A Drowned Maiden's Hair_ A Melodrama - Laura Amy Schlitz [93]
On the fifth morning after the fire, Judith shook Maud awake and told her to dress for a journey by train. Her manner was hurried and secretive. Maud gathered that she meant to leave without speaking to Mrs. Lambert.
Maud began to put on her clothes. Half asleep though she was, she was tempted to wake Muffet to say good-bye. She considered arguing with Judith or refusing to budge, but she lacked the heart. She knew she would not win, and she was tired of everyone being angry with her. In a stupor of obedience, she brushed her hair and buttoned her boots. Judith nodded approval and took her hand.
Maud didn’t ask where they were going. Nor did she beg for mercy. She knew that a woman who had left her in a burning house would not scruple to take her back to the Barbary Asylum.
The walk to the train was a long one. The distance was not great — Maud could have walked it in fifteen minutes — but Judith limped painfully. It was the first day she had left her bed, and she grimaced every time her petticoats rasped against her burned leg. After a dozen steps, she pulled her veil over her face. Maud thought of offering her arm, as Lord Fauntleroy offered his to his gouty grandfather. Then she thought better of it. She knew that Judith hated herself for crying and would rather be left alone.
It was not until the train left the station that Judith spoke. She took out her handkerchief and wiped her cheeks. “Maud,” she said in an undertone, “do you think you could creep down and unbutton my boot? It’s very tight.”
Maud slid down to the floor. She crawled under Judith’s skirt, which smelled like charcoal, unbuttoned the boot, slid her hand up to Judith’s garter, and released the stocking. Judith flinched at her touch.
Maud slithered back into her seat. “I don’t think anyone saw.”
“Thank you,” whispered Judith.
Maud nodded. She was grateful even for ordinary courtesy.
“Maud,” ventured Judith some minutes later, “I have something to say to you. You know I’m taking you back to the Asylum, don’t you?”
Maud’s last hope died. “Yes.”
“It seems cruel to you, I suppose.”
Maud set her teeth and turned her head away.
Judith sighed deeply. In the past week, she had aged ten years. Her cheekbones looked sharper and her neck more wrinkled. Even her voice had lost its rasp; it was dull and weary. “Victoria was right all along. She said we had no business bringing a child into our world. The night of the fire —”
The words hung in the air. Judith couldn’t seem to finish the sentence. Maud wasn’t going to help her.
“Do you hate me?” Judith asked. She sounded as though she really wanted to know, as if Maud had the right to say yes.
Maud swallowed. “I don’t know. I hate Hyacinth.”
“You should.”
Maud fixed her eyes on the hot green world outside the window. The train was passing a cornfield that seemed to go on for miles: tall green cornstalks, hung with tassels. Maud could smell them. As if it were a thing of years gone by, she remembered how sweet the corn tasted, served with butter and salt. A week ago, she shucked corn with Muffet on the back porch. She remembered the sound it made when she ripped back the outer leaves and the way the sheathings turned from dull green to moonlit white. She liked to break a few kernels off with her thumb and eat them raw.
She was lost in the memory of shucking corn when Judith spoke again. “Maud, I am deeply ashamed.”
Maud raised her eyes, startled.
“I never wanted you.” Judith spoke the words dispassionately; she wasn’t trying