by Anya Seton
Seth and Nathaniel, the two other boys, aged fourteen and twelve, cast longing looks out the window and wondered if the light would hold long enough for a game of Run Sheep Run with the Reynolds boys. But they knew better than to wriggle. Many a strapping in the woodshed had taught them that.
At the other end of the row, beside Miranda, sat Tabitha. Her hands were folded demurely in her lap, her plump freckled face was set to the proper expression of piety.
Only Miranda found it nearly impossible to restrain her fidgets. She knew that Ephraim had read the startling letter, and knew also that any discussion of it was impossible until evening worship was concluded.
During the fifteen of her eighteen years that Miranda had taken part in family worship, she had heard the Bible read through six times; and though Ephraim read well, rolling the sonorous phrases and giving considered emphasis to every word, she had long ago perfected a method of enjoying her own thoughts from which she emerged only to say 'Amen' with the others at the end of each chapter.
And yet, in spite of herself, she had soaked in a great deal of the poetry and imagery. Sometimes certain phrases mingled with her daydreams, and seemed to touch off delightful little explosions in her mind. It was so tonight, despite—or perhaps because of—her preoccupation with the letter from Dragonwyck.
Ephraim read from the twenty-sixth chapter of Ezekiel, and her attention was caught by verses which meant nothing to her consciously, though they had power to strike through mist and show her glimpses of a dim, enchanted country.
'Then all the princes of the sea shall come down from their thrones ... they shall clothe themselves with trembling,' said Ephraim's measured voice. It didn't make much sense, thought Miranda, but somehow it was beautiful.
Ephraim dropped to a lower, menacing note. 'How art thou destroyed, that wast inhabited of seafaring men, the renowned city, which wast strong in the sea, she and her inhabitants, which cause their terror to be on all that haunt it.'
A little shiver ran through her, and a sensation of strangeness. She would not have dared move her head, but her eyes roamed round the familiar room. There was the wide, seldom-lit fireplace with the pewter candlesticks on the mantel. There on the whitewashed walls hung the sampler her Grandmother Finch had worked, and the silhouette profiles of her mother and father which had been cut on their wedding day.
On the oak plank floor lay the hooked rugs that she and Tabitha had labored through many a winter's evening to finish. There in the west window through which glanced the last red rays of the setting sun was the cracked pane, result of an impulsive snowball thrown by Tom years ago.
Everything was commonplace and dull. What had they all to do with 'princes of the sea, renowned cities, terror or hauntings'?
'Fine linen with broidered work from Egypt ... blue and purple from the Isles of Elisha,' intoned Ephraim, now well into the next chapter...'occupied in thy fairs with chief of all spices, and with all precious stones, and gold.'
Miranda felt a wave of sharp yearning. She saw them heaped about her in a marble courtyard, the fine embroidered linens from Egypt, the spices, the precious stones and the gold. She looked at her parents, at her brothers' and sister's expressionless faces. How could they listen so calmly! Even the Bible admitted that the world was full of mystery and beauty and golden perfumed luxury. How then could they be content with sweaty homespun, with the odors of stable and barnyard, and with no gold but potatoes and little spring onions?
The low room was full of the smell of onions. The boys had been pulling them all day, and the white and green shoots lay neatly stacked in open crates outside the kitchen windows waiting for the dawn, when Tom would pile them in the wagon and drive them to the Mianus docks for shipment to New York.
There was a small scuffle, and Miranda fell to her knees with the rest of the family as her father shut his Bible and began to pray.
He always talked to God in much the manner of a senior member of the faculty reporting progress to a respected principal. He touched on the faults of each one of the family, not excepting himself sometimes. He occasionally reported some commendable act (though this honor was usually reserved for Tabitha), and he finished with an intimate and entirely confident request for guidance. Tonight there was an added clause.
'This day, O Lord,' said Ephraim, 'there has come to me a matter of some slight perplexity. Deliver us, we pray, from the pitfalls of rashness or hankering after the fleshpots.' Here he looked briefly at Miranda. 'And deliver us from the sins of arrogance and false pride.' This time Ephraim's stern gaze rested upon his wife.
The situation was therefore clear to Miranda. Her father did not approve of the letter. Disappointment overwhelmed her, nor was it lessened by Ephraim's final words. 'However, O God, Thy will be done, and whatsoever Thou decidest for Thy servants we shall try to do with all our might. Bless and preserve us through the night. Amen.'
God's will usually seemed to coincide with her father's, and against this partnership there was no hope of appeal.
But I'm not going to give up, thought Miranda hotly. During the hours since she had first seen the letter, its invitation had grown from a delightful possibility into an obsession. She had never in her life had a desire that approached this one in intensity. The fantastic name 'Dragonwyck' enchanted her. She repeated it over and over to herself and it was as though it pulled her to it, and beckoned.
Ephraim rose, and her spirits revived a little, for apparently there was at least to be a conference. Usually at the conclusion of evening worship her father went straight to his black cherry desk, where he entered items in the leather account book: so many bushels of potatoes from the north held, so many heads of cabbage or pecks of peas; wharfage charges, wholesale prices in New York. His cramped figures accounted for every penny while he squinted painfully. His far-sighted eyes blurred on close application.
But now he remained standing behind the table and said: 'Abby and Ranny, ye'll stay in here, I want to speak to you. Tom, water the stock and look to Whiteface, she's freshening. Tibby, is that young spark Obadiah likely to come mooning around again tonight?'
Tabitha cast down her eyes, and her round face was suffused with a peony blush. 'Oh, Pa!' she said in tones of demure horror. 'I'm sure I've no notion of his plans, and I can't see why they should concern me, anyway.'
A grim twinkle appeared in Ephraim's eyes. "Well, if he should happen to turn up, you may sit on the steps where your mother can keep an eye on you. Though I must say that Ob is steady enough, and you, praise be, aren't the flighty kind.'
'Thank you, Pa,' said Tibby, and from between her pale lashes she flung Miranda the tiniest complacent glance. Tabitha was perfectly aware that her piety and domesticity pleased her father, and that she never gave him a moment's anxiety as Miranda did.
Seth and Nat did not wait to see if their father had directions for them; they sidled through the door and pelted away down the road toward the Reynolds Farm.
Ephraim reseated himself and indicated with a gesture that his wife and Miranda might do likewise. He pulled the Van Ryn letter from his pocket.
'I don't like this letter at all,' he said heavily. 'And I'd see no reason even to discuss it, if it wasn't that you two foolish women read it and Abby acts like it was important.' He frowned at his wife. 'Far as I can see there's only one answer.'
Abigail very seldom disagreed with her husband, indeed in most matters her opinions coincided with his. But now her firm mouth compressed. 'It is important, Ephraim,' she said. 'Mr. Van Ryn is my cousin, and seems to me he's making a generous offer. Might be a good thing for Ranny to live for a while in a great house, learn something of the world outside this farm.'
Miranda threw her mother a grateful look. 'I'd like to go, Pa,' she said temperately, knowing that emotion of any kind always annoyed him.
Ephraim snorted. 'Your opinion is of no consequence whatsoever, miss. You're always hankering after new, foolish things. You haven't the sense of a tom-tit. You should be thinking onl
y of helping your mother until you settle down with one of the young sparks hereabouts. You're past eighteen and comely enough in a namby-pamby way, I suppose. I don't know what's the matter with you. There's Zach Wilson, now. He'd make a fine husband and he seemed to fancy you. And how did you treat him!' Ephraim suddenly empurpled, banged his hand on the table, and Miranda's heart sank. She knew what was coming.
'I've seen you many a time,' growled Ephraim, 'mincing around, your nose in the air and crying, "Oh, Zach, don't come so near, you smell of the stable. Oh, Zach, don't play that vulgar dance on your fiddle, can we not have 'Love's Sweet Bloom' or some ree-fined ballad?" Faugh! No wonder he had his fill of your ladyship and is courting Mead's girl.'
Miranda stirred unhappily. Zach's interest in her and her discouragement of it had been a sore subject for weeks.
She had never liked Zach. He had coarse red hair and pudgy hands, and his idea of love-making had been scuffling in dark corners, a moist smacking kiss on the cheek, and on one occasion a playful pinch on that portion of her body that, even to herself, Miranda designated only as 'the sitting-down place.' Not one of the neighbors' sons, no man she had ever seen, had stirred in her any emotion but distaste. This realization made her feel guilty.
There was bitterness in being different from the others. Many times she had forced herself to romp through the boisterous square dances, and joined in the horseplay and practical jokes which delighted her friends, simply that they might not think her too uppity and queer.
'As for this letter—' went on Ephraim, returning to the subject, 'I think the tone of it offensive. This fine relation of yours, Abby, writes as if he thought himself die King of Spain. What right has he, I'd like to know, to be making "inquiries" about us, or to think I'd fair leap at the chance to send him one of my girls:'
'He doesn't mean it like that, I'm sure,' said Abigail quickly. 'It's only that the gentry have different ways of putting things.'
That was a mistake, thought Miranda, watching her father's face blacken.
'Oh, indeed,' snapped Ephraim. 'And since when, ma'am, do ye know all about the ways of gentry? Come to that, since when do we have gentry in this country where all are free and equal? A Yankee farmer is as good and mebbe a little bit better than many in this land. We'll say no more about this.' He put the letter back into his pocket. 'I'll sit down now and answer it.'
'Oh, Pa, please...' Miranda, galvanized into action, ran around the table and seized her father's arm. 'Pa, listen—' She spoke breathlessly, her wits sharpened by desperation. 'I have a—a feeling that I'm meant to go. I mean during worship tonight, I had a leading, truly I did. I think the Lord wants it At least put it to the test, Pa, please, and see what happens.'
Ephraim paused. He stared down into his daughter's flushed, pleading face. 'Are you speaking the truth, daughter? Search your heart.'
Miranda nodded earnestly. It crossed Ephraim's mind that the girl, whom he usually thought far too pale and thin for beauty, did have a certain delicate, appealing charm.
'Well, you may try the test,' he said in a softer voice. He shoved the Bible over to her.
Miranda sighed with relief. There was still hope. The Bible test was used only in moments of grave crisis when its advice was urgently needed, and its decision was always abided by, as the manifest guidance of God.
She rested her hands on the great volume and sent up a fervent little prayer. If God wanted her to go to Dragonwyck, He would give her a sign. But, just in case, and without more than a fleeting stab of conscience, she intended to do what she could as well. For God helps those who help themselves. Had not Ephraim said so a hundred times?
Her mind darted over the various Bible stories while Ephraim and Abigail watched her. Of course. Hagar! And the page would fall open because Ephraim so often re-read the story of Abraham.
She shut her eyes, as was necessary to the test, opened the book, stole a lightning glance through her long lashes, then placed one slender finger-tip on a verse. She passed the Bible back to her father, who cleared his throat and read.
'And Abraham rose up early in the morning, and took bread and a bottle of water and gave it unto Hagar, putting it on her shoulder and the child, and sent her away; and she departed and wandered in the wilderness of Beersheba.'
Ephraim stopped and looked suspiciously at his daughter, who bore the scrutiny calmly. For after all, the Lord had given a sign. She might so easily not have found the right chapter or verse.
'It's none too fitting,' said Ephraim grudgingly, 'but it does seem to have some bearing. I'll sleep on the matter and pray over it.'
Miranda's spirits soared. She knew that during the night Abigail would find means to bring Ephraim round to their point of view, so long as the decisive letter of refusal had not actually been written.
She felt a sudden urge to get out of the stuffy house into the cool twilight. She avoided the back steps where Tabitha sat with Obadiah, though she heard her sister's high-pitched giggle and little murmurs of coquettish protest.
She flung herself headlong on the grass beneath an apple tree, and wished on the evening star. Then she lay quiet, her face upturned to the sky, and dreamed of travel and far places; of New York. She pictured it vaguely as a vast city of towers and castles, peopled with elegant silken ladies and dark romantic gentlemen. Amongst the latter perhaps there might be one who would press his hand to his heart, though he dared not speak. Perhaps she would drop a handkerchief as Esmeralda had done in the 'Deserted Rose,' and when he, bowing, returned it to her, their mingled glances would reveal the message of their souls.
It was all very formless and exciting.
2
EPHRAIM'S STIFF LETTER OF ACCEPTANCE HAD BEEN promptly answered by a note of instructions about Miranda's journey to Dragonwyck, and at three in the morning of Monday, June the fourteenth, Miranda awoke at a light touch on her shoulder. She opened her eyes to see her mother, candle in hand, standing beside the bed.
'It's time, dearie—' said Abigail, and the unaccustomed endearment startled the girl into realization of what this day was to mean. She was leaving home, leaving the ordered safety of the familiar, leaving this quiet woman on whose love and sympathy she had always instinctively leaned. Suppose something happened to Ma, thought Miranda in sudden terror, suppose something happened to any of them here at home, she wouldn't even know about it for days.
She thrust her bare feet over the edge of the bed and looked up at Abigail. 'Perhaps I oughtn't go,' she said slowly. 'Something might happen. You'd need me. And—Oh, Ma, I'm going to miss you so.'
This woke up Tabitha, who yawned and said virtuously, 'Don't worry about Ma, Ranny. I don't mind doing the extra work when you're gone.'
The mother knew this to be true. Tibby would not only take over Miranda's work, but do it far better than her sister had. Miranda was full of the most regrettable faults, she was vain and lazy and heedless. She thought far too much about worldly things; she was, as Ephraim constantly pointed out, finicking; while Tabitha was of an upright rectitude that had made it unnecessary to chide her since she was six.
How was it, then, thought Abigail, that possessing the very model of daughters she could look upon that plump and dutiful little person unmoved, while the sight of Miranda always gave her a sensation of melting and warmth? She had much ado now not to take that curly golden head and press it against her breast as she used to long ago. Instead she said:
'Nonsense. Of course you're going, Ranny,' and put the candlestick on the washstand. "No shilly-shallying now, miss. You've got what you wanted, so you might as well enjoy it.'
There was no answer to this, and Abigail's brisk voice was comforting.
Miranda dressed quickly. She put on her church dress of brown merino. It had been impossible to find the money for a new dress, but she had furbished this one as much as possible with a snowy white fichu and starched her petticoats until they stood out stiffly and pushed the merino skirt into a creditable imitation of a bell-shaped crinoline.
She fastened the fichu with the beautiful hair brooch that was her only piece of jewelry. It had been given her on her thirteenth birthday while she was convalescing from scarlet fever. It had a real gold rim enclosing, under glass, a braided rose made from the combined hair of the whole family; Ephraim's grizzled strand twined with Abigail's brown and the children's reddish chestnut to form a pleasing russet shade with a sheen like that of the walnut chair in the parlor. Ephraim had had it made by a jeweler in Stamford, and Miranda was very proud of it. It certainly set off the dress and nearly matched the elegance of her new bonnet.
The Misses Lane, milliners in Cos Cob, had made the bonnet after many devout consultations with Godey's and the one copy they possessed of La Mode à Paris. It was of natural straw trimmed with rose satin ribbons, and in lieu of the ostrich feathers which appeared in the illustration it was embellished on either side by a large red cotton rose. The egg money which had provided the bonnet could not be stretched enough to include ostrich feathers.
Miranda tied the ribbons of this creation beneath her chin, peered into the tiny cracked mirror, then looked to her mother for approval.
Abigail thought the girl beautiful. 'That bonnet's a mite giddy, but you'll do,' she said crisply. 'Here's your shawl; say good-bye to the children and hurry. I hear Tom hitching up.'
Miranda picked up her traveling basket, which had been made by old Hardy, the last Sinawoy Indian who lived over in the Stanwich woods. It was capacious and sturdy, quite adequate to her scanty wardrobe. Then she leaned over Tabitha, who was half asleep again.
'Good-bye, Tibby,' she said.
Tabitha sat up and the sisters kissed tenderly, forgetful in this parting moment of all their little squabbles.
The younger children, Seth, Nat, and the baby, did not wake up as Miranda kissed them, and her eyes filled, premonitory pangs of homesickness assailed her.
Fortunately there was little time for emotion during the next half-hour. The market boat for New York would leave Mianus at five, and they must be at the dock in plenty of time to unload the wagon and get the produce on board.
