“And I’ll teach you to be Caroline.” Hyacinth reached across the table — Maud could have told her that this was bad manners — so that her fingertips brushed the hair by Maud’s earlobe. The caress was so light that it made Maud’s skin prickle. “We’ll need a wig — Caroline had long ringlets. But —”
“Who’s Caroline?” Maud knew that she had encountered the name recently, but she couldn’t remember when.
“Caroline Lambert. The dead child of my very wealthy friend Mrs. Lambert. The drowned child. That’s why I brought you home with me, my darling Maud — so that you could play the part of Caroline Lambert.”
On the following day, Hyacinth took charge of Maud’s education. Victoria’s timetable was set aside and replaced with lessons in playacting, elocution, and music. The glockenspiel that Maud was to learn to play turned out to be a musical instrument made up of metal bars. Hyacinth showed Maud how to strike the notes with a little mallet so that the chimes rang out sweetly. Maud was enchanted. Never in her life had she tinkered with a musical instrument, and she was charmed to find she could make music. By the end of the first day, she had taught herself to hammer out tunes.
“She has such an ear for music,” proclaimed Hyacinth. “I knew it the first day, when I heard her singing. Listen to her! Maud, you are altogether the cleverest child I ever saw.”
Maud glowed at the praise. She continued to bang out “Mary Had a Little Lamb” until Judith announced that she had a headache and told Maud to take the glockenspiel up to the third floor.
“Judith is such a wet blanket,” Hyacinth whispered as she and Maud tiptoed up the back stairs. “She doesn’t mind the séances, but she never gets any fun out of them, poor thing. Of course, during the séances, the room will be dark. You’ll have to make music without being able to see. You might as well practice that way — with your eyes shut.”
“That’s impossible,” complained Maud, more for the pleasure of arguing than anything else. With Hyacinth’s praise ringing in her ears, she felt she could do anything.
Hyacinth laughed softly. “It won’t be so very difficult,” she coaxed, touching the mallet to the tip of Maud’s nose. “An ordinary child couldn’t play music in the dark, but it will be nothing for you.”
Maud ducked her head, trying to conceal her happiness. When Hyacinth teased and flattered her, she was helpless to resist. Once upstairs, she began to practice with her eyes squeezed shut, using her left hand to measure the space between the notes. It was less difficult than she had expected.
She found the glockenspiel so enthralling that she could hardly tear herself away long enough to eat. She abandoned her studies of history, geography, and arithmetic, and Hyacinth defended her. “It’s nearly summer anyway,” she told Victoria, “and music is essential to a young lady’s education.”
On the third day after Hyacinth’s return, Maud made an earth-shaking discovery: she could play harmonies. If she struck one note with the mallet and another with the end of a pencil, she could make chords. She was banging her way up and down the scale when she heard heavy footsteps on the staircase. The footsteps were accompanied by a curious droning noise. It was Muffet.
Maud felt a twinge of conscience. It had been days since she provided Muffet with any new words. The hired woman had taken to staring hypnotically at Maud when she waited at table. She wanted more nouns. Maud sighed. She wished she could explain to Muffet just how fascinating the glockenspiel was.
Muffet came into the room. There was a look of wonder and rapture on her face. She held open a tattered book, which Maud recognized as collection of recipes. Muffet held out the book and pointed to the words sugar, milk, and bowl. These were words that Maud had taught her. All at once, Maud understood. Muffet was reading.
Maud’s face lit up. “That’s right, Muffet!” she exclaimed. “See, this book has lots of words you know — you might even be able to read a whole recipe!” She thumbed through the pages. “Here’s one for apple pie — you know how to make that, and you know most of the words.” She pointed them out. “Flour — lard — apples.” She mimed washing. Wash apples. It was one of the verbs she had succeeded in teaching. “Wash and peel —”
Muffet shook her head. Her finger poked at the word apple. Maud had come to understand this gesture as a request for information.
“You know that one, Muffet. Apple.” Maud made her hand into a circle and mimed taking a bite. “Apple.”
Muffet dismissed the mime with another shake of the head.
Maud pointed to Muffet’s pocket. “Give me your tablet,” she said impatiently. She dug into Muffet’s apron and took out the notebook that had become Muffet’s dictionary. She leafed through the pages, looking for the drawings she had made. “Here. I taught you.” She thumped the page, where she had drawn a circle with a stem. APPLE. She pointed at the word.
Obstinately, Muffet shook her head. She took a pencil from her pocket and copied the word from the book: apple. Then she thumped the page.
“I taught you that. See, it’s right here —” Maud began. Then she groaned, seeing the problem. She had written the words for Muffet’s dictionary in both capital and small letters, depending on her mood at the time. Muffet had learned the words exactly as written. To Muffet, the “apple” in the book had nothing to do with the APPLE Maud had taught her. Maud could have kicked herself. How would she ever explain to Muffet that capital letters were the same as small ones? She gazed at Muffet with such despair that the woman reached out to pat her cheek, as if begging pardon for causing trouble. Maud felt even guiltier.
A light footstep, a rustle of silk, and Hyacinth stood in the hall. “Gracious, what’s this?” she asked.
Muffet moved quickly. With the swiftness of a conjuror, she pocketed the writing tablet. She closed the cookery book and hugged it between her arm and bosom.
Hyacinth cocked her head toward Muffet. “Haven’t you got work to do?” She used both hands to mime sweeping the floor and pointed to the floorboards. “Downstairs?”
Maud shifted uneasily. For a split second, she found herself disliking Hyacinth. It seemed to her that there was no need for Hyacinth to speak so sharply or stab her finger through the air with such energy. She reminded herself that Muffet could not hear; Muffet wouldn’t catch the insulting note in Hyacinth’s voice.
But Muffet understood. She lurched out of Maud’s room, turning her back on Hyacinth with a suddenness that was as rude as Hyacinth’s pantomime.
“What on earth was she doing here?” asked Hyacinth. “She ought to be preparing dinner. She wasn’t bothering you, was she?”
“No,” Maud said shortly. She remembered how she and Hyacinth had laughed at Muffet, likening her to a blacksmith in petticoats. She didn’t know whether to be ashamed of Muffet or herself. “She’s all right.”
Hyacinth shrugged. “Come downstairs to the back parlor. I want to show you what to do for the séance.”
“Will I play the glockenspiel?”
“No,” Hyacinth answered. “That’s for the Lambert séances — this is for Burckhardt. For next week.” She saw the confusion in Maud’s face. “Heavens, didn’t I explain to you? Horace Burckhardt is coming here next week. He wants a séance, and I want you to participate.”
“Does he have a dead daughter?”
“No. A dead wife. I’ll be the dead wife — you won’t have much to do, but Burckhardt’s an easy client, and I want you to have a little practice.” Hyacinth extended a hand. “Come along!”
Maud descended to the first floor. Evidently Victoria and Judith were out, as the rooms were empty. Hyacinth led her past the dining room. “The night of the séance, we’ll have supper at six,” she explained, “cheese soufflé, probably — people who want to see spirits shouldn’t eat meat, though I can’t think why. At any rate, by six o’clock, all of us will be in the dining room with the door shut. You’ll be upstairs, with my little china clock. I want you to wait ten minutes before you come down. Then you come down the back steps — as quietly as you can — and creep into the back parlor. Now — when do you come downstairs?”