Toward the Sunrise (15 page)

T
HE
H
UDSON
R
IVER
V
ALLEY
S
UMMER
1898

“That’s where the body was found, floating facedown in the river,” an ominous voice intoned. “He was stone-cold dead.”

Sophie sank behind the blackberry brambles to avoid being seen by the people ambling down the old pier toward the shore. She had hoped to take advantage of the river’s low tide to gather oysters but had paused as a tour guide led a group of sightseers closer to the infamous spot in the river. The village needed the income from the tourists, and it would be best not to have the wild splendor of the spot spoiled by the sight of a local girl gathering oysters. She scooted a little higher up the hillside to remain hidden behind the bushes.

Every morning, steamboats left the bustling city of New York, only forty miles downriver but a world away from the primeval splendor of this isolated inlet in the Hudson River Valley. The steamboats always stopped so the tourists could admire the famous vista looming just behind Sophie, where one of the oldest mansions in America looked like a medieval fortress perched on the edge of the harsh granite cliff. Dating all the way back to 1635, when Dutch settlers arrived in North America, the gloomy sight of the Vandermark mansion had dominated this windswept cliff for centuries. Built of rough-hewn stone with steep gables and rambling wings, it had the grandeur of a Renaissance painting.

“There wasn’t a scratch on him,” the tour guide continued. “Karl Vandermark was in the prime of life, and no one could explain what caused his death. Was it murder? Suicide? The Vandermark curse? Karl Vandermark was one of the richest men in America and beloved by everyone in the village. It’s been sixty years since his body was found on this very spot, but there are still no answers.”

Sophie sighed in resignation. Why was everyone still fascinated by the Vandermark death so long ago? Perhaps it had something to do with the foreboding appearance of the Vandermarks’ mansion, which had been made famous by painters and photographers who couldn’t resist the gothic appeal of the isolated estate on the edge
of a cliff. Named Dierenpark after the old Dutch word for paradise, the mansion attracted tourists from all over the world.

The steamships usually stayed for only an hour, just long enough to let the visitors stretch their legs and buy a few trinkets from the stands set up near the Vandermark pier. In a few minutes, the sightseers would reboard the ship and be on their way farther north up the river.

It was an unusually large group of sightseers this morning. Most of them clustered around the tour guide at the base of the pier, but there was a group of ominous-looking strangers gathered close to the base of the cliff.

Marten Graaf was the most colorful of all the tour guides who led visitors up the river, and he was in fine form this morning, layering dark excitement into his voice as he told the tale directly to a young boy he pulled aside to point to the infamous spot in the river.

“The dead man’s son found the body,” he said. “Young Nickolaas Vandermark was only fourteen years old when he found his father floating in the river. Legend says the lad never got over it, but others suspect that the boy killed his own father, for he inherited forty million dollars the day his father died. There was no sign of foul play, but what would cause a healthy man to keel over in the prime of life? No one ever dared accuse Nickolaas Vandermark directly to his face, but something very bad was afoot. All the Vandermarks have come to terrible ends, and most of the folks around here think it was the Vandermark curse.”

Even from a distance, Sophie could see the young boy Marten was speaking to flinch and withdraw. Most tourists loved the spooky tales about the old mansion, but this boy seemed unusually apprehensive.

“The house has been empty since Karl Vandermark’s death,” the guide continued. “A lawyer swooped in to take the young lad away, and not one Vandermark has set foot in the house since. They didn’t take a stick of furniture or even a change of clothing for fear the curse would travel with them. Their clothes still hang in the closets; the papers are stacked on the desk as they were when the family fled all those years ago. Everything inside the house is exactly the same, like it’s frozen in time. That house has been sitting empty for sixty years, with only a few servants to keep the place from being plundered for the treasures still inside.”

“Why don’t they sell it?” a sightseer from the back of the group asked.

“Who would buy such a house?” Marten burst out, startling a flock of crows into flight. The crows rode a wind current high above the cliff, where they wheeled around the mansion, their raucous cries echoing on the wind.

“Anyone who spends too much time in that house is likely to be tainted by the curse, as well,” Marten continued to the spellbound tourists. “The first groundskeeper died when he stumbled over a broom. The next died after his joints took on a disease that twisted his body so he could barely walk. Even now, the housekeeper who tends to the inside of the house has turned into a hunchback. And the girl who brings them food each day? Well, she was the prettiest lass in the whole village, but the curse has tainted her, too.”

Sophie blanched, stunned that Marten would draw her into the spooky tale told to the tourists. Mortification flooded her as she shrank even farther behind the blackberry brambles and prayed Marten wouldn’t spot her. She wouldn’t put it past him to point her out, just like any another attraction on today’s trip up the river.

“Oh yes, even Miss Sophie van Riijn, who spends only a few hours each day in the house, has been afflicted,” Marten continued. “She’s had three fiancés and every one of them came to a bad end. The last one died just a month before the wedding. His lungs seized up so bad he could no longer draw a proper breath of air, and he died. Now no man in the village will come within a yard of Miss Sophie for fear of the curse.”

Sophie averted her eyes, wishing she could block her hearing, as well. It was infuriating that Marten was exploiting Albert’s death this way. Her heart still ached for Albert, a kind and gentle man who never put any stock in the curse. They had been planning a life together, and Sophie had such hopes for becoming a wife, a helpmeet, and a mother. Instead, she helped tend Albert during his final painful months.

If he were alive, Albert would tell her not to let the rumors dim her spirit, but to go out and find another man to love. But it was getting hard. She was twenty-six years old, and her string of broken engagements might be an intriguing tale for the tourists, but it was a deep and unrelenting ache for her.

“Did he go to a doctor?” The timid boy’s question broke her dismal train of thought. “The one with the bad lungs? Did he go to a doctor?”

“Well of course he did!” Marten exclaimed. “He was dying, boy. The curse had gotten ahold of him and there was no hope. The man was a goner.”

Even from a distance Sophie could see the boy’s eyes widen in horror, and she ached with sympathy. Most of the tourists loved the gothic tales associated with the legendary Vandermark estate, but this boy appeared to be terrified and, oddly, it seemed he was alone.

Sophie stood. She’d rather stay hidden than risk being pointed out as the tragic victim of three failed engagements, but she wouldn’t let Marten terrorize a child in order to boost his tips. Her skirts brushed through the cattails as she made her way to the sandy shoreline and straight to the boy’s side. The tour guide looked stunned to see her, and a guilty flush stained his cheeks.

“Ease up, Marten,” she muttered as she passed him and drew the boy aside. He was a handsome lad, no more than eight or nine years old, with dark hair and enormous gray eyes that remained locked on the house at the top of the cliff. He barely reached her elbow, and she crouched down to be on eye level with him.

“There now,” she soothed. “You know that man is just spinning tales in hopes of getting more tips, don’t you? There’s nothing to be frightened of.”

“It looks like a scary place to live,” the boy said tightly.

Sophie laughed. “But you don’t have to live there, right? Tonight you’ll go home with your parents and sleep safe and sound in your own bed. Everything will feel better once you’re home, don’t you think? What’s your name, lad?”

“Pieter,” he said. “Pieter spelled with an
I
.”

“Pieter with an
I
! What a fine Dutch name, just like the saint. Even when he was afraid, St. Peter was a good man, wasn’t he? There’s no shame in being a little scared now and then.”

The boy’s gaze remained riveted on the mansion. His lower lip wobbled, and tears pooled in his eyes, on the verge of spilling over. This sort of trepidation seemed unnatural. Something was wrong with this boy.

“Come now, what’s got you so upset?” she asked softly. “It can’t all be about that silly old house. I always feel better when I talk to someone about what’s worrying me. You can tell me anything. I promise not to laugh.”

The boy glanced over her shoulder, and she turned to follow his gaze.

Oh dear . . . they were being watched.

The gang of tough men stood only a few yards away, glaring at her with hard eyes. There was only one woman with them, a timid-looking young lady who seemed as anxious as the boy. The half dozen men in the group looked like prizefighters, with massive shoulders and no necks. One of the men wore a fine gentleman’s suit, but he looked no less fierce as he scrutinized her. There was no family resemblance between this boy and the hard strangers. Something was wrong. She turned back to the boy.

“Are you with those people behind me?” she whispered.

He nodded.

“Are they your family?”

He shook his head, and a trickle of ice curled around Sophie’s heart.

“Where are your parents?”

“My mother is dead, and my father went back to the village. My father is really angry.”

A man from the gang of strangers started heading their way. He was dressed in flawless attire, but dread settled in the pit of her stomach as she eyed the man coming toward them. “This isn’t your father?” she asked as he drew closer.

“That’s Mr. Gilroy. He’s my father’s butler. He always watches me.”

Sophie stood, moving to stand in front of the boy. This boy seemed frightened beyond all reason, and if he was in danger, she wouldn’t stand aside.

Mr. Gilroy seemed taller and more daunting as he stood before her. For all his fine clothing and starched collar, a sense of barely leashed power radiated from the imposing man.

“Thank you for comforting the boy,” Mr. Gilroy said in a gentle voice with a hint of a British accent. “I’m afraid young Pieter doesn’t care for ghost stories, and your kindness is much appreciated.”

Had there ever been a more courteous voice? It had a velvety, calming quality that set her nerves at ease.

“You’re welcome. Most of the tourists enjoy tales about the old Vandermark estate, but some of us are more sensitive. Your group is touring the river, I take it?”

There was a slight pause. “Not precisely.”

She waited for Mr. Gilroy to elaborate, but he said nothing. Tourism had been their village’s salvation ever since the Vandermarks had abandoned the estate and closed down their timber mills, paper mills, and iron mines. The fishing and oyster industry had helped fill the void, but even those had collapsed in the past decade.

When Sophie’s Dutch ancestors had come to America in the seventeenth century, the Hudson River was so bountiful that a basket dipped in the river could scoop up striped bass, perch, and bluefish. But all that was a thing of the past now. As Manhattan filled its riverfront with factories, the fish farther up the river died off and the oyster beds failed. Now the village needed revenue from the tourists who flocked to the Hudson River Valley to catch a glimpse of the unspoiled wilderness north of the city.

Sophie brushed back a strand of her blond hair that had broken free in the morning breeze. “Well, I hope you have a nice visit to New Holland. It’s a lovely village, and most travelers enjoy the shops and cafés.”

Pieter kicked the ground, scattering a spray of sand. “My father won’t enjoy it. He never enjoys anything.”

“That’s enough,” Mr. Gilroy said firmly but not unkindly. “Your father has been very sick, but he is doing what’s right. He isn’t doing this to punish you.”

To her horror, the boy’s face crumpled, and the tears finally erupted. “I just want to go home,” he sobbed. “I want to go live with Grandpa again. Please, Mr. Gilroy, please, can’t you take me back home?”

She couldn’t help herself. Never had she heard so much misery in a voice, and she gave in to the urge to console him. Hunkering back down, she slid an arm around the boy’s narrow shoulders. “There now, go ahead and have a good cry if it will make you feel better,” she soothed.

There was something terribly wrong with this boy. He was too old to be blubbering in public, and none of the adults who traveled with him seemed interested in extending comfort.

She looked up at Mr. Gilroy. “Will the boy’s father return soon? If you arrived on that steamboat, I don’t know how much longer it will be here.”

“We didn’t come on the steamboat,” Mr. Gilroy said. “The carriage we arrived in can’t scale the hill, so my employer has gone to the village to get a lighter one.”

She blinked in confusion. “Why do you want to scale the hill? There’s not much up there but the Vandermark estate, and it isn’t open for visitors.”

“It will be open for us,” Mr. Gilroy said.

“No, I’m afraid Dierenpark is entirely closed to the public. It has been for the past sixty years.”

“It will be open for us,” Mr. Gilroy repeated, not so gently this time. A note of steel lay beneath the velvet of his voice.

Oh dear, this was going to be awkward. This wouldn’t be the first group of people disappointed they couldn’t tour the mansion, but it was impossible. The narrow, rutted lane leading up the cliff was treacherous, and even though the Vandermarks had supplied funds to maintain the house and keep it safe from troublemakers, it was in no condition for visitors.