Again, Maud shook her head.
It was Victoria who answered. “Spiritualism is a religion. Spiritualists believe that the spirits of the dead dwell with God. They have been made pure, and they wish to help the living on earth.”
“Victoria is a spiritualist,” commented Judith.
Maud turned interested eyes on Victoria. “Is that why you never go to church?”
Hyacinth’s smile broadened, but Victoria remained serious. “Yes, it is. Spiritualists don’t believe that God is kept inside a church. We believe that He is present all around us, and He has no need of priests or ministers. We believe that all men and women — women, too, mind you — are equal in the sight of God. The Lord speaks directly to every one of us.”
Maud considered this. “I think I’m a Catholic,” she said politely, “but spiritualism sounds good, too. I like it that you don’t go to church.”
Hyacinth giggled. “Oh, Maud, you are the most delicious child!” — but Judith shook her head.
“We seem to be wandering from the point,” complained Judith. “She doesn’t have to know everything about spiritualism.”
“I wanted her to know that there was another side —” began Victoria. Her cheeks were flushed with annoyance. This time it was Hyacinth who interrupted.
“You may tell her as much as you like later on. Judith is right. We ought to go on. Maud, do you know what a medium is?”
Maud’s puzzlement increased. “It’s between good and bad,” she answered. “Or hot or cold. It’s halfway between two things.”
“No,” Hyacinth said. “Or rather, yes, that’s one kind of medium, but there is another. In spiritualism, a medium is one who can call up the spirits of the dead.”
“You mean — raise the ghosts?”
“Not ghosts,” Hyacinth said irritably. “For heaven’s sake, child, take that word out of your vocabulary! No, a medium is a person who stands between the living and the dead. The medium can put the living in touch with the spirits.” She paused, waiting for the words to sink in. “And because a great many people miss their loved ones, sometimes they pay a medium a lot of money in order to speak with those who have gone before.”
She let the words trail off. Maud gazed into Hyacinth’s face. The old woman’s eyes were sparkling with mischief and pride. Maud sensed that there was something she was meant to guess. When she realized what it was, her hand shot up, as if she were in school. “I know!” she cried out triumphantly. “You’re a medium!”
Hyacinth nodded demurely. She lowered her lashes, her lips curved like the mouth of a cat. “I have that power, yes,” she acknowledged. “Not always, but sometimes, the spirits speak through me —”
A thought flashed through Maud’s head like a jag of lightning. “Could you find my mother?” she begged. She forgot her manners and knelt up on her chair, straining across the table toward Hyacinth. “Could you make it so I could talk to my mother?”
She was startled by the sound of Victoria’s chair scraping against the floor. Victoria was halfway to the door. “I can’t bear this,” the old woman said in a low, taut voice. “Better to have a millstone around my neck and be cast into the sea —”
“Victoria, be quiet!” Judith commanded. “Come and sit. We have all agreed.” She looked back toward Maud. “You have not been plain with her, Hyacinth. She’s a sharp child, but she’s still a child. You must tell her — truthfully — what we are and what you do.”
“It sounds so coarse,” protested Hyacinth.
“Very well, then, I will say it.” Judith looked directly into Maud’s eyes. “We are frauds, shams, tricksters. Hyacinth can no more raise the dead than I can fly to the moon. There is no way that you could use Hyacinth’s powers to speak to your dead mother. There are no such powers.”
“Judith —”
“Be quiet, Victoria. Let us be plain.” Judith held up her hand for silence. “Victoria believes that there are genuine mediums — but I have never met with one. I never expect to meet one. We deal in trickery.”
“Why?” asked Maud.
“Why?” Judith gave a short laugh. “Because there is money in trickery, and we need the money.”
Maud leaned back in her chair. It was true then: the Hawthorne sisters weren’t rich after all. Her eyes went from the silver candlesticks to the gold-framed pictures on the walls.
“This house is mortgaged,” Judith said. “Victoria owns a cottage in Cape Calypso — we could sell that, except that is where we ply our trade. We seldom hold séances here, in Hawthorne Grove.” She sounded scandalized by the very thought. “The Hawthornes have always been respected in Hawthorne Grove.”
“What’s a séance?” asked Maud.
Hyacinth leaned forward, her face crinkling with amusement and excitement. “A séance is like . . . oh, like a very exciting party game. People who want to talk to the dead sit around the table, with the lights very low — the spirits don’t like the light, you see, which is just as well, because we don’t like it, either. It’s so much easier to trick people in the dark. At any rate, once the lights are out, we pray or sing hymns, and after a while, the medium — that is, I — fall into a trance. It looks a bit like fainting, but I can still speak. Then the spirits of the dead talk to the living — using my voice, you understand. Or sometimes, the dead appear.”
“I thought you said you couldn’t do that,” protested Maud.
“We can’t really do it,” Hyacinth explained, “but we can manage a very pretty little show. A mask at the end of a fishing pole, for example, is very effective. Remember, it’s quite dark. People see a white face floating in midair, and they’re sure it’s dear old Cousin Lucy. Add a beard and it’s Uncle Matthew.”
“Do people really believe that?” Maud was incredulous.
“My poppet,” said Hyacinth, “you would be amazed at what people believe. You must remember that the lights are low, and they came here wanting, longing — oh, dying to see Cousin Lucy or Uncle Matthew. And then, we prepare them, with music and darkness and prayers. . . . Your singing voice will be a godsend — so pure, so childish . . . and I brought you a little glockenspiel — I thought you might learn to play it.”
“Me?”
“Of course, you,” answered Hyacinth. “I knew the minute I saw you that you were just the person to help us. You’re so tiny — you can fit into all sorts of places — under the table, in the map cupboard, even in the dumbwaiter, if need be. I’ll teach you how to play the tambourine and how to make the chandelier swing in the wind when there isn’t any wind —”
Maud’s face broke out into a grin of stupefaction.
“And I’ll teach you to be Caroline.” Hyacinth reached across the table — Maud could have told her that this was bad manners — so that her fingertips brushed the hair by Maud’s earlobe. The caress was so light that it made Maud’s skin prickle. “We’ll need a wig — Caroline had long ringlets. But —”
“Who’s Caroline?” Maud knew that she had encountered the name recently, but she couldn’t remember when.
“Caroline Lambert. The dead child of my very wealthy friend Mrs. Lambert. The drowned child. That’s why I brought you home with me, my darling Maud — so that you could play the part of Caroline Lambert.”
On 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 t
he 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.” Hy
acinth 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.”
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