The Porcelain Doll
When Miss Miranda Tyndale moved to the picturesque seaside village of Mystic, Connecticut, word of her arrival soon spread throughout the small community. No one was as curious about the newcomer as Floyd Scully, the owner of the town's dry goods store. His interest was understandable since he was a widower, and Miranda was an attractive, unmarried woman.
Left with the care of an infant daughter after his wife died in childbirth, Floyd had been looking for a new wife for the past four years. The only problem was that nearly all the women his age—he was thirty-five years old—were already married. He supposed he could wed a younger girl if need be, but he preferred a more mature, serious-minded woman. Miranda, who appeared to be in her late twenties, fit the bill as far as age and maturity were concerned.
No sooner did the woman in question get settled into her new home than the widower paid her a neighborly visit. Having previously made several discreet inquiries, he learned that the lady was unmarried and lived with an elderly man, possibly her father but more likely her grandfather, considering his advanced age.
The shopkeeper, who would eventually live to the ripe old age of ninety-eight, would never forget the first time he beheld Miranda Tyndale. Outlined by the wooden frame of the front door of her Washington Street house, her poised, unsmiling face resembled one that might be seen in a portrait, perhaps painted by Botticelli or Vermeer.
It was only when she inquired, "May I help you?" that Floyd remembered she was a living, breathing woman and not a work of art.
He quickly stammered an introduction and offered her, as a newcomer to Mystic, a discount on her first purchase in his store. She thanked him perfunctorily and quietly waited for him to take his leave. Disheartened that she had not invited him inside, Floyd nodded his head, bid the beauty farewell and returned to his shop.
That first meeting, however brief, had a strong impact on the lonely widower. For days he moved and spoke as though half in and half out of a dream. He desperately wanted to see the young woman again, and for nearly a week he tried to think of a way he could become better acquainted with her.
If we only had a mutual friend, he mused, a party or some sort of outing might be arranged, and I could get to know her better. But I can't just go up to a perfect stranger and invite her out to dinner.
As luck would have it, Miranda came into his store one day to buy thread. At first, she ignored his attempts to strike up a conversation. Then when Floyd finished cutting a length of linen for another customer, she walked up to the counter.
"This isn't the exact shade of blue I need," she announced haughtily, holding a spool of thread in the palm of her small, dainty hand. "Do you have any other spools in the back?"
"No, but I could probably order a different shade for you."
"How long will that take?"
"A few days."
"That long?" she asked with a pouting expression. "Let me speak to the manager."
"I am the manager."
"Then I'd like to speak to the owner, if he's here," she demanded in an imperious manner.
"You're speaking to him," he said with a friendly smile.
"You own this?" she asked with disbelief, her head turning to look at the large store with a steady stream of customers.
"Yes, I do. Unfortunately, one of my salesclerks is recovering from a touch of the grip and another is on his honeymoon, so I'm a bit shorthanded, which is why I'm waiting on the customers myself."
It was the first time Miranda Tyndale graced him with a smile, and that simple gesture transformed her face from pretty to absolutely beautiful.
"I was wondering," she began coyly.
"Yes?" he prompted anxiously.
"I was thinking of having a party, to get to know my new neighbors. I was wondering if you would like to come."
"I'd love to," he quickly blurted out.
Then his face turned red from embarrassment at his lack of proper decorum.
"I'll send you an invitation then," she said and, with another dazzling smile, returned to the aisle where the spools of thread were on display.
* * *
Floyd stood on the doorstep on the night of Miranda's party, surprised at how quiet the house sounded. When Agnes Rudd, the housekeeper, opened the door, he could see no one inside.
"Miss Tyndale invited me to a party, but I seem to have gotten the date wrong," he apologized.
"No, Mr. Scully, the mistress is expecting you," the housekeeper said, opening the door. "She'll be down in a moment. Can I get you a cold glass of root beer or sarsaparilla?"
"No, thank you. Am I the first one here?"
"I don't believe the mistress invited anyone else. She told me there would be one guest for dinner."
Floyd's heart fluttered with excitement as he sat on the settee in the parlor, waiting for his hostess to appear. The dizzying scent of perfume heralded her arrival, and he turned in anticipation. Behaving like a gentleman, he rose and kissed her hand.
"You look lovely tonight," he observed.
"Tonight? What about the rest of the time?" she laughed.
"I'm sure you always look lovely," he sputtered.
They sat in the parlor and spoke of mundane things for nearly an hour before Miranda suggested they head to the dining room.
"Won't your grandfather be joining us tonight?" Floyd asked when he saw the table set for two.
"My grandfath—?" she began with a confused look before quickly saying, "Oh, he's not feeling well, so Mrs. Rudd took a tray up to him earlier."
While he would have liked to meet the elderly man, Floyd was titillated by the idea of dining alone with the beautiful woman.
* * *
Within three months from the night of the dinner, Floyd proposed to Miranda, and she accepted. During that time he had gotten only two brief glimpses of her grandfather. Then one day, when Floyd arrived early at his fiancée's house for dinner, Mrs. Rudd informed him that Miranda had not yet returned from the market.
"Why don't you make yourself comfortable, sir?" the housekeeper asked. "I'm sure the mistress will be home shortly."
"Actually, I think I'll go upstairs and introduce myself to Mr. Tyndale. After all, I'll be marrying his granddaughter in six months' time. It would be nice if he and I could have a little chat."
Mrs. Rudd shook her head.
"You can go upstairs if you want to, but I doubt you'll have much conversation. He's a bit touched—if you know what I mean."
"Is that so? I imagine it's his age. Ah, well, whether he can understand me or not, I'll go up and introduce myself."
The elderly man's room was on the top floor, a level normally reserved for servants. When Floyd opened the door, the grandfather's head popped up and his eyes widened.
"Help me ... please," he moaned weakly, his eyes pleading.
"Certainly," Floyd replied. "What is it you want?"
"Get me ... out of ... here."
"Would you like to go downstairs? Are you feeling up to it?"
"Out of ... this house. She's ... going to ... kill me."
"There now, Mr. Tyndale," Floyd said, trying to calm the old man down. "There's nothing to fret about. I'm sure neither Mrs. Rudd nor your granddaughter would want to hurt you."
"Miranda's ... not my ... granddaughter; ... she's ... my ... wife."
Floyd did not know how to respond. The old man was obviously out of his mind, as the housekeeper had warned. Thankfully, at that moment, he heard Miranda's footsteps on the stairs.
"Floyd?" she called. "Are you up here?"
His fiancée barged through the door, anger hardening her beautiful face.
"She's evil," the old man said, becoming more agitated. "She's a ... monster."
"Now, grandfather," she crooned sweetly. "Don't go getting yourself worked up. It's not good for you."
"WITCH!" he cried, making an effort to get off the bed.
"Be careful," Floyd cautioned, going to the old man's bedside. "You don't want to fall and hurt yourself."
Meanwhile, Miranda poured something from a bottle into a glass and forced it into the old man's mouth. He tried to fight her, but she had his jaw and lips in an iron grip. His efforts to spit the liquid out were useless.
"Don't you think it would be best to call for the doctor?" Floyd asked.
"No. The medicine will calm him down in a few minutes."
"What did you give him, laudanum?"
"Something like that."
Only when her grandfather's eyes fluttered and closed, did Miranda let go of his lower face.
"There!" she said with relief. "Now, darling, why don't we go downstairs and eat dinner?"
* * *
The following three weeks were busy ones for Floyd. In addition to restocking his store with new seasonal items, his little girl came home from an extended visit with her grandparents in Philadelphia, and he spent as much time with her as he could. Finally, with the store in order, he looked forward to a Sunday dinner at his home, at which time his fiancée would finally have the opportunity to meet his daughter.
"Will my new mommy be here soon?" Patricia asked, looking up at her father with her mother's deep blue eyes and rosy complexion.
When he heard the little girl refer to Miranda as "mommy," he felt a momentary spark of disloyalty to his much-loved dead wife. Sadly, the child had never known her mother.
"Yes, she should be here any moment now," Floyd replied, sincerely believing that Patricia needed a woman in the house as much as her father did.
"I hope the new mommy likes me."
"Like you? She'll love you!" the father declared, affectionately sweeping his child into his arms and dancing her around the room. "Oh, I missed you so much while you were gone."
"I missed you, too, Daddy," she gushed, hugging her father tightly and kissing him on the cheek.
The tender moment was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell.
"Ah, that's Mommy now," Floyd announced.
When he opened the front door, he was stunned to see Miranda dressed in black.
"Why are you wearing mourning clothes?" he asked.
"My grandfather passed away," she replied, showing no sign of grief.
"When?"
"A week ago. I knew you were busy, so I didn't bother contacting you."
"I would have dropped everything to come to you."
"I know you would have," she said, patting Floyd on the cheek before turning her attention to his child. "And you must be Patricia!"
"Hi, Mommy. You look so pretty, just like a princess."
"I'm too old to be a princess, so I'll be the queen, and you be the princess."
Although Miranda seemed genuinely pleased to meet Floyd's daughter, she made no attempt to get close to her during the evening. Not even when Patricia said goodnight did her future stepmother hug or kiss the little girl.
Once he tucked his daughter into her bed, Floyd rejoined his fiancée in the parlor.
"If you want to postpone the wedding until your time of mourning is over, I'll understand," he said.
"I see no reason to put off the ceremony," she said. "I'm sure my grandfather would want us to marry and start our life together as soon as possible."
Floyd responded to her decision with mixed feelings. While he was delighted that she was anxious to marry him, he could not help wondering if there might be a vein of hardness in her heart.
* * *
The wedding went ahead as planned, and after a short honeymoon in New York City, Miranda moved into her new husband's home on Water Street. Floyd insisted she bring Mrs. Rudd along.
"You needn't bother yourself with household chores. That way, you'll have more time to spend with Patricia."
Although Miranda still showed no affection toward the little girl, she seemed genuinely fond of her new husband and took great pleasure in being the mistress of his household.
"I love this house," she confided to her husband one evening while they dressed for dinner. "It's so much nicer than mine."
"It's been in my family for several generations," he told her proudly. "It was built by the first Scully to come to America, and it has been passed down from father to son ever since. If we have a son, he'll inherit the place. If not, it will go to my daughter."
"Your daughter?" Miranda asked.
"Yes. Unless we have a son, she is next in line for the house, the store and the family fortune. Of course, if something should happen to me, you'd be well cared for. I've made arrangements for you in my will. You'll have a monthly allowance, enough for you to live on comfortably. But, let's not worry about that. I'm sure you and I will have this house filled with children in no time."
It was at that point that Floyd noticed a change in his wife—a change for the better. It began later that night when Patricia's bedtime approached. As usual, Floyd excused himself to go upstairs to tuck his daughter in bed.
"Oh, let me, darling," Miranda offered.
When his wife did not return within half an hour, Floyd went upstairs to Patricia's room. He was pleasantly surprised to see Miranda sitting by the little girl's bedside, reading her a story.
"Shhhh," she whispered, closing the book. "She has fallen asleep. You don't want to wake her up."
When his wife leaned over and kissed the child on the forehead, Floyd was deeply touched. He was also relieved that he had been wrong about there being a cold streak in Miranda's heart.
* * *
"I love my new mommy," Patricia told her father a week later when he came home from the store that evening.
"You do?" he asked with a smile of satisfaction.
"Yes. She took me to the park today. We fed the ducks, and then she bought me ice cream."
"Aren't you lucky? I wish I could have gone with you."
"And wait until you see the surprise I have for you at bedtime tonight," Miranda said, walking into the foyer to greet her husband.
"A surprise?" the girl echoed with excitement.
"Yes, but only if you eat all your vegetables tonight at dinner."
Miranda's bribe worked. Her stepdaughter ate not only all her green beans and boiled potatoes, but she also finished the last of her lamb, a meat she was not particularly fond of.
"It must be getting near my bedtime," Patricia said, faking an exaggerated yawn that made the two adults laugh.
When the little girl was in bed beneath the covers, her stepmother walked into the bedroom carrying something wrapped in a blanket.
"What is it?" Patricia cried excitedly. "A puppy? A kitten?"
Miranda handed the bundle to her stepdaughter.
"Open it and find out."
Patricia screamed with delight when she unwrapped the blanket and saw a porcelain baby doll.
"It's beautiful!"
"It looks quite old," Floyd observed, feeling that he had seen the doll once before, most likely in Miranda's former home.
"It is," his wife explained. "It's been in my family probably as long as this house has been in yours."
"It might not be a good idea to give it to Patricia just yet. She's a little young to have such a delicate plaything. Perhaps if you wait a few years ...."
"Nonsense! Of what use is a poppet sitting in a cabinet? It ought to be played with by a child."
"Oh, please, Daddy! Let me keep it. I promise I'll take care of it."
"All right, but treat it very gently. It's made of porcelain, and it might break if you drop it."
Floyd stayed in the room longer than usual that night, watching his daughter fall asleep with the baby doll in her arms. She woke briefly when he kissed her goodnight.
"I want to name my doll Abigail after my real mommy. Do you think my new mommy will be mad if I do?"
"No, sweetheart. She loves you very much, and I don't think she could be angry with you."
There was a faint smile on Patricia's face as she fell asleep.
I'm a lucky man, Floyd thought when he turned down the lamp in his daughter's room.
Unfortunately, it was the last time he would ever consider himself fortunate. It was also the last time he would see his daughter's smile.
* * *
Patricia did not meet him at the front door when he came home from the store the next day, but Floyd was not immediately concerned. He assumed she was in her room playing with her new doll.
"Darling," he called to his wife from the foyer. "I'm home. Where is everyone?"
Miranda was in the parlor, reading a book.
"Hello, dear. How was your day?"
"Fine. Where's Patricia?"
"She's upstairs in bed. She's not feeling well. No need to worry," Miranda assured him, "just an upset stomach."
"I'll go up and check on her."
Floyd was alarmed when he saw his daughter lying on the bed. Where was the child with the rosy cheeks he knew so well? This pale, drawn creature was a mere shadow of her former self. He immediately left the room and went downstairs.
"Where are you going?" his wife asked as he opened the front door.
"I'm going to get the doctor."
"There's no need to bother him. Patricia will be fine in a day or two."
Floyd paid no heed to his wife's assurances.
After examining the sick child, the doctor prescribed bed rest and an elixir to build up her strength. But as the days passed, the little girl faded away. Floyd was frantic and contacted the best doctors in Boston, none of whom could return the rosy glow to his daughter's cheeks. Within a fortnight, Patricia Scully died, quietly slipping away during the night with the porcelain doll still clutched in her arms.
Floyd was inconsolable, so it was the child's stepmother who made the necessary funeral and burial arrangements. During the viewing, the grieving father sat staring at the tiny corpse laid out in the casket. He responded to no one, not even his wife.
It was left up to Miranda to greet the many mourners who came to pay their respects. It was also she who placed the porcelain doll in the coffin.
"She loved that doll so much," she explained to the neighbors. "Now she can take it with her to heaven."
At the conclusion of the service, Miranda urged her husband to accompany her to the dining room where she had arranged for a buffet to be laid out for the mourners.
"In a little while," he said—the first words he had spoken since his daughter passed away. "I want to be alone with Patricia for a few minutes, to say ...."
The heartbroken father could not speak for several moments.
"I want to say ... goodbye."
Miranda kissed him lightly on the cheek.
"Take all the time you want, dear. I'll see to our guests."
When everyone else was out of the room, Floyd sat beside the coffin and wept, giving full reign to his pent-up emotions.
* * *
They say time heals all wounds, but as the days passed, Floyd's grief grew stronger and the pain of loss sharper.
Thank God for Miranda, he thought. Without her strength I wouldn't be able to make it through this ordeal.
"I don't know how you do it," he said to her one night before they went to bed. "First you lose your grandfather and now your stepdaughter."
"Life is hard. After losing many loved ones over the years, I've learned to accept the inevitable."
It was the first time Floyd had ever heard his wife speak of her past, and he realized it must not have been a happy one. How selfish he had been! He would have to pull himself together, if only for her sake. He summoned all his strength and went to the store. After a full day's work, he returned home to his grand house on Atlantic Avenue, which now felt empty without his daughter.
"Miranda?" he called.
There was no reply, so he called again.
"The mistress is upstairs," Mrs. Rudd said, setting a place for one at the table. "She was exhausted, poor dear, and wanted to sleep. I sent a tray up, but she hasn't touched a thing."
Fear gripped Floyd's heart as he raced up the stairs and into the master bedroom. Like his daughter, his wife lay pale and drawn on the bed. Again the doctor was called, and again he was useless in diagnosing the condition. His only advice was that the patient eat and get plenty of rest.
"My darling," Floyd cried. "You have to eat something. You need to build up your strength."
"What's ... wrong ... with me?"
"The doctor doesn't know, but you have the same symptoms as Patricia did."
Her eyes opened wide with fear and she struggled to sit up in bed.
"The ... doll."
"What doll? The one you gave to Patricia?"
"You did ... bury it ... with her?"
"I'm sorry, my dearest. But I couldn't see putting such a valuable antique in the ground, so I removed it from the coffin. I'm sure Patricia would have wanted you to have it back."
"Where ... is it?" Miranda cried, looking around the room with wild-eyed fear.
"In the top of the closet."
"Get ... rid ... of it."
"Get rid of it? Why on earth should I do that?"
"It will ... kill me ... just like ... it did ... your daughter."
Floyd went to the closet and took the doll down from the shelf.
"It's only a doll," he said. "It can't hurt anyone."
"It's ... cursed."
Floyd feared his wife was losing her mind. Possibly the strain of the recent events had finally gotten to her.
"Get rid ... of it. Throw it ... in the ocean. It's ... evil; ... I put ... a spell ... on it."
"It's only a doll," he repeated. "See?"
He brought the doll crashing down on the mahogany vanity, an action that shattered its porcelain head into hundreds of pieces.
The long, piercing screech his wife let out sounded inhuman. Like that of the fabled banshee, Miranda's wail eerily echoed through the master bedroom. Just when Floyd felt the scream would never end, he realized his wife was now silent and it was his own voice he heard.
Miranda lay lifeless on the four-poster bed. Her once golden locks were the color of snow, and her fair complexion a mass of wrinkles and age spots. Looking at his second wife's aged countenance, Floyd suddenly remembered where he had seen the doll before. It had been on the windowsill in his wife's grandfather's room.
"No," he declared with certainty. "That poor old man wasn't her grandfather after all; he was her husband. And if I had only listened to him when he tried to tell me the truth, my daughter would still be alive."
Feeling as though the weight of the world were on his shoulders, Floyd Scully swept up the broken bits of porcelain from the bedroom floor, wishing he could pick of the pieces of his shattered life as easily.
For my 300th birthday, I wanted an Evangeline Ghastly doll. Instead, Salem bought me a pair of cloth cat dolls that were filled with catnip!
