Until the Dawn (40 page)

She tapped softly on the library door before entering. Quentin had been racing to get the design for the Antwerp bridge completed before the end of the month. He was hunched over a mound of papers at his desk, but his eyes softened as she entered.

“Hungry?” she asked as she set the tray before him.

“I should probably eat.” It wasn’t the effusive praise he normally lavished on her meals, and she glanced at him closer. It wasn’t hot, but a fine sheen of perspiration covered his face.

“Are you all right? You’re sweating.”

He shrugged his shoulders dismissively. “These things come and go,” he said, but something in his tone worried her. She drew a chair closer.

“Tell me.” If they were going to be married, she had a right to understand the nature of his illness.

She listened as he described the bone infections that still plagued him. Sometimes the infection caused only a simple fever, but at other times, the area around his old wound swelled so much it split the skin open. She cringed at the ghastly thought. Although Quentin spoke in a composed tone, his shoulders sagged a little. It was almost imperceptible, but she was coming to know him very well and sensed his disappointment.

“Things had been going so well lately,” he acknowledged. “I’d hoped these periodic infections were a thing of the past and that the bone graft had finally worked. I still think it might, but perhaps these fevers will be with me forever. There is nothing I can do other than wait it out.” He smiled softly. “And maybe you could say a prayer or two.”

“I can do that.” Without thinking, she reached out to stroke a lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead. “Can I see the sketch for your new bridge?”

“Of course.”

It was truly lovely, with three brick arches spanning the river and a series of lamps at periodic intervals along the pedestrian walkway. It was hard not to be proud of a man who could design something of such beauty and practical value.

Even as he showed her the design, a few drops of perspiration beaded up and rolled down the side of his face. She swallowed hard. “Are you certain you’re all right? You don’t look good.”

He sighed, but humor danced in his eyes. “Sophie, I haven’t felt good since I slipped on the ice outside my hotel in Vienna eight years ago. Lately I’ve begun to appreciate the distinction between feeling good in my body and feeling good in my spirit.”
His hand covered hers, sending a surge of warmth and energy to her. “I’ve had more happiness, more hope, and a greater sense of purpose in these past few weeks than I can ever remember. Most of that is due to you.”

How was it that such simple words could fill her with pleasure? Never had she felt as appreciated as she did when Quentin spoke words of respect and admiration.

It was impossible to resist him, and she drew closer. “What would happen if I sat on your lap?”

He smothered a laugh. “Forgive me, Miss van Riijn, but I would be in howling agony.”

“Oh dear.” She averted her gaze in mortification.

He tugged on her hand. “Ask me what would happen if you sat on this armrest, put your arm around my shoulders, and leaned in so I could smell your hair and kiss your neck.”

Her eyes grew round, but she was helpless to look away. “Why don’t we go ahead and try it out? Like a scientific experiment.”

“You read my mind.”

“I’m clever that way.” She propped her hip against the arm of the chair, close enough so she was snug against his body. From there it was easy to lean down and kiss him. There was a faint smile on his lips, and nothing had ever felt as right and proper as when he turned up his face to accept her kiss.

All his defenses were down. Quentin was warm and giving, with no cynicism or bitterness, just simple happiness as he kissed her back. How amazing that they had been able to see past their differences and become friends. She had helped soften him, but he’d given her the strength and self-confidence she hadn’t even realized she lacked until he began propping her up.

He drew away and whispered against the side of her cheek. “Please, Sophie, let us have a chance. We can make this work if you just give us some time.”

She’d been waiting her whole life for this. She’d been in love
before—childhood crushes and foolish infatuations she’d mistaken for love. She’d been blessed with a wonderful relationship with Albert, but in retrospect, he had been so much older that they had never truly felt like equals. With Quentin, she had a partner. He was not the perfect man, but she was no flawless princess either.

How desperately she wanted this to work. She squeezed his hand. “Yes,” she vowed, “I promise to give us time.”

They had run out of sugar, and it would be days before someone could get to town to replenish their stock. Most of the chocolate recipes Sophie had seen in Dierenpark’s grand collection of cookbooks called for a hefty amount of sugar, but the older recipes used cream, vanilla, and even ground almond meal to sweeten the treat. She’d simply have to make do with an older recipe.

Pieter wanted to help, and as she laid out the ingredients, he fidgeted with excitement. He recounted the fine chocolates he’d had in Belgium and how the taste compared with French chocolate.

“Those are world-famous chocolatiers,” Professor Sorensen said from his position at a kitchen stool. “This is our first attempt at a highly complex process, so you may want to lower your expectations a bit.”

Sophie flashed him a look of gratitude as she lowered a pot onto the double-boiler. The eighteenth-century cookbook was in French, and Professor Sorenson would be translating the instructions for Sophie, so she considered this a group effort, which took a bit of the pressure from her shoulders. She rarely risked cooking a new recipe in front of such a large audience, but the rain had given them all cabin fever, and helping with the chocolate gave them something to do.

As the aroma of simmering chocolate filled the house, it drew others to the kitchen like a lodestone. They had no proper candy molds, so Sophie used muffin tins, pouring only a quarter inch of the dark, glossy liquid into the bottom of each well. It would take hours for the chocolate to cool enough to eat, which was a disappointment for everyone who had been smelling the tempting aroma for almost an hour, but Sophie still had plenty of chocolate left in the pot.

“I’ll whisk the remainder into some milk for a little hot chocolate—how would that be?” she asked. The sentence wasn’t even out of her mouth before the bodyguards were scrambling for the teacups. Emil volunteered to brave the rain to fetch a canister of milk from the larder outdoors. By the time he returned, everyone in the house had gathered in the kitchen, and Emil poured the milk into the pot while Sophie whisked. The cookbook warned she mustn’t let the chocolate change temperatures too rapidly or it would crystallize. A number of the professors leaned in, shouting instructions and generally making a nuisance of themselves. They might be brilliant educators, but they couldn’t hold a candle to her in the kitchen.

“The ancient Mayans believed chocolate to be a gift from the gods,” Professor Winston said. “Its creation is the work of alchemy, a transformation of a base material into an elixir fit for the gods. It is the intersection of chemistry with culinary magic.”

Quentin also had plenty to say. “Chocolate is the only substance with profound culinary, symbolic, and pharmacological value. It is the queen of the epicurean experience.”

“Could you
please
help me lower some of these expectations?” Sophie laughed as she continued whisking. “You’re the one who spoiled Pieter with Belgian chocolates—how am I supposed to compete with that?”

“We’ve got faith in you, ma’am!” one of the bodyguards called from the back of the room.

At last, the proper amount of milk had been whisked into the chocolate, and it had been heated to the correct temperature for drinking. After transferring the first batch into an antique chocolate pot that looked like it had been imported from Versailles, Sophie brought it out to the kitchen table and poured some into a teacup.

“You first, Pieter, since you did such a fine job helping me with the measuring.” Pieter wiggled his way through the screen of men, his eyes alight with excitement. The china teacup was warm, and the boy held it gingerly as he took a sip. Everyone watched in expectation.

Pieter’s eyes grew round, then his face screwed up so tightly he looked like he was sucking a lemon. Sophie was relieved when he swallowed the mouthful rather than spitting it out.

“It’s bitter,” he said, smacking his lips.

“Of course it’s bitter,” Professor Sorenson said. “All eighteenth-century chocolate recipes are bitter. It wasn’t until the last century that we’ve begun polluting chocolate with an obscene amount of sugar.”

Everyone wanted to sample the chocolate drink despite Pieter’s distaste, but most shared his assessment. They winced, their eyes watered, and they set their cups down.

Emil never did anything by half measures, and he knocked the whole teacup back in one mighty gulp. “Whoa, that will make hair grow on a man’s chest!” he said with a violent shudder.

Sophie ventured a sip. It wasn’t so bad . . . it was actually rather nice. She took another taste. It had a dark, rich flavor, with layers of complexity that took awhile to surface. The others all watched, waiting for her assessment. After most of them had rejected the drink, she didn’t want to appear defensive by claiming she liked it.

Quentin watched her, curiosity on his face as he waited for her opinion. He had placed his own cup down after a small sip, and it was clear he preferred sweetened chocolate, as well.

“I rather like it,” she finally said. It took some time to see past the dark chocolate’s harsh taste, but she didn’t care if others didn’t approve, she loved it and knew she would make this recipe again and again.

A few brave men drained their cups, but only Sophie and Professor Sorenson helped themselves to more after their first serving. “I’ll make you all a nice peach pie as soon as we can get some sugar,” Sophie promised Pieter.

“How about an apple pie, too?” Emil asked. That started a flurry of conversation about which flavor of pie should be the first to come out of the kitchen once the rain let up and it was possible to restock the pantry.

The doorbell rang, startling everyone. Mr. Gilroy set down his cup, and as he headed to the front door, the bodyguards went on alert. Quentin looked only mildly annoyed at the interruption, but she supposed he must be used to living this odd sort of pampered life that was still fraught with its own set of dangers.

Relief trickled through her when she recognized her father’s voice. She smiled as Jasper followed Mr. Gilroy into the kitchen, his coat soaking wet and water dripping from the ends of his hair. “Can I offer you a cup of bitter hot chocolate?” she asked him. “There is plenty left, as I have failed in spectacular fashion this afternoon.”

Rather than greeting her with a smile, her father’s face remained grim as he shrugged out of his coat, shaking water from it and hanging it on a hook in the corner.

“I’ve come on business,” he said. “I found a letter written by a member of the Broeder family long ago. It is sealed and notarized. I have no idea what this letter contains, but I want it opened and read before witnesses so there can be no question of its authenticity.”

Sophie caught her breath. It had taken her father weeks to read through the trove of Vandermark documents he’d found
in the bank’s safe deposit box, but he’d finished that task days ago and had told her he’d found nothing of value. She didn’t put much stock in Jasper’s belief that the Broeders might somehow be the legitimate heirs to Dierenpark, but he was convinced a Vandermark had once eloped with a Broeder and there would be evidence of it in some government register at a nearby city. He’d gone to Albany last week to begin searching through courthouse records.

Quentin looked only mildly interested, but Nickolaas hadn’t torn his eyes from her father since the moment he’d said the name Broeder.

Her father took a sealskin pouch from his jacket pocket, unfolded it, and withdrew an envelope that was yellow with age. “I found this letter written by Harold Broeder at the state courthouse in Albany. Harold was from the second generation of Broeder groundskeepers at Dierenpark, and he put this letter on file at the state courthouse in 1690. The writing on the back of the envelope reads, ‘To be opened in the event of my untimely or violent death,’ and it is signed by Harold and dated July 9, 1690.”

Jasper held up the letter, high enough for everyone in the room to see the old handwriting scrawled across the back of the envelope that was still held closed by a stamp of sealing wax. The ornate stamp of a notary validated its authenticity.

Her father continued. “I want this letter to be opened here at Dierenpark, with witnesses from both the Vandermark and Broeder families.”

“I’m here,” Emil offered.

Nickolaas looked down his nose at Jasper. “Harold Broeder died peacefully in his bed as an old man. He did
not
die in a violent or untimely fashion. Therefore, the letter is not to be opened.”

“That’s not for you to say,” her father said. “The letter belongs
to Emil, as he is the direct descendant of Harold Broeder. Emil? Do you want to open and read the contents of this letter?”