“So you made things up,” Maud said matter-of-factly. She felt that she might have done the same thing.
“No — yes. It wasn’t just that. You see, Maud, Mr. Llewellyn owned a cotton mill, and he used child laborers. Little children — some of them younger than you — I visited him at the mill, and they almost broke my heart. They were so frail and dingy and crooked, and I thought it was a shame.” Victoria’s head was up now. “It was dreadful, Maud! He loved his son — but he couldn’t see that those poor factory waifs were children, too. He saw nothing wrong with forcing them to work ten hours a day for two dollars a week, and I couldn’t help myself. I told him” — she gulped — “I told him Tom came to me in a dream. I told him Tom wanted him to build a school for those children and pay them for learning their lessons. And he did. He built the school. The children worked half a day, and the rest of the time they studied and played.”
Maud clapped her hands, tickled by the idea that decorous Victoria had thought of such a scheme. “But that was good!”
“That’s what I thought.” Victoria shook her head. “I told myself it was a good lie. I hadn’t hurt anyone. And Mr. Llewellyn was greatly admired for treating the children well — for the first time in his life, people looked up to him. But it was a lie, Maud, and I was punished for it. After that lie, I lost my gift. I no longer dream of the dead.”
“Do you miss it so much?”
“Yes.” Victoria spoke the monosyllable very softly. “But it isn’t just that. Mr. Llewellyn left me this house when he died — he had others, but this was the one where Tom died — and that made me feel dreadful, but that wasn’t the worst thing, either. The worst thing was that after I stopped dreaming, people still came to me for comfort, and I had none to give. And then Hyacinth began to say she was a medium and to hold séances. . . . I never asked for anything, ever, but she accepted gifts, and after a while we were making money. Oh, we needed it — Hyacinth spends so recklessly — but it wasn’t right. And so we became what we are now. Liars and the cruelest sort of thieves.” With great gentleness, Victoria laid her fingertips against Maud’s nose. “And now there’s you. Hyacinth took you from the Asylum so that you could learn the family business. Can’t you see that what she is making you do is wrong? Think of Eleanor Lambert — think of all she’s suffered! What will become of you, Maud?”
Maud lowered her eyelids. She didn’t like the question. In her opinion, the problem of what was to become of her had been solved, and solved to her full satisfaction. She had a good home and a guardian. If there was a price attached to both, she was willing to pay. As for Eleanor Lambert, she was a grown-up — and rich. She would have to look after herself. “Don’t worry about me,” Maud said gruffly. “I’ll be all right.”
Victoria sighed and got to her feet. She replaced her hat on her head and took up her suitcases. “I must be going,” she said hopelessly. “I must catch the early train.”
Maud took the kerosene lamp and walked the stairs to light her way. She held out her free hand. “Good-bye,” she said. “I’m sorry —” She almost said, I’m sorry I love Hyacinth better than you, but stopped herself just in time. “I’m sorry you’re going away. I’ll miss you.”
Victoria bent and kissed her forehead. She had had no breakfast, and her breath was unpleasant. “I’ll write to you,” she promised. Maud watched as she descended the stairs, casting her shadow before her.
That night Maud dreamed of Caroline Lambert for the first time.
Four days later, the temperature rose to one hundred degrees, and Maud abandoned being perfectly good.
It was not only the heat that drove her to disobedience. Since Victoria’s leaving, both Hyacinth and Judith were edgy and short-tempered. Hyacinth was giving a series of lectures on spiritualism at a nearby hotel, and she had little time for Maud. Muffet was cross because Hyacinth’s outings demanded freshly ironed clothes every day, which meant that the kitchen stove had to be lit to heat the irons. Maud strayed back and forth between the airless attic and the steamy kitchen. She had nothing to read. When she complained, Judith provided her with one of Mr. Llewellyn’s old books, which was supposed to be about a whale. Maud skimmed over a hundred pages of dense prose without encountering the promised monster. Feeling cheated, she flung the book aside in disgust. Her head ached. She was bored, hot, sticky, and lonesome.
In her quest for something to do, she explored the box room. Inside the trunk she shared with Muffet, she came across the striped dress she had sewn under Victoria’s instruction. Maud had never worn this garment, which had not been a success. The gathers of the skirt were uneven, and one sleeve jutted out in a peculiar way. The cloth itself was thin and flimsy — Victoria was too frugal to waste good cloth on an unskilled seamstress.
Maud eyed the dress speculatively. It was a dress of no value, a dress she could get dirty if she liked. Maud had a sudden vision of herself cavorting by the edge of the ocean, wearing the striped dress. It would be terrible if she left the house and Hyacinth found out, but the risk was small. The Hawthorne sisters were at a dinner party given by a rich lady named Mrs. Fortescue. They would be spending the evening indoors.
Maud felt a surge of terror and delight. Her fingers trembled as she unbuttoned her rosebud print. She kicked off her shoes, peeled off her stockings, and removed almost all of her underwear. Then she yanked the striped dress over her head. A moment later, she padded barefoot down the stairs.
The kitchen was empty. Maud peered through the kitchen curtains and saw Muffet kneeling in the garden. Her back was to the door, and she was weeding. With luck, she would not hear — Maud almost smiled. Muffet couldn’t hear the screen door slam. Maud opened the door and trotted down the porch steps. Once in the alley, she began to run.
It was months since she had been able to run and it felt good, in spite of the gravel that bruised her feet. She dashed past the neighbor’s yard, ducked behind a bush, and rounded a corner. All too soon, she was out of breath. She slowed to a skip and then to a saunter. Her bare legs felt deliciously naked, and the air was fresh. She was free. It was dangerous. In five minutes she would be at the ocean. She spread her arms wide and skimmed between the buildings like a swallow.
She remembered the way. She crossed the boardwalk, dodging its evening strollers, and ran over the rough grass. At last she stood on the strand, with the broad sky stretching around her in three directions. The ocean glistened and tumbled upon the shore. Maud stopped, breathing hard. She was hoping to see the child who had invited her to play the day she came to Cape Calypso. But it was seven o’clock, and most of the children had gone home.
No matter. It was joy enough to be out of doors, with a breeze making her skirt flutter and the ocean beckoning ahead. A ripple of foam seethed forward and receded within inches of her toes. With boldness and longing, Maud stepped into the water.
It was so cold it made her bones ache. Maud squealed, baring her teeth. Then the wave receded, and for the first time, she felt the pull of the ocean; the sand under her feet was being sucked away. She locked her knees and laughed. She loved the bubbles of the foam against her skin. She pinched her skirt daintily and waded in deeper.