Until the Dawn (5 page)

“I’m still waiting for you to explain your entirely unwelcome visit.”

“I need to get up onto the roof to check the weather station. I take measurements every morning, and there was a storm
last night, so it’s especially important for me to check the rain gauge right away.”

“A weather station? Explain yourself.”

“It’s very exciting,” Sophie said. “The government has a new agency called the Weather Bureau, and they’ve set up thousands of stations all across the country where volunteers keep track of the climate. After I take the readings, I telegraph the information to Washington, where scientists chart all the data onto huge maps and try to predict the weather. They’ve gotten very good at alerting people when trouble is on the horizon.”

Admirable, but he was still peeved this had been taking place on Vandermark property without their permission.

“What exactly is up on my roof?”

For the first time, she had the good sense to look a little apprehensive. “Just a metal shed to keep the equipment dry and protected from the wind. There’s a barometer, a thermometer, a weather vane, and a rain gauge. I’ll just step upstairs and be a few moments.”

“You’ll do no such thing, other than make arrangements to get that equipment off my roof. It was presumptuous of you to set up a private business in my house.”

“But it’s not a business, I’m a volunteer. There are three thousand weather stations in this country and the government can’t afford to pay us, so we do it for free.”

“Then you’re an idiot. If the government valued your work, they’d find a way to pay for it. I don’t want you tromping through my house every morning, so you’ll have to find another place to work your acts of goodness and mercy. Now get out of here. You’re trespassing.”

A blush stained her cheeks, a sign he was getting to her, which was good. She had participated in a gross misuse of his property and ought to feel at least a little shame.

Instead, it appeared she was ready to challenge him.

“Sir, I have been coming to this house to take climate readings for the past nine years. I have come every single morning without fail. Through ice storms and floods. On every Easter and every Christmas. I came when I had influenza and could barely walk a straight line. I came on the day my mother died and on the day she was buried.” Her voice wobbled a little, but instead of dissolving in tears, she straightened her spine and got stronger.

“Maybe some people don’t understand loyalty,” she continued, “but there are thousands of farmers and sailors who need me to take those measurements and get the data to Washington. They depend on accurate weather forecasts based on something more than irrational and superstitious guesswork. Our predictions are based on a solid foundation of scientific fact. I won’t let a rich, privileged outsider dissuade me from that duty.”

Quentin didn’t move a muscle. Didn’t let a hint of emotion show on his face. He stared at her until she lost a little starch and started to fidget.

“Go upstairs and take your measurements,” he said quietly.

The way she sucked in a quick little breath indicated she was surprised, but she shouldn’t be. If she knew the first thing about him, it was that his entire life was devoted to the triumph of science over superstition and quackery. He knew very little about the Weather Bureau, but if the men in Washington were basing their findings on real data rather than superstition, he would support it.

“Go on,” he prodded.

She flashed him a little smile and darted for the hallway. He clenched his fist, irritated that her smile appealed to him. A girl like Sophie van Riijn probably had healthy young men all over the village lining up for her affections. The last thing she’d welcome was a crippled, embittered recluse who couldn’t stand on his own two feet without the aid of a cane.

The moment the door closed behind her, he glanced at Mr. Gilroy. “Follow her. Find out what’s up there.”

3

S
OPHIE
DASHED
UP
TO
THE
ROOF
, grateful for the brief reprieve from the dangerous man downstairs. He looked like he drank vinegar for breakfast, and she wasn’t sure how to get on his good side. Or if he even had a good side.

She didn’t want to move her weather station, for the government was exacting in their requirements for site selection. The stations needed to be high off the ground, with no neighboring buildings or natural impediments to interfere with wind readings. The roof of Dierenpark was perfect, and the fact that she loved this old estate made it a natural choice.

A wide section on the roof had been created as a widow’s walk with a fine view of the river. There was a time when ships laden with furs and timber left from the Vandermark pier to transport their goods to the mighty trading ports of Rotterdam, London, and the West Indies—but that was long ago. The Vandermarks had moved their shipping empire to Manhattan, and now the pier was only a shadow of its former glory.

She was surprised when the butler joined her on the roof, but he seemed to be a kind man, despite his imposing appearance.

“Is Mr. Vandermark always so difficult?” she asked the butler. She didn’t want to seem rude, but she needed to know what she was up against in order to help Florence and Emil get their jobs back. Last night, Sophie had found space for Florence and Emil at her father’s hotel, but that couldn’t last for long. The hotel was barely surviving on the thin trickle of tourists, and they couldn’t offer the rooms to non-paying guests for very long.

“It has always been a privilege to work for the Vandermarks,” Mr. Gilroy said, his smooth voice the epitome of diplomacy.

“Yes, but what’s it
like
?” she pressed as she marked down the rain measurements in her journal.

“It has been interesting,” Mr. Gilroy replied. “Mr. Vandermark’s work as an architect has taken us throughout the world. We’ve lived in Hamburg, Cairo, and Amsterdam. We rarely stay anywhere more than a year, so I’ve seen most of Europe, Scandinavia, and America. We lived for a year in Moscow and spent a week in the czar’s palace.”

It was hard to imagine living in so many interesting places, but the Vandermarks were one of the richest families in America and had homes and estates all over the world. She’d spent her entire life within a few miles of this spot, but she liked it that way. She felt at peace here and had no ambition to leave it.

It seemed Mr. Gilroy appreciated this view, as well. “It’s so tranquil here,” he said as he braced his forearms on the ledge, his face wistful as he surveyed the miles of rolling hills blanketed by pine, sycamore, and spruce trees. An eagle soared on an updraft, hovering on the wind before peeling away to the wilderness below.

She joined Mr. Gilroy at the overlook, closing her eyes to feel the soft breeze on her face. “I love it up here,” she said. “Somehow it feels like I am at the edge of something very special, with all of creation spread out before me. I feel closer to
God here. When I’m troubled, there is no place I’d rather be than right here at Dierenpark.”

“Forgive me, Miss van Riijn, but yesterday the tour guide mentioned a young woman and her three fiancés. I presume he was referring to you?”

“That was me,” she admitted. “I’ve been ready to walk down the aisle three times but never quite got there. Losing Albert was the hardest.”

Over the next hour, Mr. Gilroy listened as she poured her heart out. Albert was a widower who’d owned the apothecary shop in town, and he’d been almost twenty years older than she. At first he was reluctant because of the difference in their ages, but over time the affinity between them became impossible to deny and they got engaged after only three months of courtship. Then Albert began having difficulty with his breathing. They’d thought it would pass quickly, but the lung specialist he’d consulted in the city had told him otherwise. Within five months he was dead.

Albert had been her third fiancé and, in hindsight, the only one she’d truly loved. It had been more than a year since he’d died, but she still thought of him daily.

“And the other two? How did they die?” Mr. Gilroy asked gently. For a moment she was confused, but then she remembered Marten’s ghoulish assertion that all her fiancés
came to a bad end
.

“They’re both still alive,” Sophie answered. “But Roger Wilson is in prison and probably will be for at least another year.”

Roger had been her second fiancé, and they’d become engaged when she was twenty-two. He was a clerk at the bank, and she’d thought he would be a good father and provider. She desperately wanted children, and Roger adored her, bringing her endless presents and painting wonderful pictures of what their life could be like. Later she learned that all the presents were
bought with funds he embezzled from the bank. He claimed it was because he wanted to please her and a clerk’s salary would never be good enough for a girl like her.

“Roger never really knew me,” Sophie said with a sad smile. “Money doesn’t matter to me nearly so much as needing to feel safe. What girl doesn’t want to feel safe and protected? Marriage to a man who lined his pockets by stealing was a guaranteed lifetime of insecurity. I’m lucky to have learned the truth before we married.”

Mr. Gilroy said nothing, but his gentle face radiated sympathy, which was a relief after the way others in the village had treated the scandal. They had whispered behind their hands and snickered as she passed. It was mortifying to have been dazzled by Roger’s gifts and flattery. She rarely talked to anyone about the shameful incident, but something about Mr. Gilroy’s kindly demeanor made her feel like she could share anything with him.

The wind ruffled his hair, and he looked at her with compassion and waited to hear the tragic tale of her third fiancé.

“My other fiancé was Marten Graaf, the tour guide who was so gleefully recounting the story yesterday morning.”

The way Mr. Gilroy blanched summoned a bubble of laughter from Sophie. “Marten and I were childhood sweethearts. We were promised to one another forever and were supposed to get married when I was eighteen. Six days before the wedding, he got cold feet and fled to New York City. The only
tragedy
about Marten is that he’s making a living by exaggerating stories to appeal to the tourists.”

“I thought I caught a whiff of hogwash arising from him,” Mr. Gilroy said.

She had to laugh at that. “It was a lucky escape.” Although it hadn’t felt so at the time. Sophie had always believed she was meant to be a wife and a mother, and she couldn’t understand why God had given her this longing if she was to be forever
disappointed. Her entire being churned with hope and the need to be useful. Maybe that was why she put such stock in tending the weather station.

“Who are those people watching the house?”

Sophie followed Mr. Gilroy’s gaze. Nestled in a clearing on the edge of the property, a handful of artists had set up easels and were laying out supplies.

“Artists come here all the time to paint or take photographs.”

The way Mr. Gilroy scrutinized the group of artists was odd. He looked as fierce as a hawk ready to pounce.

“They’re harmless,” she assured him, hoping this wasn’t going to be a problem. Most tourists came through on the steamboats and lingered for only an hour, buying a few trinkets or something to eat. Sophie was proud of how she’d managed to convince the steamboat companies to stop at Dierenpark. It generated a modest revenue, but it wasn’t enough to support the people of New Holland. The artists were different. They flocked to the Hudson River Valley to paint the natural splendor and the gothic beauty of Dierenpark. Sometimes they came for weeks or months, living in her father’s hotel and patronizing the local establishments. The town needed the patronage of the artists.

“Do these people come regularly?”

“Almost every day,” she admitted. “The house tends to be their favorite subject, but they also paint landscapes, and the water lilies at the base of the cliff are especially popular.”

“Show me.”

Mr. Gilroy’s tone was tense, and his concern still seemed odd, but she’d humor him since it was important to have him on her side. He seemed to be the only one of the group that had arrived yesterday with an ounce of compassion.