Toward the Sunrise (19 page)

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.

“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 in shades of green. 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 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 the house 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 light-hearted, 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 . . .”