Dragonwyck

by Anya Seton

  Miranda took one look at the well-remembered handwriting. The kitchen stove, her mother and father, spun slowly around her. She clutched the edge of the table and shut her eyes. Then quite suddenly she was calm. The long uncertainty was over. There would be trouble now, Pa would be difficult; but she knew that Nicholas could handle him, could do anything in the world that he wished to.

  'What in tunket could he want?' grumbled Ephraim, running a comb through his beard. 'Ranny—' he turned to his daughter, but Miranda had slipped upstairs. The green silk dress, long unworn, was ready. She took it from the lavender-scented bag where it had hung, waiting.

  She parted her hair and brushed it around her finger into curls on either side her face and rolled the rest into a heavy coil on the nape of her neck. She touched the heliotrope Cologne to her wrists and forehead, and when she stood fully dressed, she untied the silk cord and, drawing the betrothal ring from its hiding place, she kissed it and put it on her finger.

  There was the sound of carriage wheels outside when she got downstairs. As she entered the kitchen, they heard a knock on the front door, the one that was never used.

  Ephraim went to open it and all the family crowded after him into the chilly front room. He unbolted the door and Nicholas walked in. He bowed to Ephraim, paused by the threshold, his head nearly touching the low ceiling, while he searched the other faces which he did not know. Then he saw Miranda, who had held back, her heart pounding, her hands shaking, now that the moment had actually arrived.

  Nicholas' face lighted, his eyes burned into hers as though he asked her a question which needed no answer except the expression on her face. He moved swiftly across the room and before the gaping boys and thunderstruck Ephraim, took Miranda's hand and raised it to his lips.

  'What's the meaning of this, sir!' shouted Ephraim.

  Nicholas released the girl's hand and turned to confront the astonished father. 'May I speak to you alone, Mr. Wells?' His tone plainly indicated that he was in a hurry to have done with a boring task. He made a gesture of dismissal to the others and they obeyed it at once; not even Abigail thought to look at Ephraim to see whether he also wished them to go. The door of the front room shut behind them.

  'Well—' whistled young Nat, sinking into a kitchen chair and staring at his sister. 'So that's your Mr. Van Ryn! You're a deep one, Ranny.'

  She stood proudly amongst them, her head thrown back, a little smile on her lips. Her whole body seemed to glow and bloom.

  The boys gazed at her as though they'd never seen her before. Her mother glanced at her and felt a sharp dismay. This Nicholas was all that Miranda had said and more. She had never seen a man so handsome, nor one who seemed more masterful. There had been tenderness and the proper homage in his greeting of Miranda. You couldn't ask more of a husband than that he should be masterful and tender, especially when wealth and position went with it.

  What's the matter with me, then? thought Abigail. She opened the oven door and turned the loaves. Come what might, the baking had to be done. The bread was doing well. She shut the oven and seizing a knife began to pare apples with vicious jabs. After the second apple she laid the knife aside. Might as well face it. From the instant that he had walked through the door into their house, Abigail had felt a queer revulsion, not quite fear but akin to fear. No reason for it, she told herself—but the feeling of recoil and apprehension remained.

  'Get to your chores, boys—' she addressed her sons briskly. 'This matter doesn't concern you.'

  They rose, pausing as they heard their father's voice raised in angry protest, and the calm slow tones which answered. Reluctantly they filed out, Tom to the evening milking, Seth and Nat to the woodpile. On the way they covertly examined the shining carriage, the sleek, beautifully matched horses, and the coachman, who entirely ignored the boys.

  In the kitchen the two women drew closer. Miranda took her mother's hand and held it tight; a shiver ran through the girl's body as the parlor door burst open and Ephraim shouted, 'Miranda, come here!'

  Nicholas stood at the fireplace, he wore his usual air of detachment; but Ephraim sat in his armchair, his fingers beating a tattoo on the table, and Miranda saw that his empurpled face showed not only anger but perplexity.

  'He says he wants to marry you,' said Ephraim to his daughter, in a tone of grim disbelief. He drew his bushy brows together. 'Says you know all about it.'

  She hesitated a second, then she nodded. Yes, Pa. I'm going to marry Nicholas.' She walked to the fireplace and smiled timidly up at her lover. His eyes kept their expression of conrrolled annoyance, for he found this scene with Ephraim tedious and unnecessary; but he put his arm around the slender waist and drew the girl to him.

  Ephraim stared at them both and suddenly his daughter became to him a stranger. He hunted for words with which to confute these two, to forbid the marriage, to order Van Ryn from the house. But he could not find the words. There were no valid objections, as Nicholas himself had contemptuously pointed out.

  'What d'ye think about this strange business, Abby?' Ephraim turned ro his wife, who had followed Miranda into the room.

  She too looked at the couple by the fireplace. Already she's gone from us, Abigail thought with pain, for the girl's face reflected some of Nicholas' remoteness and condescension. It seemed to the mother as though a black chasm had opened across the oak planks in the flooring and the two of them stood alone upon the farther side. She put her hand on her husband's shoulder. 'I think it is to be, Ephraim. And we must make the best of it,' she said quietly.

  Ephraim made a few more protests, but he was helpless against Nicholas' implacable purpose, and Miranda's feverish desire. He was outraged to discover that the marriage arrangements had already been made. Nicholas had called at the parsonage and engaged the Reverend Clark for three o'clock on the next day but one, engaged him to come to the Wells farm.

  'It's indecent, it's too soon!' roared Ephraim. 'And my girl must be married in church like a good Christian. I'll have no hole-and-corner wedding here.'

  'Our marriage shall not be solemnized before a lot of gaping strangers,' returned Nicholas. He considered that he had already made sufficient concession in securing the Wells' own pastor rather than importing a Dutch dominie who would have been more suitable to a Van Ryn wedding. 'As for the day—' he continued, 'I can see no reason whatever for waiting.'

  'But she has nothing ready—' put in Abigail. 'No wedding gown.'

  'She needs nothing. There's an entire wardrobe awaiting her at my house in New York.'

  Abigail's mouth tightened; she looked at Miranda, wishing that the girl would stick up for her rights, would insist on every bride's prerogatives of naming time and place herself. But the hazel eyes fixed on Nicholas were blind to everyone else.

  Miranda was therefore married at three o'clock on Sunday afternoon, April the fourth, in the farmhouse parlor, with no witnesses but her family and Obadiah. Tabitha and her young husband huddled together in a corner behind the cherry desk, both bewildered by this extraordinary turn of events. I don't envy her, thought Tabitha, she'll be a second wife, and he's so much older. But she looked from Nicholas to Ob's patient, ox-like face and sighed unconsciously.

  Outside it was raining hard, not a spring shower but a steady downpour from which drops spattered against the window panes with tiny hissing sounds. Dankness seeped through the parlor and found its way to Abigail's heart. She closed her eyes to shut out the picture of the minister in his black robe, Nicholas' erect back in dark blue, and Miranda in the green silk dress, very pale, making her responses in a muted, trance-like voice.

  Green is unlucky for brides, thought Abigail. Not only the green dress, but everything about this marriage was unlucky. She was sure of it, though how or why she knew so surely she could not have told.

  Ranny child—don't! don't! she cried silently to the slender figure. You'll never know happiness, you'll tear your heart out against him—

  But the golden head bowed for the final prayer.
It was already too late.

  "Come, perk up, Abby,' said Ephraim, joggling her arm. 'No use wearing a long face now. The girl's made her bed and must lie in it. No doubt she'll do well enough if she obeys Holy Writ, looks to the ways of her household, and eats not the bread of idleness.' Now that the tiling was done, he saw no point in further protests and misgivings.

  Abigail had prepared a wedding supper, but Nicholas would not stay for it. 'I wish to leave at once. I want you alone,' he said low to Miranda. These were the first words he spoke to her after the ceremony. Nor had he touched her. But all during the hurried farewells his eyes were on her.

  She clung to Abigail when the moment came, but Nicholas allowed her no time to feel the full sorrow of the parting.

  'Come, Miranda,' he said, and indicated the waiting carriage where beside the open door the coachman stood, his cockaded hat in his hand.

  'It won't be for long! I'll see you often, often!' she cried to the silent family group on the steps. They were now inexpressibly dear, all of them, even Ephraim and Tibby. Oh, what have I done! Why am I leaving them like this? Oh, Ma—darling—She stretched her arms out to them, in an abandon of longing, but Nicholas lifted her into the carriage. He shut the door, beckoned to the coachman. The horses started forward.

  She flung herself to the window. Through the gray drizzle she saw the boys wave half-heartedly, saw Abigail pick up the baby and lay her cheek against the soft curls as though for comfort. They all turned, and for a moment the kitchen door stood open, outlining a rectangle of glowing warmth and light in the gathering darkness. Then the light vanished and the farmhouse melted into the twilight.

  A sensation of unreality seized her. She leaned against the blue velvet cushions and closed her eyes. This is not I, she thought, it can't be that I'm married. When I open my eyes I'll be back in the little attic bedroom. Ma is down there in the kitchen setting dough, the baby is crowing in her cradle waiting for me to pick her up. Pa and the boys are out in the fields.

  She opened her eyes and saw Nicholas watching her. She raised her left hand, staring in unbelief at the heavy golden band on her finger.

  'Yes,' said Nicholas. 'We're married, Miranda.' His words increased her panic.

  But I don't know you, she thought. How can I be married to you when I don't know you? Again she stared at the wedding ring. She saw another hand, a fat one with a gold ring not unlike this on its puffy finger, saw it lying on the black coverlet, clear in the light of two tapers. She made a small sound and shrank to the farthest side of the seat.

  Nicholas' eyes narrowed. He put his hand on her shoulder, his fingers closed so that her flesh beneath the green silk was bruised. He pulled her to him and kissed her once. His kiss effaced Johanna as it effaced the memory of Abigail's strained face. She tasted fear and beneath the fear a strange and shamed delight. He released her and laughed.

  'We'll soon be home,' he said. 'This is no place for love-making.'

  She was hurt by his laugh, it was as though he had triumphed over her and having seen her submission had lost interest.

  The cream-colored horses trotted tirelessly. When they reached the Post Road and turned west toward New York, the rain stopped, and the surface of the road improved so that they no longer bumped through puddles and mudholes. From time to time a cluster of lights emerged from the darkness and they slowed a little for the main street of a town, Port Chester, Rye, Mamaroneck; but soon each one was left behind and the night closed around them again.

  'How did this year of separation pass for you?' inquired Nicholas, breaking the silence, and she understood from his tone that he wished her answer to be as casual as his question. She had yet fully to comprehend that he welcomed emotion of any kind only when it initiated with him, and that it amused him to control his own emotions as a chess player controls his pieces; but she obeyed his tone, saying as lightly as possible:

  'Why, it seemed very long. I tried to keep busy. You—you were traveling, weren't you?'

  'Yes. I went through the Canal to Lake Erie and then down the Mississippi as far as Memphis. But I found nothing in the West to interest me. Everything is barbarous and uncouth. I spent the past winter visiting friends on a plantation near Savannah. This type of life I liked better. In the South they have both culture and beauty.'

  'Oh,' she said. How many girls he must have met during this past year, wealthy and beautiful girls; even Miranda, ignorant as she was about the geography of her country, had heard of the languorous and tempting beauty of Southern women. Had he ever repented of his promise to claim her, had he ever made love to any of those others—that dazzling multitude which she wistfully pictured?

  He did not enlighten her. He talked instead of the plantation system and slave labor, of which he heartily approved. 'It's deplorable that our short-sighted laws no longer permit it up North,' said Nicholas, 'though it's true our climate's against the blacks' working efficiently.'

  He talked of the loveliness of Southern gardens, of the charm of old cities like Savannah and Charleston, and the coach rolled steadily onward.

  At Pelham he turned to her, saying, 'There's a tavern here where we can get some wine and food if you want to, though everything's prepared for us in town.'

  She was chilled and faint, but she saw that he did not want to stop.

  'No,' she murmured, 'I'm all right. Let's go on if you want.'

  'Good,' he said softly, in the darkness. 'We shall go on.'

  Go on to what? she thought, and panic broke through.

  Last night when she had gone to the little attic room Abigail had tried to talk to her. 'Ranny—I hardly know how to—how to prepare you—' Her mother had paused, slow color flushing her thin cheeks. She had turned from Miranda, fixing her unhappy eyes on the room's farthest corner. "You must submit to your husband, even if it—no matter what—you must do as he wishes. You see—'

  'Yes, Ma—I know,' Miranda had interrupted. She too was embarrassed, but stronger than that was the feeling of desecration. Even her mother might not touch on any aspect of the miracle that was occurring, the unbelievable joy of her union with Nicholas.

  She had stopped Abigail from further speech by running to her trunk and making pretense of last-minute packing. She remembered now her mother's look of pity and the sudden mist in the sharp anxious eyes.

  She had resented the pity, thinking how little her mother knew of love, and that whatever marriage proved to be—and she had lied to her mother, for she had only the haziest idea of its intimacies—how could she fear it with Nicholas? Their love would make everything simple and easy, she had thought, forgetting how often she had feared him in the past.

  And now they were married, and the magic ceremony had not yet transformed them into two different human beings as she had expected. She knew him no better than she had before. But it will be all right, she told herself. I'm foolish to feel frightened. All brides feel this way. Even Tabitha did, I know she did.

  She gave a choked sigh, and Nicholas looked at her.

  'We're nearly home,' he said. 'See, these are the lights of Yorkville; only three more miles.'

  'Is your house right in town?' she asked, now as anxious as he for the relief of impersonal talk.

  'Yes, and at the rate the city is growing it will be downtown soon. The house is built on the site of one of the Van Ryn farms, next to old Petrus Stuyvesant's own bouerie.'

  'Oh—' she said, and what is a bouerie?'

  He explained briefly that it was Dutch for farm, and while the carriage continued down the Post Road, which was now called Third Avenue, he pointed out various landmarks—the Potter's Field at Fiftieth Street, the dim bulk of the Croton Reservoir at Forty-Second Street, Peter Cooper's residence on Twenty-Eighth.

  On Tenth Street they turned east to Stuyvesant Street and the horses, knowing their nearness to the stable, broke into a canter. She saw a flash of open iron gates, the curve of a short drive, and the carriage stopped before a large, three-storied brick house with a graceful white por
tico.

  Nicholas took her arm and ushered her through the front door into a paneled hall which seemed to her, tired as she was and giddy with excitement and weariness, to be filled by bobbing, white-capped heads.

  'This is your mistress,' said Nicholas, thrusting her forward, and a confusion of voices chorused, 'Welcome, Mrs. Van Ryn.'

  Startled, she stepped back and looked behind her. Nicholas scowled, his grip tightened on her arm.

  'Your servants are greeting you,' he said.

  She stiffened, holding her cloak tight around her, forcing to her lips a faint apologetic smile.

  The aprons and caps, the maroon liveries filed out.

  'They're all strangers—' she whispered, while underneath her brain repeated dully, Mrs. Van Ryn. I am Mrs. Van Ryn. Miranda Wells is Mrs. Van Ryn.

  'Of course,' he answered, leading her into a small breakfast room where a table was spread by the fire. 'I dismissed all the Dragonwyck servants. Eat now, my dear—' he indicated the table. You must be famished.'

  'All those servants are gone,' she repeated, wondering. Tompkins, Annetje, Magda, all part of the Van Ryn household for years. Thank God they were gone: they would never have accepted or obeyed her. Was that why Nicholas dismissed them? Had he seen how hard it would have been for her? She looked at him gratefully.

  'And old Zélie?' she asked.

  'Zélie is dead. When I dismissed the others she refused to leave. She stayed on alone. The bailiff wrote that she died in the winter.' He moved to her side with a quick motion. 'Darling, this is our wedding night. Now that we are at last home, shall we not forget everything out us? Here's a glass of wine for you. Drink it.'

  The supper was exquisitely prepared. There was cold capon in jelly, an oyster-and-mushroom patty, an elaborate frosted wedding cake topped by a spun sugar wreath of orange blossoms. But though the wine refreshed her a little, Miranda found that she could eat nothing. Nor did Nicholas; and seeing that she had not touched her food, he rose.