Dragonwyck by Anya Seton

boxes, and a small cowhide trunk.
    'Some things from New York Mynheer ordered,' said Magda sourly in answer to the girl's exclamation. The woman paid no attention to Miranda's cry of excitement, but unpacked the bundles and the trunk with swift efficiency. She laid the clothes on the bed.
    There were two silk dresses, one green with black velvet trimming on the flounces, one a rose evening gown festooned with blond lace. And besides a blue cashmere morning dress, there was a pelisse, a green bonnet, two pairs of kid shoes, an ivory fan, a beaded reticule. There were also more intimate garments at which Miranda stared with dazzled confusion; a flowered muslin négligée, linen nightshifts trimmed with fine lace, petticoats, camisoles, even a pair of whalebone stays.
    'But how could Mr. Van Ryn—I mean—For sure he didn't order all these things—' cried the girl, blushing and divided between embarrassment at the nature of the garments Magda was phlegmatically spreading on the bed, and delight at their daintiness.
    Magda shot the girl a contemptuous look. 'You don't think the patroon bothers himself with such business. He sent an order to Madame Duclos in New York. Last summer we had a French orphan from New Orleans visit here. He did the same.'
    'Oh,' said Miranda. The color deepened on her cheeks. There was then an unpleasant aspect of charity to this gift, and her staunch Yankee heritage gave her an unexpected twinge. And was it quite proper to accept things like this from a gentleman—even a cousin? But what nonsense! she told herself hastily. He would be annoyed if she made a fuss or refused the clothes, he would think her countrified and silly. And the clothes were so beautiful. She smoothed the rose satin of the evening gown, entranced to discover that beneath its heavy folds there was the small bell-shaped hoop for which she had yearned.
    Madame Duclos had neglected nothing to fill Nicholas' written order. 'Send complete wardrobe for young lady, fair-haired, quite tall, and of the following measurements.'
    The modiste had also included a plush-lined box containing Guerlain's lustral water for the hair,
Sirop de Boubie
—'Warranted to enhance even die most delicate complexion'—orris toothpowder, rice powder, and a vial of heliotrope perfume.
    'It smells just like Ma's little garden on a summer night,' cried Miranda, sniffing the vial. 'Oh, Magda, isn't everything lovely, gorgeous!'
    The woman did not answer. She knelt before the bureau neatly folding away the lingerie. The belligerent set of her thick shoulders under the black bombazine expressed rigid disapproval.
    'Why don't you like me, Magda?' cried the girl on impulse. 'Have I done anything wrong?'
    The woman rose heavily. 'It's not my place to like or dislike, miss. Mevrouw is waiting.' She clicked the last drawer shut and walked out to go to Johanna.
    Is it because Johanna doesn't like me that her maid is so unfriendly? thought Miranda, puzzled and rebuffed. But she was not yet sure of Johanna's dislike, that broad flabby face seldom showed any emotion at all, and on the rare occasions when she spoke to the girl it was with her usual vague amiability. She's like a turnip, a fat white turnip, thought Miranda, and forgot Johanna in the excitement of dressing herself in the green silk gown. It fitted perfectly, the bodice taut across the small high breasts and slender waist, the skirt full and gracefully billowing over the hoop which she had transferred from the ball dress. If her skin and her hair had been pretty above the muddy merino, now against the clear leaf-green silk they were startling. The color enhanced her blondness as it brought out new lights in her hazel eyes.
    Perhaps, with luck she might find Nicholas alone downstairs and thank him for his thoughtful kindness. There was still half an hour before supper time. She hurried downstairs and the rustle of silk that accompanied her gave her new assurance. She held her head high and swayed her hips a