Laura Schlitz: A Drowned Maiden's Hair

“What is the point, if we don’t do it properly?”

“The point is that we shouldn’t do it at all.”

“You forget that this is not a question of what we should like or not like —”

“I believe it is.” The response came back quickly. “For Hyacinth, I really think it is. She thinks of it as a sport.”

Hyacinth’s voice, quick and girlish, cut in. “It was you who began it —”

“And I repent of it —”

The voices lowered again. Maud could not sort them out. At last she heard, “a child of that age —!” They were talking about her. She stepped close to the balustrade, leaning toward the sound.

“— can’t believe you would subject a child —”

“For heaven’s sake, Victoria!” It was Judith’s voice again. “Children are working in coal mines, blacking boots in the street! For that matter, the Asylum where the child was living —”

“Where she ought to be living still —”

“She doesn’t think so.” Hyacinth’s voice was sharp, the consonants very crisp. “Ask her. She’d rather be here, I promise you.”

“You’d have taken her, too,” Judith argued. “I admit I was of two minds, Victoria, but the child did everything but get down on her knees to us. Of course, she’s under Hyacinth’s spell, but even so — I couldn’t have refused her, and you’re a deal more tenderhearted than I ever was. And you must admit that Hyacinth has an instinct. If she thinks the child —”

Once again the voices fell. Maud strained to hear. She had all but forgotten her discomfort. She wondered confusedly if Victoria meant to have her thrown out in the streets or sent to work in the coal mines. If Hyacinth and Judith adopted her, could their sister throw her out?

Victoria spoke again. “If you take her to the Cape, I will not go with you. I will not continue with this —”

Hyacinth interrupted. She was evidently furious; her voice was lowered to a hiss. Maud could not decipher her words. A door slammed. Maud jumped. Before she knew it, she had turned the door handle and was inside the water closet. No one was there. Quickly, soundlessly, she closed the door, grateful for a place to hide.

Later that morning, Maud spent a good ten minutes making her bed. She stroked the sheets and swatted the pillows. She dressed carefully, rolling the waistband of her petticoat so that it wouldn’t hang crookedly. She was stalling, giving the Hawthorne sisters time to make peace before she saw them again. While she was combing her hair a second time, the door opened, and a woman came in.

Maud supposed the woman must be Victoria. She was, Maud judged, the plainest of the Hawthorne sisters. She was dumpy, though her corsets trussed her fat into tidy mounds. She wore spectacles, which made her eyes appear misty and overlarge. It was clear that her hair had once been red, and the reddish streaks amidst the gray looked peculiar. Maud made up her mind that if she ever had to be an old woman, she would have snow-white hair, like Hyacinth’s.

“Good morning, Maud,” said the woman. She sounded surprisingly cordial. “How neatly you’ve made your bed!”

Maud, remembering the words she had overheard, eyed her skeptically. This was the sister who thought she belonged back at the Asylum. Then she reminded herself that she was being perfectly good. She lowered her eyes modestly. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“I am Victoria Hawthorne. You may call me Aunt Victoria. I was wondering” — Victoria’s voice was a little uncertain — “if you’d like a bath before breakfast.”

Maud felt suddenly dirty. Her eyes strayed to the mirror, where she saw a face as plain as Victoria’s own: wide bony forehead, deep-set eyes, a crooked mouth with frown shadows at the corners. She wondered if she smelled bad. She had noticed a sour reek when she pulled her dress over her head, but she hoped it was only the dress.

“I drew the water for you. Hyacinth said you weren’t used to modern conveniences, and the boiler is a little dangerous, so I thought you might like some help —”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.” Maud trailed behind Victoria to the second floor, where she beheld the second Improvement in the Hawthorne home: the bathroom.

It was resplendent. In fact, it was so fine, so luxurious, that Maud forgot her grievance against Victoria and her hunger for breakfast. There was a huge white tub, with lion’s paws at the corners. The water for the bath poured out of a rust-stained lion’s mouth. Victoria tipped a handful of sweet-smelling granules into the palm of her hand. “Bath salts,” she explained, and sprinkled them over the water. “Of course, it’s wrong for a child to use scent, but I thought for your first day . . . They’re only lavender.”

Maud inhaled appreciatively. The gift of bath salts confirmed her worse suspicion — she must smell bad — but she was grateful for the treat. She waited until Victoria was gone before she stripped off her clothes, threw them on the floor, and squatted down to bathe. The water was warm, and no one had bathed in it before her. There was no one else’s scrubbed-off skin making a scum on the top of the water. Maud picked up the big sponge and squeezed water down her chest. The soap was translucent, golden as honey, and smoky sweet. Maud scrubbed until even her armpits smelled good. She emerged from the bath cleaner than she’d ever been in her life.

Pulling on her dirty clothes was a shock. Maud shuddered like a cat in the rain, trying to touch her dress with nothing but the tips of her fingers.

Victoria was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. “Come to breakfast,” she said, and seemed pleased when Maud said, “Yes ma’am.” At breakfast, Maud realized, she would see Hyacinth. At the thought, her pace quickened, and she tripped down the stairs so rapidly Victoria took a step backward.

The breakfast room was nearly empty. Judith Hawthorne sat before a crumb-spotted plate, drinking a cup of tea. Beside her was a place setting of clean china. “Where’s Hyacinth?” demanded Maud.

“Hyacinth has a sick headache,” Victoria answered.

“Hyacinth generally has a sick headache when she hasn’t had her own way,” Judith said dryly.

Maud looked at her uncertainly.

Victoria pulled out a chair, indicating Maud’s place at table. “I’m afraid we weren’t quite sure what you would like for breakfast,” she said apologetically. “What did you have at the Asylum?”

“Oatmeal,” said Maud, airing a long-held grudge.

“Oh, dear.” Victoria surveyed the breakfast table as if it worried her. “None of us are very fond of oatmeal, I’m afraid. We generally have toast and bacon and marmalade — or jam. In the future, we could manage oatmeal, but for this morning, do you think you could eat a little toast and bacon?”

Maud had no doubt about it. Now that food was within reach, she realized that she was ravenous. She accepted the toast with fingers that trembled with hunger and sawed at her bacon with such force that the knife squeaked against the plate. “I hate oatmeal,” she said around a mouthful of toast. “At the Asylum, half the time the milk was sour, and there were always lumps. We used to pick them out — the oatmeal lumps, I mean — and line them up on the table to see who had the most. I remember one time —” She recalled the beautiful day she had collected the hard, spitty lumps and hidden them in Miss Kitteridge’s muff. It occurred to her, midsentence, that this was not a good story to share with grown-ups.

“Maud,” Judith said sternly, “don’t talk with your mouth full.”