Toward the Sunrise (20 page)

The boy cleared his throat. “Um, we’re doing it because Grandpa asked us to. The house belongs to him, not us. We’re just doing it as a favor.”

“We’re doing it out of
loyalty
,” Mr. Vandermark said pointedly to his son. “We both owe Nickolaas a great deal, and it is his wish to return this piece of land to its natural state, without a house on top of it.”

She clenched the back of a chair so hard her knuckles hurt. This house was everything to her. It was beauty and mystery and a tiny piece of paradise. This man didn’t know the first thing about Dierenpark or he wouldn’t be so cavalier about tearing it down.

“You can’t,” she said weakly. “The town depends on this house. It would be wanton destruction to tear it down. An unimaginable catastrophe . . .”

There was more she wanted to add, but Pieter interrupted. “Do you know where the lanterns are? We couldn’t find them, and it was dark last night.”

A guilty pleasure took root, for if Mr. Vandermark hadn’t fired the servants so abruptly, they wouldn’t have been in the dark. Nevertheless, Pieter wasn’t to blame for what had happened, so she sent him a smile.

“Do you want to come hunting for them with me? I suspect I can find a few lanterns in short order.”

Pieter glanced back at the table. “I have to finish my breakfast first.”

The only thing on the kitchen table was a half-eaten apple that looked like it had been plucked off the tree outside. “All you’ve had is apples?”

Neither answered, but given the way Mr. Vandermark’s mouth tightened, she’d guessed right.

“We didn’t bring any food with us,” Pieter said. “And I don’t think anyone knows how to cook.”

Well, at last. A chance for her to become indispensable. “There are eggs in the larder outside, and some cheese, as well. Why don’t I fix you all a nice breakfast?”

Pieter’s delight was comical. “Yes, please!”

She motioned for Pieter to follow her to the larder and help carry in the food, but Mr. Vandermark’s voice stopped her.

“Wait until I have one of my men accompany you.”

“But the larder is right outside the back door.”

“You will wait for one of my men to accompany you.”

The demand didn’t seem odd to Pieter, but it seemed a waste of time to Sophie. The larder was visible from the window, a mere twenty yards away.

A bull-necked man finally arrived and introduced himself as Ratface. Sophie tried not to blanch. A disfiguring scar tracked across the middle of his forehead, through his eyebrow, and continued down his cheek, where it disappeared behind his ear. It was hard to even look at him, but surely he didn’t deserve such a horrible name.

“I only need to go to the larder outside the backdoor, Mr. Ratface.”

“Just Ratface,” he growled, leading the way.

Pieter didn’t seem to mind the surly man, and as they gathered eggs and cheese from the larder, he peppered her with questions the entire time. How long had she lived in New Holland? Why wasn’t she married? Would she come back to cook them lunch and dinner, too?

Sophie fielded the questions with good-natured aplomb but felt the horrible scrutiny of Mr. Ratface the entire time. Why would Mr. Vandermark have such rude servants? She had stored some cranberry muffins and a bowl of cherries in the cold larder. They wouldn’t last much longer, so she scooped them up, as well.

Things didn’t improve once they returned to the kitchen. The rude servant plopped himself on a stool in the corner of the kitchen, watching her every move as though she might be preparing to steal the silver. From the dining table, Mr. Vandermark also watched her.

She determined not to let the men disturb her. After lighting the oven, she popped the muffins inside the warming compartment to take the chill off. Cracking eggs into the bowl with practiced ease, she added a bit of cream, salt, and pepper and then began the soothing, rhythmic whisking of the eggs.

Preparing and serving food had always been a joy, for it made her appreciate the abundance of the world. It took over a year of sunshine and water for a tree to produce the cherries gleaming from the china bowl, and Sophie imagined she could smell those endless hours of sunlight distilled into the small piece of fruit. The black pepper came all the way from the wild Malabar coasts of India, yet the tiny fragments of cracked pepper still carried an intense kick of flavor reminiscent of the land where it had been grown. The honey she drizzled over the cranberry muffins was a miracle of nature,
gathered from thousands of wildflowers and transformed into this amazing substance so sweet it tasted like a summer day.

Pieter seemed eager to help and drew near as she poured the eggs into a cast-iron skillet sizzling with melted butter.

“See how the heat causes the bubbles to rise in the mixture?” Sophie asked. “I need to keep the eggs moving so the proteins in the eggs don’t burn, but you can’t stir too hard. That will cause all the air to escape. I spent a good two minutes whisking the mixture, and we want these eggs to be light and fluffy, right?”

“Can I stir?” Pieter asked.

It was an easy task, but the skillet was on an open flame, and the handle was hot. She glanced to Mr. Vandermark for permission. His face was stern, but he gave a quick nod of consent.

“I’ll hold the handle, and you can use the spoon to keep the eggs moving.” She loved the way the boy slid in front of her, so trusting as he took the wooden spoon to nudge the eggs around the pan. “Perfect!” she said. “I’ll bet you’ve done this before.”

The boy seemed to grow a little taller. “Nope! This is my first time.”

“Well, you’re doing wonderfully. Keep stirring while I drop the cheese in.”

Two more of the brutish-looking servants and the governess joined them in the kitchen. With the scents of herbs and warm cranberry muffins permeating the house, it wouldn’t be long before the rest would be here.

They were an imposing lot, all of them grim, suspicious, and rude, but Sophie wasn’t going to let them spoil her joy, for there was something about sharing a meal that automatically brought people together. It was hard to resent someone you were breaking bread with. Forcing lightness into her tone, she glanced at the men and asked, “Who is going to set the table?”

They looked as confused as if she’d asked them to begin square dancing, but she refused to back down as she nodded to the top shelf. “The plates are over there, and you’ll find a cloth for the table in the sideboard.”

A couple of the men reluctantly moved toward the sideboard, and Sophie tipped the eggs onto a serving platter. Within minutes, a cloth was spread, the plates and pewter forks laid out, and Sophie carried platters of food to the table.

Sophie was not a perfect woman. She hadn’t been brilliant in school, she had a catastrophic history with romantic relationships, and her only sense of purpose in the world came from gathering and reporting weather statistics each day. But for all her shortcomings, she was an extraordinary cook, and everyone in New Holland knew it.

Soon Quentin Vandermark would know it, too.

It didn’t take long for groans of satisfaction to rise as the men began wolfing down the eggs. The governess was more restrained, but she allowed a grateful smile as Sophie brought the basket of warm cranberry muffins to the table.

“Those smell so delicious I think I’m about to faint,” the governess said as she reached for a muffin. The men around the table grunted and nodded as they reached for the basket.

Then she noticed Mr. Vandermark remained rigid in his chair across the room, glowering at her. “Aren’t you joining us?” Sophie asked him.

All the heads swiveled, forks paused in midair. Everyone looked guilty, as if they hadn’t realized they dove into their meals without waiting for their employer to join them.

“I’ve already eaten,” Quentin said bluntly.

“Are you sure?” Mr. Gilroy asked. “Apples aren’t very satisfying compared to this feast. This may be the best breakfast I’ve ever had.” The butler lifted a heaping forkful of eggs to his mouth and moaned with pleasure.

Mr. Vandermark’s face looked like it was carved from stone. “Food is a commodity,” he said. “A product that is bought and sold to fuel the human body, nothing more. I’ve got work to do.”

The vinegar in his tone stifled the merry conversation from moments ago. All that could be heard was the scratching of his pencil and the clatter of silverware against the plates as the guards ate in silence.

Sophie returned to the kitchen, systematically cracking another round of eggs and seasoning them with practiced hands. Quentin Vandermark was going to be a challenge. He didn’t seem to have a trace of warmth or compassion in his entire body. He wouldn’t even accept
food
from her—how was she going to convince him not to destroy Dierenpark? Or perhaps coax him into rehiring Emil and Florence?

All her life, Sophie had tried to look for the good in people. No matter how surly, disrespectful, or difficult, she believed there was a spark of goodness inside each person, but she had never met anyone quite like Quentin Vandermark. He seemed clouded by an iron cynicism he hid behind like a shield.

Would it be possible for such a ferocious man to ever soften? She sensed there was a seed of humor and decency buried deep inside, but it would take professional mining equipment to dig it out and drag it to the surface, and he would probably fight tooth and nail to stop it from happening. Sometimes unhappy people were like that. It was easier to remain locked in their fortress of discontent rather than risk the pain associated with emerging into the light of day.

She finished breakfast quickly, for it was important to get back to town and telegraph today’s weather data to Washington by noon. Each time she sent off the messages, she liked to imagine the men in Washington as they added her data alongside the messages from thousands of other volunteers. The scientists would transfer her information onto their giant maps and try to make sense of it all. Perhaps it was pathetic that her entire sense of self-worth was based on this simple duty, but most women her age had husbands or children to give them a sense of purpose. She had daydreams of anonymous scientists in Washington who breathlessly awaited her daily messages.

She couldn’t bear to think what would happen if Dierenpark was torn down. She had to convince Quentin to leave the house alone, but how did one appeal to a man who had no curiosity, no desire, no kindness?

She would have to think of a way. She could not let Dierenpark be destroyed.

Sophie’s father was equally horrified at the prospect of the great mansion’s demise. Sitting alongside him behind the mahogany front counter in the hotel lobby, she could barely wait until he finished telegraphing her climate data before recounting everything she’d learned that morning.

Her father was the perfect ally to help save the house. Not only was he the mayor of New Holland, he was also an attorney who was prepared to use those skills to thwart Quentin Vandermark.

After the Vandermarks had left New Holland sixty years ago, the timber mills closed and industry dwindled. The village survived on fishing, but over the decades the fish stocks declined and the fishermen were forced to leave. There was no longer enough business to support an attorney in the village, and since serving as mayor paid nothing, her father poured his life’s savings into this hotel in hopes of encouraging the tourist industry. He pressured journalists to write favorable articles about the climate and scenic beauty of New Holland. He took out advertisements in Manhattan publications touting their close proximity to the city and a balmier climate than the Adirondacks. Sophie had used her friendship with Marten Graaf to encourage the steamships to add Dierenpark to their stops along the Hudson before heading up toward the more popular tourist destinations in the Catskills and Adirondacks.

Her father had helped fuel the legend of the Vandermark family’s tragic history, although he hadn’t made it up from whole cloth. Despite their staggering fortune, the Vandermarks had been visited by tragedy in each generation, beginning with the first two brothers to emigrate from the Netherlands. While one brother worked on building the house and constructing the pier, the other traveled far and wide to form alliances with the various Indian groups in the vicinity. It proved to be his downfall when he was murdered by one of the Indian tribes only five years after arriving. That tragic death seemed to have set the tone for the bad luck, suspicion, and bitterness that grew with each generation. Even after the family fled Dierenpark, tragedy seemed to follow them, with a string of untimely deaths and scandals that happened no matter where they lived.

Her father paced the lobby of the hotel, rubbing his jaw in concentration. Whenever there was a problem, Jasper van Riijn could usually solve it. The hotel lobby was a perfect example. Five years ago, her father decided that cultivating a lively sense of community would help dissuade people from moving away from the village. He redesigned the hotel’s lobby with decorative moldings and fresh paint, filling the space with comfortable seating and tables for people who wished to socialize or play cards. Ferns in brass planters helped warm the space, and the room had become so popular it now doubled as the town hall. Sophie took a seat at one of the tables as her father paced.