Meekly, Maud put it into her hand.
“Has no one told you that it is wrong to read other people’s letters?”
Maud wondered if she could get away with saying no. She opened her eyes wide, trying to look innocent and hurt. “I never got any letters at the Asylum.” She had noticed that Victoria often looked sorry for her when she talked about the Asylum. She added, pleadingly, “Ma’am.”
Neither the excuse nor the “ma’am” succeeded in softening Victoria’s wrath. “It was very wrong of you. To read other people’s letters is vulgar. Dishonest — and vulgar — and wrong. And what were you doing in my room?”
Maud’s eyes darted back and forth, looking for an answer. She caught sight of the bookcase door, which was still ajar. She spoke breathlessly. “Please, Aunt Victoria, I didn’t have anything to read.”
This was a watertight lie. Both the Hawthorne sisters understood that Maud had a hunger for books that could not be satisfied.
“You ought to have waited and asked me for a book. You had no right to enter my room, and still less right to read my letter.”
“Why don’t Hyacinth write to me?”
The question surprised them both. Maud had not expected to ask, and Victoria was not prepared to answer. The old woman sidestepped the issue. “Why doesn’t, not Why don’t.”
“Why doesn’t she, then?” persisted Maud. “I’ve written her. I’ve written her three times, and she doesn’t write back.”
“That is beside the point.” Victoria swept aside Maud’s argument with the wave of a hand. “Don’t try to distract me, Maud. You have done wrong, and you are going to be punished.”
Maud had to choose between looking pleading and looking proud. She calculated the choice. Victoria was too indignant to be softened by pleading. Maud lifted her chin bravely: the child martyr.
“Go upstairs,” said Victoria slowly, and Maud realized that Victoria hadn’t yet figured out what the punishment ought to be. “Go upstairs and — take out your arithmetic book. You will do problems in long division for the next two hours. I will inspect your work tomorrow, and if you haven’t done enough, you will work during playtime.”
Privately Maud decided this was not too bad. If she had to do the arithmetic, she would miss her walk in the dreary garden.
“You will not come downstairs for the rest of the day,” Victoria continued, “and none of us will speak to you until tomorrow morning. Muffet will bring your supper on a tray.”
Cheered to learn there would be supper, Maud started to leave the room.
“Wait!” Victoria’s voice was commanding. “Haven’t you something to say to me?”
“What?” stammered Maud.
“Don’t say what!” snapped Victoria. “It’s rude! Oughtn’t you apologize to me?”
Maud put her hands behind her back. During her years at the Asylum, she had mastered the art of the insincere apology. “I’m sorry I read your letter, ma’am,” she said in a tone of voice that was grave and polite but didn’t sound sorry in the least.
“I accept your apology,” said Victoria. Her forgiveness was as frosty as Maud’s apology was false.
When the clock struck six, Muffet brought the supper tray, putting an end to Maud’s struggles with long division. Maud was surprised how glad she was to see the hired woman. She was used to being alone on the third floor, but the knowledge that she was being punished made her solitude irksome. She threw down her pencil and shoved her books to the floor, making room for the supper tray.
The plates were generously fulclass="underline" fried pork, corn bread, and apple fritters. Maud had anticipated that there would be no dessert, but there was a large bowl of Muffet’s bread pudding, with a thick crust of cinnamon and sugar on top. Maud looked at Muffet’s swarthy, unjudging face, and felt an urge to throw her arms around her. She pointed to the bowl and nodded. “Thank you,” she said, pronouncing the words very clearly, as if that would enable the deaf woman to hear.
Muffet stepped closer. She took her forefinger and drew a line on Maud’s face, starting from the eye and descending down the cheek. Maud pulled back, and then understood. “Oh!” she said. “You think I’ve been crying!” She imitated Muffet’s gesture and shook her head. “Not crying,” she said firmly.
Muffet shrugged. It might have meant anything, Maud knew, but it didn’t. Muffet’s shrug meant that Maud was lying, which she was.
“Well, maybe a little,” Maud admitted. It went against the grain to admit that Victoria had made her cry, but Muffet wasn’t going to tell anyone.
Muffet continued to gaze at her doubtfully. Maud understood why the hired girl was puzzled. Usually, Maud set the table and helped prepare supper. Tonight, she was confined to her room.
Muffet pressed her fingers against her forehead and assumed a look of anguish. Then she crossed her arms over her belly and doubled over. She straightened up, threw out her palms, and gazed inquiringly at Maud.
Maud giggled and shook her head. “No, I’m not sick.” She thought for a moment, picked up a spare sheet of paper, and began to draw.
She drew two stick figures, one half the size of the other. The larger stick figure was Victoria — recognizable by her spectacles and the way she dressed her hair. In the drawing, the stick Victoria stood scowling down at a stick child. “See?” Maud pointed to the drawing. “Victoria’s angry with me. I’m being punished.”
Muffet reached for the pencil. She corrected Maud’s drawing with a few masterful lines. A real Victoria emerged from the stick Victoria — a woman of soft curves and voluminous skirts, with a wide brow and an anxious expression. Maud had never seen a skillful artist draw, and the process fascinated her. She leaned closer. “How do you do that?”
Muffet understood Maud’s excitement, if not the words. A gleam of pride came into her eyes.
“Draw me,” begged Maud. She pointed to the paper, then to her own face.
Muffet studied her for perhaps ten seconds. Then her pencil began to move. Maud gazed, entranced, as her likeness appeared: a little girl with cropped hair and skeptical eyes. It was not a pretty portrait, but Maud was flattered. The girl in the drawing looked clever and resolute. She even had a certain panache. It struck Maud that Muffet must have observed her very carefully. For the first time, Maud wondered if the hired woman understood her life as a secret child. Did Muffet know the secret that was hidden from Maud?
An idea sprang into Maud’s head. She thrust out her hand, palm up, and waggled her fingers imperiously. Muffet surrendered the pencil.
Maud printed her name underneath her portrait. MAUD. She said, “Maud,” and tapped the paper. She repeated the name, thumping her breast. “Maud. See? Those letters make my name.”
To Maud’s delight, Muffet took back the pencil and copied the word. MAUD, she wrote, copying Maud’s crooked A, which leaned to the right. The inscription was as exact as a forgery.
Maud nodded vigorously. “That’s right, Muffet! See, these letters make a word! If you could learn to write letters —” Her voice died away. It dawned on her that Muffet would never be able to understand letters. She had no sounds with which to connect them. Even if the hired woman knew the secrets of the house, she would never be able to write them to Maud.
Muffet was tapping her breast. Maud realized with a twinge of pity that the woman wanted her own name. She pointed to Muffet and wrote MUFFET on the page.
Muffet shook her head. She took back the pencil and wrote a single word in a child’s handwriting. The letters were rounder and softer than Maud’s: ANNA.
Anna. At some point — perhaps when she was a little girl — someone had taught Muffet to write her name. Maud raised her eyebrows to signify a question. She pointed to Muffet. “Your name?”
Muffet struck her chest and then the word. ANNA. Then she reached over and struck the bed. She drew the briefest of sketches on the page — a four-poster like Maud’s own. She extended the paper to Maud.