Maud could have wept with frustration. Outside the window, the trees were bending, and angry raindrops spattered the dust, leaving it pockmarked. A thread of lightning glittered against the clouds. Maud pressed her hot forehead to the window glass and closed her eyes. Judith and Hyacinth had no carriage. They would never go out in a storm.
The linoleum creaked faintly. Muffet had come to stand at the window. One calloused hand cupped Maud’s shoulder, turning her until they stood face-to-face. Muffet had noticed Maud watching the sky all day, and she knew something was up. Maud shrugged and pulled away. She crept upstairs to sulk, leaving Muffet to wash the dishes.
The attic windows were open. The rain splashed through the curtains, making a pool of water on the floor. Maud glared at it. She was in no mood to wipe up puddles. Another roll of thunder sounded, so much closer than the last that she scurried to the safety of her bed.
Lightning illumined the room. Maud dragged her pillow from under the bedclothes and hugged it to her chest. The wet curtains billowed inward, pulled taut by the wind. The air was dim — the storm clouds seemed to have invaded the attic. Maud wished she had thought to bring a lamp from the kitchen. Selfish old Mr. Llewellyn, who hadn’t bothered to put electric lights in the part of the house where the servants lived.
Muffet’s bedroom would be brighter. There were more windows at the front of the house. Maud slid off the bed and tripped through the box room to the hired woman’s bedchamber. Muffet’s windows, like her own, were open — Maud shut them and smeared the water across the floorboards with her foot. She wished Muffet would finish the dishes and come upstairs.
She settled down on the rug beside Muffet’s bed. She was not afraid of the storm — only little children were cowed by thunder, she reminded herself — it was just that Muffet’s room was nicer than her own. Besides being brighter, it was tidy. There were two bouquets of flowers from Muffet’s garden — marigolds and petunias — and their spicy fragrance offset the mustiness of the attic. Muffet had hung chromos on the walclass="underline" Gibson Girls and kittens and Jesus walking on the water. There was a crazy quilt on the bed, patched in red and violet and bottle green.
Two rectangular shapes caught Maud’s eye. Books. They lay on a footstool, under a workbasket: one plush covered, the other black. Maud stared at them, perplexed. Muffet had books? Automatically, she reached for them.
The black book was the Bible — a disappointment, but not a surprise. Big black books generally turned out to be Bibles. Muffet’s Bible, however, was a puzzle. It had thin paper and black numbers at the beginning of each section, but it was full of foreigners: Giovanni and Pietro and Giacomo. The name on the flyleaf was “Vicenzo Cerniglia.”
Maud tried to pronounce it. Then she turned to the other book, which was a photograph album. That, too, was a disappointment — Maud didn’t care much for pictures, particularly pictures of homely-looking people in old-fashioned clothes. Nevertheless, she leafed through them. There was a hollow-cheeked man with untidy whiskers and a woman whose hair was pulled back so tight that it made her ears stick out. There was also a child.
In Maud’s opinion, the child was the only person in the album who might lay claim to being pretty. She was doe-eyed, with a wide brow and curls that looked as round and dark as purple grapes. Maud pictured her in modern clothes and decided she would look nice. She turned over another page, and there was the child again: the woman was wearing the same dark, ill-fitting dress, but the child had grown taller. Her curls tumbled past her shoulders.
Maud turned another leaf, but there were no more pictures. The album was less than half filled. Between the last two pages was a piece of paper, much yellowed and folded in thirds. Maud unfolded it and read:
The Statement of Anzoletta Cerniglia,
wife of the late Vicenzo Cerniglia
November 12, 1871
I have asked Father Domenico to write these words for me because I cannot write English. The doctor says my heart is not strong. It is about my daughter Anna that I wish to speak, because she cannot speak for herself.
My husband and I came to America in 1850. Six years after, our only child was born. We called her Anna Maddalena. She was as beautiful as an angel and as good as gold. When she was almost four years old, she caught the whooping cough. She almost died. Afterward, she was deaf. When I first understood that she would never hear or speak, I was angry with God and I wept.
But I was wrong, because Anna was always a blessing. God gave her a good heart and she was intelligent. As she grew older, we made up our own language and we spoke to her with our hands. She understood everything. She learned quickly. I taught her to work hard.
I have taught her everything I know. She can sew and knit and do fine needlework. She can cook and keep house. Our neighbors let her work in their homes, and they showed her the sewing machine and the gas stove. She can cook with gas or coal. My husband taught her a little carpentry and how to count money.
I have tried to make sure she knows every useful thing, as I think no man will marry her. I write this letter to say that she is a good and useful girl. She is honest and will work very hard. I beg you who read this letter to treat her well, and I pray that God will reward you.
Maud refolded the letter and placed it between the pages. Her mind was so busy with what she had read that a sudden roar of thunder caught her unawares. She leaped to her feet, and the two books fell to the floor.
She gazed at them in consternation. The Bible had fallen open, and the thin pages were wrinkled; the cover to the photograph album, loose before, had ripped and hung crookedly. Maud knelt to repair the damage. She smoothed out the pages of the Bible, reversing the creases. It was unlikely that Muffet would open a book she could not read. Maud turned back to the child in the picture. That sweet-faced girl was Muffet — Muffet — whose mother had thought her beautiful.
Maud shut the book and set it back on the footstool. I beg you who read this letter to treat her well. She felt a twinge of discomfort. She had left Muffet with the supper dishes and damaged her books.
Someone was coming up the stairs. Not Muffet — her clumping, uneven footsteps were unmistakable — but light, staccato steps. Maud froze. Then she jumped up and rushed back to her room. She had left her striped dress by the washstand. There was sand in the pockets — Hyacinth must not find it — Maud grangled the dress into a knot and shoved it under the bed.
Maud heard Hyacinth’s whisper. “Maud! Maud! Maud!”
Hyacinth was carrying a lamp and a clock. She placed both on the dresser and came to clasp Maud’s hands.
“What is it?”
“Mrs. Lambert’s here.” Hyacinth’s eyes glittered with excitement. “Do you remember how to play the glockenspiel?”
Maud goggled at her. “You told me not to practice here,” she reminded Hyacinth. “You said the neighbors might —”
“Hush! Never mind.” Hyacinth dropped Maud’s hands and went to the dresser. From the top drawer, she took the golden wig. “You can sing — it will do just as well. Quickly, get dressed! Mrs. Lambert’s here, and I mustn’t leave her long.”
“Are we having a séance?” There had been no preparation. “How will I get in the map cupboard if she’s already here?”
“We won’t use the map cupboard,” Hyacinth said briskly. “Now, Maud, don’t make difficulties.”
“I’m not making difficulties,” Maud said, stung. “I’ll do anything you want, but you have to tell me what it is.”
Hyacinth held up her palms, silencing her. “Do stop arguing! Mrs. Lambert was out calling and was caught in the rain. She came here because she was nearby — that’s what she says, but that’s not the real reason. She wants a séance — that’s what fetched her. Judith’s helping her into dry things — it’s a perfect night, with the storm — but we must move quickly, quickly.” Hyacinth reached behind the curtain where Maud kept her dresses. “You’ll wear the white dress and the wig. It’s not likely any of the neighbors will see you out the window, but if anyone sees, you must look like Caroline.”