“How old are they?”
“They’re little,” Maud said recklessly, “and their names are Dick and Oliver.”
“And your name?”
Maud hesitated. Some instinct led her to hold back her first name. “Mary,” she said, skipping to her middle name. Then she bit her tongue. Caroline’s middle name was Mary, too. “Mary Fagin.”
Mrs. Lambert brushed her palm against her skirt and offered her hand. “Mine is Mrs. Lambert.”
Maud didn’t want to take her hand. She plucked at her dress. “You prob’ly think I’ve only got this one dress, but that’s not true. I have lots of dresses — real pretty dresses — but I wear this one in case I might want to bathe. It’s kind of — a bathing dress. I sewed it myself. My mother made me. She was teaching me to sew.”
Mrs. Lambert nodded. A shadow had passed over her face. “Then — your mother died only a little while ago?”
Maud’s stomach knotted. She wished she had run away earlier, when it was possible. Already she had talked too much. She had not made any fatal errors — not yet — but she dared not trust herself. It had been over a week since she exchanged spoken words with anyone, and she wanted to go on talking.
She saw a drop of moisture fall on the sand, turning the ivory grains to amber. Mrs. Lambert’s eyes were overflowing. “I’m so sorry.” She fumbled in her bosom for a handkerchief and offered it to Maud. Maud handed it back. She wasn’t the one crying, after all.
Mrs. Lambert gave a little gulp of laughter. “I’m afraid — I cry — very easily — since my daughter died.” She wiped her eyes. “What was your mother like?”
No one had ever asked Maud what her mother was like. She had even been told that she couldn’t remember her mother. It was true that her memories were hazy and few. What she remembered best was lying in bed and listening for her mother’s footsteps. If they made one sound, her mother was happy and it would be a happy day. Another sound, and it was a workday, when her mother flew from one task to another so energetically that Maud could not keep up with her. She remembered snatching at her mother’s skirts, trying to capture her attention.
“She was a schoolteacher before she married my father,” Maud said slowly. She was sure about that. She had been told. “And she used to read to me. Mother Goose and fairy tales.” She squeezed shut her eyes, trying to see the book with her mother’s thumbs at the sides. “And one day I just started reading — I was four years old, but I knew how. She told everyone I was clever. She was proud of me.”
Mrs. Lambert was smiling. Maud cast her mind back a second time. Her memories included scoldings as well as fairy tales — Maud had an uneasy knowledge that her mother’s love had been fierce as well as tender. All the same, she never doubted that her mother had loved and prized her.
“We had red geraniums,” she said tentatively. She remembered the peppery smell. “There were . . . pots of them and I used to water them and she used to tell me when to stop.” The image came clear: a red-brown pot with a bead of water swelling to a bulge at one side. She had been blissful, watering the flowers while her mother stood by. “I think she thought I was pretty.”
“I’m sure she did,” Mrs. Lambert said simply.
Maud felt a lump in her throat. Something about those four words pierced the scorn that she felt for the rich woman. She’s nice, Maud thought unwillingly, and her heart sank. She didn’t want Mrs. Lambert to be nice. “What was your little girl like?”
“Caroline?” Mrs. Lambert spoke the word very gently. She gazed out over the waves, as if expecting to see Caroline out to sea. “Caroline was very bold. That was one of the things I loved about her — that she was so free and candid and brave. I was such a timid child. My father and mother were strict, and I was always afraid of doing something wrong. But Caroline was fearless.”
Maud squinted into the sunset. The blue of the sky was turning violet, with streaks of mauve and tangerine. The green of the ocean had darkened. “How was she brave?”
“Oh, in so many ways! For one thing, she was never shy — she always thought everyone would like her, so of course, they did. All kinds of people — and she liked them. She made friends with a beggar-man who lived in the street. He was very dirty and he smelled of beer, but Caroline thought he was funny; she would sit on the steps and talk to him for hours, if I didn’t stop her. She was brave in other ways, too. One time there was a snake in the cellar stairwell — the servants were frightened to death of it. It was over a yard long, but Caroline said she’d read about black snakes in her animal book and they weren’t poisonous. She marched right down the steps and picked it up with her bare hands. I nearly fainted.”
Against her will, Maud was impressed. She knew she would never pick up any snake, poisonous or not. “I guess that was brave,” she said grudgingly.
“People said I spoiled her.” Mrs. Lambert spoke as if she had forgotten Maud. “I suppose I did. I didn’t want to break her spirit, and heaven knows there was money for the things she wanted. After her father died, she was often naughty. I sometimes think she misbehaved on purpose, to keep from missing him too much.”
Maud pricked up her ears. “What did she do that was bad?”
“She was very willful,” Mrs. Lambert said reluctantly. “She was used to having her own way, and when I didn’t give in, she teased and coaxed. She never gave up. I found her — difficult.” Once again she took her handkerchief from her bosom. She pressed it over her lips and held it there, as if she were stifling her own cries.
Maud combed the sand with her fingers. She knew Mrs. Lambert was about to cry, and when she cried, Maud guessed, she would cry hard. Maud wished she wouldn’t. It was embarrassing when grown-ups cried. After a few moments, she changed her mind. Mrs. Lambert was trembling; her body was rigid; she was suspended halfway between self-control and wild grief. Watching her hang in the balance was unnerving. Maud ventured, “Was she pretty?”
The words broke the stalemate. Mrs. Lambert let out her breath. Tears brimmed from her eyes, but she wiped them away in a perfectly sensible manner. “Very pretty. She was rather vain about all that.”
Maud had expected more loyalty from Caroline’s mother. “Vain?” she echoed.
“A little,” Mrs. Lambert said judiciously. “She loved pretty clothes — dainty, frilly things — and she was vain of her hair. She wasn’t patient — she hated standing still — but she let me comb out her ringlets every morning, because she loved having such beautiful curls.” Mrs. Lambert smiled at Maud’s shocked face. “I try to remember her exactly as she was. If I were to forget, that would be like losing her again, don’t you see?”
Maud thought about this. It went against what Hyacinth had told her. It seemed that Caroline Lambert had not been an angel child after all.
“Rory Hugelick used to say —” Mrs. Lambert paused. “You’ve met him, he’s the man who takes tickets at the carousel. . . . Rory used to say that Caroline was as vain as a peacock and as brave as a lion.” Her smile faded. “Only that was the trouble, you see. Caroline was never afraid of anything. She never believed that anything bad could happen to her. She wasn’t allowed to go bathing by herself — I was strict about that — but she disobeyed me and she drowned.” Her voice was suddenly harsh. “We must take care that doesn’t happen to you. You mustn’t go bathing alone.”
“I won’t,” said Maud.
But Mrs. Lambert was not convinced. “Perhaps I could walk home with you and speak to your father? I don’t want to get you in trouble, Mary, dear, but it does seem to me bathing alone is too dangerous. Perhaps I could meet you here and keep an eye —”
Maud scrambled to her feet. “I have to go now,” she said. “I mean I have to go now, right this minute.” She pointed to the sky. “It’s dark.”
Mrs. Lambert was gathering up her parasol. She had one glove and was groping for the other. Maud had no mercy. She had stayed too long, and now Mrs. Lambert meant to follow her home. She snatched the second glove and threw it as hard as
she could. Then she turned her back to the painted sky and fled, leaving the woman stranded and bewildered on the shore.
Maud dreamed. She was walking on the jetty, and the rocks were smooth as glass, slicked with a coat of bright green seaweed. Her toes curled at the touch of slime underfoot. She tilted from side to side like a tightrope walker, arms outstretched.
Someone was calling her name. Maud twisted, looking over her shoulder. The shore behind her had disappeared. She was in the center of the ocean, with the jetty rising from the water like the fin of a shark. Her head spun. In a moment or two, the rocks would lurch beneath her, and she would be lost forever.
Her name again. She looked down and saw without surprise that it was Caroline who called it — Caroline, who clung to the rocks of the jetty. Caroline’s hair fanned out, floating on the surface of the water. One webbed hand pried itself loose from the rock, groping toward Maud.
Maud understood what Caroline wanted. She wanted Maud to draw her to safety, to pull her from the deep before she drowned. But the webbed hand repelled Maud; it was mucilaginous, transparent, sticky. Maud knew that once she touched that hand, it would adhere to her skin, cling and pinch, and she would lose her balance. Caroline would drag her to her death.
So she stepped back and let Caroline drown. The glistening fingers opened and shut, and the dark streaming hair crowned the waves like seaweed. Maud seemed to hear Hyacinth’s voice chanting —
“O is it weed, or fish, or floating hair —
A tress of golden hair,
A drownèd maiden’s hair,
Above the nets at sea?” —
She woke. Her eyes darted from corner to corner of the dark room, trying to recover her sense of what was real and what was nightmare. Then heat lightning illumined the room with a blue flash. Maud saw her dresses hanging like ghosts from their hooks. She glimpsed the slanting ceiling and the flattened doughnuts of the bedknobs. She was in the attic, safe in her own bed.
She sat up. Little by little, her heartbeat slowed. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness. The terror of the dream left her, but her waking thoughts were no less frightening. A letter from Hyacinth had arrived that day, apologizing for her ten-day absence and promising her swift return. The Hawthorne sisters were coming back to hold the séance for Mrs. Lambert.
Maud swallowed. She dreaded the séance with all her heart. There was so much that could go wrong now that she knew Mrs. Lambert. If Mrs. Lambert recognized Maud’s voice, all would be lost. The Hawthorne sisters would lose the money they were counting on. Hyacinth would find out that Maud had disobeyed her and escaped from the house by night. And Mrs. Lambert . . . the lump in Maud’s throat swelled until she almost choked. Mrs. Lambert would see that once again she had been deceived. She would be bitterly hurt. Maud grimaced in the darkness. She wished she could stop thinking about Mrs. Lambert.
There was another flash of lightning. Maud stiffened, waiting for the thunder to frighten her.
But there was none. Maud let out her breath, grabbed the sheet, and lay back down. The creak of the bedstead frightened her. She spread out the sheet until it covered her whole body, in case Caroline was under the bed, reaching up with those sticky hands. The images from the nightmare returned. Maud was poised on the jetty and Caroline was reaching out to her. . . . Maud frowned, trying to remember. She thought she had dreamed of the jetty before. She wondered why the jetty should haunt her dreams. She had tried to walk it only once. Since the night when she made the sand crocodile, she had not left the house. She couldn’t risk seeing Mrs. Lambert again. Mrs. Lambert, Maud knew, would be searching the beach and the Amusement Park, looking for the child she believed to be homeless.
Maud was thinking of Mrs. Lambert again. She shifted irritably, curling herself in a knot. For one brief moment Maud entertained the idea of betraying Hyacinth and confessing everything to the rich woman. She shook her head. Nothing would be worse than that. Hyacinth would find out and send her back to the Barbary Asylum.
It was stifling hot under the sheet. Maud kicked it off and sat up. She could not stand being alone a minute longer. She would go to Muffet’s room.
She stuck her feet over the edge of the bed and lunged forward quickly, so that Caroline couldn’t grab her ankles. Then she tiptoed into the box room. By day, the room was cluttered and ugly; by night, it was a storehouse of terrors. The bulky oblongs of trunks looked like coffins; the shadows in the corners loomed and smoked. Maud tried not to see them. Almost running, she passed into the next room.
Muffet was snoring. Maud crept to the rag rug and sank down beside the bed. She clutched two fistfuls of sheet and felt a little better. It struck her as queer that someone who was mute could make so much noise snoring. The hired woman lay on her back — in the dark her face was unfamiliar — and the sounds that came from her were as homely as a dishpan. There was a sort of snuffle, which sometimes erupted into a snort, followed by a drawn-out wheeze. No ghost could tolerate a sound like that. The specter of Caroline fled.
Listening to Muffet snore, Maud grew calmer. Perhaps the séance would go as planned. Then everything would be all right. The Hawthorne sisters would get the money they needed. Hyacinth would be overjoyed. Even Mrs. Lambert would be better off — in a way — because she would get what she wanted most. It was Mrs. Lambert, after all, who had offered five thousand dollars to anyone who would help her contact her dead child. Mrs. Lambert wanted to see Caroline more that she wanted anything else in the world. Maud set her chin. She would see to it that Mrs. Lambert got her money’s worth. She would play the role to the hilt. She would make Caroline speak loving words to her grieving mother; she wouldn’t omit a single “dear Mama.” Her mind made up, Maud lowered herself to the floor. She braced one arm under her head and tried to go to sleep.
The Hawthorne sisters returned two days later. Maud rushed downstairs to greet Hyacinth with a forgery of her old affection. Hyacinth tweaked her hair and tickled her neck.
“So, you naughty child! Did you miss me after all?”
“Yes,” Maud admitted unwillingly, “I missed you.” It was not wholly untrue. She was glad to hear voices in the house again. She looked from Hyacinth to Judith. Hyacinth had stood the journey well. Her traveling suit was only slightly creased, and her cheeks were flushed with wind and sun. By contrast, Judith looked twenty years older. Her face was a funny color, and her posture was slack.
“What’s the matter?” Maud asked Judith.
Judith set down her valise. Hyacinth leaned over to whisper into Maud’s ear. “She was seasick,” Hyacinth said in a half whisper, as if Judith’s being seasick were some kind of joke. “She’s always seasick.”
Maud wasn’t sure whether to laugh or not. She compromised, smirking to please Hyacinth but speaking to Judith. “Do you want me to take your bag upstairs for you?”
“Thank you, Maud. No. Muffet can carry it.” Judith put her hand on the balustrade, as if she still felt the ground swaying. “I’m going to bed.”
“Poor Judith!” said Hyacinth, once her sister had lurched upstairs. “So dreary, being seasick. You won’t be seasick when we travel, will you, Maudy?”
“No, ma’am.”
“That’s a good child. Let’s go into the back parlor, where we can talk. You can help me unpack later. I brought you a box of chocolates — and you must see my new tea gown — it has a serpentine skirt and bishop sleeves. Judith was furious when I bought it, but I needed it dreadfully — Mrs. Fortescue’s friends change clothes five times a day. One simply must dress.” Hyacinth clasped her hands. “Oh, Maud! Such elegant people! By next year this time, we may be in Newport! That’s where all the nicest people spend the summers. You can’t think how many people we met — Mrs. Fortescue knows everyone, and we were immensely popular, Judith and I. It was all we could do to tear ourselves away.”
Maud asked politely, “Did you meet any people with dead relations?”
Hyacinth laughed. “Dearest Maud, everyone has dead relations! The question is w
hether we met anyone who wants to talk to their dead relations — and — isn’t it providential? — we did! There’s even a job for you — a little boy who died of scarlet fever. Little Theodore was only six, but you are so tiny, I’m sure we can manage something for his poor grieving parents — and you will look delicious in a Fauntleroy suit.” Her eyes crinkled with laughter. “I wonder if we shouldn’t give you a tablespoon of gin every day. They say it stunts the growth. Of course, Judith would be shocked; she doesn’t approve of spirits — not the alcoholic sort, anyway. Only we must finish up this Lambert business, first of all.” Hyacinth’s quicksilver features underwent a change; she was no longer playful, but earnest. “Did you study your lines?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good girl. I’ll write Eleanor this evening, and we’ll rehearse tomorrow. Judith and I are agreed at last — I’ve come round to her idea that you should materialize now, so as to be sure of the money.” A faint frown appeared between Hyacinth’s brows. “Do you know you look rather frightened? I hope you’re not going to develop stage fright now, when we’re depending on you.”
“I’m not frightened,” Maud retorted. “It’s just —” She felt her throat tighten. “It’s just that it gets so hot in the map cupboard. I can’t breathe. Can’t Judith drill more holes in the back wall?”
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