by Anya Seton
She made four drafts, and finally copied the last one onto a sheet of lined paper, from the back of Ephraim's ledger. There was no other paper.
Stanwich Road, Greenwich,
Sept 25th, 1845.
Dear Cousin Nicholas:
It seems eternity [she scraped this out with a penknife and substituted a long time'] since I left Dragonwyck.
I trust that you are in good health, and Katrine as well. My thoughts ever turn to you—[she stopped, hastily added an r] your kindness and hospitality. Please [she erased that] I would esteem it a great favor to hear if you are quite well.
She laid the pen down and gazed with miserable eyes out of the window into the rustling elm leaves. How to sign it? Not 'sincerely,' not 'affectionately.' There was no word that she dared write.
She picked up the pen, and put down 'Miranda,' carefully embellished with the flourishes she had learned at the Academy.
She folded the sheet, sealed and addressed it. That afternoon, she walked three miles to the Horseneck Post Office, had the letter franked, and walked back again through fields of goldenrod and up the shady Stanwich Road, and her heart was lighter.
Surely he would understand, would read between the lines and send her a word of reassurance.
But weeks passed and there was no answer.
The girl's going into a decline, thought Abigail, watching her daughter anxiously. I wish she'd never gone to Dragonwyck, or heard of that Nicholas. She was always over-romantic, and to my everlasting shame I guess I encouraged her. 'Eat your vittles, Ranny,' she would urge with irritation born of worry. You look like a picked crow.'
'Aye,' agreed Ephraim on one occasion, wiping his mouth and examining his daughter. 'What ails you these days, child? You wear a face long enough to eat oats out of a churn.' He had been better pleased with her lately. She was quiet and biddable. It had occurred to him that she seemed a bit mopish, but girls were unstable, moody creatures, full of silly whims.
'Well,' he continued, with an idea of cheering her, 'next week's Harvest Festival in Peck's barn. I hear they've got a fiddler coming from Stamford. It'll liven you up. Likely catch yourself a beau.'
Miranda said nothing, sat as she so often did now, her lids dropped, staring vaguely at the table.
Her father frowned and opened his mouth to speak when Nat created a diversion. 'Looky—' he cried, peering through the kitchen window—'there's a stranger on a roan horse just turned through our gate!'
Miranda started. Against all reason, wild hope set her heart to pounding. She crowded with the others to the window. They all watched the approaching horseman: strangers were an event.
'It can't be a peddler,' said Nat. 'He has no pack.'
The roan horse walked slowly, its head drooping. The rider was concealed by his woolen cape and battered beaver hat.
'Someone who's lost his way,' suggested Abigail. A thought struck her, the same that had come to Miranda. She glanced at the girl, and saw from the hopeless disappointment in her face that at any rate this was not Nicholas.
'I'll see what he wants,' said Ephraim, going out the door. At that moment the stranger raised his head, and Miranda gave a cry of surprise.
'Why, it's Doctor Turner!' She stared at the powerful shoulders, the square, smiling face, hating him because he came from up-river, because he reminded her poignantly of Dragonwyck, and yet was not Nicholas. He might have news, though, she thought with rising excitement. Of course he would have news.
She ran down the steps as Jeff alighted.
For a moment he hardly recognized her. Her golden hair was braided and pinned tight around her head; she wore pink challis and an apron. She was too thin and pale, so that her long hazel eyes now looked enormous in her sharpened face. Her lips trembled as she smiled at him.
'Oh, Doctor Turner—' she cried impulsively—'have you—did you—?' She broke off, conscious that Ephraim was staring at her.
Jeff took her hand in his, hardly hearing what she said. He thought that eagerness, that glad crying of his name, were for him, that she was happy to see him. Warmth flowed over him. In her simple clothes, she seemed to him far more beautiful than she had in the fashionable silks and ringlets she had worn at Dragonwyck. He was touched by hollows in her cheeks, and the shadows beneath her lovely eyes.
'And who may this gentleman be, Ranny?' inquired Ephraim sternly.
Jeff dropped her hand and grinned in some confusion. 'I'm Jefferson Turner from Hudson, Mr. Wells. Perhaps Miranda has mentioned me.'
'She has not, sir,' said Ephraim. He too misinterpreted his daughter's behavior. This young man must be the reason for the girl's pinings and sighings. But though he liked Jeff on sight, as people usually did, he had no intention of unbending until he had been given a full explanation.
Jeff was soon established at the table, while Abigail plied him with roast pork and pie. Miranda saw that her own questions must wait until her father's had been satisfied, and she moved from the stove to the table and back to the stove again in a fever of impatience.
It seemed that Jeff had made a trip to New York. 'For there's a fine doctor there, Doctor John Francis. He has a new treatment for cholera. The old whaler "Nellie B"—put into Hudson in July and she brought us some cholera from India. We only had five cases, praise be, but I lost two of them.' He put down his knife., and his face sobered.
'I hope they were good Christians, and died in the faith of our Lord,' said Ephraim. Jeff nodded. 'Oh, their souls are safe enough; it's the welfare of their bodies that concerns me.'
Young man—' said Ephraim, 'that remark smacks of levity. The body is but dust and ashes. Still—' he went on, because he was interested, and despite a possible laxity of principle, the young doctor seemed a fine, upstanding man, 'did you find a new medicine for the cholera in the city?'
"Tis nothing in the world but clay—' said Jeff ruefully. 'Chinese clay. Doctor Francis has tried it and it works well.'
'To eat, you mean?' put in Nat. All three boys were listening intently, delighted with this break in their lives. Only Miranda paid no attention. What did she care for cholera and its treatment when her whole being was centered on one subject? The meal seemed to her interminable. Even after everyone had finished eating, Ephraim ignored the lengthening shadows outside and sat on at table talking to the guest. And this in spite of the filled wagon in the yard and the team ready harnessed to drive a load of late potatoes to the dock.
Jeff explained the uses of clay in cholera, and he told them of his trip from Hudson. He had come by horseback because he wished to stop along the way in Poughkeepsie and Fishkill and White Plains to see friends and confer with other doctors.
'This morning I was in Rye,' he said, smiling, 'and finding myself so near Greenwich, I thought to come and see Miranda.' This was not entirely true. He had meant from the beginning to call on the Wellses. But he did not himself clearly understand why he had wanted to see her again, and the fact embarrassed him.
'I'm glad you came,' said Ephraim heartily. 'You'll stay with us tonight, of course. You can share Tom's bed.—Ranny,' he turned to the silent girl, 'you might walk about a bit with the doctor. Show him the orchard; I'm certain they don't grow apple trees like that where he comes from.' Ephraim had made up his mind. No doubt the young fellow had come a-courting. He would have preferred one of the neighbor boys, but Jeff had passed muster. I'll not be harsh with the girl, thought Ephraim; she might have done far worse.
So with her father's approval, and followed by a puzzled look from her mother, Miranda and Jeff went for a walk in the apple orchard.
You're not looking very well, Miranda,' said Jeff gently. 'I think I must give you a tonic.'
She walked fast, anxious to get out of hearing of the house. She brushed his remark aside, and climbed swiftly over the stone fence. He followed, and when they stood on the bumpy ground amongst a few worm-eaten russets, she turned to him with urgency.
'Tell me, have you been to Dragonwyck? Have you seen Mr. Van Ryn?'
>
So, he thought, surprised to see how much he minded, that breathless eagerness of greeting was not for me at all. She is still obsessed with the lord of the manor.
'Dragonwyck's closed,' he said; 'has been since June. Mr. Van Ryn is traveling, down South somewhere. Didn't you know?'
She shook her head, trying to hide her face from him. But he had seen the tears start to her eyes.
'I did see him once in September, at poor Boughton's new trial,' he said unwillingly. He had not meant to tell her this, nor of the message Nicholas had given him for her, for he had persuaded himself that she would have forgotten Nicholas, now that she was back home. And he profoundly believed that it would be better for her if she had. But in the face of her anguish, he could not deny her.
'How was he?' she asked breathlessly. 'Oh, please, please tell me.'
'He seemed very well. I only saw him for a minute.'
He sighed, remembering the crowded little Hudson courtroom where Smirh Boughton had stood his second trial for sedition against the Manor lords, the first one having ended in disagreement.
This time things had gone as badly as possible. The steely-eyed Circuit Judge John Edmonds had presided. Boughton's lawyer, Ambrose Jordan, had lost his temper, had actually provoked a fist fight with John Van Buren, who represented the manors. From the beginning, Jeff had had small hope of the outcome, but the verdict was even worse than he had feared. Smith Boughton had been sentenced to life in Clinton Prison.
They had been sorry after that, some of those who had persecuted the little doctor. There had been tears in the courtroom; Mrs. Van Rensselaer had fainted. Jeff had watched them all with hatred—the well-fed, smug lot of them ensconced in the white-panneled gallery, so avid for their dubious rights, so terrified of one small, white-faced man who had dared to threaten their wealth and power.
Nicholas had been amongst those in the gallery, conspicuous in his black suit. He had watched the proceedings impassively, his handsome head turned a little, his blue eyes showing little interest.
As soon as the verdict had been pronounced, he had risen and left the gallery. Jeff too had quitted the courtroom, moved by an impulsive and quite impossible wish to go to his friend. The guard soon disabused him, no one might now see the prisoner; and he had been walking sadly down the courthouse steps, when he felt a touch on his arm.
It was Nicholas, who said, 'Good day, Doctor Turner. This must be a bad time for you.'
'At any rate, it's a pleasant one for you,' said Jeff, starting to walk on.
'The verdict is just but harsh,' said Nicholas calmly. 'Were I he, I would kill myself. He'd be far better dead than in prison.'
I really believe he means that, Jeff had thought, and he had answered: 'I don't agree with you, Mr. Van Ryn. Life is precious, and what's more the sentence may be commuted some day. Now if you'll excuse me —I leave soon for a trip to New York and I've much to do.'
'Indeed?' asked Nicholas politely.
'When I'm thereabouts, I may call on Miss Wells,' added Jeff, more from curiosity as to what Nicholas would say than anything else.
He had said nothing for a moment and the peculiar shut expression had appeared in his eyes. 'If you do see her,' he said at last, 'you might tell her that I shall come down-river in April.'
'Certainly,' said Jeff, thinking it a very trivial message. He had continued to think so up to this moment, and now he wondered.
When he delivered the message to Miranda, he no longer wondered. She was transfigured by a blaze of joy.
'Did he say that?' she cried. 'Oh, thank you, thank you, Jeff.' She was unconscious of her use of his name, half-laughing and half-crying in her relief. It was all right then. Nicholas hadn't answered her letter because Dragonwyck was shut and he was traveling. But he would be with her in April as he had promised.
She no longer doubted or even wondered why he did not write her. He had his reasons, he was different anyway from all other men. He had given her his word, she had been shameful to need the confirmation. But oh, it was sweet to have it.
She smiled at Jeff, including him now in her joy.
You're easily pleased,' said he crossly. It was plain enough now that she hoped to see Nicholas in April—six months off—and on this distant meeting she must be building a foolish romantic structure—the little goose. The real facts never occurred to him. He knew that Miranda had been but three days in that shrouded house of mourning, and he had heard how during that time the widower had shut himself into the tower study with his grief.
'Miranda,' he said on impulse, 'why do you make yourself unhappy, always hankering after things you haven't got? Can't you be content here at home? This farm is beautiful—'
'Beautiful!' she repeated in amazement, looking around her.
The orchard where they stood was on higher ground than the farmhouse, which nestled like a white dove beneath hemlocks and the tall protecting elms. The fields, checkered by stone walls, undulated gently toward the sapphire strip of the distant Sound. A late October haze, faintly lavender, filtered the clear air and intensified the perfume of burning leaves. Maples on the Cat Rock Hills blazed red and gold, colors repeated even more strongly by a riot of sumach and goldenrod against the gray wall of the little burying ground. In the adjoining pasture Buttercup's bell tinkled rhythmically, as Seth guided her toward the barn and the evening milking.
'I suppose the country's pretty enough,' said Miranda vaguely, 'but it has no refinement, no elegance; and as for the farm—it's nothing but work.' She looked down at her hands. Despite her care they had reddened a little; two of her almond-shaped fingernails were broken off short.
'Work's not such a bad thing,' answered Jeff. 'There's joy in getting things done, in being useful. It makes a pattern. Bread that is worked for is sweeter far—' He shut his mouth, seeing that her eyes held the look of passive endurance which descends on a congregation toward the end of a tedious sermon.
'D'you think for one minute—' he shouted, suddenly angry, 'that your precious Van Ryn with his estates and his carriages and his idleness is as happy a man as I am, or your own father?'
He was pleased to see that he had startled her, but otherwise he produced no effect. She gave him an indulgent smile, and said softly, as though she did not want to hurt his feelings, 'I should never think of comparing you or Pa to Mr. Van Ryn in any way.'
'Miranda, you're—' he began, and then he laughed. There was no reaching her. 'Come and show me the rest of the farm, I'm interested in it even if you're not.' And taking her arm he helped her back over the stone wall.
Jeff stayed several days at the Wells farm, because on the night of his arrival the baby developed a virulent sore throat. Some hours later, the dreaded white spots appeared and the terrified Abigail, who had lost one child from this cause, did not need Jeff to tell her that Charity had diphtheria.
She did not need Jeff for diagnosis, but she needed him badly when the suffocating membrane threatened to close the little throat, and only his promptness in making and inserting a hollow reed to the trachea saved the child. Jeff and Abigail worked together for three days and nights, sponging, poulticing, and making inhalations of turpentine.
Miranda, who had never had the disease, was banished from the sickroom, despite her protests.
When it was all over, and Charity with the elasticity of childhood had started on a quick recovery, the family embarrassed Jeff by its gratitude. 'I'll never forget what you've done—never,' sobbed Abigail, exhausted by strain and relief.
And that night at family worship, Ephraim abandoned the chapters which should have been read in favor of the Good Samaritan. In his prayer he thanked the Lord devoutly 'for that Thou hast sent us one to succor us in our hour of need.'
Ephraim accepted Jeff's refusal of any payment for his services, because of the conviction that the young doctor would soon be his son-in-law. He was therefore amazed when Jeff mounted his horse one morning, and after warm farewells to each one of them, departed for Hudson without havin
g asked permission to woo Miranda.
'I can't make it out,' Ephraim told Abigail that night in the conjugal bed. 'I made sure he'd speak for the lass, and she brightened up like a spring morning directly he got here.'
His wife sighed, turning restlessly on her pillow. She knew, now, why Miranda had brightened and that it had nothing to do with Jeff. Would that it were Jeff the girl loved. She and Ephraim were of one mind in that. But Abigail was loyal to her daughter—and there was that betrothal ring—Ranny had given her word elsewhere even if she had not, as she so patently had, given her love as well.
'I can't understand the young people nowadays,' Ephraim growled. 'Flighty, don't know their own minds.' A new thought struck him. 'Very like Jeffs gone home to make arrangements there before he speaks. He'll be back again. That's what it is.'
'Perhaps,' said Abigail faintly. She knew better than to upset her husband before it was necessary.
12
NICHOLAS ARRIVED IN GREENWICH ON THE SECOND of April, exactly one year from the day on which he had last seen Miranda. Lie went to Weed's Tavern on Main Street, found the accommodation offered him cramped and noisy, for his rooms fronted on the Boston Post Road, where market wagons, carriages, and stages continually clattered by; so he had his coachman make inquiries, got back in the coach, and traveled through spring mud up the North Street to Stanwich, where he took over the second floor of a little inn.
As soon as he was settled, and the flustered innkeeper, who seldom had guests nowadays, had unpacked for him, Nicholas ordered a glass of Madeira. Then he opened his writing case and began a note.
An hour later a stable boy delivered this note at the Wells Farm. It was addressed to Ephraim, who was sluicing his head and face at the pump preparatory to eating suppet. He stamped into the kitchen, where Miranda and Abigail were laying the table. He held the note out in his wet fingers. 'I'll be consarned if this don't beat all!' he cried. 'Your fine Cousin Nicholas is stopping in Stanwich, and he's coming to see me on a matter of the "greatest importance."'
