Until the Dawn (33 page)

It would be a terrible choice. The noise of insects and glare of the sun seemed to fade as she came to her senses.

She turned so she wouldn’t have to look at him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t think we would suit.”

“Why not?” he demanded. “Is it that fool Marten?”

“No!”

“Then why is he here? And don’t tell me it was to deliver tulip bulbs, because that’s hogwash and you know it.”

She turned to face him. “This has nothing to do with Marten. You and I would be unequally yoked.”

He blinked, his confusion apparent.

“My faith is what makes me who I am,” she said in a shaky voice. “Religion is important to me, and I couldn’t be married to a man who did not share that fundamental belief. You would grow to resent my devotion—”

“I said you could teach Pieter the Bible,” he said tightly.

“It’s not enough. You would eventually resent the way I lean on my faith. Even now, I can see you getting annoyed, as though if you glower enough it will shake me from this position. And I don’t want to be the only spiritual leader in a family. I would want my husband to help, to back me, and I will resent it if you can’t do that.”

“Sophie,” he said in a slow and tight voice, as though speaking to a child. “I need you to set aside your whimsical fantasies and think logically for a moment. You want this house. I want a mother for my son. There is a perfect solution if you can be rational enough to take the obvious step.”

The temptation that had held her briefly spellbound on the overhang vanished. Quentin was darkness and cynicism. If she tied herself to him, he would dim her spirit and drag her down with him. She wasn’t strong enough to save him. Only he could do that, and he had no interest in it.

“I’m sorry—”

He cut her off. “What is it that you want? Whatever it is, I’ll give it to you, just name your price.”

She stepped back. “Money can’t buy what I want.” All her life, she’d longed for the simple gift of a husband who could be a partner, to help lead her family toward a wholesome and meaningful life. Quentin was not that man.

“I have three buckets of oysters that need shucking,” she said quietly. “I won’t change my mind, and I implore you not to continue this conversation. It will only be an embarrassment to us both.”

She was moving before even finishing the sentence, desperate to put as much distance between herself and this mortifying conversation as possible.

18

I
F
S
OPHIE
KEPT
THE
HEAT
HIGH
ENOUGH
beneath the skillet, the sizzling of leeks and potatoes helped drown out the noise in her head. Two hours after Quentin’s bizarre proposal, she still couldn’t banish the outrageous thought from her mind, and she lifted the skillet higher, tipping it to keep the vegetables constantly moving in the pan. The bacon renderings she used to cook the vegetables filled the air with a mouthwatering aroma as the dinner neared completion. The kitchen was in full swing, with several bodyguards helping shuck oysters, Florence slicing bread and toasting it with garlic herbed butter, and Sophie frantically preparing the base for the chowder. This was the most important step, getting onions and potatoes to the perfect consistency before stirring in the flour, then the cream, broth, oysters, and a dash of white wine.

Quentin had been dressed nicer than she’d ever seen him. At first she’d thought he’d put on a coat because the day was unusually cool, but now she suspected he had dressed for a proper marriage proposal.

And she’d all but laughed in his face. One might think that
a girl who’d been engaged three times would have a little experience in such a situation, but this had taken her entirely by surprise.

She dreaded seeing him again. She should have been kinder. He had been extraordinarily decent to her over the past couple weeks. He’d been fun to work with as he helped with the proposal for the Weather Bureau. Their efforts had failed, but no one else in the village had bothered to help her, and Quentin not only respected her enough to work alongside her, he picked up the pieces when she fell apart after Dr. Clark’s rebuff. Quentin had been kind and decent to her, and in return she’d fled from his proposal as though he had leprosy.

An hour later, the celebratory feast was ready. The sun was beginning to set, and lanterns had been placed all around the terrace. Candles flickered from the tables, which were laden with baskets of warm bread, bowls of asparagus and snow pea salad, and of course, large tureens of oyster chowder. Platters of oysters on the half shell were set out for those who preferred their oysters raw. For dessert she had made a goat cheese tart and strawberry-rhubarb pie.

Professor Byron had brought his violin to the estate, and he played a merry tune as everyone gathered around the tables, serving themselves. It seemed a bit odd to be dining on fine, eighteenth-century china and cut-crystal glasses, but this mansion had hundreds of such place settings. Sophie stood to one side, a heavy, leaded-glass goblet in her hand as she watched people flushed with good cheer filling their bowls and scooping up hearty slices of warm bread.

She feared Quentin would be moody and menacing, but when he appeared on the terrace, his face was devoid of the frustration from earlier this afternoon. Mercifully, he’d changed out of the formal attire and wore a simple white shirt and dark wool pants, leaning heavily on his cane and keeping Pieter close to his side.

Pieter kept jumping in excitement, waiting in line for his first taste of an oyster. Nickolaas seemed to have shaken off his strange malaise and was enjoying the sight of Pieter screwing up his courage as the line delivered him to the bounty on the table.

“The taste will be disguised in the chowder, but a real man will eat his oysters raw,” Nickolaas said.

Pieter’s eyes grew round as he eyed the platter of raw oysters, artfully arranged on the half shells. The plate had been adorned with lettuce leaves and herbs, but only a simple marinade of rice wine vinegar, lemon juice, and a little pepper to season the oysters. The boy’s gaze tracked between the tureen and the platter then up to Quentin, who seemed equally amused by Pieter’s foray into the world of oysters. Without breaking eye contact with Pieter, Quentin reached for a raw oyster, held the shell to his lips, and tipped it back.

Quentin didn’t actually smile, but he came close as his dark eyes lit with amusement and the corners of his mouth tipped up a tiny degree. Still locking gazes with Pieter, Quentin casually tossed the oyster shell over the side of the terrace, where it clattered against the side of the cliff as it bounced back toward the shore.

A smattering of applause greeted Quentin’s actions, and Pieter stood a little straighter.

“I want to try it raw,” he said.

“Have at it, laddie!” one of the professors urged. The men pulled back from the table so Pieter had a perfect view of the oversized platter. Byron stopped playing the violin, and all watched as Pieter selected an oyster, his eyes growing rounder as he drew it near his face. Finally, he squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed the oyster with a mighty grimace.

The crowd roared with approval. Pieter smacked his lips in distaste but tried to appear brave as he tossed the shell over his shoulder as Quentin had done and then reached for another. The
music started again, and everyone served themselves. Quentin patted Pieter on the back.

“Well done, lad, but I hope you won’t miss out on Miss Sophie’s chowder. I hear it is legendary.”

She shrank a little as she leaned against the balustrade lining the terrace. Quentin’s voice carried no trace of malice, and he didn’t glance her way, although surely he knew she was here. Thank heaven he seemed as determined as she to ignore the mortifying conversation of this afternoon.

Marten joined her at the balustrade. “Your father is worried about you,” he said quietly. “He heard about the fiasco with the Weather Bureau.”

She dropped her head in resignation. It was going to be embarrassing to confess to her father that he’d been right all along. “It didn’t come to anything,” she acknowledged. “The director said that New Holland is a competitive location, but I won’t be a part of it.”

She still hoped they would build an observatory here. It would be a wonderful thing for their village—and wasn’t that what she had hoped for all along? But the evening was too perfect to waste dwelling on disappointments. She’d rather celebrate the splendid glimpses of joy when they appeared.

“I made a mignonette sauce for you,” she said, nodding to the covered dish beside the raw oysters. Most people did not care for the red wine sauce made with sweet onions and raspberry vinegar, but Marten loved it, and she was happy to make it for him.

“You’re the best, Sophie. I really should have married you that one time.”

She suppressed a smile. “Yes, you should have.”

“Miss Sophie, I swallowed three whole oysters, did you see me?” Pieter said as he came racing to her side.

“Indeed I did.” She tugged him against her for a quick hug.

Marten wandered away to sample the mignonette sauce, taking a generous helping and slathering some of it on the warmed herb bread, as well. She met Florence’s gaze across the other side of the terrace, the older woman’s eyes crinkling in understanding. Sophie had wept plenty of tears on Florence’s shoulders during those terrible months after Marten jilted her. How long ago that seemed now. On a perfect summer evening, with candlelight flickering and surrounded by dozens of people enjoying the bounty pulled from the river and the land, her life seemed blessed. Not perfect, but still blessed. It was a joy to see so many people savoring her food, gathered around the table to swap stories and share one another’s company.

Mr. Gilroy approached her, his face a polite mask. “Aren’t you eating?” he asked.

“Not yet.” She folded her arms, watching the others settle in and feast on the meal. “I can never eat at the beginning of a meal. I like to be sure everything is acceptable before I can relax enough to eat.”

He gave a knowing smile. “If it came out of your kitchen, I suspect it will be more than merely
acceptable
.”

She hoped so, too. Quentin still hadn’t tasted her chowder, and she’d worked so hard to be sure it was perfect. Truly, Quentin’s opinion of her cooking shouldn’t matter. He was sitting with a group of the biologists, listening to Professor Morris discuss his research on the aquatic fly. Pieter sat listlessly beside his father, for once not engrossed by what the biologists were saying.

She leaned her hip on the balustrade, occasionally sipping from her goblet of water and listening to Professor Byron’s music. As the sun set, the first fireflies came out.

“I don’t feel good,” she heard Pieter say to Quentin.

“Perhaps you’ve eaten too much,” Quentin said then turned his attention back to Professor Morris.

“I didn’t eat too much, I just don’t feel good,” Pieter replied. His speech was a little slurred, and Sophie’s gaze narrowed. Had he gotten into the wine? Several of the professors had been imbibing from bottles of chilled white wine, but she hadn’t noticed Pieter filching any. She pushed away from the balustrade and headed toward Pieter’s side.

“What do you mean?” Quentin asked, his gaze narrowing. “What doesn’t feel good?”

“My throat hurts. And my tongue feels funny.”

Quentin grabbed Pieter’s chin and tilted the boy’s face to the light of the lantern. Even from a few yards away, Sophie saw Quentin’s face go white.

“His lips are turning blue,” he said. “Someone go for a doctor.”

The music skidded to a stop, but before anyone could speak, Pieter doubled over and threw up onto the flagstones. He coughed and sputtered, dragging air into his lungs with a mighty wheeze.

Only moments later, Marten doubled over and was violently sick, as well.

“I’ll go for a doctor,” Mr. Gilroy said with uncharacteristic alarm. “Ratface, come with me.”

She was grateful for Mr. Gilroy’s speed as he saddled a horse and raced from the estate, for within ten minutes, five more men had become violently sick.