Laura Schlitz - A Drowned Maiden's Hair

For a moment, Maud could not think what to do. One part of her wanted to bury her face in Hyacinth’s violet-scented coat. Another part of her understood that she had it in her power to confer a favor. She gave herself a little shake. “No,” she said stoutly. “No, ma’am, I’m not frightened.”

Hyacinth squeezed her again. “You really are a darling girl,” said Hyacinth Hawthorne. “Isn’t she, Judith?”

Judith didn’t answer. The elder Miss Hawthorne had turned to face the window. Her profile was hawklike, with its sharp eyes and Roman nose. Maud had a feeling that Judith didn’t talk about “darlings” very much. A little daunted, she glanced back at Hyacinth.

Hyacinth was smiling faintly. Maud relaxed. It was Hyacinth who mattered, after all — and Hyacinth thought she was a darling girl.

Maud dreamed. All at once Hyacinth was shaking her, calling her name. The dream broke into fragments and melted away. The train had stopped.

“We get out here,” Judith told her. “Quickly, gather your things.”

Maud fumbled for her books and the brown paper parcel that contained the remnants of her past life: a calico nightgown from the Barbary Asylum, a toothbrush, a comb, and a framed photograph of her mother when her brother was still a baby. She ran her tongue over her dry mouth, tasted the foulness of long sleep, and got to her feet. The Misses Hawthorne led her down the aisle of the train and out onto the platform.

The cold night roused her fully. She was in the country. Overhead, the moon was rising, and the stars were sharp and white. The railroad depot stood at the edge of an empty field, with a grove of trees beyond it. The ground was hard with frost.

“This way,” Hyacinth directed her. “We have a short walk.”

Maud followed her. Never, as long as she remembered, had she been outside by night. With one quick leap, she reached Hyacinth’s side and caught hold of her hand, but Hyacinth’s hand, so caressing before, had grown stiff and cold, like the hand of a doll. Maud’s mind flitted back to the events of the day: the Asylum, the department store, the bookshop, the train ride. She could not think of anything she had done wrong.

“Here.” They had come to the edge of the field and stood before the wood. “Here’s where we go in.”

“Here” was a tangle of black branches and shadowy brush. Maud clutched her new books to her breast. She stepped forward into the greater darkness, raising her face to the moon.

“You’re not afraid of the dark, are you?” asked Hyacinth.

“No,” Maud lied quickly. “That’s for babies.”

“I love the woods at night.” Hyacinth bent over a mound of bushes. She appeared to be searching for something. At last she retrieved it: a lantern. Maud watched as she struck a match and kindled the light. As the flame grew in height, it elongated Hyacinth’s long jaw and the hollows below her cheekbones. For a moment, she looked less like a fairy than a witch.

“It’s three miles to Hawthorne Grove,” Judith said in a low voice. “Come along.”

Maud stepped forward. She kept her eyes fixed downward, lest a snake curl around her ankle or a toad leap out from the underbrush. She wondered if there were large animals in the woods — bobcats or bears. She considered catching hold of the edge of Judith’s coat but thought better of it. Her eyes followed the light as it bobbed along ahead. Hyacinth held the lantern high, stepping briskly. She did not move like an old woman at all.

Maud tagged after her. Her stomach growled: the ice-cream soda had been delicious but not filling. She tucked her fingers in the crooks of her elbows, hugging her books to her chest. She wished she had gloves.

“Come, Maudy!” hissed Hyacinth. “Don’t be slow! I don’t mind crawling along for Judith’s sake — she’s an old woman — but you’re a child; you ought to be able to keep up with me!”

Maud hesitated. Then she plunged forward, careless of the shadows before her. She caught Hyacinth’s mood, and all at once the night was magic. She felt a wildness in her blood. She drank in the sounds of the wood: the brittle underbrush snapping, the small scuffling of her feet against the earth. Her cheeks tingled with the cold. The great dark trees loomed like ogres, but she would be swift and nimble, like a child in a fairy tale; she would dart past them before they could snatch her. Hunger and nightmare forgotten, she danced over the silver grass.

Maud awakened at dawn. Her eyes went from wall to wall, seeking the mustard-colored paint of her old dormitory. It took her a moment to realize that she was in a new room: her room. She sat up in bed and examined it, first with curiosity and then with approval. Wallpaper. It was pale gray, with bunches of pale pink roses and cornflowers — faded, but still pretty. The bed was made of dark wood, with acorns carved on the end of the bedposts. The sheets were clean, the blankets thick. There was a grate but no fire, a washstand, a small table, a straight chair, and a chest for clothing. Nothing was ugly. The only ugly things in sight were her Asylum clothes, lying on the floor.

Maud scrambled out of bed and gathered them up. If she was going to be perfectly good, she would have to take care not to leave her clothes lying about. She folded each item, even her stockings, and laid them on the chair. Then she looked under the bed.

There was no chamber pot. Maud shifted uneasily. She tried to sort out the events of the night before. The wonders of the moonlit wood had not sustained her throughout the walk. It was past midnight when Hyacinth led her out of the woods and through the sleeping town. Maud had meant to look over her new home carefully, but by the time they climbed the stairs of the wide porch, she was staggering with tiredness, longing only for a flat place where she could lie down.

She remembered passing through rooms that seemed to be stocked with treasure: heavy draperies, glass-fronted bookcases, thick carpets, little shelves crowded with china ornaments. She remembered climbing dozens of stairs to her new bedroom. She had a vague memory of visiting the room with the Modern Improvement, and she wondered if she could locate it again. It seemed impolite to use it a second time without asking permission. Still, her need was urgent, and it was possible that she might be able to creep in and out without anyone knowing.

Maud tiptoed to the door. She put her hand on the knob, which turned noiselessly. The carpet under her bare feet muffled her footsteps. She found the staircase and descended to the second floor.

The corridor was dim. It was hung with a wallpaper so dark that Maud couldn’t tell if it was purple or brown. One of the doors along the corridor was closed. Maud halted, pressing her thighs together. She was almost certain that it was the door she wanted, but she was afraid to touch the doorknob. It would be horrible if someone — Judith or the unknown Victoria — was inside and she opened the door while the older woman was using the Improvement.

As she stood nerving herself, she heard a voice from below. It was a female voice, unfamiliar and raised in anger.

“I never thought you would go through with it! If I had dreamed you were in earnest —”

Maud had an impulse to run back to her bedroom and hide. She cast a look of longing at the door to the water closet.

“Don’t be such a hypocrite! You knew perfectly well —”

The voices quieted, almost as if the speakers sensed she might be listening. Maud could not catch the words. Then one of the voices rose again. This time she recognized it: Judith’s low-pitched, somewhat raspy voice was distinctive.