Until the Dawn (25 page)

After decades of remaining isolated and suspended in time, Dierenpark was once again a grand gathering place of delight and adventure. Quentin’s rivalry with his grandfather was out in full force, and he was impatient to get his team of biologists to the river, unlocking the mysteries of Marguerite’s Cove. Everyone knew about the wager made between the two Vandermarks, and Quentin wanted the ground rules for the competition spelled out in short order.

After everyone was finally assembled in the grand parlor, Nickolaas arrived to outline the procedures for the coming days. Wearing his finest suit of clothes, Nickolaas stood before the imposing fireplace, framed by an ornate mantelpiece imported from a sixteenth-century castle in Holland. Somber-looking Vandermark ancestors seemed to observe them from the gilt-framed portraits lining the walls. She wondered what those commanding men and white-wigged ladies would have thought of the wager between Nickolaas and Quentin. Had they been aware of the magical qualities of that stretch of the river?

Nickolaas cleared his throat and began outlining instructions for the following weeks. “The water lilies never appear to die,” he said, his eyes alight with energy. “There were no lilies on that spot when I was growing up, nor were they there when my father died. I suspect they come and go over time. I have letters from the earliest Vandermark settlers making mention of water lilies.”

He reached into his breast pocket and opened a slip of paper. “This is from a letter written by Adrien Vandermark in 1636, and I quote: ‘The river is bountiful, but nowhere more so than a cove where oysters grow almost a foot in length and the lilies bloom with a heady fragrance. I sense a divine presence in this land, as though we have wandered into the Garden of Eden. We have no desire to return to Holland, for here is paradise. It is a treasure beyond the words of man.’”

Quentin let out a mighty gust. “Overblown allegorical language common to the seventeenth century,” he said. “I don’t care about a treasure; I want a soil and water analysis to explain those lilies.”

Ever since hearing of the puzzle of the water lilies, Quentin had been on fire to find a scientific explanation. The lilies were a curious enigma, but Sophie preferred to enjoy the beauty of the spot rather than demand a technical explanation and hoped the scientists didn’t ruin the cove with their tests and explorations.

“Wasn’t Adrien Vandermark the original founder of Dierenpark?” Professor Sorenson asked. He was a world-famous biologist who Quentin had handpicked to lead the scientific research team.

“He was one of two Dutch brothers who laid claim to the land,” Nickolaas answered. “He established trade with the English in Massachusetts and built the original cabin, but he was killed by the Indians before this house was built. It was Caleb who built the shipping empire and established trade with ports all over the world. I still have Caleb’s ring,” he said with a gleam of pride as he held up his hand to display the humble pewter ring. It was the same ring worn in the portraits of every Vandermark patriarch hanging in the grand parlor.

“All that is ancient history,” Quentin said. “My concern is what is causing the lilies to grow in water that should be too salty to support them. I will pay five thousand dollars to the first man who can articulate and defend a scientific explanation for the health of the water lilies.”

“And if one of the archaeologists finds a non-scientific explanation, or evidence of what my forefathers did to give rise to the lilies, I’ll pay double my grandson’s offer.”

Anticipation rippled through the teams of researchers as they exchanged excited nods.

“Don’t get too excited,” Quentin said. “The answer to this
paradox will be rooted in science, and I’ll match anything Nickolaas offers. Plus, I’ll underwrite any expenses to publish your findings in a reputable scientific journal.”

Nickolaas raised his chin to look down his nose at Quentin. “Do you
really
want to get into a bidding war with me?”

“Yes, he really does!” the youngest of the professors called out. Professor Byron was a newly minted biologist whose handsome looks and reckless grin were in contrast to the gray hair among the other professors.

Professor Byron’s comment was greeted by good-natured laughter, but Sophie knew these men hadn’t come here for money. They came because of the rare opportunity to explore one of the oldest estates in America.

Nickolaas folded his arms across his chest and directed his comments to the team of archaeologists and historians from Harvard, a group of bearded men who looked old enough to have been here when the
Mayflower
arrived. “I still have more money than my grandson, wealthy though he may be. Plus, I am open-minded enough to consider things no hidebound scientist can lift his head free of the test tubes to contemplate. I believe the answer to this mystery dates back at least to the seventeenth century. I want my team to look for evidence of some legal maneuver, a feud, and although my grandson may scoff . . . perhaps evidence of witchcraft or a spell that might have affected the land and the family. Miss van Riijn can show the archaeologists to the attic, where you may be able to glean information about my family’s history.”

Sophie stood to guide Nickolaas’s team up the two flights to the warm, dusty attic. When the biologists asked if they might follow, Quentin tried to stop them.

“The answer to this puzzle is in the river, not the attic,” he insisted.

“We agreed we would not interfere with their research,”
Nickolaas said. “Let the men have free rein wherever their curiosity leads.”

Quentin looked ready to burst with frustration, but all twelve men followed Sophie up the staircase. Resting beneath a mansard roof, the attic had plenty of room in which to stand upright and was stuffed with old trunks, stacks of moldering clothes, and furniture from another era. Weak light from dormer windows illuminated the bare plank flooring, and the stale air swirled with dust motes.

“Are there any estate books?” one of the historians asked. “It would be helpful to know what has been planted over the eras.”

“Aside from the gardens, I don’t think they ever planted any sort of crops,” Sophie said. “There has always been plenty to eat with the fruit trees and wild berries that flourish without any tending on our part. The earliest Vandermarks made their fortune from shipping, animal skins, and timber.”

One of the men succeeded in working a lock on an old trunk free and lifted the lid. The leather strapping creaked with age, but the delight on the professor’s face was obvious as he surveyed the contents of the trunk.

“These uniforms look like they date to the Revolution,” he said in awe. The blue wool coat he lifted from the trunk bore the sash of a brigadier general in the Continental army. Even more fascinating was what lay at the bottom of the trunk. A beaded vest with leather fringe was surely of Indian design. There were other Indian relics, as well. Bone tools, a wampum belt, and a woven mat.

“They look like they come from the Iroquois, but I’m not a specialist in Indian artifacts,” the professor said as he lifted an axe, hefting it in his hand. Everyone was silent with wonder. The last time that tomahawk had been handled was probably shortly after the Revolutionary War. How had it come into the
Vandermarks’ possession? Was it a trophy of war or of friendship? Who had it once belonged to?

Sophie covered her heart, wondering if the pounding could be heard by the professors who seemed as enchanted as she, but she had to prepare lunch and couldn’t linger. The men would be able to find their own way downstairs, and she could check back later to see what they’d discovered.

Quentin waited for her at the base of the grand staircase. Leaning heavily on the newel post, he glared at her with impatient eyes.

“Why aren’t they following you?” he asked.

“Because there’s so much to see!” It seemed a little mean to be so excited since Quentin wasn’t able to go upstairs on his own, so she did her best to describe it. “There are trunks from the Revolution, and Indian artifacts. Dresses that look like they could have been worn at a royal palace—”

“That’s all very well and good, but if you love this house as much as you claim, you’ll do everything possible to assist the biologists in discovering the truth so I can spare the house from demolition. Keep the archaeologists distracted by the pointless junk in the attic, but the sooner my team gets to work in the river, the sooner I win the wager and save Dierenpark.”

She glanced up the stairs. “Why don’t I dash up there and see what I can do to encourage them to start exploring the river?”

His smile was wintery. “Excellent suggestion.”

Quentin closed himself off in the privacy of the library to work on the Antwerp bridge, but it was hard to concentrate knowing the biologists had finally carted their supplies and equipment down to the bank of the river. Had they begun work yet? He wanted to see, but getting down the steep path to the river was impossible for him. He dropped his pencil and
clenched his hands, cracking each knuckle systematically. It was frustrating to be trapped at this desk when he craved the chance to wade into the river, plunge his hands into the soil, and help with the investigation.

He pushed away from the desk. He couldn’t join the biologists in the river, but perhaps he could at least find a spot to observe. Rumor had it there was an outcropping beneath the terrace that had an excellent view of Marguerite’s Cove. He was cautious as he navigated around the side of the house, pushing through a dense screen of spruce shrubs, their piney needles scraping his hands and releasing a crisp scent into the air. Tapping his cane before him, he finally reached the outcropping that jutted from the side of the cliff. The ledge was spacious enough to contain a battered old bench.

As he leaned forward, his eyes widened in surprise. Was that a cannon? The metal was green with age, but the ornate scrollwork around the barrel indicated it came from a long-ago era. It could have been used in the Revolutionary War, or perhaps even further back to when pirates roamed the Hudson. At the very least, it was proof that the outcropping was capable of bearing plenty of weight, and the overhang might provide a place to observe the scientists in the river below.

Bracing his left hand along the grainy wall of the cliff, he wended his way down slowly to the overhang. It had a perfect view of the biologists at work. The river glistened in the sunlight, and for the first time, he was able to see Marguerite’s Cove.

It was easy to see why artists would be attracted to the spot. The inlet had a sandy shore lined with cattails and rose mallow, and the water was smooth but for the profusion of vibrant lilies. It must be his imagination, but it seemed he could smell the perfume of the lilies even from this ledge a hundred feet above.

One of the biologists was hip-deep in the river, bent over to scrutinize a lily blossom through a magnifying glass. Two
others collected water samples, but the others appeared fascinated with the oysters. He mustn’t forget that the oysters were an equally mystifying phenomenon. Sophie insisted that most of the oysters in the rest of the Hudson were struggling to survive, but the oysters on Vandermark land flourished.

It was an enigma. The river should be too salty for lilies, and not salty enough for oysters, yet both thrived. It wouldn’t take long for the biologists to come up with a logical explanation for the uncanny health of this cove, and then his grandfather could stop obsessing over curses and supernatural claptrap.

He leaned back on the bench, breathing in the fresh scent that swept through the air. He lost track of time watching sun glint on the river and listening to the voices and laughter from the men below. A sense of calm soothed his spirit. He didn’t drift to sleep . . . not precisely, but it was so enchanting and restful it had the same effect. He didn’t know how long he lingered on the bench. An hour? Two?

Movement to the east alerted him to Sophie making her way down to the shore from the deer path, a covered basket resting on one hip. From above, he had a perfect view of her willowy figure as she glided toward the scientists. The men wearing caps swept them off, dazed looks of appreciation on their faces as she approached. Even from a distance, he could hear Sophie’s laughter carrying on the wind, opening her basket and passing out apples, cheese, and cookies.

He watched Sophie through narrow eyes as she kicked off her shoes to wade into the river. When she hiked up her skirts, he glimpsed shapely calves as she headed toward the oyster beds. She gestured to a spot, and one of the scientists leaned over to pry an oyster free of the reef. She joined him, and soon they had their palms full of the rough oyster shells before heading back to shore. Beckoning the others to gather around, one of the scientists used a pocketknife to pry open a shell then tipped
the slimy oyster down his throat to the howls of the onlookers. In short order, he pried another open and passed the brimming half shell to Sophie. She gamely raised the shell to her mouth, tilted her head back, and swallowed the oyster whole while the others clapped in praise.

Quentin’s heart darkened. Why was it so easy for some people to be happy? Wherever Sophie went, she carried a buoyant sense of joy that drew people to her. He clenched his fist at the way the youngest biologist, Professor Byron, reached out to clap Sophie on the back. The young man looked like Adonis and had a laugh that echoed off the cliff.