Until the Dawn (22 page)

“Have you ever worked in a kitchen before?” she asked, spooning out a wedge of herb butter into a small dish to accompany the bread.

“I’ve done a bit of everything over the years,” Mr. Gilroy said modestly but didn’t elaborate as he stacked the still-warm bread on a plate.

She didn’t press him for more information. The soup would cool quickly now that it was in the bowl. She placed it beside the bread and a dish of plump strawberries she’d picked from the garden only a few minutes earlier. Holding the kitchen door for Mr. Gilroy as he carried the tray out, she wished she had as much confidence in her ability to be kind toward Quentin as she did in making a simple bowl of pea soup.

Quentin wasn’t going to succumb to temptation. The rest of his household might be irrationally enthralled by Sophie’s cooking, but food was nothing more than nourishment, a
combination of proteins and starches to fuel the body. Evolution had designed man to appreciate different flavors and textures in order to ensure proper nutrition.

And yet he knew the instant his breakfast tray was delivered this morning that she was back. Why did oatmeal taste so delicious simply because it came out of a pot stirred by Sophie van Riijn? The housekeeper had been making their oatmeal for the past week, and it had been fine. Hot, edible . . . fine, but nothing like what Sophie made. He had tried to analyze the flavors and textures of the oatmeal to pinpoint a reason it was so extraordinary. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what she did to make it taste so good, and he sent the breakfast tray back after two bites.

But lunch was another matter. He was working in the library when Mr. Gilroy delivered the tray, and the scent beckoned from across the room. He couldn’t starve to death merely from an irrational refusal to eat Sophie’s cooking. Grabbing his cane, he limped over to the table. It was the scent of the bread that summoned him, but his eyes were riveted on the soup, a bright green bowl of fresh pea soup with a little swirl of cream on the top. He leaned over to sniff.

It didn’t smell extraordinary. Just a simple bowl of soup. He lowered himself into a chair, dipped a spoon into the soup, and lifted it to his lips.

An explosion of flavor filled his mouth. It was creamy and soothing and rich and hearty and tasted like every sun-filled day on a grassy mountainside. He closed his eyes, trying to dissect the flavors, but it was hopeless. He swallowed and dipped his spoon in for a second time. And a third. He was going for a fourth when he set down the spoon and paused, trying to figure out why a sense of well-being flooded him. It was just a bowl of pea soup, for pity’s sake!

He reached for the note Gilroy had slipped onto the lunch
tray, scanning it quickly. As always, Gilroy could be counted on for accuracy and detail. The butler’s precise handwriting listed every activity Sophie had engaged in since entering the house at ten minutes before six o’clock this morning. But all Quentin cared about was the recipe for the soup that Mr. Gilroy had watched her prepare. Freshly shelled peas, chicken stock, some cream, a dash of lemon juice, chopped leeks, a few chives, and salt. Seven ingredients. No magic spice or exotic techniques. Seven simple ingredients found in any kitchen, and yet any king would pawn his firstborn for a bowl of this soup.

He tasted the soup again, closing his eyes to focus on the texture and flavor. There was nothing extraordinary about the ingredients, but the combination transcended the ordinary. He took another bite, then reached for the still-warm bread and the dish of butter. The creamy butter melted into the bread before he could draw the knife away.

He took a bite, thrilled and annoyed that it tasted as good as it smelled. He clenched his hand into a fist, swallowed the bread, then shouted. “Gilroy!” He’d always found houses with bell-pulls for servants presumptuous, but they would be a useful addition to this house. He couldn’t afford to stress his leg by hopping up and down to summon guards, and his throat was going hoarse fast.

The ever-present agreeable expression was on the butler’s face when he arrived. “Yes, sir?”

“Get her in here,” he growled. There was no need to specify who he wanted to see, for Sophie was the only person who seemed uniquely capable of working her way beneath his composure and unsettling his carefully won stability.

Three minutes later, Sophie stood before him, still wearing an apron and wiping her hands on a towel. She glanced nervously at the meal spread out on the table, most of it still remaining.

“Was something wrong with lunch, sir?”

Without a word, he handed her Gilroy’s note and pointed to the bottom of the page. “Mr. Gilroy neglected to fully capture the recipe for your pea soup, or perhaps he overlooked a step in the cooking process. What did he miss?”

Her pretty face screwed up as she scanned the note, turning it back and forth to read both sides of the densely written text that recounted all of her movements in the house this morning.

“What is this?” she asked, confusion heavy in her voice. “Was he
spying
on me again?”

“Of course he was spying. I warned you about him weeks ago.”

“I thought he was just trying to help! He seemed so nice . . .”

Honestly, she shouldn’t have been allowed to leave the nursery if she was this naïve. “Miss van Riijn, I asked you a purely factual question. Please overcome your dismay that Mr. Gilroy continues in his true calling as an accomplished spy and tell me what he overlooked while reproducing this recipe.”

“What makes you think he got it wrong?”

Because it was impossible for seven ordinary ingredients to combine into this sublime experience of culinary perfection. “He did. It must have been some kind of seasoning. Was it sage?”

“No,” she said, amusement beginning to dance in her pretty blue eyes.

“Some kind of special peas?”

She shook her head. “You’re not going to be able to guess. In fact, I’m not even sure you would believe me if I told you.”

He narrowed his eyes, savoring the thrill of competition that surged through him. “What makes you think I’m too dim-witted to guess what’s in this soup?”

“Because you believe the entire world operates on rational scientific principles, and that is a very limiting quality, Mr. Vandermark. Sometimes there are things science can’t explain.”

A reluctant smile began tugging on one corner of his mouth.
He tamped it down. “Which rules of chemistry, physics, or gravity does your pea soup violate?”

“If I could answer that question, I’d be limiting myself to your own narrow view of the world,” she said with a bright smile.

By heaven, sometimes he really liked this woman. “What’s in the soup, Miss van Riijn?” he pressed.

“You won’t believe me,” she predicted. “And you’ll probably laugh at me, too.”

“Maybe. Quit stalling and tell me what’s in the soup.”

It took her forever to parse her answer, looking mildly embarrassed as a gorgeous flush spread across the soft ivory of her cheeks. “It’s not an ingredient, but a technique,” she finally said. “I love cooking, but more importantly, I love sharing food and serving people. When a person truly loves what they are doing, I think it shows. People can sense that in the meals I serve.”

“Love,” he said, struggling to keep the mirth from his voice. “You are suggesting that
love
is the mysterious ingredient that makes this soup so good?”

“Didn’t I say you would laugh?” She met his gaze squarely even though it looked like she was trying not to laugh herself.

The most astounding thing was that he knew she believed every word she’d just said. She was too transparent and earnest to be fibbing.

He covered his mouth to hide the twisting of his lips. Despite the absurdity of her assertion, it was also charming and delightful, and the irrational attraction he had for her grew each time she came within his line of sight. “I have traveled the entire world, and I’ve never met anyone quite like you.
Love
,” he repeated, his laughter finally impossible to control. “Sophie, I’m glad you love what you do, because this soup is delicious and you’re the best cook I’ve ever had.”

For once, her ridiculous idealism didn’t annoy him because, quite frankly, he was famished and the soup was amazing.

“There is something I wanted to speak to you about,” she said, a hint of hesitation in her voice. He swallowed the last of his soup but was immediately on guard. She was probably about to ask for an increase in salary after his lavish praise of her cooking.

“It’s about Pieter,” she said.

He set down the bowl and gestured for her to sit at the table opposite him. She seemed reluctant, but after a moment’s hesitation, she pulled out the chair and sat. “Go on,” he coaxed.

“Pieter did the work for the Weather Bureau while I was gone. He didn’t want to do it, but I leaned on him, and he finally agreed. He completed the task every morning without prompting and on time.”

“I would expect no less.”

She tried not to let exasperation leak into her voice. “It took a lot of courage for him to volunteer his services for the Weather Bureau. He did so with no help or words of praise from you. Don’t you think you might tell him you are proud of him? That he is doing a good job? That you love him and are pleased with how desperately he wants to make a meaningful contribution to the world?”

Annoyance began to take root. For the past week, he hadn’t stepped outside his room because he feared the sight of his swollen face would upset Pieter. “You have no standing to criticize how I raise my son.”

“Pieter is afraid of you, did you know that? You can’t raise a child like he is a soldier in the army.”

“I’m not raising a child, I’m raising a
man
,” he snapped. “It takes more than a little love sprinkled over a cooking pot to do that. And why a childless woman who’s never been able to keep a man thinks she is qualified to criticize my parenting is beyond me.”

She wasn’t so friendly now. Her motions were stiff and
efficient as she placed the cover over the empty bowl of soup and lifted the lunch tray. “Why do you want me to be as dark and cynical as you? Why are you so determined to snuff out whatever light and goodness is in the world?”

“Wishing the world could be like the fairy tales in your storybooks won’t make it so, Miss van Riijn.”

Sophie’s chin was tilted high as she carried the tray to the door. “I’m not going to retaliate to your meanness, because I do my best to be kind to every person I encounter. That may seem small to a person like you, but trust me, it isn’t always easy. No matter how awful a person is, above all, I always try to be kind.”

The
kind
woman slammed the door on her way out.

Sophie’s questions plagued him all night long.
Why do you want me
to be as dark and cynical as you?

She was right. It shamed him, but he
wanted
to dim her happiness. Her effusive cheerfulness scraped against the raw, painful wounds in his body and spirit. She made him feel like cheap base metal compared to her luminous blend of gold and silver. Sophie showed only kindness and compassion to every person in this household, and all he did was launch pointed barbs in her direction, testing to see when she would lose her temper and break.

She wasn’t breaking. Maybe it was time to drop his victory-through-venom strategy and try to comport himself like a civilized human being. One who had a beating heart, however sluggish and unworthy though it be. His self-loathing was his own problem, and he needed to swallow it back and become the kind of father Pieter deserved.

Sophie had been right in her accusations about Pieter. Mostly right, anyway. What she didn’t understand was that it wasn’t
spite or disappointment or meanness that drove him to push Pieter so hard. It was fear.

If Quentin died, there would be no one to raise Pieter to manhood. Nickolaas was too old and irrational to do the job properly. Portia would have been an exceptional mother, but she was long dead, so the responsibility was entirely on his shoulders.

He awoke before dawn the next morning to write a note to Sophie. It did not take long, for when one spoke honestly, the words tended to flow.