A Drowned Maiden's Hair (3 page)

“Something red might be cheerful,” Hyacinth suggested. “She ought to wear bright colors. She needs color.” She reached out and drew a strand of Maud’s dirty hair between her fingers. “Perhaps if her hair were cut shorter —”

Maud objected. “I want to grow it long,” she said. “It used to be longer, but —” She stopped. Better not mention the time when half the girls at the Barbary Asylum were plagued by head lice. “I want it to grow long so I can have ringlets.”

“It won’t do for ringlets,” Hyacinth said. “It’s too thin and it won’t curl. It must be cut here — just below the jaw.” She ran a finger across Maud’s throat and turned back to the saleslady. “We won’t take the yellow, then. Let’s see that red plaid there — is that wool?”

“Red shows at a distance,” Judith pointed out. She sounded as if this were a disadvantage.

“She’ll have a coat,” argued Hyacinth.

Maud said nothing. She held up her arms while the saleswoman removed the green dress and brought forth the red. From time to time she injected a “thank you” into the conversation, but her voice sounded breathy and unreal.

“And then a white dress . . . for best.” Hyacinth turned back to Maud. “You’ve no choice about this, Maud; it must be white. Something with lace,” she told the saleswoman.

“She can choose the sash, if she likes,” suggested Judith.

Maud chose a scarlet sash with long fringe.

“What about toys?” asked Hyacinth, after the saleswoman had taken her money and given her change. “What would you like, Maud?”

“There’s Victoria’s dollhouse —” began Judith.

“If Victoria will let her use it,” said Hyacinth.

“Who’s Victoria?” asked Maud.

The Misses Hawthorne exchanged glances. “Victoria is our sister,” explained Judith. “I am the eldest, and Hyacinth is the youngest. Victoria is in the middle. She has an old dollhouse — a very beautiful one, which I imagine she’ll share with you.”

“Once she gets over the shock,” qualified Hyacinth.

“Hyacinth,” said Judith warningly.

“What about books?” asked Hyacinth briskly. “Are you fond of reading, Maud?”

Maud’s head came up sharply. She had read her way through the single shelf of the books at the Asylum. They were an ill-assorted lot: mostly moral tales with broken spines and missing pages. As if in a dream, she nodded.

The bookstore was even more imposing than the department store. Inside were row upon row of volumes, bound in jewel-toned covers ornamented with gold. The air smelled of leather and enchantment. Maud felt almost as if she were about to be sick. She squeezed her hands together to keep from grabbing the books off the shelf.

“Why don’t you look about?” suggested Hyacinth. “Find whatever you like, and we’ll buy it.”

Maud cast a searching glance at Judith Hawthorne.

“Judith’s buying your schoolbooks,” Hyacinth explained. “History and arithmetic and tedious things like that. You won’t go to school — not at first — so you’ll need to study at home. But you may have storybooks as well.”

Maud’s hand crept toward a copy of
David Copperfield.
There was a copy of
David Copperfield
at the Barbary Asylum, but it had only the first hundred pages. Maud had never been able to find out if Davy escaped from the cruel Murdstones.

“Not that,” Hyacinth said carelessly. “We have a set of Dickens at home. And Scott, of course. Choose something else — whatever you like.”

Whatever you like.
Maud trembled. It could not be true. Perhaps it was a trap, a test to see how greedy she was. She drew her hands back together, interlaced her fingers, and squeezed hard. Judith Hawthorne caught the look on her face. She spoke directly to Maud.

“You may have two books,” she said firmly. “Two of the ones marked a dollar and a half, or a dollar and a quarter.”

Maud let out her breath in a sigh of bliss. Unconsciously, she fitted one knee behind the other and curtsied. “Thank you, ma’am.”

It was not until the Misses Hawthorne boarded the train that Maud was able to open her book. She had ridden in a train once before, when she left St. Anne’s Children’s Home for the Barbary Asylum, and she was glad of it, because it allowed her to assume the nonchalance of a world traveler. She sat down primly, back straight.

“You mustn’t read in the train,” said Judith Hawthorne. “You’ll be sick.”

Maud was sure she would not be sick. She opened her mouth to argue and then remembered that she had made up her mind to be perfectly good. She shut her book, folded her hands on top of it, and answered, “No, ma’am.”

“Miss Hyacinth has something to say to you,” continued Judith, and Maud, getting the hang of it, piped up, “Yes, ma’am.”

The two sisters looked at each other. After a moment, Hyacinth gave a little laugh. “Maudy, do you remember what you said earlier today — about how you would do whatever we asked of you?”

Maud had once slapped a little girl who tried to nickname her Maudy. She replied, “Yes, ma’am. I remember. I meant it, too,” she added generously.

“Good.” Hyacinth hesitated for a moment. “Do you like secrets, Maud?”

Maud thought about it. “I like to
know
secrets,” she said at last, “but I don’t like secrets that aren’t mine.”

Apparently this was not the answer Hyacinth had expected. She changed the subject. “Do you remember what I told you in the bookstore? That you wouldn’t be going to school right away?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Are you sorry for that? Do you mind very much?”

“No, ma’am.”

“That’s good.” Hyacinth lowered her voice mysteriously. “You see, Maud, Judith and I have a secret. If you were to go to school, that secret might come out. In a little while, once we are sure of you, we will tell you everything, but first we have to make sure we can trust you. Later on, we’ll ask you to help us with our work.”

Maud wrinkled her nose at that word
work.
Then she rallied. After all, even if she had to empty chamber pots, or peel potatoes, there would be fewer chamber pots and fewer potatoes than were required for sixty-three little girls. “I’ll help you,” she promised. “At the Asylum . . . well, sometimes I didn’t do exactly what I was supposed to, but that was because Miss Kitteridge was so mean.”

Hyacinth seemed to follow her thoughts. “I don’t mean that kind of work. You won’t have many chores to do, because we have a hired girl. Our work is different. It isn’t hard, but it’s secret. And — just at first — you, too, must be a secret. You’re going to be our secret child.”

Maud’s forehead puckered with bewilderment.

“Our secret child,” repeated Hyacinth. “Doesn’t it sound nice? During the first few weeks of being our little girl, no one’s going to know about you. You won’t go to school. You won’t lack for exercise, because we have a lovely garden, with a high wall round it — but when callers come to the house, you’ll go upstairs, to the third floor and stay hidden. It will be like a game of hide-and-seek. Do you understand?”

Maud cast a sidelong glance at Judith, whose face was serious, almost grim. “I understand the part about hiding,” she ventured. “I mean, I can stay hidden from other people, if you want me to. But I don’t understand why.”

“No, of course you don’t,” Hyacinth said tenderly. “All this must seem terribly mysterious to you — and so sudden.” She put an arm around Maud’s shoulders and drew her close. Her voice grew even softer, as if she were talking to a very little child. “Is it very hard, not knowing? Are you frightened? I can’t bear to think that you should be afraid.”

For a moment, Maud could not think what to do. One part of her wanted to bury her face in Hyacinth’s violet-scented coat. Another part of her understood that she had it in her power to confer a favor. She gave herself a little shake. “No,” she said stoutly. “No, ma’am, I’m not frightened.”

Hyacinth squeezed her again. “You really are a darling girl,” said Hyacinth Hawthorne. “Isn’t she, Judith?”

Judith didn’t answer. The elder Miss Hawthorne had turned to face the window. Her profile was hawklike, with its sharp eyes and Roman nose. Maud had a feeling that Judith didn’t talk about “darlings” very much. A little daunted, she glanced back at Hyacinth.

Hyacinth was smiling faintly. Maud relaxed. It was Hyacinth who mattered, after all — and Hyacinth thought she was a darling girl.

M
aud dreamed. All at once Hyacinth was shaking her, calling her name. The dream broke into fragments and melted away. The train had stopped.

“We get out here,” Judith told her. “Quickly, gather your things.”

Maud fumbled for her books and the brown paper parcel that contained the remnants of her past life: a calico nightgown from the Barbary Asylum, a toothbrush, a comb, and a framed photograph of her mother when her brother was still a baby. She ran her tongue over her dry mouth, tasted the foulness of long sleep, and got to her feet. The Misses Hawthorne led her down the aisle of the train and out onto the platform.

The cold night roused her fully. She was in the country. Overhead, the moon was rising, and the stars were sharp and white. The railroad depot stood at the edge of an empty field, with a grove of trees beyond it. The ground was hard with frost.

“This way,” Hyacinth directed her. “We have a short walk.”

Maud followed her. Never, as long as she remembered, had she been outside by night. With one quick leap, she reached Hyacinth’s side and caught hold of her hand, but Hyacinth’s hand, so caressing before, had grown stiff and cold, like the hand of a doll. Maud’s mind flitted back to the events of the day: the Asylum, the department store, the bookshop, the train ride. She could not think of anything she had done wrong.

“Here.” They had come to the edge of the field and stood before the wood. “Here’s where we go in.”

“Here” was a tangle of black branches and shadowy brush. Maud clutched her new books to her breast. She stepped forward into the greater darkness, raising her face to the moon.

“You’re not afraid of the dark, are you?” asked Hyacinth.

“No,” Maud lied quickly. “That’s for babies.”

“I love the woods at night.” Hyacinth bent over a mound of bushes. She appeared to be searching for something. At last she retrieved it: a lantern. Maud watched as she struck a match and kindled the light. As the flame grew in height, it elongated Hyacinth’s long jaw and the hollows below her cheekbones. For a moment, she looked less like a fairy than a witch.

“It’s three miles to Hawthorne Grove,” Judith said in a low voice. “Come along.”

Maud stepped forward. She kept her eyes fixed downward, lest a snake curl around her ankle or a toad leap out from the underbrush. She wondered if there were large animals in the woods — bobcats or bears. She considered catching hold of the edge of Judith’s coat but thought better of it. Her eyes followed the light as it bobbed along ahead. Hyacinth held the lantern high, stepping briskly. She did not move like an old woman at all.

Maud tagged after her. Her stomach growled: the ice-cream soda had been delicious but not filling. She tucked her fingers in the crooks of her elbows, hugging her books to her chest. She wished she had gloves.

“Come, Maudy!” hissed Hyacinth. “Don’t be slow! I don’t mind crawling along for Judith’s sake — she’s an old woman — but you’re a child; you ought to be able to keep up with me!”

Maud hesitated. Then she plunged forward, careless of the shadows before her. She caught Hyacinth’s mood, and all at once the night was magic. She felt a wildness in her blood. She drank in the sounds of the wood: the brittle underbrush snapping, the small scuffling of her feet against the earth. Her cheeks tingled with the cold. The great dark trees loomed like ogres, but she would be swift and nimble, like a child in a fairy tale; she would dart past them before they could snatch her. Hunger and nightmare forgotten, she danced over the silver grass.

Maud awakened at dawn. Her eyes went from wall to wall, seeking the mustard-colored paint of her old dormitory. It took her a moment to realize that she was in a new room: her room. She sat up in bed and examined it, first with curiosity and then with approval. Wallpaper. It was pale gray, with bunches of pale pink roses and cornflowers — faded, but still pretty. The bed was made of dark wood, with acorns carved on the end of the bedposts. The sheets were clean, the blankets thick. There was a grate but no fire, a washstand, a small table, a straight chair, and a chest for clothing. Nothing was ugly. The only ugly things in sight were her Asylum clothes, lying on the floor.

Maud scrambled out of bed and gathered them up. If she was going to be perfectly good, she would have to take care not to leave her clothes lying about. She folded each item, even her stockings, and laid them on the chair. Then she looked under the bed.

There was no chamber pot. Maud shifted uneasily. She tried to sort out the events of the night before. The wonders of the moonlit wood had not sustained her throughout the walk. It was past midnight when Hyacinth led her out of the woods and through the sleeping town. Maud had meant to look over her new home carefully, but by the time they climbed the stairs of the wide porch, she was staggering with tiredness, longing only for a flat place where she could lie down.