter. She opted to keep the note brief and vague just in case the letter was intercepted, despite Luke's assurances. After a few pleasantries, she asked the one question most pressing on her mind:
I'm searching
for your husband's good friend. Is Cuba the right
place to look?

Mrs. Zanetti would know exactly what Anna was asking with that veiled question. How long would she have to wait for a reply? The Grey Wolf Trading Post was hundreds of miles from the nearest city. It could be months before she heard anything back, and Anna wanted to shriek in frustration. But it had been fifteen years since the
Culpeper
disappeared. She could wait a few more months.

W
hat was he going to do about Anna? Pinpricks of sleet fell from the gloomy December sky as Luke headed back to the Willard, tugging his collar higher in a vain attempt to block the icy air snaking down his neck. Watching Anna flail against the navy made him fear she was on the verge of getting smashed and broken. For the life of him, he couldn't see a dent on that man's nose in the photograph. But Anna so desperately wanted to believe there were survivors of the
Culpeper
disaster that she might have seen Silas Zanetti's image on a portrait of Napoleon or the czar of Russia.

He slipped Anna's letter into a mailbox on the way home, wondering if he should have told her about the suspicions of the old diplomat who claimed to have seen the
Culpeper
sailing into the bay of Manila two years after it supposedly sank, but it would have been a cruel thing to do. The best course of action would be to wait until Mrs. Zanetti replied to this letter. Telling Anna of the diplomat's ramblings would only upset her.

Besides, he had bigger problems to worry about.

Cornelius Jones was launching a full-scale retaliation against
him for leading the attempted boycott. A week after the incident, Luke and the other renegade congressmen were formally censured by the Congress. It was a meaningless ritual in which the entire House was assembled to witness a verbal rebuke of the disgraced congressmen. It carried no penalties other than shame, but the Speaker of the House reserved special treatment for Luke, who was suspended from the Fisheries committee until further notice.

Now Luke was in complete political exile. He was a bird with no wings, a congressman with no voice. Stripped of all his responsibilities, he had nothing to do in Washington other than squander a few hours reading poetry in a grossly overdecorated library, or flirt with Anna while she indulged in a wild goose chase.

His hands and feet felt frozen by the time he arrived home. The hotel usually served hot coffee in the lobby on days like today, and he looked forward to holding a steaming mug between his icy fingers. The rousing scent of percolating coffee surrounded him as soon as he stepped inside. As was his custom, he stepped to the front desk to check for messages. Since being stripped of his responsibilities, his mailbox was empty and his social calendar vacant, yet some habits were hard to break.

“Any messages for me?” he asked the clerk at the walnut counter in the front of the lobby.

“A visitor, sir. She's waiting near the piano.”

She?
Luke's brow furrowed as he headed around a screen of potted ferns, wondering what woman would risk her reputation by meeting him in a hotel lobby. Against his better judgment, he hoped it might be Anna.

His sister rose from the satin-covered bench, and disappointment flashed through him. He forced a smile and took a step toward her, but froze when he noticed her clothing. She was
dressed entirely in black, all the way from her ruffled collar to her shoes. Her complexion was chalky white, a stark contrast to her ebony hair and dark eyes. She remained motionless by the bench, staring at him as he approached.

“This isn't the kind of thing I could tell you in a telegram,” Julia said in a halting voice.

He stiffened, his heart nearly stopping. “Please don't say it.”

She closed her eyes and drew a ragged breath. “Jason is dead, Luke. He died the night after he was released from prison. He found a bottle I didn't know about. I'm so sorry.”

The breath rushed from his body, and he curled over. This couldn't be happening. No, it wasn't happening. . . . Julia grabbed his shoulders, hauling him upright and trying to embrace him, but he shoved her away. He couldn't look at her, couldn't even breathe past the desperation that choked him. He wrote the order to get Jason out of prison. He let this happen.

He had to get out of there.

“Luke, please . . .”

“Back off,” he growled.

She went to grab his arm, but again he shook her off. People gawked at them, craning their necks to watch as he strode toward the rear door. He would do anything to turn back time and hold firm against the temptation to set Jason free. He'd signed Jason's death warrant when he wrote that check.

“Luke, it's freezing out there. Stay and talk to me,” Julia pleaded.

He spun around. “Was this what you wanted? Jason free so he could kill himself?”

Tears stained Julia's face, and she flinched. Just like their mother would flinch when their father raged. He turned and punched the wall. Pain exploded in his hand, a white flash clouding his vision as the sting shot up his arm and through his body.
He leaned against the wall and punched it again. Again and again and again until chips of plaster began flying and specks of blood dotted the white paint. Julia pressed against his back.

“Stop it!” she said. “Stop it right now. Don't you
dare
turn into an animal. Not you. Of all people, not you too.”

The words penetrated the fog, but he still couldn't face her. Right now he hated her.

He sagged against the wall, heaving in breaths and trying to stop his head from whirling.
Jason
. His baby brother. He wanted to find something else to break, somewhere else to unleash the white-hot anger rolling through him. Footsteps rushed toward them, and from the corner of his eye, Luke saw the footman who provided security for the hotel.

“Is there anything you need?” the man asked, a note of warning heavy in his voice.

“I'm fine,” Luke said.

“The wall doesn't look fine, sir.”

“I'll pay for the damages,” he snapped. He moved farther into the corner, anger and hatred coursing through him. Julia said pacifying words to the footman, ushering him away.

Luke closed his eyes. This wasn't her fault, but right now he was angry at the world.

It had been two days since Anna wrote the letter to Mrs. Zanetti, and already she was growing anxious while waiting for a reply. It was the first thing she thought about as she rose each morning. Would a reply take a month? Two months? She dressed quickly, her cold hands fumbling with her buttons as she hurried through her morning routine. The bedrooms in the boardinghouse weren't heated, so she was rushing to get down to the breakfast table.

Stepping into the dining room, warmth from the kitchen surrounded her. There was only one spot left at the table. She hiked her skirt up to step over the bench and sit beside Gertrude.

“Your congressman is getting into trouble again,” Gertrude said.

“He's not
my
congressman,” Anna said in a fierce whisper. “What's he done?”

Gertrude passed her a section of last night's
Washington Evening Star
, but before she could read the article, a young woman at the end of the table started giggling.

“Is he handsome?”

“I'll bet he's one of those stodgy old ones with muttonchop whiskers,” Mary-Margaret said. “Come, tell us about your congressman.”

All the women at the table paused to listen. Nothing here was more eagerly devoured than gossip, especially if it involved men.

“I don't have a congressman,” she muttered, scanning the article about an unnamed congressman from Maine who had indulged in a shouting match with a mysterious woman dressed in black inside the grand lobby of the Willard Hotel. Apparently, his outrage was so great he slammed his fist into one of the hotel's fine walls, cracking the plaster and rattling the crystals of the chandelier above him.

“There are thirty-five unmarried congressmen, and three unmarried senators,” a redheaded woman at the end of the table pronounced. “I wish I worked in the Capitol and had a shot at one of them.”

“No woman in the Capitol hankers after the elected officials,” Gertrude snapped. “It's against the rules.”

“Maybe for someone like you,” Mary-Margaret said with a pointed look at Gertrude's sacklike dress. “I'm only twenty-four, and there's no reason I can't aspire to one of those men.
I'm surprised Anna is on the hunt. I always figured you'd end up like Gertrude.”

Gertrude ignored her and leaned over to take the newspaper back from Anna's numb fingers. “This morning's
Washington
Post
has an almost identical story,” she said.

The first thing Anna did after arriving at the library was to collect all the recent newspapers. All three Washington papers reported the story about Luke with glee. She felt sick as she read them. Newspapers sometimes exaggerated, but the details in these articles were all consistent.

Something was wrong. Luke was losing his hold on something that was very important to him. She'd heard the revulsion in his voice when he spoke of his father's uninhibited rage and knew he would never sink to that level unless something was terribly wrong.

Should she offer to help? It was impossible to know why Luke was slipping from his moorings, but if there was anything she could do to help, she'd offer it.

As soon as she arrived at the map room, she grabbed a research request card and flipped it over to write on the blank side:
Will you
meet me? I'll be at the tidal basin at
6:00 today. Tell me how I can help, and I'
ll do it. Anna
.

People often went to the tidal basin at the end of the river to feed the ducks or watch the sunset, yet it always cleared out after dusk. She ought to be able to meet Luke without fear of prying eyes or eavesdropping staffers. After sealing the note inside an envelope, Anna slipped downstairs and gave it to a congressional page to take across the street to the Capitol.

Anna's note burned in his pocket as Luke walked toward the tidal basin on the west end of the Mall.

He didn't want to see her. He'd been in a foul mood ever since Julia's arrival two days ago and he didn't want Anna seeing him like this, but he couldn't ignore her note. She meant too much to him, and he couldn't bear to sever the thread of friendship that still tied them together.