After Samm’l’s visit, Maud became a spy in her own home.
She knew that curiosity was risky. She wasn’t supposed to ferret out the secret that hung over her; she was supposed to wait patiently until the Hawthorne sisters trusted her enough to explain it. That was part of being perfectly good. But Samm’l’s doubts were catching. He had seemed convinced that there was something sinister about being a secret child. Maud wanted to prove him wrong.
Accordingly, she began to search. She knew not to ask questions, but she eavesdropped whenever she could. She discovered that one of the empty rooms on the third floor had a broken shutter: if she squatted down eye level to the break, she could look out the window.
She saw nothing that seemed strange to her. The little town of Hawthorne Grove appeared sunny and prosperous. She saw horses and carriages, the ladies with their parasols, the gentlemen returning home in the evening. Enviously, she watched the children: the boys who ran races, the girls who walked arm in arm. It occurred to Maud that she missed being with other children. She had never been popular with girls her own age, but it was odd, living in a world of old ladies.
Maud spied when she dusted the parlor. She pored over the family photograph album, noting that the child Hyacinth had been irresistibly pretty, while her sisters — Judith and Victoria were at least ten years older — were only so-so. She scrutinized the books in the locked bookcases, observing that a depressing number of volumes were devoted to the subject of God and the spiritual life.
There was only one conclusion that Maud was able to draw from the Hawthorne parlor, and it was an unwelcome one: the Hawthorne sisters were not as rich as she had thought. The parlor, so rich and imposing at first glance, showed signs of age. The heavy curtains were stiff with dry rot, and the upholstery of the chairs was riddled with tiny rents, as if someone had pierced them with a dagger. The garden was overgrown. The Hawthorne ladies kept no carriage and no servant but Muffet. They were sparing with coal.
Maud puzzled over these economies. She wondered why, if the Hawthorne sisters were in need of money, they had chosen to adopt a child. She estimated the price of her dresses and books, and she realized that she had cost the sisters nearly thirty dollars on the very first day. It was a shocking sum of money to waste. Maud remembered what Hyacinth had said: she was going to help them with their work. What kind of work would require the help of a secret child?
Pondering these questions, Maud grew reckless. On an afternoon when the sisters had set off for a concert, she determined to search their bedrooms. As Judith had taught her, she removed her boots and descended the stairs in stocking feet. The room closest to the stairway was Judith’s. Maud hesitated only a moment before going in.
Judith’s room was large and dim. The curtains were drawn and the wallpaper was olive green. The four-poster bed with its matching dresser was carved walnut, glossy and nearly black. A portrait of a stern-faced gentleman hung over the mantel. Maud knew from the photograph album that it was the Hawthorne sisters’ father. Cowed by his disapproving glare, Maud hastened to the next room.
Hyacinth’s bedroom was the most beautiful room in the house. It had a freshness that the other chambers lacked: the colors were lighter and the furniture less heavy. The two armchairs before the fireplace were cozily padded, with slender legs that ended in little gold claws. Everything, from the curtains at the window to the canopy over the bed, was dainty and new. Maud took a nostalgic peep into the jewel box and proceeded to open the drawers of the dressing table. Handkerchiefs, gloves, fans . . . There was an ivory powder box with a swansdown puff, a silver lorgnette, and a bottle of scent. Maud stroked the powder puff over her face, eyed the results in the mirror, and rubbed the powder onto her sleeve. It would be agreeable to linger and play with Hyacinth’s things, but she had no idea how long the sisters would be gone. She replaced the powder box and tiptoed out of the room.
Victoria’s room was the least tidy of the three and held a small bookcase with glass doors. Maud squatted down to look inside. Jane Eyre, Lady Audley’s Secret, Northanger Abbey, Hesper the Home Spirit, The White People, The Woman in White . . . The Woman in White had a piece of paper sticking out of it — not, Maud saw, a bookmark.
She slid it out and unfolded it, catching the scent of violets. That was Hyacinth’s scent; the miniature, curlicue handwriting belonged to Hyacinth. Unfortunately, in an attempt to save paper, Hyacinth had written the beginning of her letter in one direction and then turned the paper sideways, writing the second half of the letter on top of the first, so that the lines crossed at right angles. It was almost impossible to read. Maud turned it, squinting, trying to catch a line here and there.
. . . though Mrs. Lambert is a generous hostess, she is unwilling to tell me much about Caroline. Even now, she does not trust me. I feel certain that she is holding something back — some circumstance about Caroline’s death that she has told no one —
Maud frowned. She knew that Mrs. Lambert was the friend that kept Hyacinth in Cape Calypso. Maud resented her. She wasn’t interested in stupid Mrs. Lambert or the dead Caroline. She skipped several paragraphs.
Of course it is not in keeping with our agreement that we should entertain Burckhardt in Hawthorne Grove, but I assure you there is no risk, since he leaves the following morning to catch the steamer from Baltimore. I expect to arrive home on the twenty-ninth, which should give us time to get ready — Burckhardt will visit on the seventh. This is the perfect occasion to try out Maud, and see how she shapes.
Maud’s breath quickened at the sight of her name.
By the by, how is Maud? It’s been an entire week without one of her blotchy little letters, and I feel quite neglected. Has she forgotten me? I rejoice to hear that her table manners are improving, though, to judge from her letters, her grammar is not yet perfect. Never mind, I have great hopes for Maud. I am convinced she will be our perfect little angel child —
Maud glowed. An angel child! She caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror and saw herself rosy with happiness. She looked quite pretty. So that was how Hyacinth saw her — as an angel child! Maud was as astonished as she was delighted. At the Barbary Asylum, every child was strictly classified: a girl was pretty or plain, clever or stupid, good or bad. Maud knew quite well that she was plain, clever, and bad. She gave her reflection a disbelieving smile before returning to the letter.
You might want to examine her and see if she knows any hymns. “In the Sweet Bye and Bye,” I think, and “Blest Be the Tie That Binds.” We probably won’t need them for Burckhardt, when I shall assume the role of the depressing Agnes —
“Maud!”
Maud almost jumped out of her skin. Victoria stood in the doorway, dressed in her shawl and street clothes. Her face was so forbidding that Maud backed up, crumbling the letter behind her back.
“Maud, how could you? Reading my letter! Creeping into my bedroom behind my back!”
“I didn’t,” said Maud. It was the feeblest lie she had ever told, but her wits were so rattled she could think of nothing better.
“You did.” Victoria’s eyes were flashing behind her spectacles. “You’re holding my letter behind your back — I can see it in the glass.”
Maud switched tactics. “Why didn’t you tell me Hyacinth was coming home?” she demanded.
For a second, Victoria simply stared. Then she stretched out her hand, palm upward. “Give me my letter.”