Seas of Fortune(20)
“Well, I’m not really an artist.”
“Oh? That looks like art to me.” She pointed at Maria’s canvas.
“I mean, I’m not a professional artist. For a woman to be a master in the painters’ guild, she pretty much has to be born to it. Like Artemisia Gentileschi. Or Giovanna Garzoni.”
“And you weren’t?”
“Why, no. My late father, Aelius Everhardus Vorstius, was a great scholar. At the University of Leiden, he was Professor Extaordinarius in Natural Philosophy, Professor of Medicine, and Curator of the Botanical Gardens.”
“So how did you learn to paint?”
“I attended an academy. They cater to amateurs, especially high-born women who see it as an elegant pastime, like playing the harpsichord.”
“And is that how you see it, as a hobby?”
“While I find it relaxing, it isn’t just a hobby. When I was young, it was a way to help my father. I could draw specimens that had been loaned to us for study. And my brother, who is the present curator, has written a Catalogus plantarum, a description of our entire collection, and I illustrated it.”
“You know, I have a book you might like to read. It’s about women artists throughout history.”
“That sounds fascinating. But I don’t know when I am going to find the time. I need to finish my paintings of the West Virginia trees before they all lose their leaves. I have to complete my thirty hours of volunteer work to get my Master Gardener’s certificate. And I have so much homework for Lori Fleming’s biology class. And the geology class Lolly roped me into.”
“Tell you what. I’ll give it to Lolly just before winter break. You’ll have some time to spare then.”
* * *
Maria bent down to study a wildflower by the side of Route 250, near the high school. Phil Jenkins came up behind her, and watched her for a few moments. Finally, he coughed. “I hear you’ve been looking at people’s houseplants.”
She looked up, and gave him a smile. “Yes, that’s right. I am making drawings of them, and sending seeds and cuttings to Adolph.”
“Who’s Adolph?” he asked sharply.
“My brother.”
“Oh. . . . You know, lots of people here in Grantville have houseplants, but I am something of a specialist.”
“How so?”
“I grow trees.”
“Your house must have very high ceilings.”
Phil laughed. “No, that’s not necessary. Although it would be nice. The trees just don’t grow as tall as they would in the wild.”
“So what trees do you grow? Sugar maple? Sassafras? Pitch pine?”
“Hmm, you’ve been studying West Virginia trees. But there isn’t much point in growing those indoors. I mostly grow tropical trees. Would you like to see them?”
Maria considered the invitation. He was so much younger than she was, he couldn’t possibly be courting her, but still, what would people think?
“May I bring a girlfriend?”
* * *
Maria and Prudentia arrived at the Jenkins house the next day, arm in arm.
Laurel Jenkins opened the door. “Oh, I recognize you,” she said. “You were the star of the canoe race in May.”
“You are kind to say so. We are here to see your ‘house trees.’”
Laurel turned and yelled upstairs. “Phil, turn off your stupid CD! You have company.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Brothers.”
* * *
“Hi, Maria! Hi, Prudentia. You came at a good time, my Angel’s Trumpet’s in bloom. Come along, I’ll show you. There, you can see how it gets its name.”
Maria admired the plant. The gracefully arching branches were festooned with long white trumpet-shaped flowers. “What lovely curves.”
“That’s from Brazil. Now, can you guess what this is?” The plant had nondescript green leaves, perhaps six inches long, and many flowers, each a five-pointed white star. There were also a few green cherries. The girls shook their heads. Maria actually recognized the tree—the Leiden Botanical Garden had gotten one from Aden years ago—but Phil was so obviously proud of his specimen that she didn’t have the heart to say so.
“This is Coffea arabica—the coffee tree. From Ethiopia, originally.”
Prudentia pointed to one of the cherries. “I have seen coffee beans here in Grantville. This doesn’t look like one.”
“It isn’t. There are two beans, seeds really, inside each cherry. You wait until the cherries turn red—that means they’re ripe—and then you take out the beans, and roast them.”
“So, do you supply coffee to Grantville?” asked Maria.