15

NEVER IN SOPHIE’S LIFE had she felt so needed. With twelve professors, six bodyguards, and the three Vandermarks, she was cooking morning, noon, and night. No sooner had breakfast been served than she started lunch. Each day, she baked six loaves of bread. She sliced meat and cheese until new muscles began forming in her arms. Pieter kept her supplied with baskets of blueberries and cherries for pies. Walking the two miles to and from the village each day sapped her already flagging energy, and it became apparent she ought to move into the house while the research teams completed their work.

Her father consented only because Florence was there. She and Florence shared a bedroom on the top floor of the house, and Sophie now had more time to spend with Pieter. The boy was fascinated by the biologists and loitered at the river to watch them each day. He peppered them with endless questions about birds and plants and what made the sky blue. Sophie was curious, too. She had never done particularly well in school, but these men seemed to know everything about nature, and she soaked up the knowledge they were happy to share.

No matter how busy her day, each afternoon Sophie found time to join Quentin on the outcropping above the river. He seemed unusually attracted to the isolated spot, spending the majority of every afternoon there. He usually brought a stack of reading material with him, but oftentimes when she joined him the book was splayed open on his lap while he stared off into the distance. The moment he saw her he’d beckon her to join him on the bench and they would speak about everything and nothing during those few enchanted moments of rest.

Meanwhile, the archaeologists had sectioned off land that was most likely to yield historical insight. Of particular interest was the humble cabin where Caleb and Adrien Vandermark had first lived when they’d emigrated to America in 1635. It was the oldest structure on the land, and sections of the surrounding yard were cordoned off for excavation. Using whisks and trowels, they peeled away layers of soil and sifted through the dirt, uncovering broken pipes, old tools, even a rusty flintlock musket. They found the remnants of an old smokehouse that had been abandoned and forgotten by time. Only the rough-hewn rock foundation remained, and Sophie couldn’t imagine why it would be of such interest, but the archaeologists were thrilled by the discovery.

“Abandoned structures were often used as trash pits,” Professor Winston explained. He was the oldest of all the professors, with stooped shoulders and round glasses, but he attacked the site each morning with the energy of a young man. “You can learn a lot about people by studying what they discarded. It will take months to properly excavate.”

Months! Sophie’s heart soared at the news, for it meant the house was likely to earn a longer reprieve from demolition no matter who won the bet.

There was little time to savor the relief, though, for as she sat at the work table watching Professor Winston stake out the area to be excavated, Mr. Gilroy arrived with the news she had been both anticipating and dreading.

“Dr. Phineas Clark from the Weather Bureau has arrived,” he announced. “He is in the main salon and is waiting for you.”

“He’s here? And he wants to see me?”

“He’s asked for Quentin, as well, but he specifically asked to see you, ma’am.”

Her heart accelerated, and she felt lightheaded. She murmured a quick prayer, straightened her shoulders, and headed to the front of the house.

Dr. Clark was a rail-thin gentleman with graying hair, round spectacles, and a flawless suit that looked like it had been freshly starched and pressed that morning.

“I understand you have been manning one of our volunteer stations since the beginning of the program,” Dr. Clark said as he greeted her.

Sophie wished she’d had the foresight to remove her apron and perhaps tidy her hair. “Y-yes,” she stammered. “It’s been an honor and a privilege.”

She dipped a little curtsy, feeling out of place in the elegance and formality of the grand salon, but Dr. Clark set her at ease as he lavished effusive praise on her efforts.

“My goodness, our bureau could not operate without the dedicated service of people such as yourself. The privilege is entirely ours.”

A sense of pride flooded her. Maybe this wouldn’t be so difficult, after all. Quentin soon joined them, leaning heavily on his cane but appearing perfectly at ease as he greeted the esteemed meteorologist. He made small talk with Dr. Clark, inquiring about his journey and the politics in Washington. Finally, Quentin suggested they all take a seat, and Mr. Gilroy brought them tea and lemon cake. Sophie poured while Quentin took the lead in the discussion.

“Miss van Riijn has been monitoring the Dierenpark station for the past nine years,” Quentin said. “Everyone in the village is impressed with her dedication and attention to detail. I fear I may have caused a bit of unnecessary confusion last June when I sent a message to the Weather Bureau concerning the location of the station at Dierenpark.”

Sophie’s breath froze. The way Quentin had tattled on her to the Weather Bureau was still a raw wound and she feared his next words.

“The last person to live in this house, Karl Vandermark, was committed to using our fortune to serve the people of this valley. Miss van Riijn and her father, who is the mayor of New Holland, were merely following my great-grandfather’s intent by establishing the weather station here on the estate. Miss van Riijn’s work initiating and operating the station has been exemplary.”

Sophie sat a little straighter. There was no hint of cynicism or mockery in Quentin’s tone, no suggestion that she was a naïve, simple soul who couldn’t be trusted with a scientific endeavor.

Dr. Clark appeared most agreeable. “Not to worry,” he said, his attention entirely focused on the slice of lemon cake he examined on the Delft dish held beneath his nose. “Whoever baked this cake is to be commended,” he murmured. “Extraordinary.”

How nice he was! Sophie had been living in fear of this meeting ever since Quentin suggested it, but Dr. Clark’s gentlemanly demeanor put her at ease. She listened in fascination as Dr. Clark spoke of plans for the upgraded climatological observatories, thirty of which would be built along the East Coast in the coming decade. Each station would have eight to ten employees to coordinate data from the hundreds of volunteer weather stations in the nearby region, and then distribute the results.

Sophie’s hope grew as the discussion unfolded. Dr. Clark wouldn’t have come all this way if he didn’t intend to at least consider her proposal, would he? With Mr. Gilroy’s help she had gotten the proposal professionally typed and hoped to present it to Dr. Clark this evening. If the Weather Bureau built one of those new stations here, it would be the culmination of all her ambitions. It would prove to her father and the rest of the village that she was more than a starry-eyed girl who would never amount to more than someone who could bake fine pies.

Late that afternoon, she escorted Dr. Clark to the roof to show him the weather station she’d created and her process for gathering data. He asked all sorts of questions about her work and the Hudson River, all of which she was able to answer with ease. Admiration was apparent in his gaze as he surveyed the river, his clever eyes absorbing every detail as Sophie pointed out the Mill Road promontory, the beauty of Marguerite’s Cove, and the clarity of the air here.

“We think the Mill Road would be an excellent location for one of the new climate observatories,” she said a little breathlessly. “The people of New Holland have drafted a formal proposal outlining our plan.”

“I look forward to reading it,” Dr. Clark said politely.

And for the first time, Sophie began to suspect that she was actually going to succeed in planting a climate observatory here in New Holland, and it was all because Quentin Vandermark had faith in her.

The following morning, Quentin walked the grounds with Dr. Clark. An hour remained before a carriage would take the Weather Bureau’s director back to the city.

He’d given the director Sophie’s proposal last evening, and Dr. Clark confirmed New Holland would be a competitive location for a climate observatory. Quentin wanted another chance to state unequivocally that the Vandermarks would be willing to underwrite the project, provided that Sophie would be part of it. He took Dr. Clark on a brief tour of the grounds to have the discussion. It was hard to find privacy with so many professors conducting research at the estate, so he guided Dr. Clark to a spot in the meadow where they wouldn’t be overheard.

The air was redolent with warm earth, sweet grass, and the scents from Sophie’s herb garden. A meadowlark chirped in the nearby copse, the birdsong dancing in the air.

“Lord above, look at the carvings on that cabin,” Dr. Clark said as the old groundskeeper’s cabin came into view beyond an overgrown hedge of bay laurels.

The cabin truly was unique. Begun by the Vandermark brothers in 1635, over the centuries it had been added to and improved by generations of Broeders who tended the land. The skill for carving wood ran in the Broeder family, and over the years, many of them adorned the pillars, railings, and moldings with remarkably lifelike carvings. A lush vine had been whittled along the top railing of the fence enclosing the front porch, with flowers, dragonflies, and squirrels carved into the woodwork. Most impressive were the columns supporting the roof overhang. He recognized a lion, an ox, and an eagle carved into the columns. The only non-animal was a powerful-looking man who was probably supposed to be an angel, given the halo and the wings attached to his back.

“Astounding,” Dr. Clark murmured as he ran a hand almost reverently along the carving of the lion. “Who is the artist?”

Quentin shrugged. “No one knows for sure, but my grandfather said they’ve always been here. The Broeder family has lived in the cabin ever since Caleb moved into the main house. I gather that woodworking has run deep in the Broeder family for generations. The carvings look like they’ve been done by different artists over the decades.”

The features of the ox were more exaggerated and a little cruder than the delicacy of the lion, a testament to the different men who had lived in this cabin. He shifted at the niggling feelings of guilt that prickled across his skin. He’d terminated Emil Broeder without a second thought, and yet the man had spent his entire life in this cabin, likely adding his own carvings to the menagerie. Emil was a simple man who never aspired to anything more than tending Vandermark land and raising his family. He was glad Nickolaas had ordered the Broeders’ return. Even now he could hear Emil’s wife inside, soothing a fussy child.

“Whoever carved them must have had a genuine and deep sense of faith,” Dr. Clark said.

“How so?” Quentin asked, curious how Dr. Clark could draw such a conclusion merely from looking at a few carvings.

“The animals symbolize the evangelists,” he said. “Mark the lion, Matthew the angel, Luke the ox, and finally we have John the eagle. Here they all are, standing in silent witness over this little patch of land. Quite charming.”

Quentin was not conversant enough with Christian symbolism to have ever spotted such a detail, for religion had always been distasteful to him. It smacked of superstition and his grandfather’s endless parade of spiritualists, palm readers, and soothsayers.

Dr. Clark’s footsteps thudded as he mounted the wooden steps to examine another carving above the front door. It was of a dove, her wings extended and surrounded by sunbeams. “Look, the dove has the twig of an olive branch in her beak. The symbol of enduring peace. Absolutely delightful,” he said.

Nickolaas had once said there were more carvings inside, but Quentin was reluctant to barge in on the family who had so recently moved back home. Before he could mention it, the door opened and Claudia Broeder stepped outside, patting a baby on her shoulder. She looked bedraggled and tired, but welcoming enough.

“Come on inside,” she said. “Emil loves showing off the carvings.”

Dr. Clark eagerly followed Claudia inside, but it took Quentin far longer to grasp the railing and mount the steps one leg at a time. By the time he entered, Claudia was showing Dr. Clark the carving of a lamb nestled onto the windowsill.

It was warm in the cabin, and Quentin left the door open to help move the air. He glanced at his pocket watch. Dr. Clark was to catch the midday train back to New York, and Quentin still needed to make clear that the Vandermark support of a climate observatory was contingent on a role for Sophie, but Claudia was still speaking to a rapt Dr. Clark.

“Some people think these carvings are amazing, but I’ve seen better in the city,” she said. She gave a little roll of her eyes. “I think everything is better in the city. Emil swears the air at Dierenpark has some kind of calming ability, but I’ve never felt it. Then again, maybe I’ve just been too sick and weighed down with babies to notice.”

The comment made Quentin pause. He’d certainly felt better ever since coming to Dierenpark, and a couple of the bodyguards had said they loved it here. Which was odd. All of them had traveled throughout the world, but Ratface and Collins had both said they’d never experienced anything to compare with Dierenpark. And yet the other guards shrugged and thought it was nothing special, just a rustic old estate far from the superior comforts of the city. Apparently Claudia shared their disinterest in the natural splendor here.

The squalling from another baby in one of the bedrooms caught her attention. “I’d better go tend to that one,” she said with a sigh, disappearing down the hallway. Dr. Clark continued to study the carvings, and Quentin knew this might be his last chance to put in a good word for Sophie.

“The Vandermark family has been neglectful of New Holland since my great-grandfather died,” he said, trying to broach the subject with the finesse it deserved. “I am eager to advance scientific progress and would be happy to help fund one of your new climatology stations, provided it could be located here in New Holland.”

Dr. Clark’s face grew pensive as he continued to study the carvings of dogwood blossoms along the top of a windowsill. “Money isn’t our problem,” he said. “The government has been generous in funding our initiatives. It is finding trained and reliable men to staff the stations that is problematic.”

Quentin resisted the urge to smile at the perfect opening. “Miss van Riijn is both trained and very reliable. I can attest to her care and diligence in overseeing the local monitoring station.”

“Miss van Riijn is typical of our volunteers,” Dr. Clark said as he ran his palm along a trail of vines carved into the molding of a window. “They are farmers and the like. Simple folk who can be depended upon to submit their reports on time each day, but of whom little real intellectual work is demanded. Our upgraded stations will require men with degrees in meteorology and the analytical rigor to calculate thousands of data points. You would be far better served keeping Miss van Riijn making her extraordinary lemon cake. I think that would be a better place for a woman of her aptitude, hmm?”

Quentin’s fist clenched around the handle of his cane. It didn’t sit well to hear Sophie dismissed so casually, but he could hardly argue with Dr. Clark about the qualifications for a climatologist. That didn’t mean New Holland wasn’t a suitable location for the station or that there couldn’t be a role for Sophie.

“Miss van Riijn has no formal training, but she has an innovative mind that can solve problems. She learns quickly and would be an excellent addition to any team, perhaps in a clerical role.”

Dr. Clark cleared his throat and adjusted his tie. “Here’s the thing. Yesterday she showed me the rooftop station and it was clear to me she did not understand the difference between humidity and atmospheric pressure. She mispronounced hygrometer. Someone of her caliber won’t be taken seriously by the other scientists, and that isn’t good for building an effective team. She is a sweet girl, but so is my golden retriever, and I wouldn’t hire my dog, now, would I?”

Quentin stiffened. “You should treat your dog better.”

“Ha! No doubt.” Dr. Clark continued scanning the woodcarvings spanning the interior of the cabin, but resentment simmered in Quentin. This man was a government bureaucrat who’d clawed his way to the top by currying favor like he had been doing ever since arriving at Dierenpark. Sophie and the other volunteers did the heavy lifting, making Dr. Clark look good with their unfaltering, unpaid service. Quentin wanted to deliver one of those fancy climate observatories to Sophie on a silver platter, but it wasn’t something that could be purchased with a bank check.

“I will ask Mr. Gilroy to drive you to the train station. I believe it is past time for you to be on your way.”

Nothing Dr. Clark said about Sophie was untrue, but it annoyed Quentin anyway. There was a difference between book learning and life wisdom, and it wasn’t until he’d met Sophie that he fully appreciated it. He held his breath against the tightness in his chest. He’d set Sophie up for this failure and didn’t know how to break the news to her. This was going to hurt, and he wished he could step in front of the wall of disappointment that was hurtling straight toward her. This was all his fault.

When he followed Dr. Clark onto the cabin’s covered porch, a bit of movement from behind the hedge caught his attention. He blanched as he saw Sophie, her skirts kicking up behind her as she dashed toward the house. She carried a basket over one arm, clippings of parsley and rosemary dropping from the basket as she ran. His heart froze. She had been gathering herbs in the garden and overheard every word of Dr. Clark’s blunt dismissal of her abilities.

He lumbered down the cabin steps to follow her, but the jarring flash of pain as he landed on the bottom step stopped him cold. He fumbled to grab the lintel post, clenching his teeth and waiting for the spots to clear from his vision. He collapsed onto the bottom step, hoping he wasn’t about to pass out. He focused on taking deep breaths until his vision cleared. He’d dropped his cane when he’d grabbed the lintel post and it had rolled a few feet away, but he was as incapable of retrieving it as if it had rolled to California.

“Good heavens, are you all right?” Dr. Clark asked.

“I’m fine, just landed on my leg wrong,” he said tightly. “If you could hand me the cane, I’d appreciate it.”

Sophie had already darted up the front steps of the house and disappeared inside. Dr. Clark never noticed her as he handed the cane to Quentin, looking down at him in concern. It was a pitying, emasculating look he’d seen far too much of over the past decade. What he wouldn’t give to be an able-bodied man who didn’t have to fear a flight of three steps. What he wouldn’t give to turn back the last sixty seconds so that Sophie wouldn’t have heard the belittling of her abilities that confirmed every one of her fears.

But most of all, he wished he hadn’t set her up for such a downfall.

Sophie needed to get away, but the house was swarming with a team of biologists at their microscopes, so she did an about-face to run back into the meadow at the front of the house. The archaeologists were on the east side, so she headed west, where the tulip garden was nestled behind a screen of juniper trees that protected the fragile bulbs from the wind.

Whenever Sophie was upset, no place on earth was more soothing than this secluded garden, cocooned by its rim of trees and fragranced by the scent of a thousand days of both happiness and sorrow. It was where she’d come after Marten jilted her. In Albert’s final days, this was where she’d walked to soothe her aching heart. Not that the frank words from Dr. Clark in any way rivaled the despair she’d battled after Albert died, but her spirit hurt and it was soothing to look at the ancient juniper trees, their silvery bark weathered and twisted from centuries of wind atop this isolated promontory. These trees had probably been here since Caleb and Adrien Vandermark first ventured onto this land, so they had witnessed plenty of joy and heartache. Their timeless presence helped her put issues into perspective as she tried to walk away the weight of disappointment.

Perhaps an upgraded climate observatory would be built in New Holland, but she would not be invited to be part of the endeavor. She had to accept that.

But she couldn’t ignore a patch of blue dahlias that looked like they’d recently been pestered by a squirrel. The soil was turned up, exposing their root bulbs, and their velvety blooms tipped at haphazard angles. Dahlias were the latest-blooming bulbs of the season and should last until autumn if she could repair the damage. Kneeling in the soft grass, she felt the smooth surface of an upturned bulb and, finding no serious damage, she eased the bulb back into the warmth of the soil.

“You’ll be okay,” she whispered as she nudged damp earth around the abused dahlia.

“Sophie.”

She startled at Quentin’s voice coming from only a few yards behind her. She guessed he’d seen her fleeing from the cabin, but Dr. Clark’s comments were the last thing she wanted to revisit right now.

“I’m very busy,” she said without looking up as she moved to the next uprooted bulb. “If I don’t get these dahlias tucked back into the soil, they won’t survive much longer. Which is a shame. Normally they survive until September, but some squirrel has been pestering them for no good reason. Their bulbs aren’t even very tasty. . . .”

She was rambling but dared not stop lest Quentin try to raise the subject of the climate observatory and her foolish dream to participate in the endeavor. As if the Weather Bureau would be interested in a girl who’d struggled all the way through school.

“Sophie, I know you overheard what Dr. Clark said.”

Well, that was blunt. She sat back on her heels and peered up at him. “You don’t need to look so wounded on my behalf. I should have known I wasn’t the kind of person who could be involved with something like this. It was foolish to even try.”

Quentin limped to the bench nestled amid a profusion of hollyhocks and gladiolas. “Don’t belittle the nine years of service you’ve given that bureau. Every day. With no recognition and no tangible reward. That kind of loyalty is worth a lot, Sophie.”

“Something any simple person could do.” She tried not to let bitterness seep into her voice, but this was hard. It underscored how paltry her life had become if the only thing she could point to with pride was her simple daily task at the weather station. She turned her attention back to the dahlias, pinching off the dead petals in hopes of encouraging more blooms later in the season.

“What about that St. Peter fellow you Christians seem so fond of? He was a simple man, wasn’t he? A fisherman?”

She was surprised he knew that, but Quentin had been to college, so he’d probably learned all kinds of interesting things. “Yes, Peter was a fisherman.”

“What about the rest of the disciples? Tax collectors. Laborers. I don’t know if any of them were cooks, but I expect you would fit in quite well with those simple folk, and history seems to think quite highly of them. And what about St. Paul . . . wasn’t he a . . . help me out here.” A glint of humor lightened his tone as he looked to her for assistance.

“A tentmaker,” she said. “I see where you are going with this, and it isn’t helping, and I wish you would please just leave.” The way her voice wobbled was embarrassing, and she moved farther away to prop up another dahlia.

“I worry about you, Sophie.”

It was the last thing she expected this infamously self-absorbed and cynical man to say, but there was no mockery in his voice. Only a look of gentle concern as he contemplated her from his seat on the bench.

“Why would you worry over me?”

“Because you are so sheltered and vulnerable to the normal slings and arrows of the world. Now calm down, don’t look at me like that. . . . I don’t mean that as an insult, but I think someone with a little more experience in the world would be able to take this in stride. I lose more contracts to design buildings than I win. That is the nature of the business, but all most people see are the successes, not the countless disappointments and rejections. People like me rarely trumpet our failures. My ego would never survive it.”

Once again, a hint of self-deprecating humor lurked behind his gray eyes. When he gave that half-smile and owned his weaknesses, it made him possibly the most attractive man she’d ever seen. Which was so odd. She had no business indulging silly daydreams about a man like Quentin Vandermark.

The last of the dahlias had been put to right, and she brushed the dirt from her hands. She prepared to stand, but his hand shot out to grasp her arm, keeping her in place.

“Don’t let that man taint your sense of worth. Maybe you’ll never operate a climate observatory, but the mark you will leave on the world will be far more important. Your legacy will be how you soothed a lonely and anxious boy. It might seem a small thing to you, but I think someday Pieter will look back on his summer with you as the most meaningful of his life. Your legacy will be how you extended basic human dignity to a passel of scary bodyguards. How you taught a cynical and embittered man to look at the world through your eyes. You touch everyone around you with kindness and grace, and that has an incalculable effect on the world. Most happiness isn’t created by acts of great heroism or prestige . . . it comes from people like you, Sophie. Your legacy of quiet grace and compassion will echo down through generations to come.”

Her mouth went dry, and she had no idea how to respond. Her life of stilted ambitions and meager contributions suddenly seemed a little more worthy for viewing it through Quentin’s eyes.

“I think that might be the nicest thing anyone has ever said about me.” And it was true. How remarkable that this cynical, difficult man recognized a piece of herself even she didn’t know was there. She wiped the dirt from her hands and turned to face him. He was only a few inches behind her on the bench, and she reached up to set her hand on his good knee. “I think you might be a very kind man beneath that mask of ice.”

He stiffened and withdrew a few inches. He blushed and looked out over the meadow. “Thank you, but I think it would be best if you did not touch me.”

“I’m sorry,” she stammered. She yanked her hand back as though burned. How embarrassing that he mistook her gesture of friendship, but yes, in a way it seemed as if she was flinging herself at him. It was mortifying and would never happen again.

He stood, fumbling with his cane. “I know you meant nothing of it,” he said without meeting her eyes. “A girl like you would have no use for an old cripple, but I am due back at the house. The Antwerp bridge calls.”

She watched his stiff back as he lumbered toward the house.

He was right . . . any notion of a romantic attachment was foolish beyond words. How embarrassing that she had even placed the idea in his head.

She would need to be more careful in the future.