A Drowned Maiden's Hair_ A Melodrama - Laura Amy Schlitz [32]
“If I was Agnes, I’d be jealous,” said Maud.
“No doubt. But Agnes will know her place. In short, Agnes will behave beautifully. As for Burckhardt, he’s the easiest man in the world to fool, and very generous, which is good, as my summer dresses are getting a little shabby.”
Maud said slowly, “What if he doesn’t give you any money?”
Hyacinth shook her head. “Oh! Maud!” she gurgled. She rose from the chair and swept out of the room without looking back, leaving Maud with the feeling that she had just asked the stupidest question in the world.
At ten after six on the night of the séance, Maud stole downstairs.
Never had it taken so long to go downstairs. She was in the habit of moving stealthily, but never before had she tried to walk in utter silence, without a single board creaking. Her very bones seemed to snap and bark. Her heart beat so fast that she was reminded of one of Miss Kitteridge’s pet complaints: “palpitations.” Maud had always thought the Superintendent’s “palpitations” a myth, but the tympany below her breastbone hinted that there might be something to it after all.
From the dining room came the sounds of voices: one of them a man’s. Maud paused, listening. It had been nearly two months since she heard the voice of an adult male, and the depth and strength of Mr. Burckhardt’s voice surprised her. She heard the clink of plates and cutlery, and her stomach growled. She froze, wondering if it could be heard through the door, and then tiptoed away, secure in the knowledge that Muffet would feed her later.
The back parlor was dim but not frightening. The lamp, with its red globe, cast a cozy light. Maud’s little white feet crossed the carpet rapidly. She crouched down, lifted the two tablecloths, and crawled under the table. The ear trumpet was in readiness: she made sure of the placement of the open seam in the cloth and the threads that would control the movement of the chandelier. Then she waited.
It was very hot. Maud had chosen to wear her underclothing under her nightgown, and already she regretted it. There seemed to be no air under the table, and in five minutes she was damp with sweat, though her hands were cold and clammy. As the time passed, her heartbeat slowed. Maud had begun to feel almost drowsy when she heard the door of the dining room open.
“Come into the back parlor — there’s a table there,” Victoria was saying.
The unfamiliar voice of Mr. Burckhardt answered her: “I cannot tell you ladies how grateful I am — how much I appreciate the attempt —”
Judith spoke next. She sounded disapproving, as she so often did with Maud — for a brief moment, Maud experienced a wave of sympathy for the Weeping Walrus. “I hope the attempt will be a brief one, Mr. Burckhardt. You must remember that these attempts take a good deal out of my sister. Hyacinth is not strong. After the last séance, she was seriously unwell. We were forced to have the doctor three times that week.”
Mr. Burckhardt spoke again: “I cannot tell you how sorry I am to hear it. Believe me, I wish I need not put you to such trouble. . . . If there is anything I can do —” He seemed flustered. “At least let me be responsible for the expense of the doctor —”
“Always so generous!” It was Hyacinth’s voice, but she sounded fluttery and unsure of herself. “Please, Judith, don’t scold him! He must try — I feel it. You know I have an instinct for such things. I almost feel as if . . .” She paused. “You will think me silly, I’m sure, but I feel as if someone from the other side wants me to try.”
There was a brief silence. Then Victoria said reluctantly, “It’s true that you are sensitive to such things.”
“Miss Hawthorne is a true medium,” Mr. Burckhardt said reverently.
Maud heard the sound of chairs scraping against carpet. The participants of the séance were seating themselves around the table. Hyacinth said, “Oh no! My gift is a very small one! And it’s so hard for me — you cannot guess how