“Yes,” she croaked back, “it’s me.”
They gazed at each other with an alertness, even a skepticism, that a spectator might have thought funny. “I wasn’t sure you were really here,” Samm’l said warily. He added, “You look well.”
“I am well,” answered Maud, raising her chin. She knew he was not speaking of her health. She was suddenly conscious of the shine on her new boots, the crispness of her petticoats, the dainty cleanliness of her whole person. She inspected him in turn. His clothes were drenched with rainwater and looked too wide for him. He was tall and lanky, and his sandy hair had darkened to mouse color.
“I’m glad you’re well,” he said awkwardly.
“So’m I,” said Maud. She looked away from him. Her eyes passed over the furniture she dusted every day, the gold-framed pictures and wax flowers under glass. Samm’l was out of place in this parlor. He knew it, too.
“Won’t you sit down?” asked Maud, as stately as Judith herself.
“No.” He dug his hands deeper into his pockets. “That is, yes. Maybe I will.” He looked at the needlepoint chairs with their spindly legs and the rococo settee. “I’m kind of wet. You’re sure it’s all right?”
“Yes, of course.”
He lowered himself to the settee and took his hands out of his pockets. He held them between his knees and stared down at the carpet. Hold your head up, Samm’l! Maud almost jumped; her mother’s voice was so clear in her mind. Throw your shoulders back! It’s the cheapest way to tell the world you’re somebody!
“Maud,” Samm’l said hesitantly, “I wanted to see you — well, I wanted to see you before I said good-bye.”
Maud felt as if he had punched her in the stomach. For a moment she could not breathe. Then she spoke. “We already said good-bye,” she reminded him.
“I know.” Samm’l’s face was pale. “That day — at St. Anne’s. That’s part of what I wanted to say — how sorry I am about that day.” He looked up again. His eyes were like hers — blue-gray, but so deep set that they looked darker. “I’ve been sorry for six years.”
“Then why are you going away again?” argued Maud.
Samm’l flushed, tweaking Maud’s memory a second time. As a child he had reddened easily: with anger, with embarrassment, with laughter. “It’s not my fault,” he said. “The Vines are going west. The last few years, the harvest hasn’t been good, and they can get cheap land out there.” He seemed to sense that he was getting nowhere, and began again. “I asked Mr. Vine if we could take you with us, seeing as how we’re starting out fresh, but there isn’t much money. But I’ll be grown-up soon.” He leaned forward. Something kindled in his eyes. “I’ll get my own farm, and when I do, I’ll send for you and give you a home.”
Maud broke in. “I have a home,” she said tightly. She waved a hand, directing his attention to the parlor. “This is my home.”
He had not expected that. Once again, she saw his face change and his color rise. She felt a flash of pity for him.
“Look here, Maud, are you still angry with me?”
“For what?”
“For taking a home with the Vines.” He opened his hands, palms up. “Look here. Are you going to stand up the whole time? Because if you are, I’ll stand up, too.”
Maud flopped down in the nearest chair. The words look here unlocked a roomful of memories. A boy with a serious freckled face . . . Look here, Maud, if you want to make a fist, you’ve got to keep your thumb on top of the other fingers. And Look here, Maud, you can’t bathe the cat! She remembered how impressed she had been by his knowledge of the world. Her face softened, and she almost smiled.
“I’m sitting,” she informed her brother.
“I see you are.” He risked a brief grin before going back to what he came to say. “That day — when the Vines came and Kit and I left you behind — I’ve always felt bad about it. I must have seemed old to you, being eleven and all, but I guess I still felt young to me. I thought I had to do what everyone told me.”
Maud considered. She was eleven. “Maybe you did.”
“What do you mean, I did?” His face twisted in pain. “There you were, five years old, and I was your big brother. I ought to have stayed behind to look after you — I ought to have told them —”
Maud interrupted him. “Don’t be stupid,” she said crossly. “They wouldn’t have let you. Grown-ups always get their own way.”
Samm’l’s face was filled with hope. “Do you really believe that?” he asked. “I mean, do you forgive me?”
Maud shook her head in confusion. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t ever think about that day. It was the worst day of my life.” She saw him wince and felt sorry for him again. “I guess when Mama died, that was really the worst, but I don’t remember that. Anyway” — she swallowed — “I was pretty bad that day.”
“You weren’t bad,” Samm’l said gently.
“Yes, I was,” Maud contradicted him. “I kicked that old Mr. Vine and I screamed. It’s no wonder they didn’t want me.”
“That’s not what happened,” Samm’l said firmly. “Don’t you remember? That was what you did after they said they were taking me and Kit. That was when you threw a fit.”
Maud shook her head. “No.”
“Yes, it was,” insisted Sam. “When you understood we were leaving you behind — that was when you threw a tantrum.” His mouth twisted into a grin. “It was a pretty good tantrum, too. You left teeth marks in my hand.”
Maud had forgotten that. She glanced guiltily at his hand, as if the marks might be there still. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” Samm’l looked at her intently. “By God and all the saints, I swear it.”
Maud’s voice was a thread. “Then why didn’t they like me?”
“Well,” gulped Samm’l, “I don’t rightly know — but it wasn’t anything bad you did. The thing was, they wanted me for farmwork, and then, Mrs. Vine, she just fell in love with Kit. Kit’s always been as pretty as a picture — still is, in fact — and you’d been making mud pies.” He looked at her, shamefaced. “I don’t know what to tell you, Maud. They took a fancy to Kit, and they needed me, and I guess that’s about it.”
Maud nodded dumbly.
“I wish it had been different.”
“I don’t,” Maud said, between clenched teeth. “Because if those Vines had adopted me, I’d never have come here.” Her gesture took in the faded splendor of the parlor. “This is a better home for me. And Hyacinth Hawthorne — she’s the one who chose me — she wanted me.” She threw the word at him as if it could knock him flat. “She liked me the minute she set eyes on me. And she’s rich,” she finished stoutly.
“I can see she is.” Samm’l inclined his head. “That’s right, Maud! You look at the bright side. Mother used to say, ‘Maud’ll fall on her feet no matter what.’ That’s what she used to say.”
“I have four dresses and books of my own,” Maud shot back, “and we never have oatmeal, and there’s a servant.”
“Good!” Samm’l said heartily. “That’s great, Maud! I couldn’t be happier.”
There was a sudden silence.
“Though it’s funny,” said Samm’l.
Maud had lost track of the conversation. “What’s funny?”
“The way the old lady acted,” answered Samm’l. “When I asked her if you lived here, she said you didn’t. And then I said you must, and she told me to go away. I said I had to see you, because I was your brother, and that’s when she got red in the face and started stammering. First she said I couldn’t, and then she told me to come inside and wait.”
“Oh.”
Samm’l waited for her to explain.
Maud linked her fingers together and turned them inside out. “I’m kind of a secret.”
“A secret?” Samm’l’s brows drew together. “What kind of secret?”
Maud took a few moments before she answered. “I don’t know,” she said blankly. “They haven’t told me
yet. All I know is, no one’s supposed to know I live here. The neighbors don’t know, and they mustn’t. You can’t tell, either.”
Samm’l leaned forward, peering into his sister’s eyes. “I think you’re telling a lie,” he said.
“I’m not,” Maud said earnestly. “Honest. That’s how it is.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Samm’l argued. “Why would anybody adopt a little girl and keep her secret? It sounds to me as if they’re up to something that isn’t right.”
“What, then?” Maud threw out her hands. “What could it be?”
Samm’l’s brow knotted.
Maud’s voice sank to a whisper. “I can’t figure it out, either.”
“Are they good to you?”
Maud nodded vehemently. “They give me everything I want,” she said. “Beautiful dresses and books and the food is so good — bacon at breakfast and meat every night — and dessert. They let me eat s’much as I want. And there’s a bathtub and a water closet, and I don’t have to do any chores except lessons and setting the table and dusting. And Hyacinth Hawthorne, she says I’m clever, and she likes the way I sing. And nobody’s hit me — ever — or even slapped me.”
“There aren’t any men around, are there?” inquired Samm’l. “Coming to the house at night, after dark?”
“No,” Maud said firmly. “They’re old maids. And they’re ladies,” she added, as if that clinched it. Maud’s ideas of social class were as vague as they were snobbish, but she knew that ladies did not do wicked things.
“Do they go to church?”
“Judith does,” Maud answered. “Victoria doesn’t. But she’s always reading the Bible, and she makes me learn a psalm every Sunday.”
Samm’l shook his head again. Then he gave a little leap, as if he had just remembered something. “I almost forgot.” He dug into his pockets and brought out a necklace of coral beads. “I wanted you to have it. ’Twas Mother’s.”
Maud’s hand went out. The beads were warm from the heat of her brother’s body. A silver crucifix hung from one end of the necklace. Carefully she spread the string of beads over her fingers, preparing to put it on.
“You don’t wear it,” Samm’l said critically. “It’s a rosary — Mother’s coral rosary. Each bead is a prayer. Don’t you remember? Mother was Catholic. Kit and I” — he frowned, as if embarrassed — “well, the Vines are Presbyterian, so we’ve had to be Presbyterians, too, but once I’m a man, I’m going to be Catholic again. You ought to be Catholic, too. It’s what Mother would want. You ought to go to Mass every Sunday.”
“I can’t,” Maud said. “I don’t go out.”
They were back to the secret again. Maud watched her brother’s face knot with incomprehension. “I don’t like it,” he said. “I don’t like leaving you in a place where I don’t know what’s going on.”
Maud watched him. A cold wisdom passed through her mind. She knew that he would leave her whether he liked it or not.
“I like it here.” She spoke so forcefully that he flinched. “I don’t care if I have to be a secret. I want to stay here. Promise me” — she clutched his hand — “promise me you won’t tell anyone. If the neighbors find out I live here, I might get sent back to the Asylum.” She held out the rosary. “Promise. Swear it on Mama’s necklace.”
Samm’l took her hand, but he did not promise. Instead, he pulled her into his arms.
Maud hid her face against his sodden jacket. He smelled of wet wool and wood smoke and cows. It was the smell of the home she had lost, and all at once she could remember it. She envisioned the farmhouse kitchen, with her father’s boots just inside the door and her mother’s geraniums by the window. She remembered the touch of her mother’s skirts and the softness of her mother’s lap. She gritted her teeth. She had raged and cried when Samm’l left before. This time she wouldn’t shed a tear. She threw back her head and spoke fiercely. “Promise. Promise not to tell.”
“I promise,” Samm’l said. He drew her close again and she sagged against him, closing her eyes in relief.
After Samm’l’s visit, Maud became a spy in her own home.
She knew that curiosity was risky. She wasn’t supposed to ferret out the secret that hung over her; she was supposed to wait patiently until the Hawthorne sisters trusted her enough to explain it. That was part of being perfectly good. But Samm’l’s doubts were catching. He had seemed convinced that there was something sinister about being a secret child. Maud wanted to prove him wrong.
Accordingly, she began to search. She knew not to ask questions, but she eavesdropped whenever she could. She discovered that one of the empty rooms on the third floor had a broken shutter: if she squatted down eye level to the break, she could look out the window.
She saw nothing that seemed strange to her. The little town of Hawthorne Grove appeared sunny and prosperous. She saw horses and carriages, the ladies with their parasols, the gentlemen returning home in the evening. Enviously, she watched the children: the boys who ran races, the girls who walked arm in arm. It occurred to Maud that she missed being with other children. She had never been popular with girls her own age, but it was odd, living in a world of old ladies.
Maud spied when she dusted the parlor. She pored over the family photograph album, noting that the child Hyacinth had been irresistibly pretty, while her sisters — Judith and Victoria were at least ten years older — were only so-so. She scrutinized the books in the locked bookcases, observing that a depressing number of volumes were devoted to the subject of God and the spiritual life.
There was only one conclusion that Maud was able to draw from the Hawthorne parlor, and it was an unwelcome one: the Hawthorne sisters were not as rich as she had thought. The parlor, so rich and imposing at first glance, showed signs of age. The heavy curtains were stiff with dry rot, and the upholstery of the chairs was riddled with tiny rents, as if someone had pierced them with a dagger. The garden was overgrown. The Hawthorne ladies kept no carriage and no servant but Muffet. They were sparing with coal.
Maud puzzled over these economies. She wondered why, if the Hawthorne sisters were in need of money, they had chosen to adopt a child. She estimated the price of her dresses and books, and she realized that she had cost the sisters nearly thirty dollars on the very first day. It was a shocking sum of money to waste. Maud remembered what Hyacinth had said: she was going to help them with their work. What kind of work would require the help of a secret child?
Pondering these questions, Maud grew reckless. On an afternoon when the sisters had set off for a concert, she determined to search their bedrooms. As Judith had taught her, she removed her boots and descended the stairs in stocking feet. The room closest to the stairway was Judith’s. Maud hesitated only a moment before going in.
Judith’s room was large and dim. The curtains were drawn and the wallpaper was olive green. The four-poster bed with its matching dresser was carved walnut, glossy and nearly black. A portrait of a stern-faced gentleman hung over the mantel. Maud knew from the photograph album that it was the Hawthorne sisters’ father. Cowed by his disapproving glare, Maud hastened to the next room.
Hyacinth’s bedroom was the most beautiful room in the house. It had a freshness that the other chambers lacked: the colors were lighter and the furniture less heavy. The two armchairs before the fireplace were cozily padded, with slender legs that ended in little gold claws. Everything, from the curtains at the window to the canopy over the bed, was dainty and new. Maud took a nostalgic peep into the jewel box and proceeded to open the drawers of the dressing table. Handkerchiefs, gloves, fans . . . There was an ivory powder box with a swansdown puff, a silver lorgnette, and a bottle of scent. Maud stroked the powder puff over her face, eyed the results in the mirror, and rubbed the powder onto her sleeve. It would be agreeable to linger and play with Hyacinth’s things, but she had no idea how long the sisters would be gone. She replaced the powder box and tiptoed out of the room.
Victoria’s room was the least tidy of
the three and held a small bookcase with glass doors. Maud squatted down to look inside. Jane Eyre, Lady Audley’s Secret, Northanger Abbey, Hesper the Home Spirit, The White People, The Woman in White . . . The Woman in White had a piece of paper sticking out of it — not, Maud saw, a bookmark.
She slid it out and unfolded it, catching the scent of violets. That was Hyacinth’s scent; the miniature, curlicue handwriting belonged to Hyacinth. Unfortunately, in an attempt to save paper, Hyacinth had written the beginning of her letter in one direction and then turned the paper sideways, writing the second half of the letter on top of the first, so that the lines crossed at right angles. It was almost impossible to read. Maud turned it, squinting, trying to catch a line here and there.
. . . though Mrs. Lambert is a generous hostess, she is unwilling to tell me much about Caroline. Even now, she does not trust me. I feel certain that she is holding something back — some circumstance about Caroline’s death that she has told no one —
Maud frowned. She knew that Mrs. Lambert was the friend that kept Hyacinth in Cape Calypso. Maud resented her. She wasn’t interested in stupid Mrs. Lambert or the dead Caroline. She skipped several paragraphs.
Of course it is not in keeping with our agreement that we should entertain Burckhardt in Hawthorne Grove, but I assure you there is no risk, since he leaves the following morning to catch the steamer from Baltimore. I expect to arrive home on the twenty-ninth, which should give us time to get ready — Burckhardt will visit on the seventh. This is the perfect occasion to try out Maud, and see how she shapes.
Maud’s breath quickened at the sight of her name.
By the by, how is Maud? It’s been an entire week without one of her blotchy little letters, and I feel quite neglected. Has she forgotten me? I rejoice to hear that her table manners are improving, though, to judge from her letters, her grammar is not yet perfect. Never mind, I have great hopes for Maud. I am convinced she will be our perfect little angel child —
Maud glowed. An angel child! She caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror and saw herself rosy with happiness. She looked quite pretty. So that was how Hyacinth saw her — as an angel child! Maud was as astonished as she was delighted. At the Barbary Asylum, every child was strictly classified: a girl was pretty or plain, clever or stupid, good or bad. Maud knew quite well that she was plain, clever, and bad. She gave her reflection a disbelieving smile before returning to the letter.
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