A Drowned Maiden's Hair_ A Melodrama - Laura Amy Schlitz [44]
“Here’s your room,” gasped Hyacinth, “at the back of the house. The other side of the wall’s — the box room — where we keep our trunks — and then Muffet — has the front.”
Maud surveyed her new quarters dubiously. She saw a high iron bed with a white counterpane. The dresser was carved oak, with a tarnished mirror that showed only the top of her head. On the washstand was a pitcher decorated with daisies, a matching washbowl — and, on the bottom shelf, a large chamber pot. Maud raised her eyes to Hyacinth’s face. She was afraid to ask.
Hyacinth read her thoughts. “My poor child, don’t look at me like that! Of course we have a water closet!” She fingered the lace at her collar. “It’s on the first floor, off the back hall. Mr. Llewellyn — the man who left the cottage to Victoria — had it put in years ago, along with the electric lights. I just wanted to prepare you for when we have visitors — you mightn’t be able to go downstairs —” She paused apologetically.
Maud sank down on the bed and looked up at the ceiling. The roof slanted down on either side. Both walls and ceiling were papered: red diamonds on a snuff-colored background. It was not a pattern that appealed to Maud. She was hot, thirsty, and disheartened. She had risen before dawn, taken two trains, seen the ocean, and narrowly avoided making a friend. She was in no state to bear up against chamber pots and ugly wallpaper.
“We’ll show you the rest of the house tonight,” Hyacinth assured her. “It’s better downstairs. The only thing is, we’re closer to the neighbors than we were in Hawthorne Grove, and the windows are open. You’ll have to be twice as quiet as before.”
Maud nodded. She glanced at the windows, half expecting to see bars against the glass.
“The curtains are sewn together down the middle and tacked to the window frame,” Hyacinth explained, “which helps keep out mosquitoes.” She sat down next to Maud and slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Maudy,” she said softly, “what’s the matter? Are you homesick?”
Maud nodded a second time. She could not have said what home she was missing, but “Poor Maudy,” murmured Hyacinth, and Maud closed her eyes and leaned against her. She wished she could curl up against Hyacinth and fall asleep, like the little boy on the train. But the attic was hot. If she leaned too long or nestled too close, she ran the risk of being pushed away. She straightened up, opened her eyes, and blurted out, “I don’t like the wallpaper.”
Hyacinth looked shocked. “Oh, you mustn’t like the wallpaper!” she flashed back. “It’s quite unspeakable! I should be ashamed of you, Maud Flynn, if you liked the wallpaper.”
Maud felt a surge of relief. Once again, Hyacinth was on her side, sympathizing with her even when she was rude. She could not keep from smiling. “I like the parasol you sent me,” she said huskily, “but I missed you.”
“And I missed you.” Hyacinth flicked a lock of hair away from Maud’s ear. “But we’ll talk tonight.” She rose from the bed. “I’ve left you my little clock. I want you to come downstairs at seven-thirty. By then it will be dusk, and we won’t have callers. I’ll show you the house and tell you about the next séance.” And with that promise, she slipped down the stairs, sinking from sight as if through a trapdoor.
Maud overslept. After supper, she lay down to rest, meaning to keep one eye on the clock. In ten minutes, she had fallen asleep. When she opened her eyes, the room was dim, and it was quarter past eight. She scrambled to her feet and splashed water on her face.
Groggily, on tiptoe, she descended the stairs. All the doors in the back hall were closed. Maud turned the knobs stealthily, opening each one a crack. The first led to the kitchen, the second to the water closet.
The third door opened into a room scarcely six feet wide. A streetlight shone through the