Dragonwyck (35 page)

Miranda set the stage for Nicholas' return with a subtlety she hadn't known she possessed. She ordered a delicate supper of the things he liked best, hot liver pate, a filet of bass in aspic, chilled sauterne. With Peggy's help she washed her hair and brushed it the requisite hundred strokes.

'He likes it flowing,' she said thoughtfully. 'I believe he likes my hair better than anything about me—'

'Small wonder, mum,' replied Peggy, looking at the golden mantle that rippled down to Miranda's slender hips. 'Can you not leave it loose, then?' Both of them had entered into a tacit conspiracy, both knew without ever having mentioned it that the continuance of this new relationship that meant so much to both lonely girls depended on propitiation, on the use of every possible weapon.

Miranda shook her head. 'It's not seemly.' She compromised by stuffing all the shining mass loosely into a pink chenille net. The net matched her foaming mousseline gown, also the color of a pink seashell. Like all fashionably dressed women with unlimited means, Miranda had a special gown for every imaginable function. A walking costume could hardly be worn for midday dinner, still less for tea. A morning négligée, no matter how elaborately be-flounced and beribboned, might never appear after noon even in the privacy of the bedroom. This shell-pink gown had been contrived by the knowing modiste for one purpose only—the gratification of a husband's eye at just such an intimate supper party as Miranda was planning. Its graceful skirt belled but slightly over a petticoat stiffened with horsehair, the tight bodice was cut very low into a heart shape to show the swell of the white breasts. The only trimming were tiny rose velvet bows sewn at random with a careless gaiety as though a swarm of rosy bees had settled on a pink cloud.

'And now your jools, mum! Slathers of 'em!' cried Peggy, clapping her hands and gazing at the vision before her.

Miranda smiled and shook her head. This gown looks better without jewelry, except perhaps a cameo brooch—Wait a minute, though.' She paused in the act of pinning on the cameo. There
was
a jewel which would set the dress off to perfection. She hesitated, frowning. But after all, why not?

She sent Peggy to the hotel safe for the huge leather case, unlocked it and lifted out two trays. On the bottom in a velvet box lay the ruby pendant. She lifted it out and cupping it in her palm stared at it with a fascinated repulsion. Against how many breasts—now stilled forever—had it already lain, this cold and indifferent jewel? It seemed to her that the ruby shimmered with a baleful mockery.

'Whatever's wrong, mum?' whispered Peggy.

I envied her this thing, thought Miranda, bitter envy. She opened her hand and the pendant fell with a little thud onto the bureau.

'The last woman to wear this jewel is dead,' she said, half aloud.

'The saints preserve us!' cried Peggy, crossing herself. 'Don't wear it, mum. Put it back!'

Miranda did not move, she continued to stare at the pendant; then her gaze traveled slowly to the open case. 'All these jewels belonged to the dead. That's how they came to me.'

The maid shivered. The dear lady was almost fearsome, eyeing those baubles as though they were alive and talking in that faraway voice. Not much sense she was making neither, come to think of it.

'Well, to be sure,' said Peggy reasonably. 'Most of the gentry's gear does pass on to others after death. 'Tis but your condition a-giving you dark fancies. Whisht, mum, you should be thinking of the new life that's in you, not worriting over what's past.'

The shadow gradually lifted from Miranda's face. 'Yes,' she said, 'I guess you're right.' She picked up the pendant, slipped the fine gold chain around her neck, and bent her head so that the maid could fasten the clasp.

''Tis fair as a queen you are, mum! cried Peggy, admiring the result.

Miranda smiled faintly and looked at the china mantel clock. 'Go now, please; it's almost time.'

The maid nodded and hurried out to her cubicle in the attic. She reached under her straw pillow for the rosary, made of arbutus wood it was, Killarney arburus. She kissed the little crucifix and began to pray for the outcome of the interview downstairs.

Miranda saw in one quick, thankful glance that Nicholas had returned in excellent humor. The rent-day had passed quietly with no unpleasantness. Each tenant had brought his proper tribute. The bailiff asserted that the manor was running well. The house too was ready.

As he greeted Miranda and complimented her on her gown, his eyes rested a moment on the pendant. She had the impression that he stiffened. She thought in that moment that he stared at the ruby that he was going to tell her to take it off. But she was wrong. He laughed instead. 'I see that the pendant has at last found a setting worthy of it.' And he bent his head and kissed her breast just above the jewel.

After the little supper—and he complimented her on that too—he drew her to the open window. It was a night of stars, and a frail new moon hung high amongst them over the dark valley. The twinkling darkness, so vast that it seemed she stood at the edge of space, reached down and enveloped Miranda, bringing peace. She leaned her head on her husband's shoulder, and a happy confidence came to her. She thought of a verse of poetry that she had read in
Graham's Magazine.

And the night shall be filled with music,

And the cares that infest the day

Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,

And as silently steal away.

That was so beautiful, and true. Why had she worried about telling Nicholas of Peggy, why did she constantly raise up bogies when there were none? Under the influence of the sublime night all her problems dwindled to nothingness. Of course he'll be delighted, because I'm pleased, she told herself happily.

She was soon disillusioned.

At her first laughing words, 'Nicholas, I've something to confess. You see, while you were gone—' his arm dropped from her waist. He shut the window and drew the curtains.

'Well, my pretty one, what is it?' he asked lightly enough, but his eyes had hardened to that agate-like blue.

The reassuring beauty of the night was shut out, and there was no support in the conventional hotel room or the flaring oil lamps. She forgot her carefully thought-out speech, stammered and floundered.

'You mean—' said Nicholas incredulously, 'that you engaged that untidy little cripple to be your personal maid!'

Miranda clenched her hands. 'She's not untidy any more, and she's not a cripple. She's had a miserable life, she's—'

'My dear girl, that's a singular recommendation. If you want to hire all the sluts who've led miserable lives, we'll have to build a city at Dragonwyck.' Nicholas sat down on the plush-covered sofa and crossed his legs.

'You twist everything—' she cried desperately. 'Please—please try to understand. I want Peggy, she's bright and willing. You said I could have my own maid—'

'I've already engaged one. A well-trained Frenchwoman. She will join you at Dragonwyck.'

'But I don't want her. I want Peggy...' The childish hopelessness of her wail echoed in her ears. Despair seized her. He loathed tears, they never moved him to anything but amusement. She controlled herself with agonizing effort.

'Please, Nicholas, if you love me. It's so little to ask.' She moved over to him, her hands outstretched, instinctively in her desperation trying to use woman's ultimate weapon, the frank lure of her body.

He laughed, though he continued to regard her with chill implacability.

'Oh, yes, you're quite lovely, my dear. But all the same you'll dismiss your new acquisition in the morning.'

She drew a harsh breath, looking at him with a helpless fury. There was one last resort. She had not meant to use it nor had she any hope that it would work.

She threw her head back and spoke with a roughness foreign to her nature. 'I've been sick these last days. Vomiting. I think I'm going to have a baby.'

The change in his face petrified her. He jumped up, grabbing her arms at the elbows, almost shaking her. 'Do you mean it, Miranda? Are you sure?'

She nodded. 'Are you glad?' she asked angrily. 'Does that at least please you?'

She saw the exultation in his eyes. She did not need his answer.

'Can I have Peggy, then?' she pursued inexorably.

He took her hand and raised it to his lips. 'You may have anything in heaven or hell, Miranda, if you'll give me a son!'

Many times during the next months Miranda was to ponder over the extravagance of that statement, the tone of his voice as he made it. At the time she had been too much exhausted by her struggle for Peggy, too much relieved by her unexpected victory to attach any great importance to it. She had always known that Nicholas, like most men, particularly those with large property to pass on, had wanted an heir. It was natural enough. But his attitude, now that there was prospect of one, was not.

From that night at the Mountain House, his manner toward her changed entirely. Without exception his every word and action were directed toward safeguarding her health and tranquillity. Whereas before he had taken pleasure in thwarting most of her wishes and bending her will to his, he now humored her in every way. He cherished her, as one cherishes perforce the instrument which will fulfill one's desire.

FOR THE NEXT WEEKS MIRANDA'S PHYSICAL SUFFERINGS were too insistent to allow room for any other emotion. She had dreaded the return to Dragonwyck, but when the river boat Express churned up to the landing and she saw the familiar towered silhouette against the eastern sky, the manor represented nothing but a place in which to lie down in a darkened room and fight off the ever-recurring nausea.

She dimly heard Peggy's whispered gasp: 'Faith and 'tis a castle! 'Tis grander than the Bishop's palace at home!' But Miranda felt no thrill of gratified pride. Her whole being was concentrated on the effort of getting off the boat and up the marble steps from the dock before the dryness of her mouth and the swimming in her head should lead again to the inevitable conclusion. She pressed a handkerchief against her lips, and with the help of Nicholas' support and murmured encouragement she managed to reach the porte-cochere, then she gave a moan and swayed against him.

Nicholas picked her up and carried her into Dragonwyck.

'No, please,' she cried faintly. 'I can walk. It's too humiliating.' For she saw rows of servants ranged on either side the Great Hall waiting to receive them.

'It's entirely proper for a husband to carry his bride into her new home,' said Nicholas lightly. 'Don't fret, my darling.'

He was always like that now, kind and gentle, ministering to her embarrassing seizures with a tactful patience that continually astonished her, for he despised illness.

He carried her upstairs and put her down on a bed. For some time she was too sick to notice her surroundings. Peggy, who had followed close behind them, knew what to do—cold cloths soaked in vinegar for the forehead, a warming pan for the chilled feet, a stick of peppermint to hold in the mouth.

The nausea ebbed. There would be a weak but blessed peace for a while. Miranda opened her eyes and gazed past Nicholas' solicitous face. She saw three great windows in front of her and two northern ones on her right.

This is Johanna's room, she thought, and a chill that was not physical crept through her. But I mustn't be foolish, she thought, and raising her head a little she forced herself to examine the room and saw with grateful relief that everything had been changed. Green satin replaced the red-plush curtains, a fawn-colored Aubusson covered the floor. Gone was the untidy clutter of furniture with which Johanna had surrounded herself; there were now but three fine mahogany pieces, and a couple of small chairs. The spacious room was revealed in its true proportions.

All was changed—with one exception. Her tired eyes roamed upward and she stiffened. She had not at first realized, because the old brocaded tester had been replaced with green satin to match the draperies. But there was no mistaking the coat-of-arms on the headboard or the four massive columns.

Long ago in another life she had entered this room for the first time and stood submissively beside this bed with resentment and envy in her heart. How this room would be changed if it were only mine! she had thought. How had she dared to think that? And with this memory there came another, sharp as the cut of a hidden knife. A wrinkled brown face from which peered black eyes filled with pitying contempt. 'Ah,
p'tite,
you want a thing very much, you make it happen
sure.'

Miranda turned her head violently and shut her eyes.

'Feeling badly again?' asked Nicholas.

'No. It's not that.—Nicholas, I don't want to sleep in this bed.

He answered her with unexpected patience, even explaining his reasons.

This was the Van Ryn ancestral bed, for generations all those of his blood had been born and died on it. It was here that the Lord and Lady of the Manor always slept; it was here that his child would be born. Any other request he would be glad to grant, but on this point he was adamant.

Let it be, then, thought Miranda wearily. What does it matter after all?

Soon the great bed would become as familiar as it was undeniably comfortable. She would no longer see that gruesome night when the tapers had stood on either side and it had supported that motionless figure with the little subtle smile on its pale face. She must never look back again—never.

She was now the mistress of Dragonwyck and a Van Ryn. The past was gone; she must have no trailing tendrils of guilt, or fear or even of pity. She must cooperate with Nicholas in his tacit elimination of all that might remind them of that previous year she had spent at Dragonwyck.

All those servants were gone—and Zélie. Much new furniture had been bought, and the old rearranged. Throughout the house everything was freshly painted and plastered and papered. Even this bed, the one continuing association, was after all but a frame. Its mattress and springs were new.