Dragonwyck (29 page)

'Why, it won't be ready until the end of June,' he said. 'The workmen are there now, painting and making certain changes. I think we'll leave here in a fortnight and go to the Mountain House at Catskill to escape the heat before we go to Dragonwyck.'

She gave a sigh of relief. How silly she'd been! Imagining that he avoided not only the mention of Dragonwyck's name but any thought of living there. She was completely wrong, as she so often seemed to be with Nicholas. It's like Ma used to say, she thought ruefully; I've a head stuffed full of silly fancies.

She went upstairs to her writing desk and wrote a long, rapturous letter to her mother, detailing her happiness and Nicholas' virtues as a husband.

When Abigail received this letter three days later and first read it, she was reassured. She passed it on to Ephraim.

'Seems contented as a pig in clover. I told you to stop fretting about her,' he commented, handing the letter back.

But Abigail, again running her eyes over the flowing script, frowned. 'I don't know, though; she says almost too much. Seems like she was trying to convince herself as well as me.'

'Land o' Goshen, Abby!' snapped Ephraim, stamping to the door. 'If the Good Lord handed you a golden crown you'd worry for fear maybe it was plated. Ranny's happy and she says so. What more d'ye want?'

'Nothing, I guess,' said Abigail, sighing. She plunged her fingers into the soft feathers of the goose she was plucking when Miranda's letter arrived.

On the afternoon of the party, Miranda lay in the darkened bedroom and tried to rest. The hairdresser had come and gone and she dared not move her head for fear of disturbing his handiwork. Everything was ready, thanks to Nicholas and the staff of experienced servants, who neither needed nor welcomed her timid suggestions. 'Don't fash yoursel,' madam,' said Mrs. MacNab, the Scotch housekeeper, when Miranda asked if the ices had yet arrived from the caterers. 'The Maistcr's given strict orders, and Sandy and me'll tak' care of ever-r-a thing.'

They treated her like a charming but useless child, and Miranda overcame annoyance with the realization that she was in truth completely inexperienced.

It would be fun to meet people, she thought with rising excitement, shutting her eyes determinedly, though sleep was impossible. Except on the day of their expedition, and on occasions when she had gone to services at Saint Mark's Church around the corner, she had during these weeks seen no one but the servants—and of course, Nicholas.

Not that, she told herself hastily, she wanted anyone but Nicholas. It wasn't that she was lonely, but sometimes she longed for a friend. Another woman with whom she might discuss silly things like clothes or embroidery stitches. With another woman one could laugh and say the first words that popped into one's head. Instead of being on guard, and anxious.

There was a knock on her door and Mrs. MacNab came in holding a letter. 'Just came for you, madam.'

From Ma! thought Miranda eagerly. Bur it wasn't from Abigail. The handwriting was unfamiliar and the postmark was Hudson, New York.

She broke the seal and looked at the signature. 'Jefferson Turner.' How strange that he should write to her! She had seldom thought of him since the week that he had stayed on the farm, and so compelling had been her preoccupation with Nicholas at that time that aside from gratitude for his help in saving Charity he had made little impression on her except as an instrument for delivering Nicholas' message.

My dear Miranda [said the letter]:

I have recently heard of your marriage. I confess it was a great surprise. I hope you'll be very happy.

When you come up-river, I shall not be here to congratulate you because I've joined the army and leave at once for Mexico. I don't know what sort of a soldier I'll make but I guess they need doctors anyway.

Please remember me to your family when you write. I hope all will go well with you. God bless you.

It had taken Jeff a long time to write that letter. He never would have written it but for the war, and the consequent knowledge that he was very unlikely to return. If a Mexican bullet didn't do the job, yellow fever or dysentery almost certainly would.

He had understated the matter when he wrote that Miranda's marriage was a surprise. He had been thunderstruck, then this emotion had given way to blinding anger, a veritable fury at Nicholas. The fury had been enlightening, and when he calmed down he faced its origin squarely. Jealousy, and a feeling for Miranda which would not in the least tolerate the thought of her as another man's wife.

Ephraim had not been far wrong when he had told Abigail that Jeff would return to Greenwich, for that had been in his mind. All along, Jeff realized now, he had been marking time, waiting for Miranda to recover from her obsession. And yet this feeling had stolen upon him so gradually that he had been unaware of it.

'Why in the name of all that's foolish do I want that girl?' he asked himself derisively when the news of her marriage shocked him into the knowledge that he did want her—badly. But being Jeff he wasted no time in moping. He translated his feelings into action. He would have enlisted in any case, not being troubled by any hairsplittings as to President Polk's exact motives. The country was at war, and he was needed. That was enough for Jeff. But a decided unwillingness to see Miranda ensconced at Dragonwyck as Nicholas' wife speeded up his decision.

Then he wrote to her.

Miranda, knowing nothing of this, was puzzled and touched by his letter. There had been antagonism between them from the first. Even during his stay at the farm she had thought that he disliked her. Now it seemed that he did not.

She was still staring at the sheet of paper when Nicholas opened her door and looked in. 'You're not resting?' he said disapprovingly. He walked over to the bed. 'What are you reading?'

'A letter from Doctor Turner,' she answered. There was a pause. Nicholas stretched out his hand. 'Let me see it.'

She gave it to him, a trifle surprised. He never showed any interest in her letters from home. She watched him while he read and was puzzled to see tenseness vanish from his face, and in his eyes a fleeting impression of—what?—satisfaction—relief—she couldn't be sure.

He handed back the letter. 'I find his tone rather familiar. Since when does he know you well enough to invoke the blessings of deity upon you?'

'He spent a week with us at the farm last fall, you know,' she answered nervously. Nicholas' question had held the frequent note of irony; she wasn't sure whether he was really displeased or not. And if he were displeased at her receiving a letter from another man, why had there been that undoubted flicker of relief?

'I didn't know he stayed a week,' said Nicholas without particular emphasis. 'But he's a pleasant young man and a patriotic one, I see. No doubt you enjoyed his company—?' There was no mistaking the sarcastic inflection this time.

She turned her head wearily, settling back on the pillow. 'No—' she said, 'I thought only of you.'

The little Count de Grenier arrived first at the soirée. He had grown stouter during the year he had been back at Lyons directing the silk business, of which certain matters of export had required this new trip to New York. His plum satin suit and embroidered vest fitted him like the casing on a sausage, but his black eyes were as lively and curious as ever, his waxed mustaches quivered with the same zest.

He had been very much interested by the change in the Van Ryn ménage, and was impatient to see Miranda in her new rôle. When she came, preceding Nicholas down the stairs, moving with her own peculiar grace and hesitating a minute on the threshold to master her nervousness, his Gallic heart was overcome.

'But she's veritably beautiful!' he thought, jumping up to kiss her hand. 'She's incredibly changed.'

He saw at once as no man but a Frenchman would have that part of the change came from outward adornment; the cleverly cut white satin gown with black Chantilly lace ruffles, the touch of coral salve on the lips, the increased blondness of her hair, which she owed to the hairdresser's camomile rinse. And then, of course, the Van Ryn diamonds sparkling on her bosom! It was the first time that she had worn any of the jewels which had been presented to her by Nicholas; she had done so tonight only because of his express command. Her resistance had died away when she saw how becoming were the newly cleaned and dazzling diamonds, but the great ruby pendant, the pendant Johanna had worn on the night of the ball, she felt that she could never touch. She had never even lifted it from the jewel case.

The change in Miranda was, however, by no means entirely due to clothes or jewels or grooming. The Count examined her admiringly. Her voice had grown richer and lost its provincial tone. She smiled and murmured with surprising poise, 'I'm so happy to see you, Count.' And her long eyes no longer met his with transparent innocence.

She was waking up, the little one, as well she might married to this handsome enigma. He reluctantly released Miranda's fingers and turned to greet Nicholas.

Ciel,
what a couple! Standing side by side in the doorway they were like one of Winterhalter's smooth, impossibly perfect portraits. But it was a fairy tale come true, this marriage!—Cendrillon—he thought—the fat wife considerately dies, and the little country mouse captures her rich and handsome prince. Now they will live happy ever after. Where but in this amazing country could Fate be so kind?

The Count continued to enjoy himself. He delighted Mesdames Schermerhorn, Brevoort, and Fish by his gallantry and compliments. He knew this type in France—solid, well-born matrons who were grateful enough for masculine attention while their husbands drifted together by the fireplace and discussed the iniquities of the administration, the progress of the war, or, with increased tempo, the convenient manner in which ancestral farm lands on Manhattan turned themselves into valuable city real estate.

That was the basis of all their fortunes, thought the Count, catching a phrase here and there while he amused Mrs. Fish with chitchat of Louis-Philippe's court. The Van Ryns' too. He felt a prick of envy, knowing that Nicholas had never had to think of money. He had an honest agent, shrewd enough to sell the Van Ryn holdings to an advancing city at good profit. But it didn't take much shrewdness.
Ça marche tout seul,
the Count reflected gloomily, and making graceful obeisance to the three ladies he maneuvered over to another group in the adjoining parlor. Here he found the Astor family clustered around old John Jacob, who persisted in going out of an evening though he invariably fell into a restless doze, his shrunken chin sunk on his chest, so that he presented to the company only a bald scalp, mottled brown with age.

The Count had met the Astors before on his previous trip and had not found them stimulating. William and young John Jacob were both tight-lipped and dour men who took so long to answer a question that the Count's volatile mind had forgotten it before they began. He had derived some amusement at parties in Paris from mimicking this trait of the richest family in America, but that was
vieux jeu
now. He bestowed an appreciative and sympathetic glance on Miss Gibbes, who was about to join her future to that of the sour-faced John Jacob, but then his eyes wandered.

Over in the corner near the rosewood piano he saw Miranda talking to a big man with an astonishing golden beard which gave him a Jovian appearance and conflicted with the youthful awkwardness of his gestures. Beside them sat a sharp little woman like a squirrel, her bright, malicious gaze fixed flatteringly on the bearded man, who seemed embarrassed.

I must see what's going on there, the Count promised himself, and cast around for some way to extract himself from the Astors.

This way Nicholas provided, for he came up to them with the Philip Hones and the Count was released. He paused long enough before starting across the room to admire the effortless way in which Nicholas managed his guests. By a word, a smile, or a question he amalgamated the three groups—the men by the fireplace, the forsaken ladies by the window, and the Astor family. Soon he had them all talking and even old John Jacob woke up and contributed mumbling comment.

He is suave, that Nicholas, the Count thought. When he wishes to be charming, he is irresistible. But I doubt very much that he always wishes to be charming.

He approached Miranda and her two companions. She rose at once and said: 'Count, may I present you to Mrs. Ellet, she writes such delightful poems, and this gentleman is Mr. Herman Melville, who has just given us that fascinating book, "Typee."—The Count de Grenier,' she added to the others.

Bravo, ma
chère!
the count applauded her inwardly. This graceful introduction worthy of a duchess, except that duchesses always had bad manners, showed the vast distance she had come from the tongue-tied, nervous girl he remembered.

'I have heard of your so exquisite poetry, madame,' he said quke untruthfully, bowing to Mrs. Ellet. 'And it is a great pleasure to meet two American authors. I have longed for the opportunity.'

He examined Melville curiously. He had not read 'Typee' but he had heard of it, chiefly that it was indelicate according to the Anglo-Saxon standards set by the young English queen, and that it was so well written that most of the literary critics doubted that it could really be the work of an uneducated sailor.

'You have had an interesting life, monsieur,' offered the Count, for the bearded young man seemed disinclined to say anything.

'Oh, yes, Count,' cried Mrs. Ellet, clasping her hands in pretty pleading. 'Mrs. Van Ryn and I are just dying to hear all about Mr. Melville's experiences in the Cannibal Islands—too, too dreadful.'

Melville turned his massive head and contemplated Mrs. Ellet with calm, sea-colored eyes. 'The Marquesans are not cannibals,' he said, 'but I wouldn't blame 'em if they ate up the missionaries.'

Mrs. Ellet gave a piercing scream of laughter. 'Oh, my, how very droll you are! Why, I give five dollars every Sunday to send to the missionaries who convert the poor, naked heathen.'