Read Online A Drowned Maiden's Hair by Laura Amy Schlitz - Free Book Online
Authors: Laura Amy Schlitz
Ads: Link
and held a small bookcase with glass doors. Maud squatted down to look inside. Jane Eyre, Lady Audley’s Secret, Northanger Abbey, Hesper the Home Spirit, The White People, The Woman in White . . . The Woman in White had a piece of paper sticking out of it — not, Maud saw, a bookmark.
She slid it out and unfolded it, catching the scent of violets. That was Hyacinth’s scent; the miniature, curlicue handwriting belonged to Hyacinth. Unfortunately, in an attempt to save paper, Hyacinth had written the beginning of her letter in one direction and then turned the paper sideways, writing the second half of the letter on top of the first, so that the lines crossed at right angles. It was almost impossible to read. Maud turned it, squinting, trying to catch a line here and there.
. . . though Mrs. Lambert is a generous hostess, she is unwilling to tell me much about Caroline. Even now, she does not trust me. I feel certain that she is holding something back — some circumstance about Caroline’s death that she has told no one —
Maud frowned. She knew that Mrs. Lambert was the friend that kept Hyacinth in Cape Calypso. Maud resented her. She wasn’t interested in stupid Mrs. Lambert or the dead Caroline. She skipped several paragraphs.
Of course it is not in keeping with our agreement that we should entertain Burckhardt in Hawthorne Grove, but I assure you there is no risk, since he leaves the following morning to catch the steamer from Baltimore. I expect to arrive home on the twenty-ninth, which should give us time to get ready — Burckhardt will visit on the seventh. This is the perfect occasion to try out Maud, and see how she shapes.
Maud’s breath quickened at the sight of her name.
By the by, how is Maud? It’s been an entire week without one of her blotchy little letters, and I feel quite neglected. Has she forgotten me? I rejoice to hear that her table manners are improving, though, to judge from her letters, her grammar is not yet perfect. Never mind, I have great hopes for Maud. I am convinced she will be our perfect little angel child —
Maud glowed. An angel child! She caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror and saw herself rosy with happiness. She looked quite pretty. So that was how Hyacinth saw her — as an angel child! Maud was as astonished as she was delighted. At the Barbary Asylum, every child was strictly classified: a girl was pretty or plain, clever or stupid, good or bad. Maud knew quite well that she was plain, clever, and bad. She gave her reflection a disbelieving smile before returning to the letter.
You might want to examine her and see if she knows any hymns. “In the Sweet Bye and Bye,” I think, and “Blest Be the Tie That Binds.” We probably won’t need them for Burckhardt, when I shall assume the role of the depressing Agnes —
“Maud!”
Maud almost jumped out of her skin. Victoria stood in the doorway, dressed in her shawl and street clothes. Her face was so forbidding that Maud backed up, crumbling the letter behind her back.
“Maud, how could you? Reading my letter! Creeping into my bedroom behind my back!”
“I didn’t,” said Maud. It was the feeblest lie she had ever told, but her wits were so rattled she could think of nothing better.
“You did.” Victoria’s eyes were flashing behind her spectacles. “You’re holding my letter behind your back — I can see it in the glass.”
Maud switched tactics. “Why didn’t you tell me Hyacinth was coming home?” she demanded.
For a second, Victoria simply stared. Then she stretched out her hand, palm upward. “Give me my letter.”
Meekly, Maud put it into her hand.
“Has no one told you that it is wrong to read other people’s letters?”
Maud wondered if she could get away with saying no. She opened her eyes wide, trying to look innocent and hurt. “I never got any letters at the Asylum.” She had noticed that Victoria often looked sorry for her when she talked about the Asylum. She added,
She slid it out and unfolded it, catching the scent of violets. That was Hyacinth’s scent; the miniature, curlicue handwriting belonged to Hyacinth. Unfortunately, in an attempt to save paper, Hyacinth had written the beginning of her letter in one direction and then turned the paper sideways, writing the second half of the letter on top of the first, so that the lines crossed at right angles. It was almost impossible to read. Maud turned it, squinting, trying to catch a line here and there.
. . . though Mrs. Lambert is a generous hostess, she is unwilling to tell me much about Caroline. Even now, she does not trust me. I feel certain that she is holding something back — some circumstance about Caroline’s death that she has told no one —
Maud frowned. She knew that Mrs. Lambert was the friend that kept Hyacinth in Cape Calypso. Maud resented her. She wasn’t interested in stupid Mrs. Lambert or the dead Caroline. She skipped several paragraphs.
Of course it is not in keeping with our agreement that we should entertain Burckhardt in Hawthorne Grove, but I assure you there is no risk, since he leaves the following morning to catch the steamer from Baltimore. I expect to arrive home on the twenty-ninth, which should give us time to get ready — Burckhardt will visit on the seventh. This is the perfect occasion to try out Maud, and see how she shapes.
Maud’s breath quickened at the sight of her name.
By the by, how is Maud? It’s been an entire week without one of her blotchy little letters, and I feel quite neglected. Has she forgotten me? I rejoice to hear that her table manners are improving, though, to judge from her letters, her grammar is not yet perfect. Never mind, I have great hopes for Maud. I am convinced she will be our perfect little angel child —
Maud glowed. An angel child! She caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror and saw herself rosy with happiness. She looked quite pretty. So that was how Hyacinth saw her — as an angel child! Maud was as astonished as she was delighted. At the Barbary Asylum, every child was strictly classified: a girl was pretty or plain, clever or stupid, good or bad. Maud knew quite well that she was plain, clever, and bad. She gave her reflection a disbelieving smile before returning to the letter.
You might want to examine her and see if she knows any hymns. “In the Sweet Bye and Bye,” I think, and “Blest Be the Tie That Binds.” We probably won’t need them for Burckhardt, when I shall assume the role of the depressing Agnes —
“Maud!”
Maud almost jumped out of her skin. Victoria stood in the doorway, dressed in her shawl and street clothes. Her face was so forbidding that Maud backed up, crumbling the letter behind her back.
“Maud, how could you? Reading my letter! Creeping into my bedroom behind my back!”
“I didn’t,” said Maud. It was the feeblest lie she had ever told, but her wits were so rattled she could think of nothing better.
“You did.” Victoria’s eyes were flashing behind her spectacles. “You’re holding my letter behind your back — I can see it in the glass.”
Maud switched tactics. “Why didn’t you tell me Hyacinth was coming home?” she demanded.
For a second, Victoria simply stared. Then she stretched out her hand, palm upward. “Give me my letter.”
Meekly, Maud put it into her hand.
“Has no one told you that it is wrong to read other people’s letters?”
Maud wondered if she could get away with saying no. She opened her eyes wide, trying to look innocent and hurt. “I never got any letters at the Asylum.” She had noticed that Victoria often looked sorry for her when she talked about the Asylum. She added,
Similar Books
