by Anya Seton
She shrank into her seat clutching its arms and telling herself that she must not be a silly coward. Certainly everyone else was enjoying himself hugely. The passengers surged from bow to stern cheering or groaning as now one boat gained and then the other; they made hoarse wagers on the outcome, shouting across the hundred yards of water to the Express, whose own passengers and crew answered back in kind.
And then it was all over. The Swallow slid first up to her Pough-keepsie dock; there was deafening applause on the decks around them, while catcalls and oaths came from the vanquished boat.
Miranda felt foolish, and glancing apologetically at Nicholas she saw that though he had taken no part in the enthusiasm of the passengers, he yet wore an expression of exhilaration and triumph. An expression which vanished at once as his face returned to its usual reserve.
She had a moment of puzzled uneasiness, for though she did not in the least understand him, she knew that his reaction to the race was not like that of the other passengers; she felt that the contest had had for him an inner meaning, and that in some way its outcome represented the vindication of his will.
The Swallow proceeded decorously up-river from Poughkeepsie, but Miranda continued to suffer uneasiness out of all proportion to the cause. This uneasiness had in it a quality of foreboding and of prescience, as though the boisterous and senseless contest between two boats held for her a future significance. And yet the summer afternoon was tranquilly blue, and the narrowing river flowed peacefully past their vessel as the wooded shores came nearer. By the time that the western shore reared itself up into the purple masses of the Catskills, she had regained her eager expectancy and cried: 'Oh Cousin Nicholas, how high they are! I'd no notion mountains were so big!'
Nicholas thought of the Alps, in which he had spent the summer of 1835 while making the Grand Tour before his marriage, and he smiled, but forebore to disillusion her. Instead he pointed out the Mountain House, whose thirteen white columns were visible even at that distance.
'That's Rip Van Winkle's country back of the Mountain House,' said Nicholas. 'They say that on hot summer days one can still hear the little men playing at ninepins.'
Miranda looked blank.
'Don't you know Diedrich Knickerbocker and "The Sketch Book"?'
She shook her head.
'Tales by Washington Irving, a fine writer and a friend of mine,' Nicholas explained. 'No doubt you'll meet him some day.'
Nicholas settled back in his chair. This touched on one of his dominant interests. He was well grounded in the classics, of course, though it had never occurred to his father to send him to college; that type of education open to almost anyone, even tradesmen and farmers' sons, was not fitting to an aristocrat. There had therefore been a succession of tutors, German and English, to prepare the boy for the cultural climax of the Grand Tour.
He had spent two years traveling elegantly through England, France, Spain, Italy, and Germany before returning to Dragonwyck to find that his father had died and he was now Lord of the Manor.
Nicholas, then, knew the classics, but in the last five years he had developed a lively interest in contemporary American writing. In this he differed from most of the young men of his class, who aped the European and persisted in regarding the United States as crude and negligible.
Nicholas, true to his birth and an upbringing far less democratic than that of an English nobleman, delighted in the role of patron. He had patterned himself half-consciously on a Lorenzo de Medici or a Prince Esterhazy.
He enjoyed entertaining the intelligentsia at Dragonwyck. He read the new works of Bryant, Hawthorne, and a startling young writer called Poe, with a sincere appreciation which was only slightly patronizing. For Nicholas' conviction of his own superiority was so interwoven with his flesh and bone that he had no need to prove it to others as do those not quite secure. He was a Van Ryn of Dragonwyck Manor, a law unto himself and beholden to nobody on earth—or in heaven.
He glanced again at Miranda who sat forward gazing first at one shore then the other. The breeze had whipped color into her white skin, her lips were slightly parted, her small breasts under the brown merino bodice rose and fell rapidly. There was a strong aura of femininity about her, and her long eyes, gold-flecked in green between thick dark lashes, were really magnificent. Except that they were innocent of all sex-consciousness, they were the seductive eyes of a passionate woman.
He was suddenly reminded of a French marquise he had met in Paris and of whom he had been enamored until she offended his fastidiousness. This memory annoyed him and he said coldly:
'I fear you're rather ignorant, Miranda. I shall map out a plan of reading for you.'
She smiled nervously, hurt by his tone. He had seemed so cordial and charming on the trip that she had felt at ease with him, almost as though he were her own age. It was therefore startling to see that his handsome face had grown indifferent and remote, and to have him speak to her as her father did. She felt suddenly that she bored him, and was sure of it when he wrapped his cloak about him and rose abruptly, saying, 'I'm going to take a few turns about the deck; you'll be quite safe here.'
She would have liked to walk with him, she was unused to sitting still for hours on end, and her healthy young muscles ached for exercise, but she dared say nothing. Nicholas had turned sternly unapproachable. It was her first experience of his dark moods, and far more experienced and mature people than Miranda had found them impossible to understand.
In an hour he came back, and she saw at once that the darkness had lifted. He approached her with his rare smile, a smile devoid of merriment and yet magnetic and intensely personal so that the recipient invariably felt flattered.
'In half an hour we'll arrive at Dragonwyck, Miranda. This town is Hudson.'
She obediently inspected the small neat collection of buildings and wharfs, but she was somewhat sated with new sights and privately thought Newburgh or Poughkeepsie more attractive.
'I've wondered about the name Dragonwyck, Cousin Nicholas,' she said timidly. 'Please don't think me prying,' she added, fearful that she might offend him again.
But Nicholas was pleased to explain anything that bore on the history of his family or Manor.
He sat down at once. 'The name is typical of the place in that it's a mixture of Indian legend and Dutch now anglicized—made into English,' he added, seeing that she did not understand the word. 'You see, when my direct ancestor Cornelius Van Ryn, the first patroon, acquired our lands here, he sailed up from New Amsterdam to inspect them and choose the site for the Manor House. He decided on this cliff by the river. But there was a party of Mohican Indians camped near-by and he soon found that they were afraid of this cliff on which he had started to build the house. They avoided it always, and though he was kind to them they feared him too, nor would they touch one stone or brick which went into the building. After he knew them better he discovered the reason. They believed that under the cliff there lived a great winged serpent which devoured everything which encroached on its territory.'
'And did he build there anyway?' asked Miranda.
'Of course he did. And he called the place Draketmyck, "place of the dragon" in Dutch, and so it has been for two hundred years.'
'The dragon hasn't ever bothered you?' asked Miranda, half-seriously.
Nicholas was amused at her question. 'No. There are many other legends and superstitions of this region; I hope you're not too impressionable or Old Zélie will frighten you with her spook rocks and phantom ships and witches—' He stopped abruptly as though he had been going to add something else.
She waited politely to see if he would go on. But he did not, and just then the steamer gave one sharp blast and veered to the eastern bank. 'We're here,' he said.
She turned from her puzzled contemplation of his face.
In after years Miranda knew that her first sight of Dragonwyck was the most vivid and significant impression of her life. She stared at the fantastic silhouette which loomed dark aga
inst the eastern sky, the spires and gables and chimneys dominated in the center by one high tower; and it was as though the good and evil, the happiness and tragedy, which she was to experience under that roof materialized into physical force and struck across the quiet river into her soul.
While the steamer made fast to the private landing she stood by the rail close to Nicholas gazing up at his house with a fascinated repulsion, while the setting sun touched half the hundred windows into fiery rectangles against the blackness of the vine-covered stone.
Nicholas seeing her awe-struck face was content to let her gaze in silence.
His home was part of him, an externalized expression of his will, for upon his inherited Dutch Manor house he had superimposed the Gothic magnificence which he desired. He had been attracted by the formulations of Andrew Downing, the young landscape architect who lived on the river at Newburgh and whose directions for building 'romantic and picturesque villas' were changing the countryside; but it was not in Nicholas to accept another's ideas, and when five years ago he had remodeled the old Van Ryn homestead, he had used Downing simply as a guide. To the original ten rooms he had added twenty more, the gables and turrets, and the one high tower. The result, though reminiscent of a German Schloss on the Rhine, crossed with Tudor English and interwoven with pure fantasy, was nevertheless Hudson River American and not unsuited to its setting.
The Dragonwyck gardens were as much an expression of Nicholas' personality as was the mansion, for here, he had subdued Nature to a stylized ornateness. Between the untouched grove of hemlocks to the south and the slope of a rocky hill half a mile to the north he had created along the river an artificial and exotic beauty.
To Miranda it was overpowering, and she felt dazed as they mounted marble steps from the landing. She was but vaguely conscious of the rose gardens and their pervasive scent, of small Greek temples set beneath weeping willows, of rock pavilions, violet-bordered fountains, and waterfalls. She was acutely conscious of her travel-stained brown dress, and the sharp, contemptuous stare of the liveried footman who had met them on the pier and was gingerly carrying her wicker basket.
It wasn't credible that she was to live in a place like this, and her steps as she followed Nicholas to the great front door dragged slower and slower even as her heart beat faster.
They entered the great hall which ran sixty feet through the house to open on the back lawns by the drive. It was dark inside, for the tapers had not yet been lit, and she shrank toward Nicholas as two people glided through a door at the right and confronted them bowing. They were Magda, Mrs. Van Ryn's housekeeper and personal maid, and Tompkins the butler.
They both ignored Miranda while they greeted their master, but from the woman's thick back and round averted head Miranda felt hostility.
"Where's Mrs. Van Ryn?' asked Nicholas, allowing the butler to take his cape and hat.
'In the Green Drawing-Room, my lord.' The butler was a Yorkshireman who had accompanied Nicholas back from England years ago and with the special snobbery of the British servant had always addressed his master by this title, insisting that in any civilized country the owner of such lands and name and estate would have been a peer. Nicholas, agreeing with him, had not objected, though the matter was indifferent to him. A Van Ryn had no need of title or distinction borrowed from Europe.
'This way, then, Miranda,' said Nicholas, ushering her down the hall to a doorway on the left. "You shall now have the pleasure of meeting my wife.'
Was there a peculiar intonation in his voice or did she imagine it? She had no time to wonder, for they entered the Green Drawing-Room.
Johanna Van Ryn sat by die window embroidering. She started and her gold thimble rattled on the floor as Miranda and Nicholas walked in.
She looked up at her husband and the dull colorless eyes came to life with longing and a mute appeal. 'You're back!' she whispered.
Nicholas picked up the thimble and placed it on the tabouret be side a half-eaten cruller. He bowed to his wife and taking her extended hand, which was loaded with rings, barely touched it with his lips. Yes, I'm back as you see. And here is Miranda.'
Johanna's eyes dropped and she gave a nearly inaudible sigh. 'Welcome to Dragonwyck, child,' she said, not looking at the girl. 'I trust you'll be happy. Nicholas, did you bring me the pastries?'
Miranda stared at the figure in the rocking chair. Johanna was enormously fat, the plump pale fat that makes monstrous dimples at elbows and knuckles. On her face, which was round and white as one of the crockery plates in the kitchen at home, there were two unskillfully applied spots of what even Miranda, who had never seen any, recognized as rouge. The scanty flaxen hair was tightly drawn back and covered with a coquettish lace cap embellished with blue ribbons none too fresh. There were delicate laces covering her bosom and on them were scattered small brown crumbs whose origin was no farther to seek than the cruller on the tabouret.
Miranda, suddenly remembering her manners, said: 'It's most kind of you, ma'am, to let me come here. Please to accept Ma and Pa's respects.'
Johanna nodded. 'I'm sure they're most worthy people, and I'm sure you'll be a good girl. Nicholas, did you get those pastries?'
Her husband stood looking down at her a moment without answering, then he spoke pleasantly. "I did, my dear. Will you have them here now, or can you wait until supper time?'
"Did you get the Napoleons, the honey puffs, and the mocha bon-bons?'
'All of them.'
She contracted her tow-colored eyebrows. "Well, I think I'll have the bon-bons now. Tell Tompkins to have the others served at dinner. Be sure he keeps them well chilled so the cream won't melt.'
Nicholas bowed slightly. 'It shall be done, my love.'
How sweet he is to her, thought Miranda. I suppose he was awfully in love with her and hasn't noticed that she's so fat and untidy. Farther than that she did not go in her thoughts, for she was determined to like Johanna.
'One of the servants will show you to your room,' said Johanna, at last realizing that the girl was still standing there, 'and after a while you'd best go and find Katrine. I never can keep track of that child. You might read a story to her.'
'I think we can hardly ask our guest to occupy herself with a child tonight,' said Nicholas. 'She must be tired.'
Johanna shrugged her massive shoulders, and thrusting out an incredibly small foot in a purple velvet slipper began to rock slowly back and forth.
'Oh, to be sure, you must rest if you're tired, my dear. You'll feel better after a good supper. You may eat it in the nursery.'
'Oh, I think not,' said Nicholas again. 'Our cousin would hardly eat in the nursery. It will be a pleasure to have her with us.'
Johanna pursed her mouth. As you like, Nicholas. Only do hurry and tell Tompkins about those pastries or they'll be quite ruined.'
Miranda listened to all this with dismay. She didn't know what a nursery was exactly, but it was plain enough that Johanna expected to consider her as a kind of upper servant. She was correspondingly grateful to Nicholas for his attitude. But neither this nor the luxurious magnificence of the bedroom in which she presently found herself obliterated a spasm of homesickness and a yearning to return to the dearly familiar and simple farmhouse. It seemed a week since she had bade her father good-bye that morning and a month at least since she had seen Abigail's shrewd, affectionate face.
She threw herself on the bed and indulged in bitter tears which were not quenched by the realization that she had wanted to come to Dragonwyck and here she was, that she had yearned for luxury and elegance and now she had it to an extent a thousand times beyond her dreams. She felt defenseless and out of place, frightened of the servants, unable to like Johanna, appalled by the size and grandeur of the house, which she had barely glimpsed as Nicholas led her upstairs. Nor did she altogether like Nicholas. Pie gave her a strange sensation that was half pleasurable and half a shrinking discomfort.
I wish I hadn't come, she thought, and in the thinking knew that
it wasn't true. She had been impelled toward Dragonwyck from the first moment of hearing about it, and now that she was here it still seemed to be pulling her closer, as though there were a magnet hidden in its gray stone turrets.
She sat up and dried her eyes and looked around the room. The bedroom at the Astor House had been only a pallid introduction to this. Her three windows faced south and commanded the whole sweep of the river downstream, while in the distance rose the Catskills, hazy in the dusk. She was on the second floor, on which there were six large bedchambers, as she later discovered, and hers the middle one on the south side. It was furnished with massive black walnut pieces in the Gothic style and its draperies were of peacock blue brocade as was the tester of the four-posted bed The rug was an Aubusson specially woven for the room in a pattern of golden wheat sheaves garlanded with blue and green The washbowl and ewer even the doorknobs, were made of engraved silver. Miranda's youth and her temperament combined to raise her spirits, and to her other discoveries was now added an excited wonder. Imagine a bathroom across the hall with a silver tub' Imagine above all the small private closet which opened from her room and was obviously for her exclusive use' She thought of the embarrassing and chilly trips across the yard to the outhouse behind the bushes at home, and felt for them all there an impatient pity. How little they knew of real refinement. They hadn't even sense enough to want a different way of living. Except Ma, she thought with swift love; how dearly I'd like to have her here too!
She unpacked the wicker basket and hung her three calico dresses in the painted Dutch Kas, where they looked lost and bedraggled. She longed to change the brown merino, which now seemed to her incredibly ugly, but there was nothing to change into. The calicos would be worse.
Supper was a silent meal. The food, served by Tompkins and a young footman, was delicious, but Miranda had no appetite. The profusion of strangely shaped spoons and forks dismayed her, and so did the wineglasses which stood beside her plate. From one of these she took a sip because the Van Ryns did, feeling very defiant and wicked as she thought of her father, but the stuff tasted sour, and she pushed the glass stealthily away.