A Drowned Maiden's Hair

by Laura Amy Schlitz

  “Maud” — Hyacinth’s voice quavered — “what did you call me?”

  Maud licked her lips. “Dearest,” she said tentatively.

  “Dearest?” Hyacinth’s face lit up. “Oh, Maud! Do you really think you’re Little Lord Fauntleroy and I’m your mother?”

  All at once Maud knew she had made a terrible mistake. “I meant — it was a joke,” she said hastily.

  But it was too late. “Maud — pretending to be Lord Fauntleroy! ‘Dearest’!” Hyacinth chortled. “What a funny little girl you are, Maud Flynn!”

  To Maud’s horror, she felt her eyes fill with tears. “It was a joke,” she insisted frantically, but Hyacinth’s laughter drowned out her words. “Maud — trying to be Little Lord Fauntleroy!” Laughter trilled from her, and even Judith succumbed to a rusty chuckle.

  Then Victoria said, “The hack’s come,” and Maud saw her chance to escape. She turned on her heel and rushed upstairs, not troubling to mute her footsteps.

  She ran to her room and sank down on the floor. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. She had never been more humiliated in her life — not even when Miss Kitteridge hauled up her petticoat and spanked her in front of the entire orphanage. Do you really think you’re Little Lord Fauntleroy and I’m your mother? Oh! Maud wanted to crawl under the bed and hide, like a sick animal. She moaned with shame, covering her mouth with her hands.

  The bedroom door creaked. Maud raised an anguished, blotchy face and glowered at Victoria.

  “Maud?” Victoria said. She broke off. “I’ve never seen you cry before.”

  Maud’s eyes darted around the room, seeking a missile. The closest thing at hand was a discarded stocking. Maud grabbed it and hurled it at Victoria.

  It was not an effective weapon. Victoria was not even annoyed. She sat down on the bed. With some difficulty, she began to lower herself to the floor. “I’m sorry Hyacinth hurt your feelings,” she said. “Sometimes Hyacinth makes fun of things that other people . . . don’t. My dear, it isn’t so bad as all that! Don’t cry so!”

  “I hate Hyacinth,” stormed Maud, and all at once, it was true. She thought of her unanswered letters and unanswered questions, of the times when Hyacinth pinched or slapped playfully and it hurt. She remembered a hundred slights she had managed to ignore because she wanted Hyacinth to be perfect.

  “No, you don’t,” soothed Victoria, and Maud felt her heart twist: that was true, too. She adored Hyacinth, and Hyacinth had laughed at her and left without saying sorry or good-bye. Her sobs rose to a wail.

  Victoria put her arm around Maud’s shoulder. “It was very unkind of Hyacinth. It was cruel of her to laugh at you. Maud, listen to me. It isn’t wrong to be affectionate. And it isn’t funny, either.”

  Maud wiped her nose on her wrist and scowled at Victoria. She wished the old woman would put both arms around her and hug her properly. Victoria always got everything wrong.

  “I think,” Victoria said hesitantly, “I think Dearest is a lovely thing to call someone. I would love to have someone call me Dearest.”

  “I’m never going to call anyone Dearest again,” Maud said savagely.

  On the morning of the journey to Cape Calypso, Maud rose before dawn and followed Victoria through the woods, retracing the path that had brought her to Hawthorne Grove three months ago. The morning was foggy and humid; the sun had not yet risen. Without Hyacinth, Maud found the semidarkness of the wood less enchanting than before. She was glad to emerge from the shadow of the trees and take her place on the station platform. Victoria stooped and kissed her cheek.

  “Remember,” Victoria said, “Muffet and I will get on at the very next stop. We’ll sit where you can see us. It’s better if you don’t speak to us, but if you think you can’t manage, or someone frightens you, come to me.”

  “I can manage,” Maud said curtly. Her stomach was upset. She wasn’t used to eating breakfast in the dark, and her whole body felt queer.

  Victoria glanced along the platform. “The farmers will be here soon,” she said. “You won’t be alone long. Remember — don’t talk to strangers. Do you have your ticket and your money?”

  “I’ve got it.” Maud unclenched her fist and showed a knotted-up handkerchief. A rectangle of cardboard showed through the cloth.

  “Don’t lose it.” Victoria seemed reluctant to leave her. She looked up at the sky. “I don’t think it’s going to rain, but if it does, your parasol —”

  “It won’t rain,” Maud said impatiently. She knew what Victoria was going to say: if it rained, she could use her new parasol as an umbrella. As far as Maud was concerned, this was useless advice. The parasol was made of silk, and Maud had no intention of subjecting it to water spots. If it rained, she would fling herself on top of it in order to protect it. “Hadn’t you better go?” It was the whole point of getting up early and coming to this place — that no one should see her with Victoria.

  Victoria’s lips tightened. “Don’t be rude,” she admonished Maud. “It’s disrespectful to speak to me like that. I only want to make sure —” She broke off. “Muffet and I will get on at the next station,” she repeated.

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Maud. Victoria studied her for a moment and then turned away. A moment later she had vanished into the mist.

  The farmers’ carts arrived a few minutes later. Victoria had explained to Maud that this was where the train picked up milk from the neighboring farms. Maud kept to the farthest corner of the platform, hoping that none of the men would speak to her. She had her answer ready: if anyone asked what she was doing there, she would reply that she was not allowed to talk to strangers.

  But nobody asked. If the farmers noticed her, they were too busy to be curious. Before the sky was fully light, the train came. Maud was glad to board it. She felt exposed, standing on the platform, surrounded by fog and dingy sky.

  “Ticket?” asked the conductor, and Maud unknotted her handkerchief and handed it over. “This is a grown-up ticket, missy. Children under ten are half fares.”

  Don’t let anyone ask you questions, Hyacinth had warned in her letter. They’ll feel sorry for you because you’re little, and try to make you talk. Don’t let them.

  “I’m eleven,” Maud said pertly. “I guess I know what sort of ticket I ought to buy.”

  The conductor wrinkled his nose. Maud could tell he had changed his mind about her. She was no longer a helpless innocent who ought to ride half-price. She was a stuck-up little thing who could be trusted to look after herself. Maud selected an empty seat and turned her face to the window. Don’t talk to strange men, Victoria had warned her. Little girls have been kidnapped because they talked to strange men. Maud was inclined to scoff at the idea of kidnappers — if people really wanted children, there wouldn’t be so many leftovers at the Barbary Asylum — but she couldn’t forget Victoria’s words.

  The train began to move. Maud fixed her eyes on the scene outside the glass. After spending three months confined to the Hawthorne house, the red barns and wide pastures appeared almost exotic. She craned her neck to watch a collie dog chase a squirrel.

  The train slowed again. It had come to the station in Hawthorne Grove. On the platform was Victoria, clad in her best fawn-colored suit — and Muffet. Maud goggled at the hired woman. She had never seen Muffet wear anything but a print housedress. Now she saw that Muffet owned a jacket and skirt in a plaid so bright it was almost scarlet. Her hat was covered with what looked like hundreds of bloodred cherries. Maud was guiltily grateful that it was Victoria who traveled with Muffet and not herself. She could see the other passengers turning to stare at the hired woman; no doubt Muffet was making the noises Maud had learned to take for granted.

  The two women took seats several rows ahead of Maud’s. Maud let out her breath. She was safe. Later, when they came to the next station, she would follow Victoria at a distance. “We’ll buy our tickets and watch to make sure you’ve got yours,” Victoria had promised. “Then we’ll make sure you get on the right train,
and get on after you.”

  Changing stations went according to plan. The second station was large and crowded, but Maud elbowed her way into the line where Victoria and Muffet waited. The gentleman behind her subjected her to an offended stare, but he didn’t say anything. Maud avoided his gaze and raised her chin. She felt that she was getting away with something akin to murder. At the Barbary Asylum, “butting in” was a serious crime.

  The second train was more crowded than the first. Maud looked for a seat by a window and found none. She passed Muffet and Victoria without looking at them and sat down beside a large, fat man who was smoking a cigar. It seemed to Maud that this was exactly the sort of stranger Victoria had warned her against, and she responded to his cheerful “Foggy this morning, ain’t it?” with a chilling silence. She sat as far away from him as she could, with her elbows held in and her buttocks tight. An hour later, when he got off the train, she slid over to the window with a sigh of relief.

  The view outside the window had changed. The land was flatter than it had been, and the mist had burned off. Half of the sky had turned from gray to blue; it was going to be bright after all. She would be able to raise her parasol to keep off the sun.

  “Are you all alone, dear?” A motherly-looking woman with a little boy in her arms leaned across the aisle to speak to Maud. “Where are your mama and papa?”

  Mama and Papa. How babyish. Maud’s nostrils flared as she pronounced the words Hyacinth had supplied. “If you please,” she said, with the utmost distinctness, “my mother would rather I didn’t converse with strangers.”

  The lady drew back, shifting the little boy in her lap. Maud saw that she felt rebuffed. Make sure you say “converse” instead of “talk,” Hyacinth had cautioned. You look younger than you are. You’ll need to sound older.

  Hyacinth. In a little while, she would see Hyacinth again. The prospect filled her with longing and terror. She prayed that Hyacinth would be glad to see her, that she would kiss her or touch her cheek, that she would give some sign that she was the real Hyacinth, the one who was worthy of Maud’s love. Maud’s stomach tightened. Better to think of something else. In a little while she would see the ocean. Rumor had it that the ocean was well worth seeing, and today would be her only chance to look at it. Once she arrived at Victoria’s cottage on Ocean Street, she would remain within. She could not risk being seen. Eleanor Lambert had promised five thousand dollars to the person who could produce a manifestation of her dead child.

  Maud tensed in her seat. She knew how important it was to perform well during the séances. She had practiced the glockenspiel and memorized five pages of information about Caroline Lambert. Hyacinth had sent the information to Maud, accompanied by a letter and a package.

  My darling Maud,

  Why haven’t you written, you wicked child? No, don’t answer me — I know quite well why you haven’t written, because Victoria has written me twice, dreadful scolding letters about what an unfit guardian I am. She says I broke your little heart when I said I didn’t want to be your “Dearest.” Did I? I hope I didn’t. The truth is, I’ve never much cared for Lord Fauntleroy, and I can’t endure his mother. They are both too sweet. If I’d wanted a sickly, sweetish, vapid little girl, I’d have adopted one. But I wanted a child like you — someone tart rather than sweet, and clever enough to help with the family business.

  So don’t be cross, my darling girl. I can’t bear it. And do accept the enclosed as a peace offering. It will match your dress with the rosebuds, and you will be a perfect little picture when you saunter down the boardwalk at Cape Calypso.

  Now, about the journey. You must see that it would be fatal for anyone to see you traveling with Victoria . . .

  Maud’s eyes fell to the parasol that hung from a ribbon around her wrist. The ribbon had etched a line into her flesh, but she didn’t mind that — the parasol itself was still immaculate; she had been right to hold it instead of leaning it against her knee. She recalled the thrill of unwrapping it. First the brown paper and string, then the ribbon, then the box with its rustling tissue paper, and last of all the parasol, striped green and pink and festooned with lace. Maud had not known that parasols for little girls existed. She had never thought to own such a luxury.

  “That’s Hyacinth all over,” Victoria had said. “She just likes buying things — anything pretty. . . . Where on earth will you carry it? You’ll be spending all your time indoors.”

  It was true. Maud’s face fell. She sensed that Victoria was hoping she would dismiss the gift entirely — stand on her dignity and refuse to be bought. It was a point that Maud could appreciate; it would be fine, somehow, to stay angry at Hyacinth and thrust aside the parasol as if she didn’t like it. But she did like it. She felt that she had never seen anything so pretty in her life, and she wanted it dreadfully. She wanted to promenade down the boardwalk of Cape Calypso with her boots shined and her dress starched and the parasol raised above her head.

  A flurry of wings outside the window drew Maud’s attention away from the parasol. White birds, bigger than pigeons, with dark edges to their wings. Maud opened her mouth to ask the motherly lady what they were, and then shut it. The conductor was shouting “Cape Calypso!” and the train was slowing to a stop.

  Maud never forgot her first walk down the boardwalk. The sky had cleared and the wind had risen. Maud felt the pull of the breeze against her parasol; the scalloped edge trembled violently. She felt that if she let go of the handle, the parasol would sail off like a kite. Beyond the circle of cloth, the sky was intensely blue.

  And wide. Over the ocean, the sky was immeasurable. Maud gazed at the two vastnesses in wonder. The brilliance of sun on water made her blink. Before her was a world she had never thought to imagine: the pale, clean-looking sand, the foaming water, the jeering white birds against the blue.

  Maud stole a glance over her shoulder. Victoria and Muffet were behind her, strolling arm in arm. Slowly, drawing out her steps, Maud processed down the boardwalk. She had a map of the streets in her head. When she came to Ocean Street, she would turn left and go two blocks. Our cottage is sage green, Hyacinth had written. You must look up and down the street to make sure no one is looking and then dart between the left side and the hedge. Knock on the back door. I’ll be waiting to let you in.

  The signs on the boardwalk vied for Maud’s attention. FRANKFURTERS, SALT WATER TAFFY, ICE-CREAM SODAS, PING-PONG. What, Maud wondered, was Ping-Pong? It sounded delicious. The smell of frankfurters made her nostrils quiver; she wished she had money to buy one, or ice cream, or Ping-Pong.

  She spun the handle of her parasol between her fingers and watched the stripes blur. She dawdled: she was going to make it last, this one lovely saunter down the street. She strolled slowly, admiring herself in the mirror of her imagination. Around her was a loosely connected crowd: ladies and gentlemen and children, all enjoying the breeze for which Cape Calypso was famous. The women wore parasols and enormous hats; many were dressed in white. It dawned upon Maud that they were different from the grown-ups she had known. They had no work to do. They had left their cares behind, in Philadelphia, Baltimore, and New York; they had come to this town for pleasure. It was oddly uplifting to be among such idle, genteel people. Maud tried to fancy she was one of them. There were children down by the water, wading and splashing; she envisioned herself with the ocean frothing around her ankles. She felt a pang of surprise when she realized that she would never be allowed to wade in the ocean.

  All at once, she could not bear it. With quick fingers, she collapsed her parasol and took off across the sand, heading straight for the water.

  Or such was her intention. Running in sand was harder than she had expected. She stumbled and almost fell. Righting herself, she scuffed on, not looking back. What could Victoria do to her, after all? She couldn’t call after her. She would just have to wait until Maud came back.

  The sand beneath her boots grew firmer. Maud looked down and saw that it had changed color. It was grai
ny, dark gold, smudged as if with charcoal. She was almost at the edge of the water. She could smell the salt and feel the coolness of the spray against her shins. Her eyes followed the movement of the waves.

  She had never seen waves before. Her eye rested upon them, fascinated; how much time passed, or how many waves she tracked, she had no idea. Farther out to sea, they weren’t waves at all, only mounds, like furrows in a field. Then, somehow, each mound rose to an edge, thin as the blade of knife. The knife-edge tilted, the wave coiled, and there was a moment when it seemed as if it must break — and yet it did not. Then a line of brightness, crooked and notched like paper catching fire, rippled across the top edge of the wave. The water crashed and erupted, droplets spurting straight up and leapfrogging off the surface of the foam.

  “Do you want to play?”

  Maud dragged her eyes away from the ocean. A girl her own age had come to stand beside her. She was holding out a spade. “We’re making a castle. Do you want to play, too?” The girl gestured toward a patch of sand several yards back. Two little boys labored over a series of sandy hillocks and low walls. Maud understood at once that this was what was meant by a castle. Her eyes searched the girl’s face. It was a round, sunburned face, with clear green eyes. The strange girl wasn’t trying to trick her. She was inviting her to play. Of course, Maud realized, the girl had never visited the Barbary Asylum. She had no way of knowing that Maud was nasty. All the same, it was a remarkable thing, as unexpected as the ocean itself.

  For a split second, Maud entertained the invitation. She could put her parasol somewhere safe, so that the ocean couldn’t carry it off. Perhaps she might remove her shoes and stockings — the other girl had done so; it must be a thing one could do. She pictured herself kneeling in the moist sand. Her fingers almost closed around the handle of the spade. Then she snatched back her hand. “I can’t,” she told the other girl, and fled.