A Drowned Maiden's Hair_ A Melodrama - Laura Amy Schlitz [59]
Maud studied Mrs. Lambert. The rich woman had taken off one glove and was twisting it between her fingers. Her shirtwaist was untucked and a long strand of flaxen hair had fallen to her shoulder. Maud pursed her lips disapprovingly. Grown-ups ought to be able to pull themselves together.
The carousel was slowing. Maud decided to go. At the same instant, Mrs. Lambert turned from the merry-go-round. For a split second, their eyes met. Mrs. Lambert fumbled at the handle of her purse.
Maud retreated, almost colliding with the fat lady. As the crowd changed shape, she made her escape. Once on the boardwalk, she broke into a run. She knew she would come again, in spite of Mrs. Lambert. Tomorrow, she promised herself. Tomorrow, and every night when Hyacinth was away, she would steal from the house. She would see the ocean and the carousel again.
The day that followed was hot and overcast. Maud scanned the mournful sky with mounting hope. The red-haired man in charge of the merry-go-round had hinted that children sometimes rode free, if the weather was bad and the horses lacked riders. If the Hawthorne sisters went out and it rained — not too much, but a drizzle — Maud might ride the carousel. Maud realized that she was listening for the sound of Hyacinth’s leaving as eagerly as she had once awaited her return.
But the Hawthorne sisters stayed home. Evening came and supper was served. Hyacinth and Judith dined upstairs, in the dining room that overlooked the street. Maud ate in the kitchen with Muffet. She seethed through the meal and cleared the table with bad grace. As she stacked the plates from the dining room, a roll of thunder announced the arrival of a storm.
Maud could have wept with frustration. Outside the window, the trees were bending, and angry raindrops spattered the dust, leaving it pockmarked. A thread of lightning glittered against the clouds. Maud pressed her hot forehead to the window glass and closed her eyes. Judith and Hyacinth had no carriage. They would never go out in a storm.
The linoleum creaked faintly. Muffet had come to stand at the window. One calloused hand cupped Maud’s shoulder, turning her until they stood face-to-face. Muffet had noticed Maud watching the sky all day, and she knew something was up. Maud shrugged and pulled away. She crept upstairs to sulk, leaving Muffet to wash the dishes.
The attic windows were open. The rain splashed through the curtains, making a pool of water on the floor. Maud glared at it. She was in no mood to wipe up puddles. Another roll of thunder sounded, so much closer than the last that she scurried to the safety of her bed.
Lightning illumined the room. Maud dragged her pillow from under the bedclothes and hugged it to her chest. The wet curtains billowed inward, pulled taut by the wind. The air was dim — the storm clouds seemed to have invaded the attic. Maud wished she had thought to bring a lamp from the kitchen. Selfish old Mr. Llewellyn, who hadn’t bothered to put electric lights in the part of the house where the servants lived.
Muffet’s bedroom would be brighter. There were more windows at the front of the house. Maud slid off the bed and tripped through the box room to the hired woman’s bedchamber. Muffet’s windows, like her own, were open — Maud shut them and smeared the water across the floorboards with her foot. She wished Muffet would finish the dishes and come upstairs.
She settled down on the rug beside Muffet’s bed. She was not afraid of the storm — only little children were cowed by thunder, she reminded herself — it was just that Muffet’s room