Free Dragonwyck by Anya Seton

mood that evening.
    He was a musician of distinction; he played with passion and a fastidious brilliance. These qualities she felt, though the cascades of sound meant nothing to her uneducated ear. She watched his flexible hands and his profile against the green curtain behind the piano. His eyes were fixed on the distance, a point far beyond the instrument, and she knew he had forgotten all about her, but she felt again at ease with him.
    He executed a chromatic run and stopped. 'That was Beethoven, Miranda.' He turned and giving her an understanding look, smiled at her. 'But here's something you
will
like, I think.'
    He drew a sheet of music out of the carved chest beside the piano.
    'This is something new from England, an opera called the "Bohemian Girl." I'll play the air through once and then you sing it. Oh, yes, you can; it's very easy.'
    So Miranda stood beside him and sang, 'I Dreamt that I Dwelt in Marble Halls.' And when her first self-consciousness wore off she thrilled to the singular appropriateness of the words. Had he guessed her dreams and was that why he had picked this music? But the song was about love as well, and her voice wavered as she thought, Love there can never be for me in
these
marble halls—this is then not my dream, how could it be?
    The song ended and Nicholas raised his head. Their eyes met for a second and a faint color flowed under her white skin.
    'You have a pretty voice,' he said softly. 'And you sing with feeling. Is there perhaps someone at home whom you've promised to "love just the same"?'
    She shook her head, and turned away, gripped by an obscure unhappiness.
    Nicholas nodded, satisfied. It would be a pity to educate Miranda from a farm girl into a lady only to have her go back to some yokel on whom everything would be wasted. I must try to find her a worthy husband, he thought, and rising abruptly he closed the piano. Good night, Miranda.'
    What have I done now, she thought, that he should dismiss me so sharply? She murmured something, confused because he stood motionless beside the piano waiting for her to precede him from the room.
    'Pay your respects to Mrs. Van Ryn and then you may retire,' he said, seeing her uncertainty.
    In the Red Room, Johanna still sat, but the embroidery had disappeared. She was engaged in sipping port wine and munching sugar biscuits.
    How greedy she is, thought the girl with distaste, while she politely said good night. Johanna responded amiably, smiling her indeterminate smile, but her pale eyes slid from Miranda's face to seek those of her husband. He, however, had his back turned to both women while he riffled the pages of a new copy of
Graham's Magazine
which had been lying on "the table.
    He bowed as Miranda left them, then returned to his magazine.
    To her mortification Miranda could not find her way back to her own room. She took the wrong turn in the great hall and missed the staircase which led up through an archway. She wandered through a maze of dark rooms until she encountered die silent young footman who had lit the candles.
    'This way, miss,' he said tonelessly, and directed her up the stairs to her own door.
    She noted with amazement all die things which had been performed by the invisible hands in her absence. The sheet turned down on the bed, the coverlet neatly folded, candles lit long ago, judging by the length that had burned. Her basket had disappeared and her poor little toilet articles were laid out upon the dresser, where diey looked lost and unappetizing on the brocaded scarf. There were hot water steaming in a copper can and fresh lavender-scented towels, and a silver pitcher of drinking water placed beside some luscious peaches on the table by her bed.
    Peaches—in June! But she was long past amazement. A delicious sensation of comfort lapped around her, enfolding her as softly as did the immense bed. The sheets were of a linen so fine that they felt like silk, and they were also scented, not with lavender, but with rose