3
SOPHIE 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.
“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 gleaming 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.
Sophie returned to the kitchen, systematically cracking another round of eggs and seasoning them with practiced hands. Quentin Vandermark was going to be a challenge. He didn’t seem to have a trace of warmth or compassion in his entire body. He wouldn’t even accept food from her—how was she going to convince him not to destroy Dierenpark? Or perhaps coax him into rehiring Emil and Florence?
All her life, Sophie had tried to look for the good in people. No matter how surly, disrespectful, or difficult, she believed there was a spark of goodness inside each person, but she had never met anyone quite like Quentin Vandermark. He seemed clouded by an iron cynicism he hid behind like a shield.
Would it be possible for such a ferocious man to ever soften? She sensed there was a seed of humor and decency buried deep inside, but it would take professional mining equipment to dig it out and drag it to the surface, and he would probably fight tooth and nail to stop it from happening. Sometimes unhappy people were like that. It was easier to remain locked in their fortress of discontent rather than risk the pain associated with emerging into the light of day.
She finished breakfast quickly, for it was important to get back to town and telegraph today’s weather data to Washington by noon. Each time she sent off the messages, she liked to imagine the men in Washington as they added her data alongside the messages from thousands of other volunteers. The scientists would transfer her information onto their giant maps and try to make sense of it all. Perhaps it was pathetic that her entire sense of self-worth was based on this simple duty, but most women her age had husbands or children to give them a sense of purpose. She had daydreams of anonymous scientists in Washington who breathlessly awaited her daily messages.
She couldn’t bear to think what would happen if Dierenpark was torn down. She had to convince Quentin to leave the house alone, but how did one appeal to a man who had no curiosity, no desire, no kindness?
She would have to think of a way. She could not let Dierenpark be destroyed.
Sophie’s father was equally horrified at the prospect of the great mansion’s demise. Sitting alongside him behind the mahogany front counter in the hotel lobby, she could barely wait until he finished telegraphing her climate data before recounting everything she’d learned that morning.
Her father was the perfect ally to help save the house. Not only was he the mayor of New Holland, he was also an attorney who was prepared to use those skills to thwart Quentin Vandermark.
After the Vandermarks had left New Holland sixty years ago, the timber mills closed and industry dwindled. The village survived on fishing, but over the decades the fish stocks declined and the fishermen were forced to leave. There was no longer enough business to support an attorney in the village, and since serving as mayor paid nothing, her father poured his life’s savings into this hotel in hopes of encouraging the tourist industry. He pressured journalists to write favorable articles about the climate and scenic beauty of New Holland. He took out advertisements in Manhattan publications touting their close proximity to the city and a balmier climate than the Adirondacks. Sophie had used her friendship with Marten Graaf to encourage the steamships to add Dierenpark to their stops along the Hudson before heading up toward the more popular tourist destinations in the Catskills and Adirondacks.
Her father had helped fuel the legend of the Vandermark family’s tragic history, although he hadn’t made it up from whole cloth. Despite their staggering fortune, the Vandermarks had been visited by tragedy in each generation, beginning with the first two brothers to emigrate from the Netherlands. While one brother worked on building the house and constructing the pier, the other traveled far and wide to form alliances with the various Indian groups in the vicinity. It proved to be his downfall when he was murdered by one of the Indian tribes only five years after arriving. That tragic death seemed to have set the tone for the bad luck, suspicion, and bitterness that grew with each generation. Even after the family fled Dierenpark, tragedy seemed to follow them, with a string of untimely deaths and scandals that happened no matter where they lived.
Her father paced the lobby of the hotel, rubbing his jaw in concentration. Whenever there was a problem, Jasper van Riijn could usually solve it. The hotel lobby was a perfect example. Five years ago, her father decided that cultivating a lively sense of community would help dissuade people from moving away from the village. He redesigned the hotel’s lobby with decorative moldings and fresh paint, filling the space with comfortable seating and tables for people who wished to socialize or play cards. Ferns in brass planters helped warm the space, and the room had become so popular it now doubled as the town hall. Sophie took a seat at one of the tables as her father paced.
“What about the mills?” he asked. “Do you think they’ll reopen the timber mills?”
“I don’t think they intend to stay for very long. After destroying the house, they plan to return the land to its natural state. They didn’t give any indication of wanting to stay in New Holland beyond that.”
“You said the house belongs to the grandfather, not this Quentin fellow. Perhaps we can take some legal cover there. Unless they have a written affidavit from the old man, I intend to stop it.”
Sophie shook her head. “They claimed to be demolishing the house on the grandfather’s orders. I’m not sure the village has a right to tell them what they can or can’t do on their own property.”
“Sophie, there won’t be a village if that house goes,” her father retorted.
“What if the Weather Bureau decides to build a climate observatory here?”
Her father sighed. “Not that again,” he said, and Sophie winced at the frustration in his voice.
In recent years, the Weather Bureau had begun building upgraded facilities along the coastlines and rivers of the eastern seaboard. The new stations were far more prestigious than the volunteer weather station Sophie manned on top of Dierenpark. Each observatory would have at least ten employees, and Sophie desperately wanted one of those jobs for herself.
Ever since hearing of the new climate observatories, Sophie had been steadily working to get one located in New Holland. She had already written to the Weather Bureau, asking how to nominate a prospective location. She began compiling a proposal that explained New Holland’s key location for transmitting news up and down the Hudson, and had started a petition to demonstrate the town’s support. She even used her modest savings to fund a geographical survey of the surrounding area to tout the location.
“We are on an important river.” Sophie hoped her voice didn’t sound too defensive. “We’ve got high altitude, which will make our signal lamps visible for miles in all directions. If I could only—”
“Sophie, they’ll never hire you,” her father said. “I can’t bear to see you longing for something that will never happen. It’s time to give up this fool’s dream.”
She swallowed hard. It hurt that even her own father didn’t believe in her abilities. Over the past few months, her work to collect signatures for the petition had made her something of a laughingstock in town. The postman pointed out two spelling errors in the petition she drafted. Marten reminded her that she’d failed natural science in school and questioned why the government would trust her judgment.
No one believed in her. No one thought she should even try.
In a perfect world, she would already be a wife and a mother, but she’d failed three times to land that dream. She had to do something with the rest of her life, and over the past few months she had drafted and rewritten her proposal for an upgraded climate observatory at least a dozen times—but had yet to submit it. She didn’t know anything about how to write a proper business proposal and was groping blindly in the dark. Maybe in fifty years she would be an old spinster still fiddling with this outlandish proposal, but it was better than giving up, for nothing was more debilitating to the human soul than the loss of all hope.
Sophie didn’t have much to brag about in this world, but her ability to nurture the flame of hope in the face of despair had been her salvation all her life. And that meant she intended to fight to win a climate observatory for New Holland, just as she was going to fight for Dierenpark.