23

QUENTIN KNEW before he even got out of bed that he was in trouble. His bed sheets were soaked in perspiration, and the pain in his shin throbbed. The old wound on his leg was warm, red, and swollen. He would need to wrap it, which usually brought some relief, but he couldn’t help but feel his spirits sag. For a few weeks, that bit of hope that he might be mending had tasted so sweet.

He stretched his leg, barely able to flex the foot. It was going to be a struggle to get a shoe on today. Sweat rolled down his face as he tugged a sock on, but the first few minutes after waking were always the worst. He’d drink some willow tea, and the savage pain would ease shortly.

There was a gentle tapping at his door, and he hoped it was Sophie. He tugged up the sheet to cover the lower half of his body. “Yes?”

It was Pieter. “Are you coming downstairs?” the boy asked as he entered the room, a hopefulness in his face.

In the past when his pain was this bad, he would shoo Pieter away to Mr. Gilroy or a governess. No longer. The fact that Pieter welcomed his company was a miracle not to be taken lightly.

“What would you like to do today?” No matter what Pieter said, he was going to make it happen.

“It’s stopped raining. I wanted to show you my animals. I found some new frogs.”

Mercifully, the window well where Pieter kept his collection of salamanders and frogs was only a few feet outside the kitchen door. Quentin dressed and then leaned heavily on his cane as he made his way to the kitchen, drawn by the scent of baking bread, although there was no sign of Sophie. A twinge of disappointment tugged at him, but if the weather held, perhaps he could coax her away for a few stolen hours at the Spanish cannon. Whether he lived for another year or another decade, those magical hours spent with her at the Spanish cannon would glimmer forever in his soul.

The moment he stepped outside it was obvious the weather would not hold much longer. The air was cool, blowing down from the north in a damp chill. The low-hanging clouds were an eerie sort of purple mixed with orange, as if the sky couldn’t decide if it wanted to permit the sunrise or concede to the gathering storm.

“Show me what you’ve got,” he said as they approached the window well tucked against the side of the house. Pieter had mounded stones over a wire rack atop the window well. Most of the creatures could probably escape if they chose, but with all the rain in recent days, they were probably happy as a pig in mud down there.

Pieter lifted the wire rack away. “I’ve got four different types of salamanders. Professor Byron said that there are two hundred different kinds, and I’m going to see how many I can catch. He said that if a salamander gets a leg chopped off, a new one will grow back.”

“That would be a useful skill,” Quentin said with a laugh, but Pieter was too busy showing him the underside of a turtle to catch the joke. Hiring the team of biologists had been an unexpected stroke of genius, helping awaken Pieter’s curiosity in natural science.

He leaned against the side of the house while Pieter continued lifting out various specimens for his approval. The sky was darkening rapidly, and it looked like they were all going to be driven back inside soon. Where was Sophie? Usually she was in the kitchen preparing breakfast by now, but perhaps she’d gone to gather berries in this brief respite from the rain. A pie would be welcome.

Eventually he had admired each of the salamanders, toads, and reptiles in the menagerie. “I need to find another turtle or else this one might get lonely,” Pieter said.

The old Quentin would have ordered Mr. Gilroy to go buy a turtle to make his son happy, but with newfound sensitivity, he sensed something else behind Pieter’s statement. Perhaps a hint of loneliness? For most of his life, the boy had been deprived of children his own age as they traveled from city to city. Perhaps he and Sophie would have a child of their own. He sensed Pieter would adore having a little brother or sister.

Pieter set the turtle back down, covered the window well, and looked at him with apprehensive eyes. “Did you love my mother?” he asked.

The question stunned him. Pieter had never asked such a question before, and it seemed to come from nowhere.

“Of course I loved your mother.”

“Miss Sophie says you didn’t sleep in the same bed because Mother didn’t like you.”

He clenched the handle of his cane and tried to keep his voice calm. “When did she say such a thing?”

“I heard her talking to Pastor Mattisen a few days ago. They were picking blackberries, but I was hunting for salamanders, so I don’t think they knew I was there. The pastor said that’s how it is for some married people who don’t like each other very much.”

To this day, the failure of his marriage to Portia was a mortification tainted with shame, embarrassment, and regret. To have his deepest, most private humiliation bantered about in the blackberry meadow was a slap in the face.

“I loved your mother very much,” he said, trying to mask the slow burn of anger. “And she loved me, and most importantly, she loved you. Anything you heard Miss Sophie say can’t change that—”

His mouth snapped shut as the kitchen door opened and Ratface emerged, dumping a basin of wash water into the yard. Ratface nodded to them both before returning inside, but this conversation shouldn’t happen where it could be overheard. There were open windows in the house, and the estate swarmed with people. Sophie should have known that. What business did she have spilling the private details of his life to a stranger?

“Do you know where Miss Sophie is?” he asked Pieter.

“She’s with Professor Byron over by the sycamore trees. Professor Byron shot a deer, and he is getting it ready to cook. Miss Sophie is helping him, but they said I had to stay away.”

He could well imagine. Field dressing a deer wasn’t a sight for tender eyes, and he was surprised Sophie was up for it.

“Marten is helping, too. He said he and Miss Sophie used to go hunting when they were growing up, and it would be like old times. He was laughing when he said it.”

Marten again.

A low rumble of thunder sounded from the north, a perfect reflection of Quentin’s own dark mood. He pushed away from the house, struggling to hang on to the frayed ends of his temper. “Go inside and see if Mrs. Hengeveld needs help with anything.”

The moment the door closed behind Pieter, Quentin set off for the open patch of meadow by the sycamore trees. Anger fueled his steps as he lumbered toward the clearing, heedless of the searing pain shooting up his leg with each lurch. He didn’t want to stress his leg today, but the image of Sophie and Marten enjoying old times out in the clearing was enough to speed his steps. Had she spilled the private details of his marriage to Marten, as well?

The sight that greeted him was appalling. The deer had been cleaned, quartered, and hung in sections from the limb of a giant sycamore tree. Professor Byron stood a few feet away, still sweating from his labors with the deer. He was shirtless, his bare flesh tanned and gleaming as he grinned at Sophie, who was wringing out cloths and passing them to Byron. There was no sign of Marten.

The professor’s trousers were stained and damp from the dripping rags Sophie passed him. “You’ve got a spot on your back,” she said, reaching around to wipe down the professor from behind.

“Don’t stop,” Byron groaned. “That feels like bliss after being cooped up for days.”

“You deserve it,” she laughed. “We were likely to starve unless you had braved the wilderness to slay the mighty beast.”

Anger burned like acid in Quentin’s veins. What an idiot he had been! His rival for Sophie’s affections wasn’t Marten Graaf; it was Professor Byron. The professor was young, his body vigorous and healthy. He had an intelligent mind and a brilliant future ahead of him.

Quentin’s booted feet slashed through the overly long grass, ripping the strands from the rain-softened soil. “Is this your idea of giving us time?” he bit out. “Frolicking half-naked in the field and flirting with another man? Charming, Sophie.”

Sophie looked surprised to see him, a gleam of startled reproof in her eyes. “What’s put you in such a surly mood?” She faced him squarely, her hands on her hips and challenge in her eyes.

He wasn’t about to spill the personal details of his life in front of Professor Byron and his annoyingly perfect, healthy body, but neither was his leg capable of taking Sophie any kind of distance away from the house.

“I need a word alone with Sophie,” he said bluntly. “You can clean up in the river.”

Byron’s smile faded, and he glanced uneasily to Sophie. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea . . .”

“It’s an excellent idea if you hope to work at any college in the United States or Europe ever again. All it will take is a brief meeting with the financial office of a college for them to lose all interest in you, and I promise I can make that happen.” Anyone with enough money could use the power of endowments to manipulate people, and he was angry enough to threaten it.

Byron still hesitated.

“Go on,” Sophie said. “Quentin can be a bad-tempered bear, but I am in no danger. I am quite certain I can outrun him if need be.”

It was humiliating to think about, but she was right. Tiny droplets of rain began to fall, and he instinctively clutched his cane tighter. Byron leaned over to scoop up his shirt and a towel, throwing them both casually over his shoulder but keeping his concerned eyes fastened on Sophie.

“I’m going to be ten yards away in the groundskeeper’s cabin,” he said. “Just say the word and I’ll come running.”

Quentin glared at Byron’s retreating back, but Sophie didn’t wait for the professor to enter the cabin before she attacked.

“Is this your idea of giving us time?” she challenged, turning his own words against him. “I thought you were trying to be a better man. One with some foundation in decent Christian values instead of growling and flaunting your power.”

His eyes narrowed. He spoke quietly, but with intensity. “What I told you about my marriage to Portia was private. I’ve never told that to anyone before you, and you’ve gone and blabbered the most painful details of my life to your pastor. Pieter overheard everything and wanted to know why I didn’t love his mother.”

Sophie’s eyes grew rounder as he spoke. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I needed to talk to someone—”

“He’s my son, Sophie. My son. Do you know what that means? I’m just barely finding my footing with him, and you’ve gone and planted that seed of doubt in his head.”

“I’m sorry,” she repeated. The color had dropped from her face, and she looked sick. “Quentin, please understand, I meant no harm, please—”

“Please what?” he snapped out. “Please keep being patient while you decide if I’m good enough for you? Or please don’t fire me from a job that pays one hundred dollars per week?”

She stiffened. “If that’s what you think, you don’t know me at all.” She threw a towel into the bucket and whirled away.

He wanted to call the words back, but it was too late, she was already running. He lurched after her and managed to grab a handful of fabric before she tore away, dashing toward the house. He lumbered forward, his weight propelling him in a desperate bid to stop her.

His shinbone snapped. He heard it . . . like a wet crack of a bat striking a board, just before he toppled over and crashed to the ground. Time slowed . . . this was happening to someone else . . . but then pain blinded him, blazing from his leg to scorch every nerve in his body. The scream sounded like it was coming from a distance, but it was from his own throat.

He twisted and rolled in agony, sensing the grinding of bone fragments shifting in his leg. Wet grass was in his face, dirt in his nose.

Sophie crowded him. She bent over him, talking in panicked tones, but he couldn’t understand her words. All he could sense was a warm gush of blood on his leg. Heat surged through his body in waves. Whatever infection had taken root a few days ago was now flooding his system.

“You’re going to be okay . . .” It was Sophie’s voice, but she was weeping.

Someone rolled him onto his back. Professor Byron was there, arms sliding beneath him. The pain as he was lifted was agonizing. His head rolled back, and his world went black.

It had been raining for hours, and there was no sign of the bodyguards Sophie had sent racing into town for the doctor. With the bridge over the gully washed out, Sophie could only pray they would get through to Dr. Weir. If the water hadn’t risen too high, they could ford the river on horseback. It had been three hours since the accident; shouldn’t they be back by now?

Wind sent a surge of rain spattering against the window, and Sophie clenched her fingers together, staring at the front lawn rather than turn around to see Quentin’s pale, haggard body unconscious on the bed.

She had been here when they’d cut the trousers from his leg. The image would be forever branded on her mind. Several inches of white bone cut through his skin, jutting out at an obscene angle. The bone graft had broken free. They dared not cover it or try to force it back beneath the skin, and Quentin had been white from blood loss when Byron had laid him on the bed.

“We’ll need something for a tourniquet,” Byron had said.

Sophie nodded. There was no earthly way such an injury could be healed, but even so, she turned to Nickolaas for permission. The old man looked as if he’d aged twenty years at the sight of Quentin’s shattered leg. He nodded.

None of them had ever done a tourniquet, but all they needed to do was bind it tight enough to stop the bleeding. One of the professors brought a braided silk cord from the grand parlor’s draperies. As it was tied, Quentin gasped and roused back to consciousness, thrashing on the bed.

Sophie leaned over him, trying to soothe him and block his view of what Mr. Gilroy was doing.

“What’s happening?” he gasped.

There was no gentle answer. “Quentin, you are going to lose your leg,” she said.

If possible, his muscles seized even tighter. He swallowed. “I know.”

The men moved behind her, the mattress shifting as they positioned themselves to tighten the cord even further. Once it was tied and looped, the handle of an axe was slipped into the loop and twisted.

Quentin’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he passed out. Thank God.

Hours passed and still the doctor did not come. Sophie had no experience with this sort of illness, but the heat ravaging Quentin’s body seemed unnatural and extreme. He was so hot, the intense warmth radiated from him to heat the room. He drifted in and out of consciousness, and Pastor Mattisen lifted him, holding a cup of water to his lips. It was the only thing they knew to do for him.

Twilight descended, sending darkness over the land, but in the distance came a rider on horseback, galloping up the drive. She squinted, but in the gloaming it was impossible to see who it was.

She opened the bedroom door to dash toward the front hall, but Pieter stopped her. He had been loitering in the hall most of the day, but she hadn’t let him inside. Quentin’s leg could not be covered, and the jagged white bone sticking up from his flesh wasn’t something a child should see.

“Is my father going to die?” Pieter asked.

She instinctively wanted to reassure him but couldn’t. Squatting down to be on his level, she spoke as gently as she could. “I don’t know. It would be nice if you can say some prayers for him. Sometimes God answers our prayers, but not always.”

The front door opened, and Ratface appeared, water dripping from his coat and exhaustion on his face. “Dr. Weir is in Boston. We rode to Tarrytown, but no doctor can come until tomorrow.”

The strength left her legs, and she would have fallen had Ratface not grabbed her. “You’re gonna be all right, Miss Sophie,” he said roughly.

But she wasn’t. Quentin was in agony, and they didn’t even have any proper drugs to help dull the pain.

He was awake when she returned to his room. Night had fallen, and his skin looked ghastly white in the candlelight. “Sophie,” he gasped.

She sank into the seat by his bed. “I’m here.”

“Sophie, you have to marry me.”

She smoothed the sheets across his chest. “We’ll talk about that when you’re better.”

“No,” he said, cutting her off. “I’m not going to get better, and you have to marry me now. I can’t leave Pieter alone . . .” His voice trailed off, and his gaze tracked to the others in the room—his grandfather, Pastor Mattisen, and three of the bodyguards. “You owe her loyalty,” he told the men. “I’m giving her everything. I’m giving her Pieter, control of the estate. You are my witnesses.”

The words were directed to Nickolaas. “I agree,” the old man said, his voice firm. “I’ll see your will carried out.”

Tears blurred her vision. How tragic that these two men should finally join forces at this most terrible of moments.

Quentin squeezed her hand. “Sophie, please . . .”

The doctor would not be here until tomorrow. His skin was scorching with fever; his leg was black. It was unlikely he’d be alive by the time the doctor got here. She knew the right thing to do.

“I’ll marry you,” she said on a ragged breath, and the relief on Quentin’s face made her want to weep.

Quentin struggled to stay conscious long enough to get the vows said. Trying to separate his mind from the pain raging in his leg, he issued orders quickly.

“I want everyone in the house to witness this. I am of sound mind. Sophie is to be my wife and my heir. She will be Pieter’s guardian.”

He feared for Sophie. She was going to inherit control over a fortune, and it would attract a swarm of sharks. After his grandfather was dead, distant relatives would come spilling out of the woodwork. They would try to tear her to pieces, deny his sanity, deny the legality of the marriage itself. As others gathered in the room, he repeated his will over and over. With a pastor and eight college professors to attest to his sanity and the validity of the marriage, it was going to be hard to mount a legal challenge, but he cringed at the thought of Sophie with no protection.

“Ratface,” he wheezed. “Look out for her. Guard her.”

“Like she is the Holy Grail itself,” Ratface vowed in a voice of steel, and if Quentin had had the energy he would have laughed. Sophie collected admirers wherever she went, but she was going to need help after she became his widow.

“I want Dierenpark signed over to her now,” he said. “In its entirety. I want no third-cousins or the state emerging to take it from her.”

Nickolaas agreed. Terms of the Vandermark trust dictated the estate go to the oldest male heir, but he wanted Sophie to have legal guardianship over Pieter and Dierenpark until Pieter came of age. She was the only person he completely trusted to do what was right.

One of the professors rigged a wire frame to tent over his leg. They draped a sheet over it so Pieter would be spared the ghastly sight. A ring was produced from somewhere in the house, and the metal was cold in the palm of his hand. Pieter looked frightened and upset, but as soon as everyone was assembled, things moved quickly.

He wished Sophie didn’t look so stricken. She deserved so much better, but the pastor stood on the other side of the bed, a large Bible open in his hands.

It was hot . . . so sweltering hot he could barely fill his lungs. He had to fight for every breath. Sophie’s narrow hand was cool in his own, and he tugged it until she leaned over him, enveloping him in the scent of pine and lemon. “What is it, Quentin?” she murmured.

“Don’t let Pieter be like me,” he managed to whisper. “Raise him in the sunlight.” If anyone could do that, it was Sophie. She was a bright, radiant light and would know how to guide Pieter into becoming a fine man. One who counted and shared his blessings, rather than jealously guarding them.

“It’s time,” the pastor said. He nudged Pieter to stand between Sophie and Nickolaas.

The pastor began. Quentin heard little of what was spoken over him, but when the pastor asked if he would love, honor, and cherish Sophie, it was easy to affirm the vow, for he did love her. The muscles in his face eased as she spoke her own vows, because even though he would not be able to raise his son to manhood, he had found someone he loved and trusted to undertake the task. The pastor declared them man and wife, and Sophie leaned over to press her cool lips to his forehead, and it felt like a blessing. He didn’t even have the strength to put the ring on her hand. It slipped from his fingers and pinged on the floor, but someone picked it up and passed it to Sophie.

He wished for so much more for Sophie. She wept as she put on the ring, but there was too much to say and so little time. “You were the best thing that ever happened to me,” he rasped. “You made me so happy. I am so happy.”

“Please . . . Please rest, my dearest,” she urged.

He didn’t want to rest. He wanted to hold on to this moment forever, even the pain and the heat, for it came along with the joy of knowing he loved and was loved in return. He felt grace showering down on him, a peace unlike anything he’d ever experienced.

Sophie knelt on the floor beside him, clutching his hands between her own. “God is with you, Quentin, no matter what happens. You know that, don’t you? Sometimes there are things science can’t explain, you understand that, right?” she asked.

He smiled and tried to respond, but there was no more breath left. Dearest, sweetest Sophie . . . all he could do was nod, but he understood. He felt the blessings of grace and knew her words were true.

It was enough. More than enough. For the first time in his life, he was truly and completely happy. Happiness wasn’t the absence of pain, it was the joy of life, and in these final moments, he had found it. After decades of cynicism and doubt, love and forgiveness surrounded him. He deserved none of it, but he savored the blessing of peace and quiet joy. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. With the last of his strength, he squeezed Sophie’s hand.

Joy blinded him. He surrendered.