A Drowned Maiden's Hair_ A Melodrama - Laura Amy Schlitz [5]
Two hours later, Maud stood before the mirror of a department store.
She could scarcely believe her good fortune. On the counter beside her was a mounting pile of clothes: new stockings and petticoats and drawers and nightgowns. A saleslady in a starched shirtwaist was wrapping them up in tissue paper so that they could be sent to Maud’s new home. Ladies like the Hawthorne sisters did not walk through the streets carrying armfuls of packages.
“That green suits her,” pronounced Hyacinth. “Then the rosebud print and perhaps the yellow stripe?”
“She ought to have something warmer,” argued the elder Miss Hawthorne. “It’s drafty on the third floor, and it’ll be chilly for some weeks yet.”
Maud gazed into the mirror. Her reflection startled her. The bright glass reflected the splendid carnival of goods around her: the transparent countertops, the dazzling lights, the cabinets full of linens and cottons and silks. The green sailor suit, with its sharp pleats and crisp tie, belonged to that fascinating world. Only Maud looked out of place. Her bootlaces had been knotted together in three places, and her red flannel petticoat sagged on one side. Even her face was wrong. Maud had made up her mind that this was the best day of her life, but the girl in the mirror had a queer strained look on her face: a look divided between a grin and the grimace that comes before tears.
“Something red might be cheerful,” Hyacinth suggested. “She ought to wear bright colors. She needs color.” She reached out and drew a strand of Maud’s dirty hair between her fingers. “Perhaps if her hair were cut shorter —”
Maud objected. “I want to grow it long,” she said. “It used to be longer, but —” She stopped. Better not mention the time when half the girls at the Barbary Asylum were plagued by head lice. “I want it to grow long so I can have ringlets.”
“It won’t do for ringlets,” Hyacinth said. “It’s too thin and it won’t curl. It must be cut here — just below the jaw.” She ran a finger across Maud’s throat and turned back to the saleslady. “We won’t take the yellow, then. Let’s see that red plaid there — is that wool?”
“Red shows at a distance,” Judith pointed out. She sounded as if this were a disadvantage.
“She’ll have a coat,” argued Hyacinth.
Maud said nothing. She held up her arms while the saleswoman removed the green dress and brought forth the red. From time to time she injected a “thank you” into the conversation, but her voice sounded breathy and unreal.
“And then a white dress . . . for best.” Hyacinth turned back to Maud. “You’ve no choice about this, Maud; it must be white. Something with lace,” she told the saleswoman.
“She can choose the sash, if she likes,” suggested Judith.
Maud chose a scarlet sash with long fringe.
“What about toys?” asked Hyacinth, after the saleswoman had taken her money and given her change. “What would you like, Maud?”
“There’s Victoria’s dollhouse —” began Judith.
“If Victoria will let her use it,” said Hyacinth.
“Who’s Victoria?” asked Maud.
The Misses Hawthorne exchanged glances. “Victoria is our sister,” explained Judith. “I am the eldest, and Hyacinth is the youngest. Victoria is in the middle. She has an old dollhouse — a very beautiful one, which I imagine she’ll share with you.”
“Once she gets over the shock,” qualified Hyacinth.
“Hyacinth,” said Judith warningly.
“What about books?” asked Hyacinth briskly. “Are you fond of reading, Maud?”
Maud’s head came up sharply. She had read her way through the single shelf of the books at the Asylum. They were an ill-assorted lot: mostly moral tales with broken spines and missing pages. As if in a dream, she nodded.
The bookstore was even more imposing than the department store. Inside were row upon row of volumes, bound in jewel-toned covers ornamented with gold. The air smelled of leather and enchantment. Maud felt almost as if she were about to be sick. She squeezed her hands together