Until the Dawn (41 page)

“Um, sure . . . but I can’t really read.”

Her father slid a thumb beneath the seal. “I’d be happy to do the honors.”

“Wait!” Nickolaas exclaimed. “In 1690, this country was still governed by England. Therefore, English law should dictate the inheritance of the letter.”

Her father’s smile was grim. “You’re scrambling. And you are wrong about the law. American law now governs what happens to this letter, and it is quite clear that it belongs to Emil.”

Sophie watched the exchange in fascination. Nickolaas clearly feared whatever might be in that letter, but her father suspected it might somehow call the ownership of Dierenpark into question. Quentin’s face was tense and alert, watching every move his grandfather made.

“Mr. van Riijn is right,” Quentin said. “The letter belongs to Emil, and it is up to him what happens to it.”

“I want to know what it says,” Emil said agreeably.

Nickolaas winced and turned away, as though he could not bear to see whatever the old groundskeeper had written. Sophie’s heart went out to him. She didn’t understand his fear and superstition about the past, but his anxiety was palpable.

The room was silent as her father popped the blob of sealing wax that had protected this secret for more than two hundred years. Her father drew a deep breath and read the note aloud.

I, Harold Broeder, am a loyal employee of the Vandermark family but have reason to fear for my life, because my family has been complicit in a great crime. In 1638, shortly after arriving in America, Caleb and Adrien Vandermark had a dispute over money that had been entrusted to them. As a result, Caleb asked my father to murder Adrien in exchange for one hundred pounds sterling, a generous annual salary, and free use of the cabin and pier for as long as the Broeder family lived. My father drowned Adrien in the part of the river known as Marguerite’s Cove. Adrien’s disappearance was blamed on treachery from the Algonquin Indians, with whom Adrien was known to consort.

Jasper set down the letter, his gaze scanning the onlookers who had gathered around the table. The legend of Adrien Vandermark’s murder by the Indians he had tried to befriend had made him a tragic folk hero, but knowing he had been cut down on the orders of his own brother stunned everyone.

Emil looked upset and confused. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Does this mean Adrien didn’t die in an Indian attack?”

“There is more in the letter,” her father said, picking up the page.

Driven by greed, my father returned to Caleb over and over for more money, which was always paid. After my father’s death, and to my great shame, I continued to blackmail Caleb Vandermark. Although I played no role in the murder, I have benefited from the crime. In his final years, Caleb grew bitter, frightened, and ravaged by guilt. Although not a Catholic, during his final illness he pleaded for a priest to absolve his sins. No priest could be found, and he confessed his sin to his eldest son, Enoch, exhorting him to continue honoring the agreement with the Broeders for fear the shameful truth would defile the Vandermark name.

Enoch Vandermark’s patience has grown thin, and attempts have been made on my life. Both our families live beneath a veil of greed and mistrust. To ensure my safety, I am sending sealed copies of this letter to the courthouse in Albany, the elders of Roosenwyck in Holland, and to Enoch Vandermark. Should I fall victim to the Vandermarks, I beg that this crime be exposed to the light of day.

“That is the end of the letter,” Jasper said, the crackling of the paper loud as he folded it closed again. For two hundred years, that letter had hidden a terrible secret. Sophie watched the men in the room, everyone somber as the news penetrated. It almost seemed as if the air had been tainted by the saga of greed and corruption. She had always thought of Adrien Vandermark as a tragic figure, having been killed by people he was trying to protect, but the true story of his betrayal was far worse.

Professor Byron looked sick. “All these weeks I’ve been working in Marguerite’s Cove. I never suspected anything . . .”

Her father offered the letter to Emil.

“I don’t even want to touch it,” Emil said. “It makes me feel bad, to know that I come from a family like that.”

“You aren’t to blame,” Quentin said and then looked quickly to Pieter. “And neither are you. We are all given the free will to choose what kind of path we want to walk.”

“Do you think Adrien might be buried in Marguerite’s Cove?” Pieter asked. “Is that why the lilies still bloom?”

“I don’t think we’ll ever know,” Professor Sorensen said with a sad smile. “I can find no scientific explanation for the lilies or the oysters. Your guess is as good as any, lad.”

Nickolaas pounced, his eyes alert. “Are you saying you have given up? That science can’t explain what’s going on in that cove?”

“I’m saying there are mysteries that science cannot resolve,” Professor Sorensen said. “I don’t need proof that can be seen under a microscope to believe there is divinity in the world.
That’s where faith comes in. If there was proof, there’d be no need for faith, right?”

Professor Byron wasn’t satisfied. “There are limits on what science can tell us today, but we are developing better tools all the time. Someday we will have better microscopes and testing procedures. I think someday we will be able to see deeper into a cell. Pull it apart, study its components—”

“I’m not interested in someday,” Nickolaas interrupted. “I want to know about today. Do you have a scientific explanation
today
for why those lilies grow on the spot where Adrien Vandermark was killed?”

He looked directly at Professor Byron, the youngest and most confident of all the biologists. Each morning, Professor Byron raced down to the cove with unflagging energy, determined to finally solve the mystery. He’d already asked permission to stay after summer’s end to keep hunting for an answer, for surrender simply wasn’t an option for him. Even now his inability to produce an answer drove him to wince and screw up his face in frustration.

“No!” he finally admitted. “I can’t see a reason, and neither can anyone else.”

Nickolaas’s smile was triumphant as he jabbed his index finger at Quentin. “You heard them,” he said. “Your own biologists agree there is no scientific explanation for the phenomenon. Given the circumstances of Adrien Vandermark’s death, it is far more likely there is a supernatural cause for what is happening in Marguerite’s Cove. I win the bet.”

He set down his teacup, the gentle clink the only sound in the suddenly silent kitchen, and left the room.

“Pieter, go fetch your grandfather and ask him to meet me in the orangery,” Quentin said. The orangery had the most privacy
of anywhere in the house, and he didn’t want this conversation overheard by a multitude of college professors.

“Sophie, I’d like you to come, as well,” Quentin said quietly. It hurt to see the wounded innocence on her face as she learned the circumstances of Adrien Vandermark’s death. At times like these, he wanted to protect and shelter her. For now, that meant saving Dierenpark from his grandfather’s plans.

It would infuriate Nickolaas, but he was
not
going to carry out the destruction of this house. Generations of Vandermarks had been raised to be guarded, superstitious, and distrustful of outsiders, long after the original crime had been forgotten and lost to history. It was time to scrub the lingering taint from the family tree and turn Dierenpark into a source of pride rather than shame. Nickolaas would either agree to the plan or Quentin would take him to court in an ugly battle for the future of their family legacy.

He clasped Sophie’s hand and made his way to the orangery, where the rain sounded louder as it pounded on the glass plates. The air was humid and laden with the scent of citrus trees and orchids. An orangery was an ostentatious display of wealth only very rich people could afford. Who needed Peruvian orchids or a climate that could support lemon trees year-round? It was a symbol of the greed that had ultimately led to Adrien Vandermark’s murder.

“Are you all right?” he whispered to Sophie, leading her to a bench.

“I’m okay.” But the sadness in her voice weighed on him. Adrien’s death was hundreds of years in the past, and he didn’t want her to spend one second grieving over something for which she had no responsibility.

“That was really terrible chocolate, Sophie.”

A bubble of laughter escaped. “Did you think so?”

“I do. But I love you anyway.” Her eyes widened in surprise,
but it was time for him to admit what was in his heart. He’d hidden behind the excuse that he needed a mother for Pieter, when what he really wanted was so much more.

“I love you,” he said again. “I don’t expect you to profess any grand feelings for me yet. So long as you give me time, I know I can learn to be worthy of you.”

The door opened and he stood, still holding her hand tightly. It was time for his grandfather to get accustomed to the prospect of having Sophie join their family.

Nickolaas glared at him from the opposite side of the orangery. “I won’t permit you to back out of the deal now.”

“How long have you known about that letter?” Quentin challenged.

“Ever since I bought the archive in Holland forty years ago. The good town fathers of Roosenwyck honored Harold Broeder’s request and did not open it.”

“And you never thought to tell us?”

Nickolaas walked down the aisle until he stood before them, pretending fascination in the showy blooms of a hydrangea. “My dear Quentin, you’ve never shown the slightest interest in our family history. I saw no need to expose the sordid details to the light of day.”

Quentin gestured toward the main house. “Then why all this?” he demanded. “Why drag all these people here to plunder through the family history, the attic, even the very soil we live on?”

“Because I believe there is a curse,” Nickolaas said calmly. “The Indians knew they were innocent of Adrien’s death, and they sent us those taunting passages. I think they sent something else along with it. A curse or a hex or such. I want it found and destroyed. I’m not confident that’s possible, so it’s time to demolish everything.”

Nickolaas glanced at Sophie and then back at Quentin. “I’m
not blind,” he continued. “I’ve seen the affection you have for her, and I knew she’d pressure you to save Dierenpark. Go back to the village, Sophie.” He spoke bluntly but not unkindly. “Marry Marten Graaf and have a dozen babies. Forget Dierenpark. It’s time to undo Caleb’s crime by abolishing the monument he built on ill-gotten gains. Only then will our family be free of his legacy.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Quentin said tightly. “I believe the source of the curse lies in the twisted way Caleb raised his children. They lived and breathed in the air of guilt and mistrust. That attitude ended up being passed down through the generations. I won’t permit it to continue. Pieter is an innocent. At all costs, he must be protected from a fatalistic view of the future.”

“That’s why I want to destroy the house,” Nickolaas said as though speaking to a simpleton. “Dierenpark was born in corruption and can never be anything else. It will stain our family for all time unless it is wiped from the map.”

“That’s not true!” Sophie asserted, moving a step closer to Nickolaas. “Dierenpark is what you make of it. It can be a millstone around your neck, or you can turn it into something beautiful and sacred. Something that would have made Adrien Vandermark proud.”

Quentin gazed at Sophie, pride swelling in his chest. They were thinking along the exact same lines, but he still didn’t have legal control over Dierenpark. Nickolaas could hire someone to blow it up tomorrow if he wanted. So Quentin tried another angle.

“How did your father die?”

Nickolaas flinched and looked away. Quentin suspected Nickolaas knew all of Dierenpark’s secrets, including the truth behind his father’s death, but he kept fierce guard over the past. Given the flash of anguish on his grandfather’s face, those hidden mysteries tormented him to this day.

“My father committed suicide,” Nickolaas said bluntly.

Quentin rocked back, tightening the grip on his cane lest he topple over. The color had drained from Sophie’s face, and she struggled to draw a breath.

“But . . . but he was such a good man,” she stammered. The disillusionment on her face mirrored Quentin’s own feelings. He knew what it meant to battle melancholia, but he’d always been encouraged by the modest, hardworking example set by Karl Vandermark.

“My father killed himself over
a woman
,” Nickolaas said sourly. “He was depressed for months over a doomed love affair. He couldn’t marry anyone because a divorce from my mother was impossible. When the woman he loved married someone else, my father wrote a suicide note bemoaning the miseries of his life, took an overdose of laudanum, and died in his bed.”

Quentin lowered himself to sit beside Sophie again. Even in the worst ravages of despair, his love for Pieter had always kept him from even toying with the option of suicide. Nickolaas had grown up knowing his father’s depression was more powerful than his love for his son. Quentin couldn’t imagine the scar that would leave on a fourteen-year-old boy.