A Drowned Maiden's Hair (10 page)

O
n the following day, Hyacinth took charge of Maud’s education. Victoria’s timetable was set aside and replaced with lessons in playacting, elocution, and music. The glockenspiel that Maud was to learn to play turned out to be a musical instrument made up of metal bars. Hyacinth showed Maud how to strike the notes with a little mallet so that the chimes rang out sweetly. Maud was enchanted. Never in her life had she tinkered with a musical instrument, and she was charmed to find she could make music. By the end of the first day, she had taught herself to hammer out tunes.

“She has such an ear for music,” proclaimed Hyacinth. “I knew it the first day, when I heard her singing. Listen to her! Maud, you are altogether the cleverest child I ever saw.”

Maud glowed at the praise. She continued to bang out “Mary Had a Little Lamb” until Judith announced that she had a headache and told Maud to take the glockenspiel up to the third floor.

“Judith is such a wet blanket,” Hyacinth whispered as she and Maud tiptoed up the back stairs. “She doesn’t
mind
the séances, but she never gets any fun out of them, poor thing. Of course, during the séances, the room will be dark. You’ll have to make music without being able to see. You might as well practice that way — with your eyes shut.”

“That’s impossible,” complained Maud, more for the pleasure of arguing than anything else. With Hyacinth’s praise ringing in her ears, she felt she could do anything.

Hyacinth laughed softly. “It won’t be so very difficult,” she coaxed, touching the mallet to the tip of Maud’s nose. “An ordinary child couldn’t play music in the dark, but it will be nothing for you.”

Maud ducked her head, trying to conceal her happiness. When Hyacinth teased and flattered her, she was helpless to resist. Once upstairs, she began to practice with her eyes squeezed shut, using her left hand to measure the space between the notes. It was less difficult than she had expected.

She found the glockenspiel so enthralling that she could hardly tear herself away long enough to eat. She abandoned her studies of history, geography, and arithmetic, and Hyacinth defended her. “It’s nearly summer anyway,” she told Victoria, “and music is essential to a young lady’s education.”

On the third day after Hyacinth’s return, Maud made an earth-shaking discovery: she could play harmonies. If she struck one note with the mallet and another with the end of a pencil, she could make chords. She was banging her way up and down the scale when she heard heavy footsteps on the staircase. The footsteps were accompanied by a curious droning noise. It was Muffet.

Maud felt a twinge of conscience. It had been days since she provided Muffet with any new words. The hired woman had taken to staring hypnotically at Maud when she waited at table. She wanted more nouns. Maud sighed. She wished she could explain to Muffet just how fascinating the glockenspiel was.

Muffet came into the room. There was a look of wonder and rapture on her face. She held open a tattered book, which Maud recognized as collection of recipes. Muffet held out the book and pointed to the words
sugar, milk,
and
bowl.
These were words that Maud had taught her. All at once, Maud understood. Muffet was reading.

Maud’s face lit up. “That’s right, Muffet!” she exclaimed. “See, this book has lots of words you know — you might even be able to read a whole recipe!” She thumbed through the pages. “Here’s one for apple pie — you know how to make that, and you know most of the words.” She pointed them out. “Flour — lard — apples.” She mimed washing.
Wash apples.
It was one of the verbs she had succeeded in teaching. “Wash and peel —”

Muffet shook her head. Her finger poked at the word
apple.
Maud had come to understand this gesture as a request for information.

“You know that one, Muffet. Apple.” Maud made her hand into a circle and mimed taking a bite. “Apple.”

Muffet dismissed the mime with another shake of the head.

Maud pointed to Muffet’s pocket. “Give me your tablet,” she said impatiently. She dug into Muffet’s apron and took out the notebook that had become Muffet’s dictionary. She leafed through the pages, looking for the drawings she had made. “Here. I taught you.” She thumped the page, where she had drawn a circle with a stem. APPLE. She pointed at the word.

Obstinately, Muffet shook her head. She took a pencil from her pocket and copied the word from the book:
apple.
Then she thumped the page.

“I taught you that. See, it’s right here —” Maud began. Then she groaned, seeing the problem. She had written the words for Muffet’s dictionary in both capital and small letters, depending on her mood at the time. Muffet had learned the words exactly as written. To Muffet, the “apple” in the book had nothing to do with the APPLE Maud had taught her. Maud could have kicked herself. How would she ever explain to Muffet that capital letters were the same as small ones? She gazed at Muffet with such despair that the woman reached out to pat her cheek, as if begging pardon for causing trouble. Maud felt even guiltier.

A light footstep, a rustle of silk, and Hyacinth stood in the hall. “Gracious, what’s this?” she asked.

Muffet moved quickly. With the swiftness of a conjuror, she pocketed the writing tablet. She closed the cookery book and hugged it between her arm and bosom.

Hyacinth cocked her head toward Muffet. “Haven’t you got work to do?” She used both hands to mime sweeping the floor and pointed to the floorboards. “Downstairs?”

Maud shifted uneasily. For a split second, she found herself disliking Hyacinth. It seemed to her that there was no need for Hyacinth to speak so sharply or stab her finger through the air with such energy. She reminded herself that Muffet could not hear; Muffet wouldn’t catch the insulting note in Hyacinth’s voice.

But Muffet understood. She lurched out of Maud’s room, turning her back on Hyacinth with a suddenness that was as rude as Hyacinth’s pantomime.

“What on earth was she doing here?” asked Hyacinth. “She ought to be preparing dinner. She wasn’t bothering you, was she?”

“No,” Maud said shortly. She remembered how she and Hyacinth had laughed at Muffet, likening her to a blacksmith in petticoats. She didn’t know whether to be ashamed of Muffet or herself. “She’s all right.”

Hyacinth shrugged. “Come downstairs to the back parlor. I want to show you what to do for the séance.”

“Will I play the glockenspiel?”

“No,” Hyacinth answered. “That’s for the Lambert séances — this is for Burckhardt. For next week.” She saw the confusion in Maud’s face. “Heavens, didn’t I explain to you? Horace Burckhardt is coming here next week. He wants a séance, and I want you to participate.”

“Does he have a dead daughter?”

“No. A dead wife. I’ll be the dead wife — you won’t have much to do, but Burckhardt’s an easy client, and I want you to have a little practice.” Hyacinth extended a hand. “Come along!”

Maud descended to the first floor. Evidently Victoria and Judith were out, as the rooms were empty. Hyacinth led her past the dining room. “The night of the séance, we’ll have supper at six,” she explained, “cheese soufflé, probably — people who want to see spirits shouldn’t eat meat, though I can’t think why. At any rate, by six o’clock, all of us will be in the dining room with the door shut. You’ll be upstairs, with my little china clock. I want you to wait ten minutes before you come down. Then you come down the back steps — as quietly as you can — and creep into the back parlor. Now — when do you come downstairs?”

“Ten after six,” Maud answered promptly.

“Good girl. We’ll be in the dining room with the door shut, so there should be no danger of you being seen. In the back parlor, one lamp will be lit — the one with the red globe — and there will be light from two or three candles in the chandelier. You’ll be barefoot and wearing your nightgown.”

“My nightgown?” echoed Maud, shocked. Her education in music and manners might have been spotty, but both the nuns and Miss Kitteridge were in agreement about the shamefulness of being scantily clad. “With a strange man in the house?”

“Your asylum nightgown,” repeated Hyacinth, “because it’s skimpy. You’re going to hide under the table, and the less you’re wearing, the better. I don’t want a bit of your skirt creeping out from under the tablecloth.”

Maud squirmed. “But if he should see me —”

“If he sees you, there’s more at stake than your modesty,” snapped Hyacinth. Then her lips twitched; impatience had turned to amusement. “But he won’t see you. Of course, if you would prefer to wear nothing at all, that would be even better. No danger of cloth showing —”

“I’ll wear my nightgown,” said Maud quickly. Hyacinth’s sharpness had cowed her a little.

“Good. That’s settled.” Hyacinth went to the round table in the corner of the room and lifted the cloth. “Climb under here and see if there’s room for you.”

Maud obeyed. The table had been draped with two cloths: a dark green brocade that reached to the floor and an overcloth of creamy lace. Maud crawled underneath and sat with her knees close to her chest. The table was nearly three feet in diameter, with a single pedestal that poked into her behind.

“Can you see me?”

“No — not a bit. What about you? Can you see out?”

Maud squinted. “I can see where it’s lighter and dark, but that’s — ouch!” She had shifted position and sat on something hard. She pulled up the tablecloth to shed light on what it was. “What’s this?”

Hyacinth took the funnel-shaped tube away from her. “It’s an ear trumpet. You’ll be using it at the end of the séance. If you speak into it, it makes your voice echo.” She turned the trumpet so that the wide end was at her lips and half whispered, half sang. “Farewell, my only love! Farewell!”

Maud felt her skin crawl. Hyacinth’s voice sounded exactly the way she imagined a ghost would sound.

“You try,” ordered Hyacinth. “I’ll be doing most of the talking, but I think I’ll have you join me for the final farewell. Go ahead.”

Maud tried to imitate Hyacinth’s singsong. “Farewell, my only —” She giggled, and a cascade of eerie laughter came from the end of the trumpet.

“Maud.” Hyacinth’s voice was very firm. “You may
not
giggle during the séance.”

Maud tried to control herself. She managed to gulp back the giggles, but her mouth twisted in a smirk.

“A little giggle is understandable during rehearsal, but unforgivable —
unforgivable
— during the séance. Do you understand?”

Maud’s smirk vanished. “Yes, ma’am.”

Hyacinth laughed. “Don’t ‘ma’am’ me! That’s for Judith and Victoria.” She held the green cloth between her thumb and forefinger. “There’s a little slit here, under the lace. Once the lights are out, you put the small end of the trumpet through the hole. The room will be dark, remember.”

Maud searched for the open seam. Carefully she tilted the trumpet, guiding the small end through the hole. “Farewell, my love!” she whispered.

“Perfect. Very good. There’s something else.” Hyacinth lowered herself to sit on the floor. She took Maud’s hand and guided her fingers to the pedestal. “Feel that nail, Maud? And the other one, with the thread wrapped around it?”

Maud was already unwrapping the two threads. She pulled one, which had a wooden bead at the end. She was rewarded with a faint tinkling sound.

“That’s the chandelier.” Hyacinth pointed to the ceiling. “See, there’s a thread that goes up the chain of the chandelier, and across the ceiling to an eye-screw” — she pointed — “where the ceiling meets the wall. Then the thread goes down the wall, through the cloth, and under the table. If you pull both ends of the thread, you can make the chandelier swing back and forth. Burckhardt will think the spirits are moving it.”

Maud experimented with the threads, entranced by the movement of the big chandelier. “Won’t Mr. Burckhardt see the thread?”

“No. Remember, it’ll be dark. Besides — you didn’t notice any threads when you came in the room, did you?”

“No, but I wasn’t looking.”

“Neither will Burckhardt be looking.” Hyacinth tapped Maud’s left hand. “Let go of the end without the bead.”

Maud released the thread. Hyacinth took the other end, winding the thread around her palm. “There. After you play with the chandelier a little, you let go of one end, pull, wind the thread round your fingers, and tuck it away. If anyone wants to examine the chandelier after the lights come back on, there will be no thread to find.”

Maud raised herself to her knees, gazing at the ceiling. A fluttery feeling had come into her stomach. To creep downstairs at the right time, to make the chandelier sway without tangling the threads, to speak into the speaking trumpet . . . What if she could not manage it? She pointed to the eye screw at the edge of the molding. “What if Mr. Burckhardt notices the screw? Won’t he wonder why it’s there?”

Hyacinth shook her head. “He won’t. For one thing, it’s small. It’s not very noticeable, even if you’re looking for it. And the truth of the matter is, he won’t be looking.” She touched Maud’s cheek with the tips of her fingers. “That’s the most important thing of all, Maud. Not the tricks — they’re simple. A child could find us out. But our clients don’t want to find us out. They want to believe.”

“But —”

“Take Burckhardt,” Hyacinth went on, as if Maud had not spoken. “He’s been coming to us for eight years. Never once has he examined the room or questioned any of our tricks. And why not? Because we understand him. We know what he wants and we make sure he gets it.”

“And what he wants is to talk to ghosts?”

Hyacinth took Maud’s hand and slapped it. “Bad girl! Stop saying ‘ghosts’!”

Maud was startled. She had thought that Hyacinth wanted to hold her hand. “I’m sorry,” she pleaded. The shock of the slap was greater than the pain.

“That’s better.” Hyacinth did not seem angry in the least. “I call Burckhardt the Weeping Walrus,” she said dreamily. “Victoria says it’s cruel, but he’s very big and fat, you know, with one of those mustaches that hangs down like tusks. Everything he eats gets caught in it.” She gave a little shudder and waited for Maud to laugh. “Gracious, you’re not sulking, are you? Over that tiny, baby, little slap?”