Tomorrow's Dreams

by Heather Cullman

  Seth stared at his mother as if she’d lost her mind as well. Mad Pieter Van Cortlandt, levelheaded?

  As if reading his thoughts, she said, “Oh, no, my darling son. I haven’t turned lunatic on you. And I know what you’re thinking. I saw the Pinkerton reports when I transferred your belongings here from the American House.” She shook her head. “My poor, poor dear. How awful it must have been for you these last couple of years thinking that Pieter was your father.”

  Seth’s chest tightened with wary hope at her words. “Pieter wasn’t my father?”

  She shook her head again. “Oh, no. Your father was Martin Vanderlyn, the finest man in the world.”

  “Then, I’m not in danger of going mad?” he asked cautiously, afraid to believe in fate’s sudden, merciful twist.

  “Heavens, no!” she exclaimed. “You don’t have a drop of tainted blood in you, and neither do I. Pieter inherited his madness from my father’s first wife, Lucy Decker. She hanged herself shortly after he was born. My mother was Sarah De Vries, father’s second wife, and a more sound-minded woman never lived.”

  If Seth had had the strength, he’d have jumped up and down shouting his joy. Instead he settled for a weak whoop and a wide grin. But it was enough. He had the rest of his life to celebrate his good fortune. He had the rest of his life. He let out another whoop at that exhilarating truth.

  “Calm down … ssh … lie still,” Louisa urged, pushing him back down on the pillows as he tried to rise. “The doctor said under no circumstances are you to become overexcited.”

  Too eager for details to heed her admonishments, he struggled up on his elbows and shot off in a barrage, “Why was I told that Pieter is my father, and how did I end up at St. John’s Chapel? And why did the caretaker tell me that you ordered me killed at birth? And what about—”

  “Later,” she interrupted in a firm voice, forcing him to lie down again. “Right now I’m going to finish bathing you; then you’re going to sleep.” At his mulish scowl, she chided, “It won’t do you any good to jerk your chin at me. Don’t forget that you’re not the first stubborn Vanderlyn I’ve dealt with.”

  He slanted her a sly look from beneath his eyelashes. Ah. But she hadn’t dealt with this particular Vanderlyn before. Relaxing his frown into a good-natured grin, he bargained, “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll close my eyes and lie completely still while you bathe me, if you’ll answer my questions while you work. Afterward, I’ll go straight to sleep. I promise.”

  She laughed as she poured fresh water into the basin on the bedside table. “Now you really sound like your father. If ever there was a man with a flair for bargaining, it was Martin.”

  “I wish I’d known him,” Seth murmured regretfully.

  “I wish you had, too. He’d have been proud to call you son. You look like him, you know.”

  Seth stared at her, puzzled. “How can that be? I’ve seen the portrait of your father, and I’m the mirror image of him.”

  She looked up from the towel in her hands to study his face, then shook her head. “You’ve got the Van Cortlandt features, true. But those aren’t what I see when I look at you. I see the gentleness of your smile and the warm intelligence in your eyes. I see things that have nothing to do with your skin and bones, things that show me what kind of man you are. What I see are all the marvelous qualities I’d hoped you’d inherit from Martin.”

  “Will you tell me about him, and about yourself?” Seth looked up at her imploringly. “Do we have a deal?”

  “That will take far longer than it takes to bathe you,” she said, arranging the bedcovers around his waist.

  “Then, tell me what you can. Tell me how you met my father and about my birth. Please?”

  “All right,” she agreed, dipping a clean towel in the water. “But if I notice you becoming even the slightest bit agitated, I’ll stop talking.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine,” she echoed. “Then, close your eyes.”

  When he did, she resumed bathing him, starting over again with his face. “Hmm. Now, where should I begin?”

  He opened one eye. “The beginning is always a good place.”

  “A smart aleck?” She heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Another family trait I’m afraid, one of the more unfortunate ones.”

  “One of my father’s?”

  “No. Mine,” she retorted, grasping his ear and swabbing it as if he were a two-year-old. “Now, close your eyes and be quiet.”

  He made a face and obeyed.

  “All right, from the beginning, then. Our branch of the Van Cortlandt family are direct descendants of the mighty Wouter Van Cortlandt. We, along with the Van Rensselaers and the Livingstons, were one of the few families to successfully cultivate and perpetuate the old system of partroonship.” She mopped down his neck. “Are you familiar with a patroonship?”

  “No.”

  “It was an oppressive system, much like the feudal system of the Middle Ages. My father’s land tenants were bound by a perpetual lease taken out, in many instances, by their ancestors two hundred years earlier. The terms of the lease were despotic, stating that the manor lord be entitled to a tribute of one-tenth of everything grown, raised, or manufactured on the manor land, plus an annual rent of $300. As if that weren’t enough, each tenant was also required to contribute labor toward the upkeep of the buildings and roads; cut, split, and deliver six feet of firewood for the manor hearths; and give the manor lord three days’ service with his horses and wagon.”

  Seth shifted his arm to allow her to wash the underside. “Why didn’t the tenants just leave?”

  She shook her head. “Most couldn’t afford to. The system kept them so poor that they were never able to save enough money to start anew. Besides, their families had lived there for generations, and they viewed the manor as their home. The Vanderlyns were one such family.”

  “They were farmers?”

  “No, brewers. And fine ones at that. Their beer was in demand from the very beginning. So much so, that by the time Martin was born in 1810, the Vanderlyns would have been wealthy had it not been for the heavy tariffs levied by the patroonship on all goods sold outside the manor.”

  “Surely such tariffs were illegal by then?”

  “Most of the tenants thought so,” she replied, her touch gentle as she bathed the bruised flesh over his broken rib. “As a result, they organized a farmers’ alliance with a common objective of abolishing the patroonship.”

  She paused to rewet the towel, resuming her story as she washed his belly. “The alliance, however, was split on how to attain their goal. Half thought it best to discredit the Van Cortlandt land grant titles in court, thus dissolving the partroonship, while the rest felt that stronger measures were needed. Those advocating stronger measures soon went their own way. Their first act was to burn an effigy of my father on the throne where he sat to collect his annual tributes.”

  Louisa pulled the blankets to his knees and draped a towel over his loins in one efficient movement. “When my father retaliated by evicting the farmers his spies said were responsible for the act, things turned violent. From then on, we couldn’t leave the manor without having our carriage stoned or being confronted by alliance members. It was as a result of one of those confrontations that I met your father.”

  Seth cracked open one eye to peer at her. “My father subscribed to the stronger measures?”

  She shook her head vigorously. “He just happened along. I was returning from spending a fortnight with a schoolmate when my carriage was set upon by a mob of alliance members. Both my guards were overpowered and pulled from their saddles, and my driver was knocked from his perch by a flying stone. The horses, panicked by the chaos, pulled the driverless vehicle a mile or so down the road before it finally flipped over.”

  “It’s a miracle you weren’t killed,” Seth commented.

  The wet towel swept the length of his thigh. “Even more miraculous still that I wasn’t hurt, though I was terrified out of my wit
s. You can imagine my relief when your handsome father came along and insisted on taking me back to the manor house. He was so courteous and charming that by the time he delivered me to my father’s door, I was completely smitten. So much so, that I took to contriving ‘accidental’ encounters so I could see him.”

  She moved to his other thigh. “Until my conversations with Martin, I didn’t fully understand the patroon system or see how wrong it was. I wasn’t even quite sure why my carriage had been attacked. He opened my eyes quickly enough.”

  The cloth glided over his knee to his calf. “Before long we fell in love and took to meeting in an abandoned farmhouse a couple of miles from the manor. I don’t have to tell you what we did during our trysts. Naturally I kept our romance a secret from my father. He harbored hopes of me marrying our elderly, widowed neighbor, Cornelius De Windt, and would have evicted the Vanderlyns if he had so much as suspected my feelings for Martin.”

  “I was conceived at the farmhouse?”

  “Yes. Though your father didn’t find out until many years later.” She began to scrub his foot. “Not that I deliberately kept the news from him. The morning of the day I intended to tell him, I was called to my father’s study. He—”

  “Tickles,” Seth interrupted, jerking his foot away.

  Louisa laughed and tossed the washing cloth into the basin. “Your father had ticklish feet, too,” she said, pulling the blankets back up to his waist.

  He smiled at that bit of information. “So what happened?”

  She rose and went to the highboy across the room. “My maid had noticed my morning illness. Correctly guessing the cause, she took her suspicions to my father,” she replied, opening the top drawer. “When I arrived at his study, I found him waiting with the manor midwife. Without giving me a chance to confirm or deny my maid’s allegations, he ordered me examined right then and there.” She held up a snowy nightshirt for inspection.

  Apparently judging it suitable, she tossed it over her arm and brought it back to the bed. “I thought he’d kill me when the midwife confirmed my pregnancy. Only the day before he’d promised my hand in marriage to Cornelius in exchange for a bordering parcel of land he’d coveted for years. Of course he demanded that I name your father. Knowing that he’d have Martin killed if I told the truth, I accused my mad brother, Pieter, of raping me.” She looked up from the nightshirt placket she was unbuttoning. “What do you know about Pieter?”

  Seth shrugged one shoulder. “The manor caretaker told me that he was mad and forced himself on several of the housemaids.”

  Louisa nodded slowly. “I’d overheard the servants gossiping about the matter only a week earlier and thought—I—” Her voice failed then, her words strangled by a sob.

  “Mother—” Seth began, laying a comforting hand on her arm.

  Her face twisting with terrible anguish, she dropped the nightshirt to her lap and grasped his hand, staring into his eyes with desperate appeal. “I know that accusing Pieter was an awful thing to do,” she said, her voice vibrating with raw emotion, “but please believe me when I tell you that I thought it the only way to safeguard both you and Martin. I was young and foolish.… I never imagined the tragic consequences of my lies or that it would be you, the babe I sought to protect, who would suffer the worst. I—” She broke again, tears raining down her cheeks.

  Seth laced his fingers through hers and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “Ssh. Don’t. You don’t have to explain. I understand. I, too, have lied to protect a loved one, and with equally tragic results.” He smiled gently at her stricken face. “It seems we’ve discovered another trait I inherited from you: we both think with our hearts instead of our heads.”

  At her faint answering smile, he added, “If you don’t feel up to telling the rest of the story just now, I’ll understand.”

  She wiped the dampness from her cheeks with the back of her hand. “No. I want to tell you.”

  “You’re sure?” He looked at her dubiously. When she nodded, he said, “I know from the Pinkerton reports that Pieter was confined to an asylum shortly thereafter, and according to the caretaker you disappeared as well. As I remember, your father told everyone that you’d gone to Paris to buy a trousseau.”

  She nodded. “He wasn’t about to let my pregnancy stand between him and his precious land, so he locked me and my shameful condition in the attic of the old patroon house, an abandoned cottage about a half mile from the manor. The trousseau story was his way of explaining my absence and stalling the wedding until after you were born.”

  “I’m surprised your father didn’t insist on a hasty marriage so he could fob me off as De Windt’s.”

  “He was worried that you might inherit Pieter’s madness and was afraid that people would think that it was the Van Cortlandt, not the Decker, blood that was tainted.”

  “So he planned to wait until I was born and then dispose of me like an unwanted kitten,” Seth stated flatly, chilled that any human, much less his own grandfather, could be so cruel.

  “I didn’t know of his plan, truly I didn’t!” she swore, releasing his hand to pick up the nightshirt again. “He told me that you were to be fostered with a good family. I agreed only because I was certain that Martin would doubt the stories of my Paris trip and find a way to rescue me before you were born.”

  Seth raised up a fraction to help her slip the nightshirt over his head. “But he never came, did he?” he inquired gently, sliding his arms through the sleeves.

  “No. He thought I’d decided against an uncertain future with him in favor of a secure one with Cornelius, and left the county shortly thereafter.” She drew back the covers to pull the hem of the gown over his hips and down to his calves. “So for the next seven months, I remained a prisoner. Except for the attendance of my jailer, the midwife, and an occasional visit from my father, I was left completely alone. I passed the days talking to you and making plans for your future. By the time you were born I loved you so much, I thought I’d die of it. I almost did die of grief when I was told a few hours later that you had died.”

  She shook her head, her expression pensive as she tucked the blankets around his shoulders. “It wasn’t until my father lay dying seventeen years later that he confessed to having ordered you killed and told me that his manservant had instead abandoned you at St. John’s Chapel. I tried to find you then, but to no avail.” She seemed about to add something, but instead kissed his forehead. “And that, my boy, is the whole tale.”

  “Not quite,” he contradicted, smiling at her maternal kiss. “I know that you were widowed in ’51, shortly before your father died, and that you married Martin in ’52. But I don’t know how you two were reunited or why you came to Denver.”

  She nodded. “Martin’s father died about the same time as mine, and he returned to the county to sell what was by then his parents’ land. As fate would have it, we met on the road where he’d rescued me eighteen years earlier. It turned out that he, too, was widowed. When I told him about you and my father’s betrayal, we reconciled. We were married a month later. You know from your reports that Corenlius and I never had a child, so all his property went to his sons from his first marriage. What was left of the Van Cortlandt fortune was put in trust for Pieter’s care. Since there was nothing to hold us to the county, we decided to come West and start anew. Except for always wondering about your fate, we lived happily until Martin’s death two years ago.”

  “And that truly is the end of the tale,” she declared. “Now, unless you’re up to eating some broth, I expect you to honor your part of the deal and take a nap.”

  Seth made a face at the thought of food. “I’ll take a nap.”

  After giving his cheek a fond pat, she rose. “I’ll be nearby if you need anything.” As she gathered up the damp towels and basin of water, she began to sing the same song she’d been singing when he’d awakened.

  “That’s pretty,” he murmured. “What is it?”

  “It’s a Dutch lullaby my mother sa
ng to me when I was a child. I used to sing it to you when you were in my womb.” She chuckled. “You were an active baby, and it stilled your kicking.”

  The mention of lullabies and babies brought forth the memory of Penelope singing her “Song of Dreams” to Tommy. His voice catching on his heartbreak, Seth asked, “Penelope … is she well?”

  Louisa set the towels and basin on the washstand with a sigh. “She spends most of her time sleeping, though she is talking now. She told me about your son … I’m truly sorry. I know how painful it is not having the chance to know and love your own child.”

  “I’ve been too ill to feel much grief,” he admitted, guilt stabbing at his chest. While he’d been lying here in sweet oblivion, Penelope had undoubtedly been suffering the torments of hell. Wanting nothing more than to hold her, comfort her, and promise her the forever he was now free to pledge, he asked, “Can I see her? I mean, after I take my nap?”

  When Louisa didn’t immediately respond, he rolled onto his side to look at her. Her face was turned away from him, but there was something about the set of her shoulders that sent a shiver of uneasiness tingling up his spine. “What is it, Mother?” he demanded, dreading the answer.

  She turned around then and faced him, her expression an unsettling combination of misery and compassion. “She refuses to see you. She—”

  “Blames me for the death of our son,” he finished for her.

  “No … no!” she exclaimed, shaking her head as she rushed across the room to the bed. “It’s not like that. She blames herself for the baby’s death and for almost causing yours as well. She thinks that she’s cursed by God. She fears that if she comes near you, you’ll come to more harm.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” he snapped, laboring to sit up, determined to somehow go to Penelope and talk some sense into her. “None of what happened was her fault.”

  Louisa easily wrestled him back down to his pillows. “I’ve told her that, but she won’t listen. She won’t listen to you, either. She’s too full of grief to see logic.”