A Drowned Maiden's Hair_ A Melodrama - Laura Amy Schlitz [29]
A light footstep, a rustle of silk, and Hyacinth stood in the hall. “Gracious, what’s this?” she asked.
Muffet moved quickly. With the swiftness of a conjuror, she pocketed the writing tablet. She closed the cookery book and hugged it between her arm and bosom.
Hyacinth cocked her head toward Muffet. “Haven’t you got work to do?” She used both hands to mime sweeping the floor and pointed to the floorboards. “Downstairs?”
Maud shifted uneasily. For a split second, she found herself disliking Hyacinth. It seemed to her that there was no need for Hyacinth to speak so sharply or stab her finger through the air with such energy. She reminded herself that Muffet could not hear; Muffet wouldn’t catch the insulting note in Hyacinth’s voice.
But Muffet understood. She lurched out of Maud’s room, turning her back on Hyacinth with a suddenness that was as rude as Hyacinth’s pantomime.
“What on earth was she doing here?” asked Hyacinth. “She ought to be preparing dinner. She wasn’t bothering you, was she?”
“No,” Maud said shortly. She remembered how she and Hyacinth had laughed at Muffet, likening her to a blacksmith in petticoats. She didn’t know whether to be ashamed of Muffet or herself. “She’s all right.”
Hyacinth shrugged. “Come downstairs to the back parlor. I want to show you what to do for the séance.”
“Will I play the glockenspiel?”
“No,” Hyacinth answered. “That’s for the Lambert séances — this is for Burckhardt. For next week.” She saw the confusion in Maud’s face. “Heavens, didn’t I explain to you? Horace Burckhardt is coming here next week. He wants a séance, and I want you to participate.”
“Does he have a dead daughter?”
“No. A dead wife. I’ll be the dead wife — you won’t have much to do, but Burckhardt’s an easy client, and I want you to have a little practice.” Hyacinth extended a hand. “Come along!”
Maud descended to the first floor. Evidently Victoria and Judith were out, as the rooms were empty. Hyacinth led her past the dining room. “The night of the séance, we’ll have supper at six,” she explained, “cheese soufflé, probably — people who want to see spirits shouldn’t eat meat, though I can’t think why. At any rate, by six o’clock, all of us will be in the dining room with the door shut. You’ll be upstairs, with my little china clock. I want you to wait ten minutes before you come down. Then you come down the back steps — as quietly as you can — and creep into the back parlor. Now — when do you come downstairs?”
“Ten after six,” Maud answered promptly.
“Good girl. We’ll be in the dining room with the door shut, so there should be no danger of you being seen. In the back parlor, one lamp will be lit — the one with the red globe — and there will be light from two or three candles in the chandelier. You’ll be barefoot and wearing your nightgown.”
“My nightgown?” echoed Maud, shocked. Her education in music and manners might have been spotty, but both the nuns and Miss Kitteridge were in agreement about the shamefulness of being scantily clad. “With a strange man in the house?”
“Your asylum nightgown,” repeated Hyacinth, “because it’s skimpy. You’re going to hide under the table, and the less you’re wearing, the better. I don’t want a bit of your skirt creeping out from under the tablecloth.”
Maud squirmed. “But if he should see me —”
“If he sees you, there’s more at stake than your modesty,” snapped Hyacinth. Then her lips twitched; impatience had turned to amusement. “But he won’t see you. Of course, if you would prefer to wear nothing at all, that would be even better. No danger of cloth showing —”
“I’ll wear my nightgown,” said Maud quickly. Hyacinth’s sharpness had cowed her a little.
“Good. That’s settled.” Hyacinth went to the round table in