Until the Dawn (21 page)

It miffed her that Quentin thought an apology delivered by his butler would erase the sting of her rice pudding splattered on the wall of his sickroom, but she could hardly refuse the chance to return to Dierenpark. Dierenpark held an echo of something infinitely precious that needed to be protected and cherished, and that meant Sophie would do whatever possible to preserve it.

Quentin rose early, gingerly pacing before the windows in his bedroom overlooking the river below. His leg was healing
surprisingly well after the incident with the bees, but he dared not move too quickly, for these temporary periods of health rarely lasted long. Until yesterday, his face had been swollen from the bee stings, and he hadn’t wanted Pieter seeing him like that. The boy already felt guilty over what had happened, and Quentin’s itchy, inflamed face was likely to make Pieter collapse into grief once again.

The marks had almost completely faded now, and he was anxious to leave the room. He eased his contorted leg into his trousers, then tentatively stood, pleased to feel only a twinge of pain. Truly, it was astounding that his leg was recovering so rapidly.

Ten minutes later, he was at the desk in the library, a new set of architectural plans for a bridge in Antwerp unfurled before him. It was pointless to work on demolition plans for Dierenpark, for he fully intended to win his bet with Nickolaas. It meant he had the sheer intellectual joy of returning to the design for a new bridge across the Scheldt River. The diversion to Dierenpark had put him badly behind schedule on the bridge. The patience of the Antwerp city elders was wearing thin, and he needed to complete the design before they kicked him off the project.

As he worked on the design, he actually began to feel healthy again. Perhaps it was the satisfaction of working on the bridge design, or maybe it was something in the air at Dierenpark. With the windows open, a cool morning breeze scented with pine and honeysuckle wafted into the room. The Hudson sparkled in the morning sun, and it was almost mesmerizing in its beauty.

By lunchtime, he’d made solid progress on the Antwerp bridge and didn’t even realize he was hungry until Ratface arrived with a tray. Bread and cheese, again. He sighed.

“Miss Sophie is due to return tomorrow,” Ratface said. “I’m
already dreaming about that beef stew she makes. And the pies. Oh, and her lemon cake . . .”

Ratface was still enumerating the long list of Sophie’s best dishes as he left the library.

Quentin clenched his fists. Sophie’s return was going to change things. He wouldn’t admit to missing her . . . that wasn’t the right word. They were as different as night and day, but he enjoyed her company and wished he didn’t.

It would be dangerous to let himself get lured into the bright aura surrounding Sophie. She was sunlight and purity, while he was little better than the angry troll living under the bridge. The fact that he was utterly fascinated by her was of no matter, and he intended to battle the attraction with every weapon at his disposal.

12

T
HE
BEST
PART
ABOUT
RETURNING
to Dierenpark was the joy on Pieter’s face when Sophie appeared at nine o’clock on the roof to check on the weather station. He was recording data in a notebook balanced on his knees when she stepped onto the widow’s walk.

“You’re back!” he shouted, startling a pair of sparrows perched on the turret. The notebook tumbled to the planking as he raced to her for a quick hug. “I was afraid my father scared you away for good.”

That was precisely what I feared, too.
“Of course I came back. Show me how you’ve been getting on.”

Pieter’s voice was confident as he showed her his notebook, and she was right to have trusted him with this task. His smile was genuine as he closed the covers on the thermometer and hygrometers.

“It’s been really nice, especially since my father has been too sick to leave his room. Grandpa comes and helps me with my readings, and sometimes we play cards with the bodyguards.”
His shoulders sagged a bit. “But my father is better now, so all that has to stop.”

“You didn’t see your father at all while he was recovering?” Quentin Vandermark wasn’t the easiest person to deal with, but visiting the sick was a basic tenet of Christian charity, and it wasn’t right for a man to suffer in lonely isolation.

“He stayed in his room the whole time, but he’s better now. Last night at dinner, he kept asking what I want to be when I grow up. I think he wants me to be an architect like him. I used to want that, but it would be scary if I had to work with him all the time.”

“Has he ever said he wants you to be an architect?”

“No. He says I can be whatever I want, so long as I never become an ‘idol rich.’ I don’t even know what that means, but he always says it like it’s the worst thing in the world. Does it mean when rich people pray to something?”

She smiled, doing her best not to make light of his confusion between
idol
and
idle
. “Your father doesn’t want you to be
idle
. I-D-L-E. Idle means lazy. Without a purpose. Some people are so wealthy they don’t need to work, and if they don’t have anything meaningful to do with their lives, they drift. I think that’s what your father means when he says he doesn’t want you to become one of the idle rich.”

“Oh. Well, I don’t know what I want to do when I grow up.”

Sophie had always known what she wanted. The craving to be a wife and a mother was sometimes so bad it felt like a physical ache. It hadn’t happened for her yet, and she was beginning to fear it never would, which was why her paltry contributions at the weather station were so vital to her sense of purpose. If she died tomorrow, only her father and the anonymous team of meteorologists at the Weather Bureau would miss her.

She shook away that gloomy thought and smiled down at Pieter. “When are you happiest?”

“When I’m with my grandpa.”

The immediate response underscored how deep the rift between Pieter and his father had grown. She drew him to a bench overlooking the river, letting the gentle breeze soothe her as she scrambled for the right thing to say.

“I know your father loves you, even if sometimes he has a hard time saying so, but he showed it when he rescued you from the bees, right?”

“He only did that because he had to.”

“He did it because he loved you,” she corrected him. “It’s because he loves you that he sets rules and teaches you how to live by them.”

“But he’s so scary. I try, but when I do things wrong or make mistakes, he always catches me at it. Or I get afraid, and he gets mad at me all over again. I’m never afraid of Grandpa.”

Unfortunately, she knew exactly what Pieter must be feeling. Wasn’t she afraid merely at the prospect of seeing Quentin again? His temper could be so quick and cutting.

She reached over to finger-comb a lock of Pieter’s hair that ruffled in the breeze. “My religion teaches me that we must love one another . . . even when it’s hard. It’s easy to love your grandpa because he is so kind to you, but everyone has goodness and humanity in them. You aren’t required to like everything your father does, but you need to be respectful. Look for the good in him, and the love will follow.”

“What about the men who kidnapped me last summer?” Pieter challenged. “I could never love them. They kept me in a dark closet and hardly ever let me out. One of them used to fire off a pistol right next to my ear, just to make me cry.”

She blanched at the image. When Jesus had commanded them to love one another, had he been speaking about that man with the pistol? How could anyone see something worth loving in such a hateful man? She closed her eyes and opened her heart.

“I don’t know why that man was so mean to you,” she finally said. “For some reason, making a rich boy cry made him feel better about himself. Perhaps he was once terribly wounded as a child, and it twisted him somehow. He can’t hurt you anymore, so perhaps if you can find it in your heart to work toward forgiving him, it will make you feel better. Only a very strong person will have that kind of character, but I think you can do it, Pieter.”

Pieter’s expression was a combination of hope warring with skepticism. “I don’t know, Miss Sophie.”

She spoke in her kindest tone. “How do you think the bees felt when you pushed their home over?”

He flinched at the memory. “They were mad, but I didn’t want to hurt them. I just wanted to hit something because my father was so mean.”

“I know you didn’t mean to hurt the bees, but you did,” she said gently. “Sometimes cruelty begets more cruelty, and that’s what happened when you took your anger out on the bees. The funny thing is that love works the same way. When you try to love, or at least understand your enemies, I think you will be surprised at the way the world looks a little brighter.”

She paused to gather her thoughts. She was speaking brave words, but she was equally guilty of assuming the worst about Quentin Vandermark. She had never witnessed anything braver than when he ran toward those bees to carry Pieter to safety. It was shameful, but at that moment, Sophie had been too frightened to move. She stood frozen in place as Quentin staggered away from the hives, and she only leapt into motion when he was well away from the swarm of bees.

He didn’t make it easy to see his better side, but she was as guilty as Pieter of overlooking Quentin’s finer points, and she needed to look deeper.

Sophie took extra care in preparing Quentin’s lunch. She smiled as she whisked a little cream into the fresh pea soup simmering on the stove. Made with chopped leaks and simmered in a rich chicken stock, the soup was a vibrant green shade that always seemed cheerful to Sophie.

“I would be happy to slice the bread,” Mr. Gilroy said, nodding to the loaf of rosemary bread cooling on the windowsill. It had been over an hour since she’d taken it from the oven, and it could be sliced now.

“That’s very kind of you.” It was important for everything to be perfect today. It was irrational, but when she was successful in the kitchen, she felt like she was living up to her calling. Mr. Gilroy seemed to sense her need to succeed today, and he’d been so helpful all morning—fetching ice, mincing herbs, and now he sliced the rosemary bread with the skill of a professional chef.