It was on an afternoon in May of 1844 that the letter came from Dragonwyck.
One of the Mead boys had seen it lying in the Horseneck post office, and had thoughtfully carried it with him three miles up the Stanwich road to deliver it at the Wells farmhouse.
When the letter came, Miranda was, most regrettably, doing not one of the tasks which should have occupied the hour from two to three.
She was not in the springhouse churning butter, she was not weeding the vegetable patch, nor even keeping more than half an absent-minded eye on Charity, the baby, who had kicked off her blanket and was chewing on a blade of sweet meadow grass, delighted with her freedom.
Miranda had hidden behind the stone wall in the quiet little family burying-ground on the north side of the apple orchard as far from the house as possible. It was her favorite retreat. The seven tombstones which marked graves of her father’s family were no more than seven peaceful friends. Even the tiny stone in the corner beneath the giant elm had no tragic significance though it was marked, “Daniel Wells, son of Ephraim and Abigail Wells, who departed this life April 7th, 1836, aged one year,” and covered the body of her baby brother. Miranda had been ten during little Danny’s short life, and he was now nothing but a gently poignant memory.
Miranda was curled up against the wall, her pink calico skirts bunched carelessly above her knees in uncharacteristic abandon. A green measuring worm inched himself unchecked across the smooth bodice of her dress. The May breeze, fragrant with apple-blossoms and clover from the adjacent pasture, blew her loosened hair into her eyes. She pushed the strand back impatiently with one hand while the other clutched her book, as Miranda devoured the fascinating pages of The Beautiful Adulteress.
So compelling were the beautiful adulteress’s adventures, that even when Miranda’s sunbonnet slipped off and hot sunshine fell through the elm trees onto her skin, she did not pause to replace the bonnet. And yet the transparent whiteness of that skin was the envy of her friends and part product of many a tedious treatment with buttermilk and cucumber poultices.
The Beautiful Adulteress had been lent by Phoebe Mead, and it must be finished by nightfall so that Phoebe could return it to Deborah Wilson, who had purloined it from her brother’s saddlebag.
Despite Miranda’s eighteen years and elegant education at Philander Button’s Greenwich Academy, despite avid perusal of this and similar books, she had not the vaguest notion of the horrifying behavior that resulted in one’s becoming an adulteress. But that point was immaterial.
It was the glorious palpitating romance that mattered. The melancholy heroes, the languishing heroines, the clanking ghosts, dismal castles and supernatural lights; all entrancingly punctuated at intervals by a tender, a rapturous — but in any case a guilty — kiss.
Her mother’s first call went unheard. It was not until the cry “Ranny —” changed to a louder and sharper “Miranda-a-a! Where in tunket are you?” that the girl jumped. She shoved the book between two stones in the wall, and called hastily, “Coming, Ma!”
She brushed bits of grass and drifted appleblossom off her dress and apron, straightened the black mesh net which confined her masses of soft curling hair during the work day, hair that in the sunlight shone nearly as golden as the buttercups in the pasture behind her.
Then she picked up Charity.
“Oh, shame, lambkin, you’re wet again,” she said reproachfully.
The baby at once set up an anguished yell; even at a year she resented criticism.
Miranda laughed and kissed the soft neck. “Never mind, pet. Sister isn’t really cross.” But she sighed, rapidly checking the chores which must be done before dusk.