A Drowned Maiden's Hair_ A Melodrama - Laura Amy Schlitz [39]
Maud knotted her fingers behind her back. “I didn’t mean you were dull,” she pleaded. “It’s just that —” She risked a glance at Hyacinth, who was watching her with amused tenderness. All at once, Maud knew just what she wanted to say. “It’s just that I love Dearest more than anyone else in the world.”
She took a deep breath. The idea that she might call Hyacinth “Dearest” had occurred to her two days ago, but until now she hadn’t dared speak the word. She was surprised by how sweet it sounded — exactly like Lord Fauntleroy. She waited for Hyacinth’s response.
“Maud” — Hyacinth’s voice quavered — “what did you call me?”
Maud licked her lips. “Dearest,” she said tentatively.
“Dearest?” Hyacinth’s face lit up. “Oh, Maud! Do you really think you’re Little Lord Fauntleroy and I’m your mother?”
All at once Maud knew she had made a terrible mistake. “I meant — it was a joke,” she said hastily.
But it was too late. “Maud — pretending to be Lord Fauntleroy! ‘Dearest’!” Hyacinth chortled. “What a funny little girl you are, Maud Flynn!”
To Maud’s horror, she felt her eyes fill with tears. “It was a joke,” she insisted frantically, but Hyacinth’s laughter drowned out her words. “Maud — trying to be Little Lord Fauntleroy!” Laughter trilled from her, and even Judith succumbed to a rusty chuckle.
Then Victoria said, “The hack’s come,” and Maud saw her chance to escape. She turned on her heel and rushed upstairs, not troubling to mute her footsteps.
She ran to her room and sank down on the floor. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. She had never been more humiliated in her life — not even when Miss Kitteridge hauled up her petticoat and spanked her in front of the entire orphanage. Do you really think you’re Little Lord Fauntleroy and I’m your mother? Oh! Maud wanted to crawl under the bed and hide, like a sick animal. She moaned with shame, covering her mouth with her hands.
The bedroom door creaked. Maud raised an anguished, blotchy face and glowered at Victoria.
“Maud?” Victoria said. She broke off. “I’ve never seen you cry before.”
Maud’s eyes darted around the room, seeking a missile. The closest thing at hand was a discarded stocking. Maud grabbed it and hurled it at Victoria.
It was not an effective weapon. Victoria was not even annoyed. She sat down on the bed. With some difficulty, she began to lower herself to the floor. “I’m sorry Hyacinth hurt your feelings,” she said. “Sometimes Hyacinth makes fun of things that other people . . . don’t. My dear, it isn’t so bad as all that! Don’t cry so!”
“I hate Hyacinth,” stormed Maud, and all at once, it was true. She thought of her unanswered letters and unanswered questions, of the times when Hyacinth pinched or slapped playfully and it hurt. She remembered a hundred slights she had managed to ignore because she wanted Hyacinth to be perfect.
“No, you don’t,” soothed Victoria, and Maud felt her heart twist: that was true, too. She adored Hyacinth, and Hyacinth had laughed at her and left without saying sorry or good-bye. Her sobs rose to a wail.
Victoria put her arm around Maud’s shoulder. “It was very unkind of Hyacinth. It was cruel of her to laugh at you. Maud, listen to me. It isn’t wrong to be affectionate. And it isn’t funny, either.”
Maud wiped her nose on her wrist and scowled at Victoria. She wished the old woman would put both arms around her and hug her properly. Victoria always got everything wrong.
“I think,” Victoria said hesitantly, “I think Dearest is a lovely thing to call someone. I would love to have someone call me Dearest.”
“I’m never going to call anyone Dearest again,” Maud said savagely.
On the morning of the journey to Cape Calypso, Maud rose before dawn and followed Victoria through the woods, retracing the path that had brought her to Hawthorne Grove three months ago. The morning was foggy and humid; the sun had not yet risen. Without Hyacinth, Maud found the semidarkness of the wood less enchanting than before. She was glad to emerge from the shadow of the trees and take her place on