Until the Dawn (15 page)

The three of them were trapped in uncomfortable silence until the rain tapered off twenty minutes later. He’d been rude and brusque . . . pointlessly so, but he’d make it up to Sophie by doing everything possible to get one of those fancy climate observatories she wanted located here in the village.

Upon returning to Dierenpark, Quentin summoned Mr. Gilroy to meet him in the orangery, the only place where privacy could be guaranteed. It was annoying to have his grandfather’s spy observing Quentin’s every move, but at least Mr. Gilroy no longer denied he was Nickolaas’s spy. Better still, Mr. Gilroy was occasionally willing to use his considerable talents on Quentin’s
behalf. He told Mr. Gilroy of Sophie’s desire for an upgraded climate observatory and how much Vandermark influence he’d be willing to throw behind the effort to lure the station here. The first order of business was to learn about the man who would be making the decisions.

“Find out everything you can about the director of the Weather Bureau,” Quentin instructed. “Where he was educated, what he likes to drink, the name of his wife. Let it be known that I am searching for a scientific endeavor to fund and would welcome his visit at Dierenpark. That ought to get him salivating.” A little bribery could go a long way in this world, although Quentin was always careful to disguise such actions as charitable donations or courtesies in arranging key introductions.

“Consider it done,” Mr. Gilroy said smoothly.

He remained in the orangery long after Mr. Gilroy left. Facing the others in the main house was too difficult to contemplate right now. Another of the suffocating black moods had descended, draining him of energy and hope. Would it last a day? A month? Impossible to know. He had no understanding of why or how these periods of melancholia swamped him, and therefore was helpless to find a way out.

All he knew for certain was that Sophie was an entirely good person. Entirely kind. If someone of her purity could not rescue him from this dark wasteland, no one could. It shamed him, but when he was in a foul mood like this, it was agony to be near her. She reminded him of his own lost, idyllic youth. Of a world drenched in sunlight, possibility, and endless summer days. Something about her sparked a monstrous hope that he could aspire to more in life than the hard confines that encased his broken body and spirit.

Well . . . enough wallowing. He grasped his cane and rose, wincing against the familiar pain shooting up his leg. It was time to get back to the house and do his duty by Pieter. For now,
that meant tolerating Sophie, who seemed to have a magical touch in easing Pieter’s endless anxieties. He could endure the glare of her happiness on Pieter’s behalf. And if buying Sophie a fancy climate observatory made her happy, perhaps it would help lift his own mood, as well. Even thinking of it brought a smile to one corner of his mouth.

Sophie made him long to be a better man, and that was something he had not felt in a long time.

9

J
UNE
FADED
INTO
J
ULY
, and Sophie had never enjoyed herself more as she cooked for the household and mentored Pieter on the roof. The Vandermarks had been here almost a month, and she’d established a tentative peace with most of the men.

All except Quentin, who maintained a stony silence whenever she entered a room. She sometimes overheard him joking with his men, but his humor evaporated whenever he spotted her.

“Miss Sophie, do you want to see the salamander I found?”

Pieter’s innocent voice interrupted Sophie’s thoughts as she cut steam vents into the top of a newly assembled peach pie. Pieter hovered in the arched doorway to the kitchen, a box clutched in his arms.

Last week she had shown Pieter a mud crab down by the river, turning it over so he could see how the female crab carried a clutch of eggs on her belly. Pieter was fascinated by it, and ever since he’d been prowling the riverbank to collect other reptiles, usually dragging them up to the house for her to admire.

She glanced over at Florence, who was peeling potatoes. “Will
you get these pies in the oven? I have a salamander that needs looking at.”

The old housekeeper shuffled over to tend the three pies. Between the two of them, they were managing to keep up with the cooking, but just barely. The men in this household had big appetites, and she was getting accustomed to baking three pies at a time.

Sophie followed Pieter to the cozy parlor overlooking the river but drew back when she saw Quentin ensconced at the table, the demolition plan for the second floor laid out before him. Each day, the plan became more detailed as he completed the calculations for the distribution of dynamite. She hated the sight of that plan. The plans for the first two floors were almost complete. With only one more floor to map out, the time for the demolition was drawing near.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were using this room,” she said. “We’ll find somewhere else to go.”

“Not at all,” Quentin said. “I’d like for Pieter to join me.”

Pieter’s fingers curled about the box he clutched. “Do I have to?” Pieter asked, the apprehension plain in his voice.

Even from across the room, Sophie noticed the muscles in Quentin’s face tighten. What must it be like for your own son to constantly avoid you?

“Why don’t you show your father the salamander, too? It will be a treat for both of us,” Sophie said with as much excitement as she could muster.

Quentin pulled some of his drawings aside to make room for Pieter’s box. The boy trudged forward, reluctance in every step, but he obediently set the box on the table. Sophie’s eyes widened in surprise, for the “box” Pieter carried was a seventeenth-century tea caddy inlaid with hand-carved ivory.

“What on earth?” Quentin burst out. “You’re using an antique box to put salamanders in?”

“It was the only box I could find,” Pieter said defensively, and Sophie scrambled for a way to smooth over the incident.

“Show me your salamander,” she coaxed. “I’ll find a more appropriate box from the shed outside, and then I’ll be happy to clean up the tea caddy.”

The glossy black salamander jerked in panicky motions at the bottom of the box, and sadly, it had already made a mess. Pieter said he planned on releasing the salamander into the window well on the east side of the house, where he was collecting all manner of toads, frogs, and lizards. He brought them water and some of Sophie’s cookies every morning.

“I’m not sure they eat cookies,” she said.

Pieter smiled. “No, but the bugs do, and they’ve been eating the bugs.”

Sophie was pleased at Pieter’s cleverness, but Quentin was still annoyed. “I want that box cleaned up. And you’re not to make Miss Sophie do it. You caused the mess, you shall clean it up. That box is a valuable treasure worth more than most people earn in a year, and you’ve gone and spoiled it.”

It bothered her the way Pieter curled in on himself, losing whatever bit of pride he’d gleaned by capturing the salamander.

“It shouldn’t matter,” Pieter grumbled. “It’s just going to get blown up with the rest of the house.”

“I don’t care,” Quentin snapped. “That box was not yours to ruin, and you will learn proper respect and clean it immediately.”

Sophie lost interest in the box, dumbfounded at what she’d just heard. “You are going to destroy everything? The contents of the house, too?”

“Everything,” Quentin confirmed.

It staggered her. All the furniture, the grand paintings, the antiques filling every drawer and cupboard in this majestic, stately house. Her heart squeezed, thinking of the books in the library that had been her window into the wider world.

“But why? It would be so easy to save the books and the art . . .”

“My grandfather wants everything blown up,” Pieter said. “We would get in trouble if we tried to take anything out of the house with us.”

“Why on earth would he insist on such a thing?” She held her breath, hoping Quentin would let Pieter answer. Children lacked guile and were sometimes the best source of unvarnished truth.

“This house is cursed,” Pieter said, his voice serious. “So is everything in it. We can’t take anything out of the house with us or the curse might escape. My grandfather said so.”

“Now what kind of person believes in such silly superstition?” she asked, pretending to speak to Pieter but staring directly at Quentin. “It makes no sense to destroy such treasures because of illogical superstition, does it?”

“Perhaps my grandfather’s motive isn’t based on superstition at all,” Quentin replied. “It could be the old man has a perfectly rational desire for wanting the contents destroyed along with the rest of the house. After all, there may be some evidence of a crime he wants destroyed.”

Having been raised in New Holland, she knew of the rumor that a fourteen-year-old Nickolaas Vandermark had murdered his father in the river.

“You don’t really believe that, do you?” Sophie asked.

“Many people do. After the walls come down, I’ve been ordered to douse the rubble with kerosene, set it on fire, and repeat the process until nothing but dust survives.” A bleak smile curved his mouth. “Quite thorough, isn’t he? I wonder what is in this house that he fears?”

There was a bitter twist to his face. Sophie knew Quentin didn’t believe in a Vandermark curse, yet he was prepared to carry out his grandfather’s senseless demands. How could a man of science and logic let himself be used this way? Did he have no respect for tradition? For the history embodied in this house?

The doorbell sounded. Pieter startled and clutched the box. “Who’s that?” he asked in an anxious voice. He scooted closer to Sophie, and within moments three bodyguards and Mr. Gilroy came tromping into the room.

“It’s probably just someone from the village,” Quentin said, but he shifted higher in his chair and eased his leg off its bed of pillows. “Collins, stay with us. Ratface and Atkinson, secure the other doors.”

“I’ll go see who it is,” Mr. Gilroy said, his voice a soothing contrast to the other men who seemed caught off guard by the unannounced stranger. Is this how rich people had to live? Pieter’s anxiety seemed extreme, but the damage done by the kidnappers was a fresh memory for him. Muffled voices came from the front hall, mixed with a little laughter. Surely that was a good sign, wasn’t it?

Footsteps echoed down the hallway and an old man, tall and narrow as a beanpole, stepped into the parlor.

“Grandpa!” Pieter shouted, racing across the room and into the laughing old man’s arms.

Quentin stood, his face grim. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Why, it seems someone thinks my visit is a very good idea,” the old man said in a good-humored tone, ruffling Pieter’s hair but locking a steely gaze on Quentin. He withdrew a bit to look down into Pieter’s adoring face. “What do you say, lad? Can a room be found for your old grandpa?”

“You can stay in my room. Please?” The boy’s voice brimmed with hope and, once again, Sophie felt a little bad for Quentin. The child was stiff and uncomfortable around his father, but the way he bloomed the instant Nickolaas Vandermark walked into the room was astounding. If Quentin had a beating heart beneath that block of ice, this had to hurt a bit.