22

THE RAIN MADE IT HARD for Sophie to get her daily reports telegraphed to Washington. The bridge at the old Cohasset Road was washed out, requiring one of the bodyguards to flag down a steamship to ride into Tarrytown and transmit the message from there. Her messages were arriving late, but at least they were getting through. The massive storm was pouring rain throughout all of New England, so she was certain that plenty of the Weather Bureau volunteers faced similar problems.

Without regular trips into the village for food, the larder was getting skimpy, and Professor Byron offered to go hunting to restock their provisions. “Can you cook venison?” he asked.

“If you kill it, I’ll cook it,” she said gratefully.

She had already begun the process of turning the cocoa pods into a powder she could use for baking. The first challenge was getting the pods open. None of the kitchen knives was up to the task, and finally Marten smashed them open on the edge of the slate steps behind the kitchen. Inside they found waxy white beans, which the old cookbook instructed her to let ferment in a warm place, turning them several times until the sugars developed on the outside of the bean. Pieter came by many times a day to stare at the beans as Sophie turned them.

“They don’t look like chocolate to me,” he said.

“Wait until I roast them. I expect the whole house will smell good, and then they will start to look more familiar to you.”

She waited three days before she was satisfied the beans were ready for the next step. They roasted surprisingly fast in the oven, and in less than thirty minutes she had cooling cocoa beans that slipped from their husks with ease. Once cooled, they could be ground into cocoa powder. The cookbook advised that the finer the powder, the higher the quality of the chocolate.

All the professors took turns at the kitchen grinder clamped to the work table, the one she normally used only for coffee. She was grateful for their help, for grinding was a lot of work, and the men seemed tireless as they processed the cocoa into a fine powder. It looked better and smelled more fragrant than anything she had seen for sale in the village.

On the fifth day of rain, Quentin did not appear for lunch, which surprised her. Lately he had been dining with everyone, and in an unusually cheerful mood, but she did not let his absence concern her. It gave her a chance to deliver his meal to the library, where he had secluded himself all morning. Stolen moments of privacy were hard to find, but she was glad they would have one.

She tapped softly on the library door before entering. Quentin had been racing to get the design for the Antwerp bridge completed before the end of the month. He was hunched over a mound of papers at his desk, but his eyes softened as she entered.

“Hungry?” she asked as she set the tray before him.

“I should probably eat.” It wasn’t the effusive praise he normally lavished on her meals, and she glanced at him closer. It wasn’t hot, but a fine sheen of perspiration covered his face.

“Are you all right? You’re sweating.”

He shrugged his shoulders dismissively. “These things come and go,” he said, but something in his tone worried her. She drew a chair closer.

“Tell me.” If they were going to be married, she had a right to understand the nature of his illness.

She listened as he described the bone infections that still plagued him. Sometimes the infection caused only a simple fever, but at other times, the area around his old wound swelled so much it split the skin open. She cringed at the ghastly thought. Although Quentin spoke in a composed tone, his shoulders sagged a little. It was almost imperceptible, but she was coming to know him very well and sensed his disappointment.

“Things had been going so well lately,” he acknowledged. “I’d hoped these periodic infections were a thing of the past and that the bone graft had finally worked. I still think it might, but perhaps these fevers will be with me forever. There is nothing I can do other than wait it out.” He smiled softly. “And maybe you could say a prayer or two.”

“I can do that.” Without thinking, she reached out to stroke a lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead. “Can I see the sketch for your new bridge?”

“Of course.”

It was truly lovely, with three brick arches spanning the river and a series of lamps at periodic intervals along the pedestrian walkway. It was hard not to be proud of a man who could design something of such beauty and practical value.

Even as he showed her the design, a few drops of perspiration beaded up and rolled down the side of his face. She swallowed hard. “Are you certain you’re all right? You don’t look good.”

He sighed, but humor danced in his eyes. “Sophie, I haven’t felt good since I slipped on the ice outside my hotel in Vienna eight years ago. Lately I’ve begun to appreciate the distinction between feeling good in my body and feeling good in my spirit.” His hand covered hers, sending a surge of warmth and energy to her. “I’ve had more happiness, more hope, and a greater sense of purpose in these past few weeks than I can ever remember. Most of that is due to you.”

How was it that such simple words could fill her with pleasure? Never had she felt as appreciated as she did when Quentin spoke words of respect and admiration.

It was impossible to resist him, and she drew closer. “What would happen if I sat on your lap?”

He smothered a laugh. “Forgive me, Miss van Riijn, but I would be in howling agony.”

“Oh dear.” She averted her gaze in mortification.

He tugged on her hand. “Ask me what would happen if you sat on this armrest, put your arm around my shoulders, and leaned in so I could smell your hair and kiss your neck.”

Her eyes grew round, but she was helpless to look away. “Why don’t we go ahead and try it out? Like a scientific experiment.”

“You read my mind.”

“I’m clever that way.” She propped her hip against the arm of the chair, close enough so she was snug against his body. From there it was easy to lean down and kiss him. There was a faint smile on his lips, and nothing had ever felt as right and proper as when he turned up his face to accept her kiss.

All his defenses were down. Quentin was warm and giving, with no cynicism or bitterness, just simple happiness as he kissed her back. How amazing that they had been able to see past their differences and become friends. She had helped soften him, but he’d given her the strength and self-confidence she hadn’t even realized she lacked until he began propping her up.

He drew away and whispered against the side of her cheek. “Please, Sophie, let us have a chance. We can make this work if you just give us some time.”

She’d been waiting her whole life for this. She’d been in love before—childhood crushes and foolish infatuations she’d mistaken for love. She’d been blessed with a wonderful relationship with Albert, but in retrospect, he had been so much older that they had never truly felt like equals. With Quentin, she had a partner. He was not the perfect man, but she was no flawless princess either.

How desperately she wanted this to work. She squeezed his hand. “Yes,” she vowed, “I promise to give us time.”

They had run out of sugar, and it would be days before someone could get to town to replenish their stock. Most of the chocolate recipes Sophie had seen in Dierenpark’s grand collection of cookbooks called for a hefty amount of sugar, but the older recipes used cream, vanilla, and even ground almond meal to sweeten the treat. She’d simply have to make do with an older recipe.

Pieter wanted to help, and as she laid out the ingredients, he fidgeted with excitement. He recounted the fine chocolates he’d had in Belgium and how the taste compared with French chocolate.

“Those are world-famous chocolatiers,” Professor Sorensen said from his position at a kitchen stool. “This is our first attempt at a highly complex process, so you may want to lower your expectations a bit.”

Sophie flashed him a look of gratitude as she lowered a pot onto the double-boiler. The eighteenth-century cookbook was in French, and Professor Sorenson would be translating the instructions for Sophie, so she considered this a group effort, which took a bit of the pressure from her shoulders. She rarely risked cooking a new recipe in front of such a large audience, but the rain had given them all cabin fever, and helping with the chocolate gave them something to do.

As the aroma of simmering chocolate filled the house, it drew others to the kitchen like a lodestone. They had no proper candy molds, so Sophie used muffin tins, pouring only a quarter inch of the dark, glossy liquid into the bottom of each well. It would take hours for the chocolate to cool enough to eat, which was a disappointment for everyone who had been smelling the tempting aroma for almost an hour, but Sophie still had plenty of chocolate left in the pot.

“I’ll whisk the remainder into some milk for a little hot chocolate—how would that be?” she asked. The sentence wasn’t even out of her mouth before the bodyguards were scrambling for the teacups. Emil volunteered to brave the rain to fetch a canister of milk from the larder outdoors. By the time he returned, everyone in the house had gathered in the kitchen, and Emil poured the milk into the pot while Sophie whisked. The cookbook warned she mustn’t let the chocolate change temperatures too rapidly or it would crystallize. A number of the professors leaned in, shouting instructions and generally making a nuisance of themselves. They might be brilliant educators, but they couldn’t hold a candle to her in the kitchen.

“The ancient Mayans believed chocolate to be a gift from the gods,” Professor Winston said. “Its creation is the work of alchemy, a transformation of a base material into an elixir fit for the gods. It is the intersection of chemistry with culinary magic.”

Quentin also had plenty to say. “Chocolate is the only substance with profound culinary, symbolic, and pharmacological value. It is the queen of the epicurean experience.”

“Could you please help me lower some of these expectations?” Sophie laughed as she continued whisking. “You’re the one who spoiled Pieter with Belgian chocolates—how am I supposed to compete with that?”

“We’ve got faith in you, ma’am!” one of the bodyguards called from the back of the room.

At last, the proper amount of milk had been whisked into the chocolate, and it had been heated to the correct temperature for drinking. After transferring the first batch into an antique chocolate pot that looked like it had been imported from Versailles, Sophie brought it out to the kitchen table and poured some into a teacup.

“You first, Pieter, since you did such a fine job helping me with the measuring.” Pieter wiggled his way through the screen of men, his eyes alight with excitement. The china teacup was warm, and the boy held it gingerly as he took a sip. Everyone watched in expectation.

Pieter’s eyes grew round, then his face screwed up so tightly he looked like he was sucking a lemon. Sophie was relieved when he swallowed the mouthful rather than spitting it out.

“It’s bitter,” he said, smacking his lips.

“Of course it’s bitter,” Professor Sorenson said. “All eighteenth-century chocolate recipes are bitter. It wasn’t until the last century that we’ve begun polluting chocolate with an obscene amount of sugar.”

Everyone wanted to sample the chocolate drink despite Pieter’s distaste, but most shared his assessment. They winced, their eyes watered, and they set their cups down.

Emil never did anything by half measures, and he knocked the whole teacup back in one mighty gulp. “Whoa, that will make hair grow on a man’s chest!” he said with a violent shudder.

Sophie ventured a sip. It wasn’t so bad . . . it was actually rather nice. She took another taste. It had a dark, rich flavor, with layers of complexity that took awhile to surface. The others all watched, waiting for her assessment. After most of them had rejected the drink, she didn’t want to appear defensive by claiming she liked it.

Quentin watched her, curiosity on his face as he waited for her opinion. He had placed his own cup down after a small sip, and it was clear he preferred sweetened chocolate, as well.

“I rather like it,” she finally said. It took some time to see past the dark chocolate’s harsh taste, but she didn’t care if others didn’t approve, she loved it and knew she would make this recipe again and again.

A few brave men drained their cups, but only Sophie and Professor Sorenson helped themselves to more after their first serving. “I’ll make you all a nice peach pie as soon as we can get some sugar,” Sophie promised Pieter.

“How about an apple pie, too?” Emil asked. That started a flurry of conversation about which flavor of pie should be the first to come out of the kitchen once the rain let up and it was possible to restock the pantry.

The doorbell rang, startling everyone. Mr. Gilroy set down his cup, and as he headed to the front door, the bodyguards went on alert. Quentin looked only mildly annoyed at the interruption, but she supposed he must be used to living this odd sort of pampered life that was still fraught with its own set of dangers.

Relief trickled through her when she recognized her father’s voice. She smiled as Jasper followed Mr. Gilroy into the kitchen, his coat soaking wet and water dripping from the ends of his hair. “Can I offer you a cup of bitter hot chocolate?” she asked him. “There is plenty left, as I have failed in spectacular fashion this afternoon.”

Rather than greeting her with a smile, her father’s face remained grim as he shrugged out of his coat, shaking water from it and hanging it on a hook in the corner.

“I’ve come on business,” he said. “I found a letter written by a member of the Broeder family long ago. It is sealed and notarized. I have no idea what this letter contains, but I want it opened and read before witnesses so there can be no question of its authenticity.”

Sophie caught her breath. It had taken her father weeks to read through the trove of Vandermark documents he’d found in the bank’s safe deposit box, but he’d finished that task days ago and had told her he’d found nothing of value. She didn’t put much stock in Jasper’s belief that the Broeders might somehow be the legitimate heirs to Dierenpark, but he was convinced a Vandermark had once eloped with a Broeder and there would be evidence of it in some government register at a nearby city. He’d gone to Albany last week to begin searching through courthouse records.

Quentin looked only mildly interested, but Nickolaas hadn’t torn his eyes from her father since the moment he’d said the name Broeder.

Her father took a sealskin pouch from his jacket pocket, unfolded it, and withdrew an envelope that was yellow with age. “I found this letter written by Harold Broeder at the state courthouse in Albany. Harold was from the second generation of Broeder groundskeepers at Dierenpark, and he put this letter on file at the state courthouse in 1690. The writing on the back of the envelope reads, ‘To be opened in the event of my untimely or violent death,’ and it is signed by Harold and dated July 9, 1690.”

Jasper held up the letter, high enough for everyone in the room to see the old handwriting scrawled across the back of the envelope that was still held closed by a stamp of sealing wax. The ornate stamp of a notary validated its authenticity.

Her father continued. “I want this letter to be opened here at Dierenpark, with witnesses from both the Vandermark and Broeder families.”

“I’m here,” Emil offered.

Nickolaas looked down his nose at Jasper. “Harold Broeder died peacefully in his bed as an old man. He did not die in a violent or untimely fashion. Therefore, the letter is not to be opened.”

“That’s not for you to say,” her father said. “The letter belongs to Emil, as he is the direct descendant of Harold Broeder. Emil? Do you want to open and read the contents of this letter?”

“Um, sure . . . but I can’t really read.”

Her father slid a thumb beneath the seal. “I’d be happy to do the honors.”

“Wait!” Nickolaas exclaimed. “In 1690, this country was still governed by England. Therefore, English law should dictate the inheritance of the letter.”

Her father’s smile was grim. “You’re scrambling. And you are wrong about the law. American law now governs what happens to this letter, and it is quite clear that it belongs to Emil.”

Sophie watched the exchange in fascination. Nickolaas clearly feared whatever might be in that letter, but her father suspected it might somehow call the ownership of Dierenpark into question. Quentin’s face was tense and alert, watching every move his grandfather made.

“Mr. van Riijn is right,” Quentin said. “The letter belongs to Emil, and it is up to him what happens to it.”

“I want to know what it says,” Emil said agreeably.

Nickolaas winced and turned away, as though he could not bear to see whatever the old groundskeeper had written. Sophie’s heart went out to him. She didn’t understand his fear and superstition about the past, but his anxiety was palpable.

The room was silent as her father popped the blob of sealing wax that had protected this secret for more than two hundred years. Her father drew a deep breath and read the note aloud.

I, Harold Broeder, am a loyal employee of the Vandermark family but have reason to fear for my life, because my family has been complicit in a great crime. In 1638, shortly after arriving in America, Caleb and Adrien Vandermark had a dispute over money that had been entrusted to them. As a result, Caleb asked my father to murder Adrien in exchange for one hundred pounds sterling, a generous annual salary, and free use of the cabin and pier for as long as the Broeder family lived. My father drowned Adrien in the part of the river known as Marguerite’s Cove. Adrien’s disappearance was blamed on treachery from the Algonquin Indians, with whom Adrien was known to consort.

Jasper set down the letter, his gaze scanning the onlookers who had gathered around the table. The legend of Adrien Vandermark’s murder by the Indians he had tried to befriend had made him a tragic folk hero, but knowing he had been cut down on the orders of his own brother stunned everyone.

Emil looked upset and confused. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Does this mean Adrien didn’t die in an Indian attack?”

“There is more in the letter,” her father said, picking up the page.

Driven by greed, my father returned to Caleb over and over for more money, which was always paid. After my father’s death, and to my great shame, I continued to blackmail Caleb Vandermark. Although I played no role in the murder, I have benefited from the crime. In his final years, Caleb grew bitter, frightened, and ravaged by guilt. Although not a Catholic, during his final illness he pleaded for a priest to absolve his sins. No priest could be found, and he confessed his sin to his eldest son, Enoch, exhorting him to continue honoring the agreement with the Broeders for fear the shameful truth would defile the Vandermark name.

Enoch Vandermark’s patience has grown thin, and attempts have been made on my life. Both our families live beneath a veil of greed and mistrust. To ensure my safety, I am sending sealed copies of this letter to the courthouse in Albany, the elders of Roosenwyck in Holland, and to Enoch Vandermark. Should I fall victim to the Vandermarks, I beg that this crime be exposed to the light of day.

“That is the end of the letter,” Jasper said, the crackling of the paper loud as he folded it closed again. For two hundred years, that letter had hidden a terrible secret. Sophie watched the men in the room, everyone somber as the news penetrated. It almost seemed as if the air had been tainted by the saga of greed and corruption. She had always thought of Adrien Vandermark as a tragic figure, having been killed by people he was trying to protect, but the true story of his betrayal was far worse.

Professor Byron looked sick. “All these weeks I’ve been working in Marguerite’s Cove. I never suspected anything . . .”

Her father offered the letter to Emil.

“I don’t even want to touch it,” Emil said. “It makes me feel bad, to know that I come from a family like that.”

“You aren’t to blame,” Quentin said and then looked quickly to Pieter. “And neither are you. We are all given the free will to choose what kind of path we want to walk.”

“Do you think Adrien might be buried in Marguerite’s Cove?” Pieter asked. “Is that why the lilies still bloom?”

“I don’t think we’ll ever know,” Professor Sorensen said with a sad smile. “I can find no scientific explanation for the lilies or the oysters. Your guess is as good as any, lad.”

Nickolaas pounced, his eyes alert. “Are you saying you have given up? That science can’t explain what’s going on in that cove?”

“I’m saying there are mysteries that science cannot resolve,” Professor Sorensen said. “I don’t need proof that can be seen under a microscope to believe there is divinity in the world. That’s where faith comes in. If there was proof, there’d be no need for faith, right?”

Professor Byron wasn’t satisfied. “There are limits on what science can tell us today, but we are developing better tools all the time. Someday we will have better microscopes and testing procedures. I think someday we will be able to see deeper into a cell. Pull it apart, study its components—”

“I’m not interested in someday,” Nickolaas interrupted. “I want to know about today. Do you have a scientific explanation today for why those lilies grow on the spot where Adrien Vandermark was killed?”

He looked directly at Professor Byron, the youngest and most confident of all the biologists. Each morning, Professor Byron raced down to the cove with unflagging energy, determined to finally solve the mystery. He’d already asked permission to stay after summer’s end to keep hunting for an answer, for surrender simply wasn’t an option for him. Even now his inability to produce an answer drove him to wince and screw up his face in frustration.

“No!” he finally admitted. “I can’t see a reason, and neither can anyone else.”

Nickolaas’s smile was triumphant as he jabbed his index finger at Quentin. “You heard them,” he said. “Your own biologists agree there is no scientific explanation for the phenomenon. Given the circumstances of Adrien Vandermark’s death, it is far more likely there is a supernatural cause for what is happening in Marguerite’s Cove. I win the bet.”

He set down his teacup, the gentle clink the only sound in the suddenly silent kitchen, and left the room.

“Pieter, go fetch your grandfather and ask him to meet me in the orangery,” Quentin said. The orangery had the most privacy of anywhere in the house, and he didn’t want this conversation overheard by a multitude of college professors.

“Sophie, I’d like you to come, as well,” Quentin said quietly. It hurt to see the wounded innocence on her face as she learned the circumstances of Adrien Vandermark’s death. At times like these, he wanted to protect and shelter her. For now, that meant saving Dierenpark from his grandfather’s plans.

It would infuriate Nickolaas, but he was not going to carry out the destruction of this house. Generations of Vandermarks had been raised to be guarded, superstitious, and distrustful of outsiders, long after the original crime had been forgotten and lost to history. It was time to scrub the lingering taint from the family tree and turn Dierenpark into a source of pride rather than shame. Nickolaas would either agree to the plan or Quentin would take him to court in an ugly battle for the future of their family legacy.

He clasped Sophie’s hand and made his way to the orangery, where the rain sounded louder as it pounded on the glass plates. The air was humid and laden with the scent of citrus trees and orchids. An orangery was an ostentatious display of wealth only very rich people could afford. Who needed Peruvian orchids or a climate that could support lemon trees year-round? It was a symbol of the greed that had ultimately led to Adrien Vandermark’s murder.

“Are you all right?” he whispered to Sophie, leading her to a bench.

“I’m okay.” But the sadness in her voice weighed on him. Adrien’s death was hundreds of years in the past, and he didn’t want her to spend one second grieving over something for which she had no responsibility.

“That was really terrible chocolate, Sophie.”

A bubble of laughter escaped. “Did you think so?”

“I do. But I love you anyway.” Her eyes widened in surprise, but it was time for him to admit what was in his heart. He’d hidden behind the excuse that he needed a mother for Pieter, when what he really wanted was so much more.

“I love you,” he said again. “I don’t expect you to profess any grand feelings for me yet. So long as you give me time, I know I can learn to be worthy of you.”

The door opened and he stood, still holding her hand tightly. It was time for his grandfather to get accustomed to the prospect of having Sophie join their family.

Nickolaas glared at him from the opposite side of the orangery. “I won’t permit you to back out of the deal now.”

“How long have you known about that letter?” Quentin challenged.

“Ever since I bought the archive in Holland forty years ago. The good town fathers of Roosenwyck honored Harold Broeder’s request and did not open it.”

“And you never thought to tell us?”

Nickolaas walked down the aisle until he stood before them, pretending fascination in the showy blooms of a hydrangea. “My dear Quentin, you’ve never shown the slightest interest in our family history. I saw no need to expose the sordid details to the light of day.”

Quentin gestured toward the main house. “Then why all this?” he demanded. “Why drag all these people here to plunder through the family history, the attic, even the very soil we live on?”

“Because I believe there is a curse,” Nickolaas said calmly. “The Indians knew they were innocent of Adrien’s death, and they sent us those taunting passages. I think they sent something else along with it. A curse or a hex or such. I want it found and destroyed. I’m not confident that’s possible, so it’s time to demolish everything.”

Nickolaas glanced at Sophie and then back at Quentin. “I’m not blind,” he continued. “I’ve seen the affection you have for her, and I knew she’d pressure you to save Dierenpark. Go back to the village, Sophie.” He spoke bluntly but not unkindly. “Marry Marten Graaf and have a dozen babies. Forget Dierenpark. It’s time to undo Caleb’s crime by abolishing the monument he built on ill-gotten gains. Only then will our family be free of his legacy.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Quentin said tightly. “I believe the source of the curse lies in the twisted way Caleb raised his children. They lived and breathed in the air of guilt and mistrust. That attitude ended up being passed down through the generations. I won’t permit it to continue. Pieter is an innocent. At all costs, he must be protected from a fatalistic view of the future.”

“That’s why I want to destroy the house,” Nickolaas said as though speaking to a simpleton. “Dierenpark was born in corruption and can never be anything else. It will stain our family for all time unless it is wiped from the map.”

“That’s not true!” Sophie asserted, moving a step closer to Nickolaas. “Dierenpark is what you make of it. It can be a millstone around your neck, or you can turn it into something beautiful and sacred. Something that would have made Adrien Vandermark proud.”

Quentin gazed at Sophie, pride swelling in his chest. They were thinking along the exact same lines, but he still didn’t have legal control over Dierenpark. Nickolaas could hire someone to blow it up tomorrow if he wanted. So Quentin tried another angle.

“How did your father die?”

Nickolaas flinched and looked away. Quentin suspected Nickolaas knew all of Dierenpark’s secrets, including the truth behind his father’s death, but he kept fierce guard over the past. Given the flash of anguish on his grandfather’s face, those hidden mysteries tormented him to this day.

“My father committed suicide,” Nickolaas said bluntly.

Quentin rocked back, tightening the grip on his cane lest he topple over. The color had drained from Sophie’s face, and she struggled to draw a breath.

“But . . . but he was such a good man,” she stammered. The disillusionment on her face mirrored Quentin’s own feelings. He knew what it meant to battle melancholia, but he’d always been encouraged by the modest, hardworking example set by Karl Vandermark.

“My father killed himself over a woman,” Nickolaas said sourly. “He was depressed for months over a doomed love affair. He couldn’t marry anyone because a divorce from my mother was impossible. When the woman he loved married someone else, my father wrote a suicide note bemoaning the miseries of his life, took an overdose of laudanum, and died in his bed.”

Quentin lowered himself to sit beside Sophie again. Even in the worst ravages of despair, his love for Pieter had always kept him from even toying with the option of suicide. Nickolaas had grown up knowing his father’s depression was more powerful than his love for his son. Quentin couldn’t imagine the scar that would leave on a fourteen-year-old boy.

“How did he end up in the river?” Quentin asked quietly.

Nickolaas flinched again and turned to gaze at the rivulets of rain tracking down the windowpanes. He seemed haggard, old, and tired.

“I was the one who found him,” he said slowly. “At first I thought he was sleeping, but then I saw the note and learned the truth. I didn’t know what to do. I had always thought my father was a hero. Everyone in New Holland thought so, too. When I read that note, I was angry and ashamed, but I still didn’t want the rest of the village to know what he had done. I burned the note and got old Mr. Broeder to help me carry him to the river. It was easier to let his death seem like an accident than let everyone learn the truth.”

To Quentin’s horror, his grandfather’s lower lip trembled, and his eyes pooled with a sheen of tears before he looked away. Sophie darted to his side, sliding her arm around him and murmuring those soothing words she was so good at.

Quentin closed his eyes, but he couldn’t close his ears to the sounds of his grandfather’s weeping. The sobs were strangled, coming from deep in his chest as he tried to suppress them. For as long as Quentin could remember, his grandfather had been a crafty old man who delighted in being one step ahead of everyone else. Now he heard the sound of long-buried grief from a fourteen-year-old boy, broken and desperate to cover his father’s shame. Was it any wonder that Nickolaas had turned to spiritualists and fortune-tellers who might provide an easy explanation for the tragedy of Karl Vandermark’s death?

It was probably Emil’s grandfather who’d helped Nickolaas bring Karl to the river, and like other Broeders before him, he had carried the secret to his grave. What a tragic, intertwined history their two families had.

It didn’t take Nickolaas long to regain control. “I think my father figured out what had happened,” Nickolaas said on a watery sigh. “I don’t know if he found Enoch’s copy of Harold Broeder’s letter or pieced it together some other way, but he’d found copies of those Algonquin texts, and they upset him. He was convinced the Vandermarks were not entitled to our wealth, and that was why he was so determined to work as hard as any other man in the village. I remember in those final days how he tore this house apart, looking through dusty old trunks, muttering about the curse of wealth.”

Sophie sat beside Nickolaas, her arm around his back. “I don’t believe your family is cursed,” she said softly. “You can’t change the past, but the memory of what happened here can inspire us all to live a better life.”

Quentin nodded. “For hundreds of years, we have been hiding, covering up, and deceiving. Dierenpark is filled with the portraits of people who cared about safeguarding the Vandermark fortune. I am concerned about safeguarding the tattered remnants of my soul. What if we used the fortune we’ve inherited to do something noble and generous?”

Nickolaas’s shoulders sagged. “I have neither the time nor the energy to do that.”

“I do,” Quentin said with resolve. He had no way of knowing if he’d live another month, a year, or grow to be as old as Nickolaas, but his life was going to have purpose, and it was going to begin at Dierenpark. “I won’t destroy the house. That’s not the way to change our legacy.”

Nickolaas lifted his chin. “It would be best to destroy it. I want it wiped off the map with a dynamite blast loud enough to wake up every Vandermark ancestor in the afterlife and let them see what I think of their estate. I’ll burn everything that remains until nothing but dust is left.”

Above all, love one another.

Nickolaas was a damaged and wounded man. Quentin needed to accept his grandfather’s scars, understand them, and love him anyway.

“If you want a spectacular show that will shake the heavens, I’ll commission a fireworks display,” he said gently. “And then I will turn Dierenpark into something more than an empty mausoleum, and the portraits of ten generations of Vandermarks can watch it all happen from the walls.” As he spoke, he felt a lightness of spirit and a surge of hope powering his body. “Let me turn Dierenpark into something amazing. Let me use it for something that would make Adrien Vandermark proud. We owe it to him, and we owe it to Pieter.”

Sophie rose, tears shining in her eyes as she came to stand beside him, slipping her hand inside his own again. He kissed her hand—her callused, scarred, and beautiful hand—and then turned to face Nickolaas again.

Nickolaas sagged but nodded his consent.