A Drowned Maiden's Hair (13 page)

Maud felt the tension like an itch. She had spent a good bit of her life battling grown-ups — there were even times when she found it stimulating — but she didn’t like it when grown-ups quarreled among themselves. After all the fuss they made about children quarreling, they ought to be able to get along. Maud took her cue from Judith and tried to act as if nothing were the matter.

On the days when Hyacinth remained behind closed doors and Victoria brooded, Maud was left to amuse herself. She continued to tinker with the glockenspiel, and she made a set of alphabet cards for Muffet. It wasn’t easy to persuade Muffet that capital letters and small letters were two versions of the same thing — like tablespoons and teaspoons — but once the hired woman grasped the concept, she tackled the cookery book afresh. Maud spent a lot of time in the kitchen, acting out recipes for Muffet’s benefit. When the bell rang, she dropped everything to run upstairs to Hyacinth. On one occasion, Hyacinth sent her away the moment she arrived; on another Maud was encouraged to peacock about in Hyacinth’s old ball gowns while Hyacinth sat on the bed and applauded.

Most often Maud was summoned to rehearse. Now that she knew that the readings of
Little Lord Fauntleroy
were more than a game, she found them a little nerve-racking. Hyacinth was strict about her speech. “
Lit
-
tle,
not
liddle,
” she said sharply. “And
pret
-
ty,
not
priddy.
And don’t singsong! You sound like an Irish nursemaid!”

“I am Irish,” Maud said proudly. “My mother was Irish.”

“Me mither was Eye-e-rish,” mimicked Hyacinth.

Maud’s eyes flashed. “I didn’t say it like that!”
And you’d better not make fun of my mother,
she thought, but she held her tongue.

Hyacinth seemed to sense she had gone too far. She twinkled her fingers in a gesture that might have been an apology. “
Did
-
ent,
not
dint.
”

“I bet Caroline Lambert didn’t say
did
-
ent,
” said Maud.

Hyacinth’s face broke out in a smile. “I bet she didn’t, either. Nevertheless, after she drowned, she became an angel child, and angel children speak prettily.
Pret-till-lee,
if you please.”

“Pret-till-lee,” Maud echoed, pronouncing the word so crisply that spittle flew from her lips.

“Very good. Open your mouth, please.”

Maud opened, worrying that her teeth were not clean. She had brushed them that morning, but Hyacinth’s standards were very high. All at once she felt something round and soft against her tongue.

“Have a caramel,” Hyacinth invited her. “You didn’t see my fingers move, did you? That’s called sleight of hand — I’ll teach you later. As for now, run along, and don’t let me see your little face till after dinner.”

Maud withdrew, obedient to the letter. As she tiptoed upstairs to her bedroom, she wondered what else she could do to make Hyacinth love her. According to her own standards, she was being very good, but Hyacinth seemed less impressed by goodness than other grown-ups were. Maud thought about the little girls she read about in books, who nestled into the hearts of adoring friends and relations. They were usually very pretty, with long curly hair. Maud had no curls, and though her eyes were blue, it wasn’t the sort of blue that people got excited about. The faint hollow in one cheek that she had hoped might be a dimple didn’t seem to work properly. What could she do if she lacked the equipment to win Hyacinth’s heart?

She supposed she might fall ill. Children in books were often ill, or they had dreadful accidents that left them unable to walk. Maud imagined herself in Hyacinth’s bed, with Victoria and Judith weeping and Hyacinth stroking her forehead. “My poor darling,” Hyacinth would say softly, while Maud was most beautifully ill, delicate and pale like a little white snowdrop. . . . Unfortunately, children who were ill often died. Maud felt that this was taking things too far. She preferred to model herself on Lord Fauntleroy, whom everyone loved even though he was healthy. She wondered if there was anything Fauntleroy did that might endear her to Hyacinth.

A week stretched to twelve days. Then a telegram arrived for Hyacinth: Eleanor Lambert, who had been visiting relatives in Boston, had returned early to Cape Calypso. She looked forward to seeing the Misses Hawthorne again.

Hyacinth made up her mind at once. She and Judith would return to Cape Calypso immediately. Would Maud be a darling girl and help Hyacinth pack?

Maud agreed to be a darling girl, but her stomach knotted. Nothing had been said about her going with Hyacinth, and she dreaded being left behind. She wrapped waists and skirts in tissue paper and counted out gloves, hoping that Hyacinth would see that she was too useful to be abandoned. At last she could bear the suspense no longer. “Mayn’t I come with you?” she begged, careful of her grammar. “Please?”

“You’ll come soon,” Hyacinth assured her, “but not yet. Mrs. Lambert has invited Judith and me to stay at her hotel. We’ll go first and get the cottage ready for summer, and then you’ll come, with Victoria and Muffet. Only remember, once we’re in Cape Calypso, we mustn’t be seen together. Mrs. Lambert must never suspect that you’re my little girl.”

Maud was slightly softened by that “my little girl,” though her heart was heavy. Faster than she wished, the trunks were packed and she trailed Hyacinth down the stairs. She knew that once the hired carriage arrived, she would be banished to the third floor. In the days to come, she would have no one to talk to but Muffet, who couldn’t talk back, and Victoria, who would think of new ways she ought to be improved. She descended the stairs as slowly as she could, leaning away from the balustrade and dragging her feet.

Judith frowned at her from the front hall. “Don’t pull on the banister. And pick up your feet. You’ll wear out the carpet.”

Maud looked daggers at her.

“Maud!” said Hyacinth. “Come and kiss me!”

Maud hesitated. Then she obeyed. If Hyacinth was leaving, she wanted to say good-bye properly. “Do you want me to write to you?”

“Certainly,” answered Hyacinth. “Write and tell me everything.”

“There won’t
be
much ‘everything,’” Maud said darkly. “It’s dull here without you.”

“That’s polite,” remarked Judith. She nodded toward the parlor door. Victoria stood in the doorway. She had come to bid her sisters good-bye. Maud hadn’t seen her there.

Maud knew she had been rude. She glanced apprehensively at Victoria, and her heart sank. “I’m sorry, Aunt Victoria,” she said.

“It doesn’t matter,” replied Victoria, so gravely that Maud knew that her feelings had been hurt.

Maud knotted her fingers behind her back. “I didn’t mean
you
were dull,” she pleaded. “It’s just that —” She risked a glance at Hyacinth, who was watching her with amused tenderness. All at once, Maud knew just what she wanted to say. “It’s just that I love Dearest more than anyone else in the world.”

She took a deep breath. The idea that she might call Hyacinth “Dearest” had occurred to her two days ago, but until now she hadn’t dared speak the word. She was surprised by how sweet it sounded — exactly like Lord Fauntleroy. She waited for Hyacinth’s response.

“Maud” — Hyacinth’s voice quavered — “
what
did you call me?”

Maud licked her lips. “Dearest,” she said tentatively.

“Dearest?” Hyacinth’s face lit up. “Oh, Maud! Do you really think you’re Little Lord Fauntleroy and I’m your mother?”

All at once Maud knew she had made a terrible mistake. “I meant — it was a joke,” she said hastily.

But it was too late. “Maud — pretending to be Lord Fauntleroy! ‘Dearest’!” Hyacinth chortled. “What a funny little girl you are, Maud Flynn!”

To Maud’s horror, she felt her eyes fill with tears. “It was a
joke,
” she insisted frantically, but Hyacinth’s laughter drowned out her words. “Maud — trying to be Little Lord Fauntleroy!” Laughter trilled from her, and even Judith succumbed to a rusty chuckle.

Then Victoria said, “The hack’s come,” and Maud saw her chance to escape. She turned on her heel and rushed upstairs, not troubling to mute her footsteps.

She ran to her room and sank down on the floor. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. She had never been more humiliated in her life — not even when Miss Kitteridge hauled up her petticoat and spanked her in front of the entire orphanage.
Do you really think you’re Little Lord Fauntleroy and I’m your mother?
Oh! Maud wanted to crawl under the bed and hide, like a sick animal. She moaned with shame, covering her mouth with her hands.

The bedroom door creaked. Maud raised an anguished, blotchy face and glowered at Victoria.

“Maud?” Victoria said. She broke off. “I’ve never seen you cry before.”

Maud’s eyes darted around the room, seeking a missile. The closest thing at hand was a discarded stocking. Maud grabbed it and hurled it at Victoria.

It was not an effective weapon. Victoria was not even annoyed. She sat down on the bed. With some difficulty, she began to lower herself to the floor. “I’m sorry Hyacinth hurt your feelings,” she said. “Sometimes Hyacinth makes fun of things that other people . . . don’t. My dear, it isn’t so bad as all that! Don’t cry so!”

“I
hate
Hyacinth,” stormed Maud, and all at once, it was true. She thought of her unanswered letters and unanswered questions, of the times when Hyacinth pinched or slapped playfully and it hurt. She remembered a hundred slights she had managed to ignore because she wanted Hyacinth to be perfect.

“No, you don’t,” soothed Victoria, and Maud felt her heart twist: that was true, too. She adored Hyacinth, and Hyacinth had laughed at her and left without saying sorry or good-bye. Her sobs rose to a wail.

Victoria put her arm around Maud’s shoulder. “It was very unkind of Hyacinth. It was cruel of her to laugh at you. Maud, listen to me. It isn’t wrong to be affectionate. And it isn’t funny, either.”

Maud wiped her nose on her wrist and scowled at Victoria. She wished the old woman would put both arms around her and hug her properly. Victoria always got everything wrong.

“I think,” Victoria said hesitantly, “I think
Dearest
is a lovely thing to call someone. I would love to have someone call me
Dearest.
”

“I’m never going to call anyone
Dearest
again,” Maud said savagely.

O
n the morning of the journey to Cape Calypso, Maud rose before dawn and followed Victoria through the woods, retracing the path that had brought her to Hawthorne Grove three months ago. The morning was foggy and humid; the sun had not yet risen. Without Hyacinth, Maud found the semidarkness of the wood less enchanting than before. She was glad to emerge from the shadow of the trees and take her place on the station platform. Victoria stooped and kissed her cheek.

“Remember,” Victoria said, “Muffet and I will get on at the very next stop. We’ll sit where you can see us. It’s better if you don’t speak to us, but if you think you can’t manage, or someone frightens you, come to me.”

“I can manage,” Maud said curtly. Her stomach was upset. She wasn’t used to eating breakfast in the dark, and her whole body felt queer.

Victoria glanced along the platform. “The farmers will be here soon,” she said. “You won’t be alone long. Remember — don’t talk to strangers. Do you have your ticket and your money?”

“I’ve got it.” Maud unclenched her fist and showed a knotted-up handkerchief. A rectangle of cardboard showed through the cloth.

“Don’t lose it.” Victoria seemed reluctant to leave her. She looked up at the sky. “I don’t think it’s going to rain, but if it does, your parasol —”

“It won’t rain,” Maud said impatiently. She knew what Victoria was going to say: if it rained, she could use her new parasol as an umbrella. As far as Maud was concerned, this was useless advice. The parasol was made of silk, and Maud had no intention of subjecting it to water spots. If it rained, she would fling herself on top of it in order to protect it. “Hadn’t you better go?” It was the whole point of getting up early and coming to this place — that no one should see her with Victoria.