Until the Dawn (6 page)

“Do you see that crook in the river where it curves in closer to the house?”

Mr. Gilroy nodded.

“That inlet has always been called Marguerite’s Cove, named after the original settler’s wife. It’s a strange little cove where oysters thrive, even though they’ve died almost everywhere else in the river. And over the oyster bed there are water lilies. Normally lilies only grow in fresh water. We are forty miles from the ocean, so the water is brackish, and science says it shouldn’t be possible for those lilies to grow, and yet they thrive. They bloom every morning and release a heavenly fragrance. Nothing seems to kill them.”

Mr. Gilroy braced his hands on the ledge, peering over to study the bend in the river as though hypnotized. “That’s the spot where Karl Vandermark’s body was found.”

“Yes.” She’d rather not dwell on the mysterious death of Karl Vandermark. It had happened sixty years ago and they’d probably never learn what caused a healthy man in the prime of life to die for no apparent reason. “It’s a lovely spot, and aside from the house, the lilies are what the artists who come here love to paint.”

“They’d have to be on Vandermark land to see the lilies,” Mr. Gilroy said.

“I suppose so.” She never discouraged the artists from setting up their easels, even when they strayed onto Vandermark land. It was a lovely spot and it seemed petty to chase them away.

“Quentin won’t like it. You’ll need to tell the artists they can’t trespass on private land.”

She turned to face him. “I understand he is entitled to privacy, but if Mr. Vandermark intends to live in New Holland, he shouldn’t alienate the town by banishing the artists. The artists and tourists who come here are this town’s lifeblood.”

“We haven’t come here to live,” he said.

“Then why are you here?”

Mr. Gilroy’s face was a little sad as he scanned the natural splendor of the countryside, the wild gardens, even her little weather station.

“It seems a shame,” he said sadly, “but we’ve come to tear the house down. Mr. Vandermark is drawing up the demolition plans as we speak. A pity, but in a month this house will be nothing but a pile of rubble on the ground.”

It couldn’t be true. Even Quentin Vandermark couldn’t be so pointlessly cruel and nasty as to destroy a house that was a landmark for the entire Hudson River.

Sophie grabbed the banister railing as she whirled down another flight of stairs, her feet barely touching the treads. This house dated all the way back to 1635, when the first Vandermarks traded with the Indians on this land. The cannon used to battle the French was still propped up on the edge of the cliff. This house was a microcosm of American history, and that horrible man wanted to waltz in and tear it down for no earthly reason?

She raced to the ground floor, following voices back to the kitchen, but she drew up short, stunned at the sight before her. Pieter sat at the old kitchen dining table where the staff took their meals. His father sat on the bench beside him, his arm draped affectionately around the boy’s shoulders as Pieter read in halting words from a fat volume laid out on the table. The boy spoke in Dutch, his father’s finger tracing along the page and correcting his pronunciation. It was a poignant sight, triggering a wellspring of deep longing and unfulfilled dreams.

Sophie froze, bewildered by this rush of unwelcome attraction. It was embarrassing to feel such things for a surly man like Quentin Vandermark, but he looked kind and protective with his arm around Pieter. Handsome, too. She swallowed hard and tried to smother this strange sense of yearning. Pieter looked up from the book, sending her a wide smile.

“Look at you, reading the old language just like a real
Dutchman,” Sophie said with an approving nod. “My family quit speaking Dutch generations ago.”

“My father does business in the Netherlands,” Pieter said. “He’s a famous architect who builds things all over the world.”

An architect who
seems to prefer destroying things rather than constructing them
. “So I hear.” She tamped down the bitter sentiment, scrambling for a polite way to ask what germ of insanity had warped Quentin Vandermark’s mind into thinking the demolition of a national treasure was a worthwhile use of his skills.

“I’ve heard rumors about the long-term fate of this house that I find difficult to believe,” she said, hoping her choice of words would fly over Pieter’s head, but the boy understood her perfectly.

“We’re going to blow the house up,” Pieter said, pride in his voice. “My father knows how to use dynamite.”

Dynamite?
This was even worse than she’d imagined. “Now, why would you do such a thing?” She tried to sound lighthearted, but this was awful, a desecration of something wonderful and rare.

“Because the house is cursed, and I hate it,” Pieter said.

His father sent him a sharp glare. “Pieter . . .”

The boy cleared his throat. “Um, we’re doing it because Grandpa asked us to. The house belongs to him, not us. We’re just doing it as a favor.”

“We’re doing it out of
loyalty
,” Mr. Vandermark said pointedly to his son. “We both owe Nickolaas a great deal, and it is his wish to return this piece of land to its natural state, without a house on top of it.”

She clenched the back of a chair so hard her knuckles hurt. This house was everything to her. It was beauty and mystery and a tiny piece of paradise. This man didn’t know the first thing about Dierenpark or he wouldn’t be so cavalier about tearing it down.

“You can’t,” she said weakly. “The town depends on this house. It would be wanton destruction to tear it down. An unimaginable catastrophe . . .”

There was more she wanted to add, but Pieter interrupted. “Do you know where the lanterns are? We couldn’t find them, and it was dark last night.”

A guilty pleasure took root, for if Mr. Vandermark hadn’t fired the servants so abruptly, they wouldn’t have been in the dark. Nevertheless, Pieter wasn’t to blame for what had happened, so she sent him a smile.

“Do you want to come hunting for them with me? I suspect I can find a few lanterns in short order.”

Pieter glanced back at the table. “I have to finish my breakfast first.”

The only thing on the kitchen table was a half-eaten apple that looked like it had been plucked off the tree outside. “All you’ve had is apples?”

Neither answered, but given the way Mr. Vandermark’s mouth tightened, she’d guessed right.

“We didn’t bring any food with us,” Pieter said. “And I don’t think anyone knows how to cook.”

Well, at last. A chance for her to become indispensable. “There are eggs in the larder outside, and some cheese, as well. Why don’t I fix you all a nice breakfast?”

Pieter’s delight was comical. “Yes, please!”

She motioned for Pieter to follow her to the larder and help carry in the food, but Mr. Vandermark’s voice stopped her.

“Wait until I have one of my men accompany you.”

“But the larder is right outside the back door.”

“You will wait for one of my men to accompany you.”

The demand didn’t seem odd to Pieter, but it seemed a waste of time to Sophie. The larder was visible from the window, a mere twenty yards away.

A bull-necked man finally arrived and introduced himself as Ratface. Sophie tried not to blanch. A disfiguring scar tracked across the middle of his forehead, through his eyebrow, and continued down his cheek, where it disappeared behind his ear. It was hard to even look at him, but surely he didn’t deserve such a horrible name.

“I only need to go to the larder outside the back door, Mr. Ratface.”

“Just Ratface,” he growled, leading the way.

Pieter didn’t seem to mind the surly man, and as they gathered eggs and cheese from the larder, he peppered her with questions the entire time. How long had she lived in New Holland? Why wasn’t she married? Would she come back to cook them lunch and dinner, too?

Sophie fielded the questions with good-natured aplomb but felt the horrible scrutiny of Mr. Ratface the entire time. Why would Mr. Vandermark have such rude servants? She had stored some cranberry muffins and a bowl of cherries in the cold larder. They wouldn’t last much longer, so she scooped them up, as well.

Things didn’t improve once they returned to the kitchen. The rude servant plopped himself on a stool in the corner of the kitchen, watching her every move as though she might be preparing to steal the silver. From the dining table, Mr. Vandermark also watched her.

She would not let these men disturb her. After lighting the oven, she popped the muffins inside the warming compartment to take the chill off. Cracking eggs into the bowl with practiced ease, she added a bit of cream, salt, and pepper and then began the soothing, rhythmic whisking of the eggs.

Preparing and serving food had always been a joy, for it made her appreciate the abundance of the world. It took over a year of sunshine and water for a tree to produce the cherries gleam
ing from the china bowl, and Sophie imagined she could smell those endless hours of sunlight distilled into the small piece of fruit. The black pepper came all the way from the wild Malabar coast of India, yet the tiny fragments of cracked pepper still carried an intense kick of flavor reminiscent of the land where it had been grown. The honey she drizzled over the cranberry muffins was a miracle of nature, gathered from thousands of wildflowers and transformed into this amazing substance so sweet it tasted like a summer day.

Pieter seemed eager to help and drew near as she poured the eggs into a cast-iron skillet sizzling with melted butter.

“See how the heat causes the bubbles to rise in the mixture?” Sophie asked. “I need to keep the eggs moving so the proteins in the eggs don’t burn, but you can’t stir too hard. That will cause all the air to escape. I spent a good two minutes whisking the mixture, and we want these eggs to be light and fluffy, right?”

“Can I stir?” Pieter asked.

It was an easy task, but the skillet was on an open flame and the handle was hot. She glanced to Mr. Vandermark for permission. His face was stern, but he gave a quick nod of consent.

“I’ll hold the handle, and you can use the spoon to keep the eggs moving.” She loved the way the boy slid in front of her, so trusting as he took the wooden spoon to nudge the eggs around the pan. “Perfect!” she said. “I’ll bet you’ve done this before.”

The boy seemed to grow a little taller. “Nope! This is my first time.”

“Well, you’re doing wonderfully. Keep stirring while I drop the cheese in.”

Two more of the brutish-looking servants and the governess joined them in the kitchen. With the scents of herbs and warm cranberry muffins permeating the house, it wouldn’t be long before the rest were here.

They were an imposing lot, all of them grim, suspicious, and
rude, but Sophie wasn’t going to let them spoil her morning, for there was something about sharing a meal that automatically brought people together. It was hard to resent someone you were breaking bread with. Forcing lightness into her tone, she glanced at the men and asked, “Who is going to set the table?”

They looked as confused as if she’d asked them to begin square dancing, but she refused to back down as she nodded to the top shelf. “The plates are over there, and you’ll find a cloth for the table in the sideboard.”

A couple of the men reluctantly moved toward the sideboard, and Sophie tipped the eggs onto a serving platter. Within minutes, a cloth was spread, the plates and pewter forks laid out, and Sophie carried platters of food to the table.

Sophie was not a perfect woman. She hadn’t been brilliant in school, she had a catastrophic history with romantic relationships, and her only sense of purpose in the world came from gathering and reporting weather statistics each day. But for all her shortcomings, she was an extraordinary cook, and everyone in New Holland knew it.

Soon Quentin Vandermark would know it, too.

It didn’t take long for groans of satisfaction to rise as the men began wolfing down the eggs. The governess was more restrained, but she allowed a grateful smile as Sophie brought the basket of warm cranberry muffins to the table.

“Those smell so delicious I think I’m about to faint,” the governess said as she reached for a muffin. The men around the table grunted and nodded as they reached for the basket.

Then she noticed Mr. Vandermark remained rigid in his chair across the room, glowering at her. “Aren’t you joining us?” Sophie asked him.

All the heads swiveled, forks paused in midair. Everyone looked guilty, as if they hadn’t realized they dove into their meals without waiting for their employer to join them.

“I’ve already eaten,” Quentin said bluntly.

“Are you sure?” Mr. Gilroy asked. “Apples aren’t very satisfying compared to this feast. This may be the best breakfast I’ve ever had.” The butler lifted a heaping forkful of eggs to his mouth and moaned with pleasure.

Mr. Vandermark’s face looked like it was carved from stone. “Food is a commodity,” he said. “A product that is bought and sold to fuel the human body, nothing more. I’ve got work to do.”

The vinegar in his tone stifled the merry conversation from moments ago. All that could be heard was the scratching of his pencil and the clatter of silverware against the plates as the guards ate in silence.