A Drowned Maiden's Hair_ A Melodrama - Laura Amy Schlitz [3]
“Yes, I am Hyacinth Hawthorne,” agreed the stranger. “Would you like to come home with me? I promise Judith and I won’t shut you in the necessary-house. We haven’t one. Our house has all the modern improvements.”
Maud could not speak. She clutched the hand that was offered her and followed Hyacinth Hawthorne away from the outhouse.
The office of Miss Kitteridge, Superintendent of the Asylum, was a cramped room at the front of the brick building. Maud had been sent there whenever her behavior went beyond what Miss Clarke could tolerate, and she hated every inch of the room. She also hated Miss Kitteridge, who sat beneath an engraving of Jesus blessing the children of Judea. Under the picture was a woolen sampler, with the words “Suffer the Little Children to Come Unto Me” cross-stitched in red and black. When Maud was a little younger, she had thought that the caption referred to Miss Kitteridge: any child who came unto Miss Kitteridge, Maud figured, was bound to suffer.
Miss Kitteridge was a tall woman with a yellow pompadour and a deceptive air of fragility. Maud’s eyes darted over her and settled on the other woman in the room. The other Miss Hawthorne — her sister Judith, Maud supposed — appeared twenty years older than her sister. Her face was stern and her costume sober: a rich, red-brown silk — a good dress, Maud judged, but plain.
Miss Kitteridge sighed. Her sentences often began and ended with a sigh; she always spoke as if she were not quite strong enough to finish a whole thought. Maud was not misled by this. She knew Miss Kitteridge was not too weak to be cruel.
“A most respectable family,” said Miss Kitteridge, as if it were a complaint. She was speaking, then, of Polly Andrews. “I think you will find —”
“Judith,” interrupted Hyacinth, “I’ve found our little girl.”
She spoke serenely, as if she had no idea that she was breaking into the conversation. Maud felt the same peculiar weakness in her stomach that she felt when Hyacinth called her a poor little thing. She fitted one knee behind the other and curtsied to Judith Hawthorne. She knew her dress was wrinkled and her stockings were sagging. She wished she had thought to pull them up.
Judith Hawthorne turned to her sister. “Miss Kitteridge has been telling me that there are several little girls the right age for us —” she began, but Hyacinth interrupted a second time.
“But there is no need to see any of them,” she parried sweetly. “This is Maud, and she will do splendidly.”
Miss Kitteridge cleared her throat. “Maud is too old,” she said, fixing Maud with a baleful blue eye. “Maud is eleven. You specifically requested a child of eight.”
“Maud is perfect,” contradicted Hyacinth. “Look how tiny she is, Judith. And she has a lovely singing voice.”
Maud glanced anxiously at Judith. The older woman’s face was disapproving, though her disapproval was directed at Hyacinth rather than Maud. “Miss Kitteridge has gone to a considerable amount of trouble to prepare three other children —”
This time it was Miss Kitteridge who interrupted. “The other little girls are the right age,” she said plaintively. “You wanted a younger child.”
“That was before I met Maud,” countered Hyacinth.
“Of course, if you’ve taken one of your fancies to Maud, there is nothing more to be said,” stated Judith, who sounded, nevertheless, as if she thought a good deal more might be said.
Miss Kitteridge looked baffled. Maud could read her thoughts: it was beyond her wildest imaginings that anyone might take a fancy to Maud Flynn. Maud was not pretty; her manners were pert and displeasing; even her posture suggested what Miss Clarke called “sauce.” Maud almost sympathized with Miss Kitteridge: she was baffled herself.
“Maud Flynn is not suitable,” Miss Kitteridge said. Her nostrils twitched as if she were smelling something nasty. “Even if you wanted an older child, I would not recommend her.”
“Why not?” demanded Hyacinth.
Maud’s heart sank.
Miss Kitteridge did not