A Drowned Maiden's Hair

by Laura Amy Schlitz

  “Maud,” announced Hyacinth at the breakfast table, “was magnificent.”

  Maud stopped chewing her bacon and tried to look magnificent. It was the morning after the séance, and a lovely one: the sunlight stole through the lace curtains and dappled the tablecloth. Maud was eager to discuss the séance. She felt like an actor after a successful show. She knew she had done well, and she was ready for the others to tell her so. Unfortunately, Judith was scanning the columns of the newspaper; Victoria was removing the crusts from her toast.

  “She was,” insisted Hyacinth. “I told you she would be.”

  Judith looked up. “She did well enough,” she remarked, to Maud’s disgust. Judith felt that lavish praise, like rich food, was bad for children.

  “She did a good deal better than well enough,” Hyacinth insisted, defending her protégée. “She did everything at exactly the right time, and she never giggled once. And her singing was perfect — neither too loud nor too soft.”

  “Did we get the money?” inquired Maud, slathering her toast with marmalade.

  It was the wrong thing to say. Hyacinth made a little moue of distaste. Victoria looked at Maud as if she were a dead mouse in the pantry. “Really, Maud!”

  “Why shouldn’t she ask about the money?” broke in Judith. “What we do, we do for money. The child’s part of it now. She might as well speak plainly.”

  Maud flashed Judith a look of astonished gratitude. She could scarcely believe that Judith, the strictest of the sisters, was taking up for her.

  “Very well, then.” Victoria pushed her plate away. “We will speak plainly. Mr. Burckhardt gave us the money — enough to pay for doctors that Hyacinth doesn’t need and a bit more so that Hyacinth can travel to Cape Calypso for sea air. It seems that Mr. Burckhardt has forgotten that we own the cottage in Cape Calypso —”

  “I didn’t remind him,” Hyacinth put in nimbly.

  “— and gave us money for rent,” concluded Victoria. “So yes, Maud, we got the money. Quite a lot of it, since Burckhardt is as openhanded as he is foolish.”

  Maud regarded Victoria warily. The older woman looked as if she had scarcely slept. Her hair was bundled up any old way, and her collar was open. Usually she wore a cameo with a lady’s head. Maud missed it. She wished Victoria would go upstairs and tidy herself up.

  “Speaking of the cottage in Cape Calypso,” Hyacinth said silkily, “why don’t you tell Maud how we came by it, Victoria? Your morals weren’t always as dainty as they are now — were they?”

  Victoria gave her sister one murderous glance. Then she rose so violently that her chair rocked back and fell over. Without another word, she swept out of the room.

  Judith righted the chair. She frowned at her sister. “You go too far.”

  “It’s such a waste,” said Hyacinth. “She used to be a perfectly good medium. Now she’s turned pious. It’s such a bad example for Maud.”

  Judith jerked her head in Maud’s direction. “Do you really think she can play Caroline Lambert?”

  “I’m sure of it,” Hyacinth said staunchly. “You should hear her read the part of Lord Fauntleroy — you wouldn’t think it, but she’s sweet. She’s quite the little actress.”

  “Do you really think that reading Little Lord Fauntleroy will prepare her?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Hyacinth answered serenely. “As long as she’s properly rehearsed, she ought to be able to play any number of angel children — female or male. She’s quite convincing as a boy, actually — makes Fauntleroy a bit less precious. It’s a pity no one’s lost a little boy.”

  Maud leaned across the table. “Is that why we read Lord Fauntleroy? I thought we were just playing.”

  Judith said slowly, “Hyacinth doesn’t play.”

  “No,” agreed Hyacinth. “I wanted you to make a special study of Fauntleroy because he was an angel child. Sweet and pure and polite. Grieving parents always fancy they’ve lost a little angel child.”

  Maud sat back in her chair, crestfallen. So that was what Hyacinth had meant in her letter: She will be our perfect little angel child. She had been alluding to Maud’s acting ability. It had been foolish to imagine that anyone, even Hyacinth, would consider Maud angelic. Maud felt her cheeks getting hot. She was glad no one knew the mistake she had made.

  “Is she too boyish to play Caroline?”

  “No,” answered Hyacinth, “and besides, Caroline Lambert was a little hoyden. Otherwise she wouldn’t have drowned.”

  The word drowned got Maud’s attention. “Why did she drown?”

  Hyacinth gazed across the table, out the window. Her eyes were dreamy.

  “‘O Mary, go and call the cattle home,

  And call the cattle home,

  And call the cattle home,

  Across the sands of Dee.’

  The western wind was wild and dank with foam,

  And all alone went she.”

  There was a brief silence, followed by Maud’s “What?”

  “A very sensible question,” Judith said approvingly. “Don’t be poetical, Hyacinth — it tries my nerves and the child doesn’t appreciate it. Hyacinth is reciting poetry about a girl who drowned, but poetry doesn’t come into it. Caroline Lambert died because she went bathing when her mother forbade it.”

  “She was alone.” Hyacinth took up the story. “It was the last day of her holiday in Cape Calypso, and there’d been a storm the night before. Caroline wanted to go to the ocean one last time, but her mother — Eleanor Lambert — was too busy packing.”

  “Eleanor Lambert spoiled that child.”

  Hyacinth shrugged. “Undoubtedly. At any rate, that was one morning when Caroline didn’t get her way. Her mother was too busy to take her to the ocean, and Caroline wasn’t allowed to go by herself. Then Caroline changed her tune. She wanted to ride the flying horses —”

  “What flying horses?” asked Maud.

  “The horses on the carousel.” Hyacinth saw that Maud had not yet understood. “Gracious, child, haven’t you seen a carousel?”

  Maud shook her head.

  “It’s a ride at the amusement park. The carousel, the flying horses, the merry-go-round —”

  “I’ve heard of merry-go-rounds,” Maud said, eager to regain ground. “Only I’ve never seen one.”

  “There’s a fine one in Cape Calypso. The wood carvings are splendid — horses and tigers and zebras. There’s even a giraffe — and a tabby cat — all kinds of animals. Caroline’s favorite was a sort of sea monster. Odd to think of that now, isn’t it?”

  Maud had a hazy but dazzling image of herself on the back of a tiger. She wore the white dress trimmed with lace, and her scarlet sash fluttered in the breeze. “Will I ride the merry-go-round?”

  “It isn’t likely,” answered Judith, dashing her hopes. “Remember, in Cape Calypso, you’ll be even more of a secret than you are here. You’ll be spending most of your time in the attic.”

  Maud digested this news in silence.

  “Eventually” — Hyacinth raised her voice and went on with the story she was telling — “Caroline Lambert switched her plea from one last swim to one last ride. The carousel was close to the hotel where they were staying. Caroline knew the way — she was in the habit of riding every day. So Mrs. Lambert emptied her purse into Caroline’s greedy little paws and told her to come back when the money was spent. Only she never came back.”

  Maud’s imagination conjured up another picture: another little girl, almost her twin, vanishing into thin air. “Maybe she didn’t drown,” she said tentatively. “Maybe someone kidnapped her. Or she ran away.”

  “She drowned,” Judith informed her. “First she went to the carousel and spent her mother’s money. Then she went in the water — in her street clothes, not her bathing dress. They found the body. She was her mother’s only child.”

  “They row’d her in across the rolling foam,

  The cruel crawling foam,

  The cruel hungry foam,

&n
bsp; To her grave beside the sea.”

  “Hyacinth,” Judith said disdainfully.

  Maud considered the fate of Caroline Lambert. It frightened her that a child had died. It was sadder and scarier than Mr. Burckhardt’s silly Agnes. “What did she look like?”

  “Tall for her age — she was eight. Exceptionally pretty, by all accounts. Long curls. An angel child,” Hyacinth answered.

  Maud’s sympathy for the victim wavered and dissolved.

  “She’ll need a wig,” Judith reminded her sister.

  “I know that.” Hyacinth sounded offended. “I’ve ordered one from a theatrical costumer.” She directed her attention back to Maud. “Eleanor Lambert offered five thousand dollars to any medium who could produce a genuine manifestation of her child.”

  Maud’s head jerked up. “Five thousand dollars?”

  “Five thousand dollars. Enough to pay off the mortgage with a comfortable balance left over.” Judith looked straight into Maud’s eyes. “You see how much is at stake.”

  “It won’t be easy,” Hyacinth warned Maud. “Unlike Burckhardt, Eleanor Lambert is no fool. And she’s been tricked before. Last year, she employed a certain Madame Zauberlicht. She caught the medium pretending to be Caroline.”

  “How could a grown-up pretend to be a little girl?”

  “She was walking around the room on her knees,” Hyacinth explained. “The idiot! Eleanor Lambert reached for her child and found a grown woman kneeling by her chair. It was grotesque. Zauberlicht was ruined, and a good thing too. People like that give the profession a bad name.”

  “Hyacinth has spent the last year trying to gain Mrs. Lambert’s trust,” Judith told Maud. “That’s why she’s spent so much time in Cape Calypso. She’s managed to persuade Eleanor Lambert that there are honest mediums — and that she’s one of them.”

  “She trusts me,” Hyacinth said. “She is fond of me, even. She’s almost ready . . . and now we have Maud.” She brushed her palm against Maud’s cheek. “You see, Maudy? Do you see why we need you so badly?”

  Maud nodded, grave-faced. She saw.

  Hyacinth was restless. Maud had come to see the power of Hyacinth’s moods: if she was merry, the household seemed brighter; if she was angry or bored, the house fell silent, and the silence was ominous. In the days that followed the séance, Hyacinth’s moods changed a dozen times. Sometimes she darted about like a moth, astonishing Maud with her energy, teasing and flattering so deftly that Maud danced on air. At other times, she withdrew to her room, wanting only to be alone. Maud knocked at her bedroom door, but no one answered, and the door stayed locked.

  It was not only Hyacinth who seemed on edge. Victoria had not forgiven her sister for what she had said about the cottage in Cape Calypso; her manner was stiff and cold. Even Judith seemed to have altered a little. She was more matter-of-fact than usual, signaling that she was not going to be drawn into the quarrel between her sisters.

  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 soft
ened 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.