A Drowned Maiden's Hair_ A Melodrama - Laura Amy Schlitz [4]
Maud clenched her teeth and lifted her head. She had never hated Miss Kitteridge more. She stared at the sampler, willing herself not to cry. The black crosses turned to blots.
“You seem very certain.” It was Judith Hawthorne who spoke, and her voice was dry. Maud pricked up her ears. Something in the way those four words were spoken gave her hope. Judith Hawthorne did not like Miss Kitteridge telling her what to do.
“Poor Maud!” said Hyacinth. She sounded amused, as if none of what Miss Kitteridge said was of any importance. “Are you really such a wicked little thing?”
Maud looked at her bleakly. All at once she found her tongue. “If you took me,” she said desperately, “I wouldn’t be. I’d be different. I’d do anything you told me. I’d be grateful.”
Judith Hawthorne made an odd noise. Her hand went out as if to brush aside Maud’s promise.
“Did you hear that, Miss Kitteridge?” said Hyacinth. “Maud has promised to be a good girl. I believe her, don’t you, Judith?”
“Hyacinth,” said Judith warningly.
“We’ll take her,” announced Hyacinth. “Won’t we, Judith?”
The elder Miss Hawthorne turned to Miss Kitteridge. “Draw up the papers,” she commanded. “We appreciate your advice, but we prefer to be guided by our own judgment.”
“What a dreadful woman!” exclaimed Hyacinth as the carriage from the livery stable drew away from the Asylum.
Maud was so startled that she burst out laughing. Her laughter sounded overloud, and she clapped her hands over her mouth. Her heart was singing. She was going away. She was going home. And Hyacinth Hawthorne was taking her: Hyacinth, who was unlike anyone Maud had ever met. What other grown-up would criticize the Superintendent in front of a child? One of the most detestable things about grown-ups, Maud felt, was the way they took up for one another. Even the nicer ones did it — as if a child, any child, required a whole army of grown-ups to subdue it.
“Hyacinth,” said Judith repressively.
“But she is,” insisted Hyacinth. Her voice was still tremulous with laughter. “All that tatty crocheted lace.”
Greatly to Maud’s amazement, Judith nodded.
“A tiresome woman,” she conceded, “but all the same —” She jerked her head toward Maud.
Maud picked up the cue. “I ought to respect her.” She fished in her memory for a moral sentiment and found one. “The Asylum gave me a roof over my head and clothes to wear.” The words had been drummed into her so many times that she could parrot them exactly.
“But such frightful clothes!” Hyacinth shook her head at Maud’s houndstooth check. “I never saw such an ugly dress in my life. She simply must have new ones, Judith.”
“We’ll stop in town and buy her ready-made ones,” said Judith, “and perhaps stop at a tearoom. It’s past noon. No doubt the child is hungry.”
“She’d like an ice-cream soda, I imagine,” suggested Hyacinth.
Maud felt a surge of rapture. An ice-cream soda. Ready-made dresses. A home with modern improvements. She saw herself as a new person: a blissful, pampered, graceful little girl, the sort of child whom adults petted and adored. She would be good. She would be very good; she would say yes ma’am and no ma’am, and while she was being good, she would wear pink and white dresses and drink ice-cream sodas. She was so happy she wanted to jump up and down and drum her heels against the floor of the carriage. She contented herself with sitting up very straight, linking her fingers, and turning her hands inside out. It was the best day of her life. The carriage was taking