Until the Dawn (23 page)

Dear Miss van Riijn,

As we have previously discussed, I do not believe in God, the hereafter, or anything that cannot be seen or touched. That does not excuse my behavior. You have shown Christian kindness and charity toward my entire household, and my atheism does not excuse me from the rules of common decency.

Even atheists sometimes wish for a talisman to cling to, a shining example that proves there is valor and pure, unalloyed goodness in the world. You are such a person. Sadly, there are times I find it easier to mock goodness rather than be judged small and unworthy in comparison. I have never been particularly proud of myself, but never less so than in the manner I have consistently insulted everything I find admirable about you. I hope you can accept my sincere apology.

Quentin Vandermark

He gave the sealed envelope to Collins to deliver to Sophie as soon as she arrived this morning. He also asked for Pieter to meet him on the mansion’s front portico.

There were no proper washrooms in the house, and he brought his shaving kit and a small mirror to prop up on the balustrade of the front landing. He swirled his shaving brush in the mug of soap, staring at the meadow across from the house. It was surrounded by ancient linden and juniper trees, making this patch of land feel cocooned from the wider world. Were he a spiritual sort, he might even think this land was blessed somehow.

The front door creaked open behind him. “Did you want to see me?”

The hesitation in Pieter’s voice hurt. Quentin began lathering his face but nodded to the morning newspaper folded on the top step. “The professors who will be studying Dierenpark will arrive soon. They’ll want to know what the weather is going to be. Can you read it to me?”

Quentin peered into the small mirror propped on the ledge of the balustrade, carefully drawing the blade across his skin. The newspaper crinkled as Pieter unfolded it, sat on the step beside him, and began reading.

“‘Decreasing cloudiness today, moderate winds. High temperatures in the upper seventies. Tomorrow: expect clear skies.’”

“Clear skies,” he said in a casual tone. “Collins will appreciate the fine weather as he carts all the supplies here.” He rinsed the shaving blade and used a towel to wipe the remaining soap from his face. “The weathermen in Washington wouldn’t have been able to make such predictions if you hadn’t been here to send them the data each morning. I’m proud of you, Pieter.”

Pieter sucked in a breath, and a quick smile flashed on his face. “Miss Sophie showed me how to do it. She knows everything about the weather.”

Sophie again
. The admiration in the boy’s voice was apparent, for truly it was hard not to be impressed by her. He’d been trying and failing ever since she first waltzed into his life.

“Why do you like Miss Sophie so much?” he asked. Any man
with blood pumping through his veins would find her attractive, but Pieter was too young to notice such things. Was it her cooking? The smile that was never far from her face?

Pieter’s forehead wrinkled in concentration as he fiddled with the shaving brush. When the boy finally spoke, Pieter’s answer stunned him.

“She listens to me like what I say matters.”

His chest squeezed. “And I don’t?”

Pieter shrugged but remained silent.

It was humbling, but Quentin knew the answer. He had never treated Pieter with the kind of respect Sophie showed every person in this household. He loved Pieter, but he didn’t have Sophie’s soft-hearted patience. He was good at lecturing, correcting, berating . . . but treating Pieter as if his opinion mattered? No, he’d never been very good at that.

And he needed to do better.

“Collins and Ratface are making up the beds in preparation for the research teams. They could probably use some help. I heard Ratface threaten to shove Collins into the river if he didn’t help turn the mattresses.”

“That’s not right,” Pieter said.

“It’s not stopping them. Go on up and see if you can get them to calm down.”

Pieter stood, his face unusually solemn. “Above all things, we should try to love one another,” he said. “It’s in the Bible.”

Pieter turned and left, leaving Quentin to stare in stunned disbelief at his retreating back. Since when had his son started spouting off Bible verses like a miniature preacher?

He struggled not to laugh. This was surely Sophie’s doing. He’d warned her about proselytizing to his son, but at least she wasn’t consorting with palm readers or transcendentalists like his grandfather was prone to do.

And if such sappy little maxims helped put Pieter at ease, he
wouldn’t quibble. Sophie had made more progress with Pieter in the space of a few weeks than Quentin had managed since the kidnapping last summer. And instead of showing gratitude to Sophie, he’d hurled rice pudding against the wall and mocked her boundless idealism.

He wasn’t ready to return inside the house yet. There was something peaceful out here, and it was soothing to him. Soaking up the sunshine and breathing the fresh green scent of the meadow was a balm on his spirit. So was watching those two little white butterflies flitting about the wisteria vines. How long had it been since he’d stopped to savor the natural beauty of this world?

Before long, Mr. Gilroy came driving up the path in the curricle, the morning’s groceries on the seat beside him. “A telegram has arrived for you,” he said as he passed Quentin on the porch stairs.

Quentin flicked open the card, raising his brow in surprise. Dr. Phineas Clark of the U.S. Weather Bureau had accepted his invitation to come to Dierenpark and would arrive in a week.

Quentin had forgotten about issuing that invitation. The conversation with Mr. Gilroy in the orangery seemed so long ago, before his grandfather had arrived, before his collision with the bees. He was ashamed of the way he’d tattled on Sophie to the Weather Bureau all those weeks ago. He’d just wanted her off his roof and hadn’t cared if he damaged her reputation in the process.

Now he cared. Sophie was a rare find: both innocent and strong at the same time. He feared she would someday be crushed by a hard and cynical world, but so far he had been the only one taking aim at her.

Contrary to all his experience, Sophie didn’t seem enticed by wealth or aggrandizement, only hopes for attracting a more substantial weather station to New Holland.

And he was going to help her get it.

He glanced up at Mr. Gilroy. “Prepare the turret bedroom. We are expecting a guest.”

13

Q
UENTIN
SOUGHT
OUT
S
OPHIE
IMMEDIATELY
. He still didn’t understand her desire to see a climate observatory built in New Holland, but if she wanted one, he would do everything in his power to make it happen. And the first step was to teach her how to impress a man like Dr. Clark.

She was in the kitchen kneading bread. With her hair loosely braided and her sleeves rolled up, she was the picture of timeless femininity, an image so enchanting it ought to be idealized by some grand European painter. Vermeer would have been able to capture the sunlight filtering through the window, illuminating her face as she went about the age-old task of kneading bread dough. She was everything that was good and pure in the world, and all he’d ever done was snarl at her because he was usually in a bad mood.

Blessed are the pure
in heart, for they shall see God.

Sometimes he wished he had an ounce of Sophie’s purity. It would be nice to see the world through innocent eyes instead of his relentless skepticism.

Sophie looked startled when she noticed him standing in
the doorway. Then dismayed. A normal man might have been troubled by such a reaction, but he was accustomed to people being intimidated by him. He grabbed an apple from the stoneware bowl, aimlessly polishing it on his shirt.

“You were right about Pieter,” he said. Her quick, indrawn breath let him know her surprise. “I was wrong to attack you over it.”

“Oh, that’s all right—”

“It’s not all right,” he interrupted, perhaps a little more roughly than he’d intended. “You need to quit being so nice when people treat you like that.”

“I can’t help it.” She shrugged. “I
am
nice.”

And pretty. And smart. Her practiced hands kneaded the bread dough like a virtuoso playing the piano.

“Yes, you are nice,” he agreed. “And you were only trying to help Pieter with what you said yesterday. I should not have lashed out like that. I am sincerely sorry.”

“I got your note,” she said. “You didn’t have to say all those nice things about me . . . but thank you.” A gorgeous flush spread across her cheeks, and he wondered if anyone had ever done something nice for Sophie instead of taking advantage of her kindness.

“Tell me about your progress in getting an upgraded climate observatory in New Holland,” he said casually.

Her hands stilled atop the bread dough. “I’ve finished drafting my proposal. I outlined why the Mill Road promontory would be perfect for both receiving information and distributing reports. I offered my own services as a volunteer, in case that makes any difference.”

“Why should you volunteer?” he asked. “After nine years of service, they ought to properly hire you and start paying a salary.”

“My father thinks they will hire only men, and there’s not
much I can do about that. And I don’t mind if they don’t pay me, I just want to be a part of it all.”

“Sophie, if you’re doing the same work as a man, they ought to pay you for it. Don’t let people take advantage of you.”

She gathered the dough into a ball and dumped it into a bowl, covered it with a damp towel, and set it on the windowsill. “I’m afraid they won’t hire me otherwise.”

Her generosity was admirable, but her screaming ignorance of how the government operated was appalling. She was in desperate need of learning how to navigate the world of business and bureaucrats.

“Tell me why you think the Weather Bureau ought to bring you on board,” he prompted.

She took a moment to wipe her hands on a towel while she parsed her words. “Because I want it so desperately—”

“Stop. They don’t care how much you want it. They need to know if you can do the job. Try again.”

She gave him one of those wounded puppy looks but quickly recovered and tried again. “Because I can be depended upon. No one else will work as hard as me. Or be as loyal. I’ll be excited to get up every morning and face the day with—”

“Stop. I sense you are about to blast me with a dose of sappy sunshine.”

“Well, yes,” she said, looking equal parts amused and bewildered. “But it’s the truth! I love my work, and that counts for something, doesn’t it?”

Those government bureaucrats would trample Sophie to pieces if she couldn’t stand up for herself. He walked around the counter until he was standing directly opposite her.

“Come on, Sophie! Stand up straight and look me in the eye. Tell me that you are the master and commander of that climate observatory. That there is no one in the state of New
York who can operate that office with more efficiency than you. Make me believe it!”

“Shhh . . . your grandfather is taking a nap,” she said, but she was giggling and at least seemed to be considering his point. It was going to be a challenge to prop her up enough so she could land a position at one of these newfangled observatories, but a fun one.

“Let’s hear it. Dazzle me with your rhetorical brilliance.”

“Not everyone can barge in and command attention. I’ve never been to college and can’t help with calculating the actual climate data, but that’s only half the battle making these stations work. The real challenge is getting the forecasts out to people so they have time to react.”

“And the government isn’t doing a good job of that?”

Sophie shook her head and began stemming a bowl of strawberries. “They publish it in the newspapers, that’s all. Plenty of farmers don’t ever see a newspaper. If I were in charge of communication, I’d deliver the daily forecast directly to the produce markets and post it on the weigh-in tables where everyone will see it. And if a dangerous frost or flood is predicted, I’d utilize the churches to muster volunteers to get the word out.”