by Anya Seton
I wish I hadn't hated her so, thought the girl; and suddenly tears ran down her face. For she hadn't known until that moment how much she had hated Johanna.
It was Magda who brought Miranda's supper tray and flung it on the table.
'You'll be leaving, of course, after the funeral,' said the woman rudely.
Miranda swallowed. 'I suppose so,' she said. Yes, of course she must go. She couldn't stay here alone with Nicholas. Nicholas! The girl clasped her hands tight and walked over to the window, hiding her face from the maid's spiteful glare. When the woman had gone, Miranda pushed the tray away untouched.
Nicholas was immeasurably farther away from her after this tragedy than he had ever been. For him, too, his wife in death must have assumed a strange new importance. How much sorrow and loss he felt, she wasn't sure. She had never been sure what Nicholas felt for Johanna. And yet she was his wife—the mother of his child—he must feel it terribly. And Miranda buried her face on her arms. After a while she undressed and went to bed, exhausted by the previous night's sleeplessness.
At midnight the house was quiet. No more footsteps shuffled down the hall. The Van Tappens had long since retired. Miranda slept heavily so that she did not waken when the door opened and shut again. But she heard her name, and opened dazed eyes to see Nicholas looking down at her. She lay mute, her beautiful eyes staring and still clouded with sleep.
He put his candle on the table, came back by the bed. She saw the black mourning band on his arm and could not look past it, nor raise her gaze to his face.
'Miranda!'he said. 'Look at me.'
Slowly, she obeyed him, dragging her eyes upward from the black band. He drew a harsh breath. With one violent motion he jerked her up against him. He kissed her savagely, and against her shrinking breasts she felt the pounding of his heart.
'No, no—' she whispered, terrified, struggling to push him back.
He raised his head, withdrawing his arms so that she fell back against the pillows. He stood up, gave a short laugh. 'If I wished "Yes," do you think your silly "No, No" would stop me?'
'I—I don't know,' she whispered. His tigerish ferocity had frightened her, but now that he stood apart from her, again cool and controlled, her eyes filled and she looked at him with pleading.
'Get up and put on your dressing-gown,' he said. While she did so, he turned his back, went over to the fire and poked up its dying embers.
When she was ready she went to him, stood tall and slender in her white robe, her hair pushed childishly back behind her ears and cascading down about her shoulders.
He reached forward and took her left hand. She watched uncomprehending while he pushed a massive ring onto her third finger. She stared at the ring. It was of old gold made into the likeness of two tiny hands with diamond tips which clasped a dark red carbuncle roughly heart-shaped.
'It's the Van Ryn betrothal ring,' he said.
She lifted her bewildered gaze from the ring to his face. 'I—I don't understand.'
'Ah, yes you do, Miranda,' he said softly.
An incredulous joy leaped in her and died. She drew back. For not fifty feet away lay that still sheeted figure smiling the strange little smile. 'Johanna,' she whispered.
Nicholas' eyes hardened. In the moment of silence she heard the unhurried ticking of the clock on the mantel, a dog barked somewhere out by the stables.
'She never wore the ring,' he said. 'Her finger was too thick.'
Thank God, she thought in confusion, it must be all right, then. Of course it's all right if she never wore it.
'You will do exactly as I say,' said Nicholas.
The dark red stone on her finger glowed in the firelight, the tiny diamonds sparkled.
'Yes—oh yes,' she whispered. 'Always.'
'Hide the ring. Mention it to no one. Friday you will go home. In exactly twelve months I shall claim you.'
'Twelve months—' she repeated.
'Naturally, there will be a year of mourning.'
'But Nicholas,' she cried, clasping her hands and looking at him in despair, 'I can't believe—I never hoped or thought—Do you really love me—you haven't said so—'
Nicholas smiled. He put his hands on her shoulders. 'I've asked you to share my name. Tender speeches are for schoolboys. Live for the future, Miranda—as I shall.'
He bent and kissed her swiftly. Then he was gone, and the girl alone by the fire sat staring as though hypnotized at the betrothal ring.
At the same moment in Hudson, Jeff in his locked surgery, the curtains carefully drawn, finished the last of the experiments he had been making. He had no book on toxicology, but had found some pertinent data in one of his pharmacological textbooks.
On a plate before him lay a few crumbs, all that remained of the specimen of cake he had abstracted from Dragonwyck. The rest he had examined through his microscope, which was weak, but powerful enough to have shown up any tiny grains of white or gray powder. There were none. Following the directions in his book he had burned a portion of the cake in a retort, and on still another piece had poured certain chemicals. All the results were negative.
Now with a sudden revulsion of feeling he picked up the plate and shied it into his stone sink, where it smashed to splinters.
I ought to be ashamed of myself, he thought. My suspicions are nothing but childish pique that my medical knowledge was at fault and I lost a patient.
He shut the textbook and put it back on the shelf to accumulate dust. He tidied up the surgery and went to bed, resolving never to think of the matter again.
10
JOHANNA WAS BURIED WITH ALL THE POMP BEFITTING her station. There were the twelve pallbearers—Livingstons, Van Rensselaers, Schuylers, and Van Tappens—to head the funeral procession. Each had a small white satin pillow to support his share of the coffin's weight. None of the coffin itself was visible, for it was covered with the traditional "dood kleed' of black wool from which hung fifty silken tassels which swayed with the bearers' labored tread.
Behind the coffin walked Nicholas alone in his black silk suit, his face expressionless, his eyes on the ground.
Katrine followed with her mother's relatives. Miranda found herself relegated to a position barely ahead of the servants.
It took half an hour to cover the half-mile to the church, and by that time the pallbearers' faces were running with sweat.
Of the funeral service Miranda heard nothing, for as she seated herself in the corner of the back pew assigned to her she was aware that someone was staring at her. She turned and encountered Zélie's eyes. The old woman's fixed gaze was both knowing and malicious. She nodded her head once, and her shriveled mouth widened in a melancholy smile.
The girl's hand flew to her bodice and touched the outline of the hidden ring. And at once anger at her own folly jerked her around in the pew. As though Zedie could possibly know!
She did not turn again, but the service was over and Johanna's coffin carried to its final resting place in the churchyard before Miranda was sufficiently composed to pay attention.
The rest of the day passed in the traditional ceremonials.
The black-draped dining table was loaded with elaborate side dishes besides the baron of beef, the roast hindquarters of a lamb and a baked carp. To these the company did full though solemn justice, aided by copious draughts of wine and punch.
Nicholas presented to each of the pallbearers a 'monkey spoon,' a small trinket of carved silver with a tiny figure on the handle, supposed to represent one of the twelve Apostles. Nicholas gave each spoon with a courteous murmur of thanks, and everyone thought him the model of dignified sorrow.
'Poor, poor man,' murmured Mrs. Henry Van Rensselaer, resting her knife and fork and looking at him with sympathetic admiration. So young to be bereaved—and so handsome.' Her thoughts turned to her four unmarried girls. But it was too soon to think of things like that. She picked up her knife and fork again.
Miranda took no part in these proceedings. No one invited her
to do so. She stayed alone in her room. And the next morning she started on her journey home.
The river being still closed to boats, Nicholas sent her in the light coach with Dick, the second coachman, to drive, and Greta, a middle-aged chambermaid, to chaperone her. They would have to spend two nights on the road, the first at the Beekman Arms in Rhinebeck, the second in Peekskill; and a young lady could not stay alone in an inn.
There was a dismal feeling of indifference, almost of disgrace, about Miranda's hurried departure at seven in the morning. She went to Katrine's room to say good-bye, but the child was sleepy and unresponsive; all her interest was centered on the projected visit to Aunt Van Tappen in Albany. Far worse than Katrine's indifference was Nicholas' absence. The girl had been sure that he would appear to wish her God-speed even if they had no chance for a private word. But he did not.
Greta, plump and stolid in black alpaca, already waited in the coach; Miranda's parcels and new trunk filled with the clothes she had acquired at Dragonwyck were neatly lashed on top. Dick's red face was impatient and the horses snorted and stamped, anxious to be off into the chilly spring morning.
There was nothing to do but get in. The heavy door slammed and the coachman cracked his whip. Miranda pressed her face to the window pane and looked her last at Dragonwyck. Its tower and gables shone bright as brass in the rays of the rising sun. Desolation seized her and the image of the great house dissolved in a mist of tears.
Her hand crept to the ring in an effort at reassurance which was becoming habitual, and she sank back on the seat trying to hide her face from Greta. The woman opened a string bag and drew out a letter, which she tendered Miranda.
'Here, miss,' she said. 'Mynheer said to give you after we leave.' Her stupid face showed no curiosity. She was a good, obedient servant, incapable of initiative or speculation. It was for this reason that Nicholas had picked her to accompany Miranda.
The girl's heart beat fast as she opened the letter. It said:
I regret very much not bidding you farewell. It's better not, and there is that between us that needs no words to express. Already one day of the appointed time has passed, my dear one.—N.
Forgetting discretion, Miranda pressed the note to her lips, then looked nervously at the silent Greta wondering if she had been observed. But the woman had gone to sleep. Miranda tucked the letter in her bodice next the ring. Her desolation was forgotten. A year was not so very long to wait.
I'll be so good, she thought; I'll study and improve my mind so as to be worthy of him. Then there was much to be done, dozens of dainty underclothes to be made and linen to be monogrammed. She would not come to him empty-handed. She suppressed the disquieting thought that all this preparation would be hard in view of Nicholas' command to 'tell no one.' She would manage somehow.
With each mile that separated her from Dragonwyck the horror and gloom of the last few days dimmed. Her relationship to Nicholas changed and became as she wanted it to be. He loved her and she loved him and soon they would be married—the natural termination of any romance. She shut her memory against Johanna, as against Nicholas' black and inexplicable moods. One must never look back, she thought blithely, feeling mature and philosophical. It's only the future that matters. Just as Nicholas said.
The coach was passing through Hudson when she reached this conclusion and she thought briefly of Jeff Turner. Even the thought of him had the power to make her uncomfortable, and resentment rose in her.
But soon they left behind the town of brick houses and church spires. The horses trotted vigorously along the highroad to Poughkeepsie and Miranda noted with pleasure passing glances of admiration for her equipage—the smart liveried coachman on the box, the matched bays with their jingling silver harness, the impeccable maid beside her. Miranda held her chin high.
After noon on the third day they passed through Bedford Village and continued down the North Way. In a few more miles Miranda recognized landmarks near home. She welcomed these with eagerness and her long submerged yearning for her mother at last claimed her. When they reached Stanwich she leaned forward hanging out the window excitedly directing the coachman and straining her eyes for the first glimpse of the farm.
Still when at last she saw the square white frame house beneath the elm trees, she was dismayed. It was so small, so insignificant.
And in the yard before the kitchen door stood the farm wagon steaming with a load of manure which Tom and her father were pitching from a pile by the stable. Both men looked up as they heard the carriage approach: she saw that they were unshaven, sweating, and dirty.
The coachman had nearly passed the farm road by before she found her voice. 'Turn here,' she called to the box in a small, defiant voice. 'This is where I live.'
She suffered under the man's stare of astonishment. He pulled up the horses and guided them through the narrow gate. Greta, stolid as ever, glanced at the farm with incurious eyes.
The coach stopped just short of the manure pile, and Dick, opening the door for Miranda, waited respectfully, hat in hand. Tom and Ephraim stood transfixed, then the boy's jaw dropped.
'Gosh almighty, Pa. It's Ranny!' he cried.
Ephraim recovered from his surprise and his bearded face set in disapproval. 'So I see.' He advanced to the girl, who stood nervously on the carriage step, unwilling to risk her delicate kid slippers in the barnyard muck.
'Well, miss,' said her father, 'did your fine folks get tired of you and pack you back again?'
'Oh, no, Pa—' she cried, flushing. Though she was not particularly glad to see her father she had expected a warmer welcome. 'Mrs. Van Ryn died last Monday, and of course I came home. There was no time to write.'
'Indeed,' said Ephraim, wiping his hands on a spotted red handkerchief. 'I'm sorry to hear of the poor lady's passing, but we're all mortal and the Lord strikes where He will. Home is the place for you and always has been. Stop swaying on that step like a chicken with the pip. You'll find your ma around to the back in the herb garden. She'll likely be glad to see you.'
Thus commanded, Miranda gathered up her silk skirts and descended gingerly.
Ephraim turned to his son. 'Tom, I reckon we can find room to stable these horses, but the coach'll have to stay outside. As for you,' he paused, having just discovered Greta inside, and clearly not knowing what to do with her and the coachman, 'Miranda'll cook you up some supper, we'll find you beds somewhere.'
'Oh, no, Pa!' Miranda cried again in embarrassment. She saw the twinkle in the coachman's eyes at the thought of her cooking him up some supper. She who at Dragonwyck had always been served by a dozen hands. 'Mr. Van Ryn has made arrangements for them to return at once. They'll spend tonight on the road. Good-bye,' she added quickly to the servants. 'Thank you very much. My brother'll help you get my trunk off.' And she fled around the corner of the house.
She saw a thin figure in an old gray sunbonnet stooping over the herb patch, and forgetting her shoes and skirts she flew with a cry of joy. 'Ma, dear! Oh, Ma, I'm so glad to see you!'
Abigail straightened and was startled out of her Yankee reserve by the sight of the slender fashionable figure. She opened her arms and caught her daughter to her breast.
There began for Miranda a period of difficult adjustment. Nearly a year had passed since she left them. Home had not changed, but she had—immeasurably; and except for Abigail, her family that first evening appeared to her as rather uncouth strangers. The baby did not know her, and screamed with terror at the scented and ringleted lady in rustling green silk.
All three of her brothers eyed her in wary embarrassment after a stiff greeting. Tabitha, flushed from tending the oven, her apron awry, cried, 'My land, Ranny! I'd never have known you,' and the sisters exchanged a brief kiss. But there was no warmth in Tibby's greeting, either. Her scrutiny of Miranda mingled envious resentment with disapproval. Silk dress, low-cut bosom, lace, kid slippers—and she's got powder on her face, thought Tabitha, horrified. She tightened her lips, and while they all sat d
own to supper around the kitchen table, she glanced at her father, sure that he was sharing her disapproval and would soon voice it.
Nor did Ephraim disappoint her. When he had finished grace, he rested his carving knife and fork on the home-cured ham hock before him, and surveyed Miranda. 'You aiming to do the dishes in that ridiculous rig?' he inquired.
Tabidia giggled, and the smaller boys nudged each other.
Before Miranda could answer, her mother leaned forward and said quickly: 'It's just for tonight, Ephraim. Ranny was tired from the traveling. She'll get into the hang of things tomorrow again.'
Ephraim grunted. 'She'd better. I'll have no idle, furbelowed, fiddle-dee-dee girls around here.' He picked up the carving knife, and said no more. The family, who were braced for a protracted lecture, settled in some surprise to their food.
Miranda's appearance discomfited her father. He could not help but see that the girl had grown extraordinarily pretty, and that in both her dress and her manner she now resembled the fine ladies he had seen at the Astor House. He was grudgingly impressed by her arrival this afternoon, the blazoned coach, the two servants, the sleek horses in their silver harness. Mr. Van Ryn must have thought a lot of the girl to provide her with such state. But now she was home again, any high-faluting nonsense she had learned must be knocked out of her. He helped himself to fried potatoes and shoved the dish toward Abigail.
Miranda toyed with her food. She was not hungry and the salty ham, greasy potatoes, and even Tabitha's fresh bread cut into thick slabs were unappetizing to a palate used to Dragonwyck's sophisticated cooking. She noticed things that had never bothered her before. Had the boys always gulped like that, and wiped their mouths on the back of their hands? And after Nicholas' chivalrous politeness, it was disconcerting to see that her mother and sister must wait for each dish until the hungry males had helped themselves.