A Drowned Maiden's Hair (26 page)

But Hyacinth got her wish. The lights stayed off. A little before suppertime, the wind blew the clouds into patches, revealing a sky the color of morning glories. Maud’s last hope died. She borrowed Muffet’s cards and played one game of solitaire after another, fretting all the while. When suppertime came, she could not eat. She picked up
Ragged Dick
but lost patience with it; Dick was so honest and manly and cheerful that Maud wanted to slap him. She shoved the book under her pillow and prayed that Eleanor Lambert would believe she was Caroline.

Mrs. Lambert arrived early. Maud was costumed and wigged when Hyacinth detected the sound of carriage wheels. “Tiresome woman!” Hyacinth hissed as she hustled Maud into the map cupboard. Maud agreed. How foolish of Mrs. Lambert to come early, to imagine that séances could be performed without prior preparation.

Ten minutes passed. Inside the map cupboard, Maud sweated and fumed. She could hear Mrs. Lambert and the Hawthorne sisters chatting in the front parlor, and she wondered how they could sound so lighthearted when so much was at stake. The twisted pain in her belly seemed to have risen to her throat. She had to go to the water closet. She crossed her legs tightly and opened her mouth to breathe. She could scarcely have said which was more miserable, her mind or her body.

The voices grew louder. The three women had come into the back parlor — Maud saw the line around the door brighten. Hyacinth had brought in the kerosene lamp, and the séance was about to begin. Maud caught a whiff of herself and wrinkled her nose. She stank of fear. She wondered what Mrs. Lambert would think when she embraced her long-dead daughter and found her hot and smelly.

“Shall we sing a hymn?” Hyacinth said. That was a signal that all was well. The women were seated around the table as planned.

The light dimmed. Mrs. Lambert began the singing, and her voice shook. For a moment, Maud felt for her: Mrs. Lambert was nervous, too. Maud joined in.

“We shall sing on that beautiful shore,
The melodious songs of the blest,
And our spirit shall sorrow no more,
Not a sigh for the blessing of rest.

In the sweet bye and bye
We shall meet on that beautiful shore —”

Maud’s voice was sweet and true. All at once the knot in her stomach dissolved, and she felt a thrill of excitement. The waiting was over — and she was very good at what she was about to do.

The women sang three hymns before falling silent. Maud listened for her cue. There was a series of raps, and Judith’s whisper: “I feel something!” Those were the words Maud had waited to hear. In a moment, Hyacinth would fall forward in trance.

There was a low thud, and Hyacinth’s voice murmured, “Mama?”

Maud counted to seven. She spoke the second line in unison with Hyacinth. “Dear Mama, can you hear me?”

There was another series of raps, and Mrs. Lambert whispered,“Caroline?”

Judith admonished her. “Don’t touch her! She’s in a trance!”

Good,
thought Maud. She repeated her line, solo this time: “Dear Mama, can you hear me?”

A chair creaked. Mrs. Lambert said shakily, “Caroline? Is that — can that be you?”

“Dear Mama, I have come to you,” Maud answered huskily. “Are you glad that I’m here, dear Mama?”

“I can’t — see you.” Mrs. Lambert sounded as though she were on the verge of tears. “I don’t feel — oh, Caroline — don’t leave me! Please stay and speak to me! I beg of you —”

Maud answered with lines from Hyacinth’s script. “Dear Mama, I am right beside you. I am closer than your shadow.”

Mrs. Lambert was weeping. Maud caught the words, “want to believe —” Then, sharply: “You’ve never called me ‘dear Mama’ in your life!”

Maud brought up one hand to cover her mouth. She grasped the fact that Hyacinth had misdirected her. Caroline Lambert had not been an angel child. The
dear Mama
s struck a false note. “But you
are
dear to me, Mama,” Maud coaxed. “Can’t I say so?”

The pause that followed was unnerving. Maud tensed, fearing that her voice had been recognized. Then Mrs. Lambert gasped, “Oh, Caroline!” with exasperation and tenderness. “Must you always argue?”

Maud didn’t know what to say next. She kept very still. The silence was broken by Mrs. Lambert’s sobbing. “Please — Caroline — don’t leave me! Hear me out! I have to tell you — I’ve thought of nothing else but that terrible morning. I didn’t mean it, my darling. I didn’t mean what I said.”

Maud grimaced. She wondered if she should recite the line about how she couldn’t hear any longer, how a gulf had come between them. If she did, her problems would be solved. Hyacinth would come out of her trance, the séance would end, and there would be no more risks that evening. But Mrs. Lambert had begged Caroline not to go away, and the sound of her sobs was heartrending.

“I have thought, over and over, about what I said — God knows I have been punished for it! Caroline, my dear, I would cut out my tongue if I could take back those words. Forgive me — I didn’t mean it, not one word —”

Maud interrupted. “I know you didn’t mean it,” she said warily. “It’s all right.”

“I ought to have gone with you — I shouldn’t —” Mrs. Lambert’s words were lost again. “Over and over . . . I’ve thought that was why —”

Maud remembered the script. “Dear Mama, there is nothing to forgive! If ever you spoke a cross word to me, I have forgotten it. Where I live now, Mama, all is forgiveness. All is love.”

She finished the line, biting down on her lower lip to complete the
v
in
love.
Her consonants were exquisite.

“Then,” Mrs. Lambert said bitterly, “you didn’t drown yourself because of what I said?”

Maud was startled into saying, “No!” in her own emphatic voice. She made haste to correct herself, assuming the ethereal tones she had learned from Hyacinth. “Of course not, dear Mama.”

“Stop calling me that!” Mrs. Lambert almost shrieked. “God forgive you, Caroline Mary, if you torment me now!”

Maud quailed. The grieving mother had become a fury; her voice coiled and struck like a cobra.

“How could you, Caroline? How dare you disobey and go into the water? You promised me — that very morning you promised — that you wouldn’t bathe alone. And for spite — for very spite! — you lost your life and broke my heart, so that I will never mend, never love —”

Maud’s reaction was instinctive. An adult had lost self-control and was castigating her. She forgot she was not Caroline and cried out desperately, “I didn’t!”

“You drowned yourself —”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Maud pleaded.

Improbably, Mrs. Lambert laughed. Her laugh was a weird blend of hysteria and genuine mirth. “Oh, Caroline! What am I going to do with you?”

“I’m sorry,” Maud apologized. “But I
didn’t.
I didn’t drown myself. It was an accident.”

“But they found your shoes and stockings on the shore,” argued Mrs. Lambert. “You
meant
to break your promise to me. You took off your shoes and stockings.”

Shoes and stockings. Those were the words that Caroline had spoken. Maud felt herself grow cold. Her mind went back to the dreams: Caroline, barefoot, on the shore, Caroline stretching out her hand toward the jetty . . . All at once the words came easily, as if they were words Maud had learned by heart.

“I didn’t take off my shoes to go in the water. I took them off to walk on the jetty.”

Silence. The silence was so protracted that Maud wondered if the room outside the map cupboard was empty. At last Mrs. Lambert echoed, “The jetty?”

“I wanted to walk on the jetty,” said Maud. “But it was slippery, so I took off my shoes and stockings.” She remembered Caroline’s boldness and added provocatively, “You never said I couldn’t walk on the jetty.”

“The jetty!” repeated Mrs. Lambert. “Oh! Caroline, you foolish girl! Didn’t you know how dangerous that was?”

“I slipped,” admitted Maud. “But I didn’t do it on purpose.”

Mrs. Lambert was weeping again. Her sobs were less violent. They sounded like sobs of relief. “Oh, my dear!”

“I’m sorry,” Maud said meekly.

A rap from the table distracted her.
Rap, rap, rap!
Judith cried out, “Hyacinth! Eleanor — Hyacinth’s stopped breathing!”

Maud pricked up her ears. They were about to begin the second part of the séance: her materialization.

“No, she’s breathing,” Mrs. Lambert contradicted. “I can feel her breath against my fingers.”

“Yes, but she breathes so faintly!” Judith said. “There is danger in this. Her trance is so deep! We must stop. Hyacinth, wake up! My sister — wake up, wake up!”

Three cries of “wake up” meant that Mrs. Lambert had her back to the map closet. Maud pressed against the door and stepped out. Over by the table was a dark triangle — the two women bending over the collapsed Hyacinth. Maud took an extra moment to push the door panel back in place. She left it open by an inch. Then she whispered, “Mama?”

Mrs. Lambert turned. She glimpsed the white-clad figure in the dark. Almost imperceptibly the room brightened; Judith had raised the wick of the kerosene lamp, allowing a little more light. Mrs. Lambert lunged forward, arms outstretched.

Maud fell into them. “Mama,” she whispered as Mrs. Lambert clutched her. Maud could feel the woman trembling; her heart thrummed in Maud’s ear. “Oh, my dear girl,” murmured Mrs. Lambert, and then, as if it were a miracle, “you’re
warm.
”

Maud had no idea why she was crying. She felt Mrs. Lambert’s buttons dig into her cheek. She breathed in the scent of starched linen and lavender water. She wrapped her arms around the rich woman’s waist and hugged back. “I love you, Mama.” The words that had sounded false in rehearsal came easily now. “I love you!”

“Oh, Caroline, I love you, too,” Mrs. Lambert whispered. “I love you, I love you — and oh, my dearest, forgive me those ugly words! I didn’t mean them —”

“I know, Mama.” Maud felt her wig lurch as Mrs. Lambert caressed her curls. She removed one arm from the woman’s waist so that she could hang on to it. “I understand.”

“Help me!” Judith’s voice was a shock. She was almost screaming. “My sister! My sister! Help me!”

Maud felt Mrs. Lambert’s arms loosen. Reluctantly she turned back toward the two spiritualists.

“She’s dying! Help me!”

Slowly, Mrs. Lambert released her phantom daughter. Maud stepped to one side. As soon as she saw Mrs. Lambert lean over Hyacinth, she backed up, step by step, reached for door of the map closet, found it, and hid herself within. She pulled at her skirt, taking care that none of the cloth was caught in the door —

There was a tinkle of broken glass. Someone was screaming. Maud blinked in the darkness. Something was happening on the other side of the panel, something that had not been rehearsed. Hyacinth, who was supposed to be emerging from her trance, was shouting, and Judith, who never lost self-control, was shrieking like a banshee. The din was so terrible that Maud could not distinguish the words. The light outside the door increased — Hyacinth must have turned up the lamp — and the screaming went on. There was a sound like cloth tearing, a heavy thud, and several sharp cracks, different in timbre from Judith’s rappings. “Quickly!” “No time!” “Look there!” “She’s hurt!” and — from Mrs. Lambert — “Your servant —?” and from Hyacinth, sharply, “Out!”

The door slammed. Someone had come in, or gone out, the front door. Maud strained to hear. She heard a queer trickling noise, like a stream with a strong current — the sound of people shouting outside the house — was that Hyacinth? — and then a man, shouting about fire.
There must be a fire,
Maud thought,
and they’ve gone outside to look at it, but why?
It didn’t make sense.

The light outside the door grew brighter. Maud’s nostrils twitched. Something was burning — but supper was over and Muffet never . . .
Smoke.
Still disbelieving, Maud opened the door of the map cupboard.

The room was bright with fire. The kerosene lamp had fallen, and flames sprouted from the broken glass. The tablecloth lay rumpled on the carpet, cradling a lapful of fire. Fire danced on the threshold of the doorway, making the velvet curtains shrink and twitch. The women had left the house just in time.

Maud retreated. She had a crazy desire to rush back inside the map closet, squeeze shut her eyes, and hide until the fire went away. Then Hyacinth’s words came back to her, as clearly as if she stood at Maud’s side.
The wood’s cracked. Too many holes and it’ll splinter into bits.

Maud whirled. Using her body as a battering ram, she flung herself at the back wall of the map cupboard. The wood panel creaked, but it didn’t splinter. Maud cast a frantic look around the room. There was a bronze sailing ship on the mantel — heavy, with a sharp-pointed bow — and she seized it with both hands. Her arms sagged with its weight — it was heavier than it looked — but she gripped it tightly and beat it against the back wall.

At the first blow, the panel splintered. With the second and third, she smashed a hole big enough to crawl through. She forced herself into the breach, wiggling like an animal trapped in a hedge. Her arms toppled the books on the other side of the wall and pushed open the glass doors of the bookcase. She kicked forward until her arms caught hold of the shelf’s front edge. Then she began to pull through.

Only once, at the very beginning of her life, had she fought her way forward with such urgency. The splintered wood gripped her tightly, snagging her dress, gouging her skin. She felt no pain. Head first, she labored, pulling and kicking, until she toppled free and tumbled onto the floor of the library.

She leaped to her feet. She took one last look through the hole in the panel and saw the room was full of smoke. The fire was surging toward the front parlor. Maud raced through the library door, into the hall that led to the kitchen.