A Drowned Maiden's Hair_ A Melodrama - Laura Amy Schlitz [51]
Judith raised her voice to a shout. “Caroline Lambert, are you here, in this room? If you are here, rap once for yes and twice for no.”
Those words were her cue. Maud fished the seashell from the bottom of the ice bucket. Cautiously, she pushed open the door and stepped out of the cupboard. The freshness of the air made her smile in spite of herself. After the map cupboard, the parlor seemed spacious, cool, and bright. She could see the pale rectangles of the two stained-glass windows and the bulky shapes of the women near the table.
Maud glided forward, her stocking feet noiseless against the carpet. She took a brief moment to get her bearings. Mrs. Lambert was where Hyacinth had assured Maud she would be. Hyacinth was ransacking the room for another candle in the chest by the window, and making as much noise as she could over it. Victoria was reciting the Our Father. “And lead us not into temptation —” Now, thought Maud, and headed for Mrs. Lambert. She placed her hand against the woman’s cheek. In a soft, piteous voice, she whispered, “Mama?”
Mrs. Lambert gasped. Blindly she reached for that small, chill hand — but Maud was quick, as Hyacinth had told her she must be. She pushed the shell across the table and stepped straight back. Mrs. Lambert groped wildly at the air. Maud retreated toward the cupboard and pivoted to dart inside.
Ouch. She had left the panel ajar and collided with it in the dark. Maud ducked into the map cupboard and pulled the door shut. Once inside, her hands went to her face. A warm wetness coated her fingers, running down her chin and into her mouth. She reached down to wipe her hands and stopped, fingers flexed. Her good dress, with the lace . . . ! But already the blood was soaking through the bodice of her dress. Grief for lost finery gave way to panic. Maud whimpered, close-mouthed.
Faint as the noise was, it frightened her. Mrs. Lambert would hear. The séance would be ruined and Hyacinth would be furious. Maud pressed her bloody fists against her lips. The blood tasted like pennies.
It’s only a nosebleed. The words floated into her mind, and all at once she was back in the Asylum. Irma had tripped on the ice and bloodied her nose. Maud had watched, repelled and fascinated, while Irma shrieked and Miss Clarke fished two dirty handkerchiefs from the bosom of her shirtwaist. “It’s only a nosebleed,” Miss Clarke had said. “People don’t die of nosebleeds.” Maud seized upon the memory gratefully. With it, came another, less comforting: “People can die from loss of blood, though, can’t they, Miss Clarke?” She couldn’t recall the answer. Her fingers fluttered toward her nose — the blood was still gushing forth. She wondered how much she had lost.
Outside the door, the lights were on. Victoria and Hyacinth were trying to comfort their client.
“— if she was here, why wouldn’t she stay? I felt her — I felt her hand. But why wouldn’t she speak to me? And why did she leave the seashell? What does it mean?”
“Hush.” Victoria sounded close to tears herself. “Now that she has come, she will surely come again.”
“She didn’t sound like herself.” Maud tensed at the criticism. “She sounded frightened. Oh God, what have I done, that she should be afraid of me?”
“Eleanor, take comfort,” Hyacinth said tenderly. “The important thing is that she was here tonight. All of us sensed her presence.”
“Her little hand was like ice,” wailed Mrs. Lambert. “It even felt wet. Dear God! She is buried; the salt water should be dry by now —”
Ice! Maud stopped listening. She fumbled for the lump of ice in the pail. She lifted it, dripping, and pressed it against her injured nose. Cold water joined the river of blood and tears. She wondered if she was going to faint. She imagined herself falling down in a pool of blood. Perhaps Hyacinth would see the blood oozing from under the mantel and come to her aid. Maud imagined Hyacinth flinging open the door and catching her up in her