Until the Dawn (8 page)

“I don’t eat mushrooms,” Pieter said. “They spring up overnight where the evil fairies dance in circles on the lawn. If you
come too close, the fairies will trap you inside and you’ll never get out.”

Miss McCarthy laughed. “How right you are! My grandmother used to say that if you run around the fairy ring nine times, it confuses the fairies and the people trapped inside can get away.”

Quentin stalked into the kitchen as fast as his bad leg allowed. After months trying to undo the damage done by Nickolaas, the last thing he wanted was a silly governess reinforcing Pieter’s irrational beliefs. He stood in the doorway to the kitchen, and the governess looked up in surprise.

“Miss McCarthy, you may collect your belongings,” he said bluntly. “Mr. Gilroy will provide you with two weeks’ severance pay, and then you will be escorted back to New York. Tonight.”

“Did I do something wrong?” she gasped.

“You were warned that my son often indulges in harmful superstitions, and that when he voices them you were to require him to say that if he can’t see it or touch it, it is not real. You have not done so. I will inform Mr. Gilroy of your imminent departure.”

There was no need. Mr. Gilroy was leaning against the doorframe on the opposite side of the kitchen, watching the incident with disapproving eyes. It didn’t matter. If Mr. Gilroy didn’t like it, he could quit.

Which might be a good thing. It was hard not to like Mr. Gilroy, but the man was nothing more than a spy for his grandfather. Mr. Gilroy didn’t even bother to deny it anymore, but Quentin tolerated it because if he got rid of the butler, Nickolaas would figure out how to slip another spy into his household who might do considerable damage before Quentin spotted him.

After Miss McCarthy was hustled from the kitchen, Quentin glanced at the bowl of freshly washed mushrooms amid the vegetables on the kitchen work table. Limping forward, he scooped
one up and popped it into his mouth. The mushroom was raw and flavorless, but he locked eyes with Pieter as he chewed and swallowed. The boy looked mortified, as though Quentin had just swallowed a live goldfish.

“You know what you’re having for dinner,” he said firmly.

Pieter shrank two inches, and his eyes grew wide. “Please don’t make me,” he whispered.

“Mushrooms are a perfectly healthy food. They grow quickly because after a heavy rain they expand with water at a rapid rate, and that’s why it appears they spring up overnight. They are an outgrowth of decayed tree roots, which explains why they grow in circles. It’s science, Pieter. It has nothing to do with fairies or magic or anything else your grandfather told you.”

Three of the bodyguards loitered in the hallway outside the kitchen, waiting for dinner. Quentin pushed the bowl of mushrooms toward Pieter then used his cane to pull the bread, fruit, and cheese to the opposite side of the table.

“When you get two mushrooms down, you can eat anything else you want. Otherwise you’ll go to bed with nothing.”

Pieter’s face froze in revulsion, but Quentin wasn’t going to coddle the boy. He left the kitchen, pushing past the men gathered in the hall.

“Seems a little mean, sir,” Ratface muttered as Quentin passed.

He stiffened. Ratface was the toughest of his bodyguards, plucked straight from the squalid underbelly of New York where he ran interference for Irish street gangs. He’d hired Ratface because he was a sharp-eyed man capable of forecasting the behavior of gutter rats. The Vandermark family was a perpetual target for kidnappers, lawsuits, and blackmailers, and he needed ruthless men to be on constant surveillance. To be labeled
mean
by a man like Ratface was nothing to be proud of.

But the biggest danger to Pieter wasn’t kidnappers. It was the
paralyzing fear that had been planted, nurtured, and reinforced by Nickolaas Vandermark. How was Quentin supposed to undo the damage his grandfather had embedded in his son? Patience wasn’t working. Neither was logic or distance from Nickolaas. When he took custody of Pieter back from his grandfather last month, they both agreed it was best for Nickolaas to be scarce while father and son became accustomed to each other again. The Vandermark name carried vast burdens and responsibilities, and it was his duty to ensure that Pieter would be strong enough to shoulder them. It was unlikely either he or Nickolaas would be alive to see Pieter into adulthood, and it was time for the boy to overcome his childish fears and superstitions.

“If that boy eats a morsel of food before he finishes the mushrooms, you’re all fired without references.”

He slammed the door behind him.

The first thing the next morning, Quentin hobbled outside to sit on the front portico of the mansion, his head leaning against the stone balustrade, his leg stretched out before him. It had been impossible to sleep last night, and he was exhausted as he rose before dawn and staggered outside, hoping the morning air would revive him.

He shouldn’t have been so hard on Pieter last night. The boy had refused to eat a single mushroom and had gone to bed hungry. A little stubbornness from a nine-year-old could be forgiven, but superstitious nonsense was dangerous. Generations of Vandermarks had come of age believing their family was uniquely cursed, and he had to stop any hint of pointless superstitions from taking root in Pieter.

He covered his face with his hand, remorse consuming him. The truth was—and it shamed him to admit it—he didn’t know how to be a good father. Both of his parents had died when he
was a baby, and being raised by Nickolaas Vandermark hadn’t exactly shown him the model of a wise and loving father.

The ache in his chest swelled, and he squeezed his eyes against the pain of remorse. All he’d ever wanted in life was to be a solid man and a good father, but he was failing at both.

He still remembered with aching clarity the morning of Pieter’s birth. It was the most perfect day of his life. He’d been in the room for it all, for nothing could drag him from his wife’s side that day. As the time drew near, the doctor ordered him to a far corner and draped a privacy sheet across Portia’s knees, but Quentin watched her face as she labored to deliver the child they both desperately wanted. She’d been so brave, crying out only at the very end when her head rolled back on the pillow as Pieter slipped from her body. Then she started laughing and weeping in joy, Pieter’s cries joining hers.

The proudest moment of Quentin’s life came only seconds later when Pieter was placed in his arms, a tiny, wriggling infant wrapped in a towel and still wet from birth. His little face was wrinkled, his eyes squeezed shut. He was twisting and whimpering in despair, and Quentin’s entire heart split open.

“Hush, baby,” he soothed, rocking the tiny infant against his chest. “Hush now. Don’t you know I would do anything in the world for you?”

And he would. He would lay down his life to protect this miraculous gift that had just been placed in his arms. As if sensing the love radiating from him, Pieter’s muscles eased and his eyes opened, staring up at him with a solemn gaze. Quentin was struck speechless with wonder, the bond growing by the second. Through eyes swimming in tears, he looked to Portia, propped up on the bed, watching them both with an exhausted smile on her face.

Moving to the bed, he sat on the mattress, tilting the baby so Portia could see. “Look at him, Portia. Just look at him . . .”
He wanted to say more, but there were no words to describe how happy and proud he was.

Portia reached for the baby, and he set Pieter in her arms. Portia turned her face into the column of his throat. He held her as they both wept for joy, and for that brief moment, he knew that he and Portia would overcome the chasms in their marriage and become a real family.

It hadn’t worked out that way. Portia died before Pieter’s first birthday, and then he broke his leg less than a year later. The descent into sickness and depression had been swift. Not that his life had ever been perfect, but the nascent stirrings of hope had been extinguished by a series of catastrophes. And despair of the soul had proven so much harder than the pain in his body.

Quentin scrubbed a hand across his face, forcing the memories away. The only logical way to proceed was to try doing better by Pieter in the future.

He drew a deep breath and scanned the meadow before him. A stand of ancient juniper trees encircled the meadow, creating a haven within its sheltering rim. The grounds were overgrown, with grasses and wildflowers flourishing in profusion. A pair of butterflies fluttered through the overgrowth. Blackberry vines twined through a fence that protected an herb garden. The call of a meadowlark sounded from a nearby apple tree laden with fruit.

He blinked, realizing this might possibly be the most beautiful place he’d ever seen. There was a tranquility here, made of warm earth and dappled sunlight and a green, soothing scent. It looked like a primeval kingdom, a lost paradise, a memory of ruined perfection.

He’d never been here before, but it seemed oddly familiar, as though he had dreamed it once, or perhaps seen it in a grand painting. It seemed . . . well,
magical
was the only word he could think of for it.

Which was nonsense. He was here on a mission, not to squander time waxing poetic over a long-neglected meadow. That irksome Sophie person was likely to arrive soon. Pieter would be famished by now, and perhaps he’d have Sophie cook breakfast for them again. He sensed she’d be willing to cook in exchange for permission to keep tending that weather station on the roof.

As though answering his thoughts, Sophie emerged from the dense screen of trees, ambling toward the house with a smile as bright as the morning. Her blond hair spilled over one shoulder in a loose braid, and she carried a cloth-covered basket. A single daisy was tucked behind one ear. Decades of training required him to rise to his feet. It was ungainly, but he managed to stand and brace his cane beneath him before she reached the portico.

“I’ve brought an orange loaf,” she declared with a smile as she halted before him.

His cane shot out and blocked her entrance. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to get up onto the roof.”

“Your powers of foresight have me in awe.” Humor underlay her words and it was contagious, but he refused to give in to the impulse to laugh with her. The orange loaf in that covered basket smelled so tempting it made him weak. It smelled of butter and citrus and endless Mediterranean skies.

“My son is hungry,” he said bluntly.

“Hence the orange loaf. It’s got dried cranberries and a vanilla glaze.”

His stomach started to growl. “We will require another round of scrambled eggs like you made yesterday. Mr. Gilroy has already purchased the ingredients. After you make breakfast, you may have access to the roof.”

She hesitated. “It is important that I gather the data at the same time each morning. All the volunteers are asked to take their readings before nine o’clock. The data is more meaningful
if it is standardized. I’ll go take the weather readings then get breakfast started.”

He conceded, more out of respect for science than any kindness on his part. He did not want to stress his leg so early in the day, so he lowered himself to sit on the front step. It annoyed him that she felt free to sit beside him.

“What do you do with the data once you collect it?” he asked.

“There is a telegraph machine at my father’s hotel, and he wires it to the Weather Bureau. In exchange, the town gets free weather predictions for the Hudson Valley wired to us each evening.”

“But what do
you
get out of it? You’re the one who is doing all the work.”

She answered without hesitation. “I get immense satisfaction. It is a privilege to be a part of this endeavor. Last year there was a week of terrible storms upstate and we were notified of a flood heading our way. Farmers were able to move their livestock to higher ground and get their hay inside well ahead of the storm. Without that warning, thousands of cows and sheep would have drowned.”

“And you do this for free,” he pressed.

“We all do it for free.” She said it like
he
was the simpleton, not she.

“Then you are being taken advantage of. If the warnings issued by the Weather Bureau saved the valley’s livestock, you ought to be compensated. The system will only work on goodwill for so long before it breaks down.”

The music of her laughter rivaled the birdsong in the distance. She uncovered the basket, the warm scent of the buttery cake rising from within. “Would you like a slice of orange loaf? I baked it even before I knew you intended to haggle over access to the roof like a real robber baron. People aren’t always motivated by money. Sometimes they do things just to be kind.”

She tilted the basket toward him. The cream-colored loaf was drenched in a vanilla glaze and flecked with bits of dried fruit and lemon zest. His mouth watered. He hadn’t been hungry until she’d started waving that basket in his face. He folded his arms and narrowed his eyes.

“So you consider yourself
kind
, do you?”

“I hope so.” She seemed a little miffed he wanted nothing to do with her fancy bread and withdrew the basket.