Until the Dawn (26 page)

This was hard to watch. Grabbing his cane, he limped over to the cannon, bracing his hand on the sun-warmed metal to get a better view of what transpired below. He wasn’t paying these men a fortune to flirt with his cook. It was time to break up the impromptu celebration.

“Sophie!” he shouted, his voice echoing through the valley.

She twisted to look up at him, shading her eyes with one hand and waving with the other. “You’ve found the Spanish cannon!” she called out. Even her voice carried warmth and happiness.

“Can you join me up here?”

Sophie nodded and tugged on her shoes then scurried toward the footpath, where she disappeared into the forested hillside. A few minutes later, he heard her skirts swishing as she joined him on the ledge.

“Spanish cannon?” he queried.

She nodded. “Spain was a late entrant into the French and Indian War. One of your Vandermark ancestors captured a Spanish ship and took this cannon as loot. It’s been here ever since. Why are you here?”

“I wanted to see how the biologists were getting on, but the deer path everyone uses is impossible for me. Is there an easier way down to the shore?”

“Not from the house,” she said. “You’d need to take a carriage and pick up the road almost half a mile away.”

It was frustrating, but at least he could keep an eye on the activities from this overhang and he liked it up here. The wind tugged at his hair, and he folded his arms, unaccountably nervous. Now that he had Sophie here alongside him, he didn’t want her to leave. He wanted to soak up this afternoon and the sense of peace he’d found at this spot. Sophie’s company was both exciting and soothing at the same time, a strange combination but an exhilarating one.

“Why do
you
think the water lilies flourish here?” he asked. “You seem to know this piece of land better than anyone else in the valley.” And suddenly it was intensely important to know. He was coming to respect Sophie. She was naïve beyond belief, but she was an intelligent woman with amazing insight, and it was getting harder to resist her.

“You’ll laugh at me if I tell you.”

“Maybe. Tell me anyway.”

The tension on Sophie’s face eased, and she went to lean against the Spanish cannon, gazing out at the vista before her.

“I think this land is blessed,” she said. “I don’t know why, but I’ve always felt very close to God up here, and I’m not the only one who has noticed it. I can tell by the way you’re rolling your eyes that you don’t believe me, but there are things science can’t explain. Your grandfather told me about the crocuses on his wife’s grave. They bloom three times a year, and that’s not natural.”

Just once, he was tempted to let her believe the fantasy. She seemed so charmed by the crocuses it would be petty to disillusion her, but like most things, there was a perfectly logical explanation for the miraculous crocuses on his grandmother’s grave. He gave a reluctant smile and told her the truth.

“I pay a gardener to swap out the bulbs every four months.”

“You do what?” She looked appalled. “You’re tricking your grandfather?”

Putting it like that made it sound worse than it was. After his wife died, Nickolaas plunged into a depression so profound it was frightening. He’d been at odds with his grandfather most of his life, but it hurt Quentin to see the man so buried beneath a suffocating veil of grief.

“My grandfather visited his wife’s grave daily, and when the crocuses he planted lost their bloom it hit him hard, as though it was a symbol that his life was over, as well. I feared he might sicken and die. I thought the crocuses would cheer him up, so I paid a gardener to transplant some bulbs that had been kept in cold storage. Forcing bulbs this way is easy enough to do.”

“Oh,” Sophie said in a voice that lacked her usual spark. She seemed disappointed at the explanation, but wasn’t everyone when they learned fairy tales and Santa Claus aren’t real? Over the years, his grandfather continued to take such comfort in the sight of those repeatedly blooming crocuses that it seemed cruel to stop. To this day, he paid a gardener to keep transplanting crocus bulbs onto the spot whether Nickolaas was in the country or not.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” he said. “There is nothing magical about those crocuses.”

She shook off her momentary dismay and looked at him with a new softness in her eyes. “I think it’s rather sweet.”

He’d been called many things over the years, but
sweet
was never one of them. He had no idea what to say to such a compliment, and he shifted his attention to the river. Oddly, she didn’t seem the least bit uncomfortable in the face of his silence. She turned her face to the sun, closing her eyes and breathing deeply.

“I love summer,” she breathed. And the bliss on her face made it impossible to doubt. If he were an artist, he’d want to immortalize that look of simple joy.

“Why?” Once again, he felt compelled to know. There were so many layers to this woman, and it was fascinating to peel them away.

“I love all the seasons, I suppose. Spring because it is a time of new life, when the bulbs and berries that have been waiting for a bit of warmth suddenly start bursting with vitality. In the summer the transformation slows, but we work to nurture all the new life around us. And then autumn is a time of reaping the rewards for hard work, for digging in the soil to find the dense, nourishing root vegetables that will sustain us through the winter. It seems like everything sleeps in winter, but it’s really a time of renewal and reflection.”

Her face carried a combination of joy and wistfulness. It reminded him of something he used to be, when he was young, before he understood how limited and painful his life was destined to become. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy this moment, even if it was delivered in the form of an artless village girl who knew how to recognize happiness in the most ordinary of events.

“People have seasons, too,” she continued, still keeping her eyes closed but her face turned to the sun. “When Albert died, I went through some dark days. I lost my way for a while. I didn’t know if I could find my way back into the light and learn to trust God again.”

That surprised him. He’d assumed Sophie’s childlike trust was unshakeable. “Isn’t doubt forbidden for a Christian?” he asked.

She glanced over at him, an impish twinkle in her eye. “I don’t think God dwells on when we fall down. I’d like to think he is more interested in helping us get back up again.”

His smile was genuine. Normally he would have teased her for bringing fables about God into the conversation, but the moment was too perfect to spoil with cynicism.

They stayed on that overlook for hours, sometimes talking about the scientists, sometimes about Pieter, sometimes about nothing more important than the differences between blackberries and raspberries.

There was something magical here . . . almost holy, if he were the type to believe in that sort of thing. Sophie’s company and her easy forgiveness of his callous behavior was humbling. He didn’t deserve it, and tomorrow he might revert to his surly, embittered self. These temporary periods of happiness rarely lasted long for him, but he should enjoy the fleeting glimpse while it lasted.

The sun was starting to cast shadows when Sophie finally pushed away from the cannon. “I need to start preparing dinner.”

He wished she didn’t. He wished she’d stay here so he could continue to listen to her wax poetic about the simple beauty of an ordinary day. Looking at the world through her eyes was fascinating.

And he wanted more.

15

N
EVER
IN
S
OPHIE
’
S
LIFE
had she felt so needed. With twelve professors, six bodyguards, and the three Vandermarks, she was cooking morning, noon, and night. No sooner had breakfast been served than she started lunch. Each day, she baked six loaves of bread. She sliced meat and cheese until new muscles began forming in her arms. Pieter kept her supplied with baskets of blueberries and cherries for pies. Walking the two miles to and from the village each day sapped her already flagging energy, and it became apparent she ought to move into the house while the research teams completed their work.

Her father consented only because Florence was there. She and Florence shared a bedroom on the top floor of the house, and Sophie now had more time to spend with Pieter. The boy was fascinated by the biologists and loitered at the river to watch them each day. He peppered them with endless questions about birds and plants and what made the sky blue. Sophie was curious, too. She had never done particularly well in school, but these men seemed to know everything about nature, and she soaked up the knowledge they were happy to share.

No matter how busy her day, each afternoon Sophie found time to join Quentin on the outcropping above the river. He seemed unusually attracted to the isolated spot, spending the majority of every afternoon there. He usually brought a stack of reading material with him, but oftentimes when she joined him the book was splayed open on his lap while he stared off into the distance. The moment he saw her he’d beckon her to join him on the bench and they would speak about everything and nothing during those few enchanted moments of rest.

Meanwhile, the archaeologists had sectioned off land that was most likely to yield historical insight. Of particular interest was the humble cabin where Caleb and Adrien Vandermark had first lived when they’d emigrated to America in 1635. It was the oldest structure on the land, and sections of the surrounding yard were cordoned off for excavation. Using whisks and trowels, they peeled away layers of soil and sifted through the dirt, uncovering broken pipes, old tools, even a rusty flintlock musket. They found the remnants of an old smokehouse that had been abandoned and forgotten by time. Only the rough-hewn rock foundation remained, and Sophie couldn’t imagine why it would be of such interest, but the archaeologists were thrilled by the discovery.

“Abandoned structures were often used as trash pits,” Professor Winston explained. He was the oldest of all the professors, with stooped shoulders and round glasses, but he attacked the site each morning with the energy of a young man. “You can learn a lot about people by studying what they discarded. It will take months to properly excavate.”

Months! Sophie’s heart soared at the news, for it meant the house was likely to earn a longer reprieve from demolition no matter who won the bet.

There was little time to savor the relief, though, for as she sat at the work table watching Professor Winston stake out the
area to be excavated, Mr. Gilroy arrived with the news she had been both anticipating and dreading.

“Dr. Phineas Clark from the Weather Bureau has arrived,” he announced. “He is in the main salon and is waiting for you.”

“He’s here? And he wants to see
me
?”

“He’s asked for Quentin, as well, but he specifically asked to see you, ma’am.”

Her heart accelerated, and she felt lightheaded. She murmured a quick prayer, straightened her shoulders, and headed to the front of the house.

Dr. Clark was a rail-thin gentleman with graying hair, round spectacles, and a flawless suit that looked like it had been freshly starched and pressed that morning.

“I understand you have been manning one of our volunteer stations since the beginning of the program,” Dr. Clark said as he greeted her.

Sophie wished she’d had the foresight to remove her apron and perhaps tidy her hair. “Y-yes,” she stammered. “It’s been an honor and a privilege.”

She dipped a little curtsy, feeling out of place in the elegance and formality of the grand salon, but Dr. Clark set her at ease as he lavished effusive praise on her efforts.

“My goodness, our bureau could not operate without the dedicated service of people such as yourself. The privilege is entirely ours.”

A sense of pride flooded her. Maybe this wouldn’t be so difficult, after all. Quentin soon joined them, leaning heavily on his cane but appearing perfectly at ease as he greeted the esteemed meteorologist. He made small talk with Dr. Clark, inquiring about his journey and the politics in Washington. Finally, Quentin suggested they all take a seat, and Mr. Gilroy brought them tea and lemon cake. Sophie poured while Quentin took the lead in the discussion.