A Drowned Maiden's Hair Read Online Free PDF Page A

behind Victoria to the second floor, where she beheld the second Improvement in the Hawthorne home: the bathroom.
    It was resplendent. In fact, it was so fine, so luxurious, that Maud forgot her grievance against Victoria and her hunger for breakfast. There was a huge white tub, with lion’s paws at the corners. The water for the bath poured out of a rust-stained lion’s mouth. Victoria tipped a handful of sweet-smelling granules into the palm of her hand. “Bath salts,” she explained, and sprinkled them over the water. “Of course, it’s wrong for a child to use scent, but I thought for your first day . . . They’re only lavender.”
    Maud inhaled appreciatively. The gift of bath salts confirmed her worse suspicion — she must smell bad — but she was grateful for the treat. She waited until Victoria was gone before she stripped off her clothes, threw them on the floor, and squatted down to bathe. The water was warm, and no one had bathed in it before her. There was no one else’s scrubbed-off skin making a scum on the top of the water. Maud picked up the big sponge and squeezed water down her chest. The soap was translucent, golden as honey, and smoky sweet. Maud scrubbed until even her armpits smelled good. She emerged from the bath cleaner than she’d ever been in her life.
    Pulling on her dirty clothes was a shock. Maud shuddered like a cat in the rain, trying to touch her dress with nothing but the tips of her fingers.
    Victoria was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. “Come to breakfast,” she said, and seemed pleased when Maud said, “Yes ma’am.” At breakfast, Maud realized, she would see Hyacinth. At the thought, her pace quickened, and she tripped down the stairs so rapidly Victoria took a step backward.
    The breakfast room was nearly empty. Judith Hawthorne sat before a crumb-spotted plate, drinking a cup of tea. Beside her was a place setting of clean china. “Where’s Hyacinth?” demanded Maud.
    “Hyacinth has a sick headache,” Victoria answered.
    “Hyacinth generally has a sick headache when she hasn’t had her own way,” Judith said dryly.
    Maud looked at her uncertainly.
    Victoria pulled out a chair, indicating Maud’s place at table. “I’m afraid we weren’t quite sure what you would like for breakfast,” she said apologetically. “What did you have at the Asylum?”
    “Oatmeal,” said Maud, airing a long-held grudge.
    “Oh, dear.” Victoria surveyed the breakfast table as if it worried her. “None of us are very fond of oatmeal, I’m afraid. We generally have toast and bacon and marmalade — or jam. In the future, we could manage oatmeal, but for this morning, do you think you could eat a little toast and bacon?”
    Maud had no doubt about it. Now that food was within reach, she realized that she was ravenous. She accepted the toast with fingers that trembled with hunger and sawed at her bacon with such force that the knife squeaked against the plate. “I hate oatmeal,” she said around a mouthful of toast. “At the Asylum, half the time the milk was sour, and there were always lumps. We used to pick them out — the oatmeal lumps, I mean — and line them up on the table to see who had the most. I remember one time —” She recalled the beautiful day she had collected the hard, spitty lumps and hidden them in Miss Kitteridge’s muff. It occurred to her, midsentence, that this was not a good story to share with grown-ups.
    “Maud,” Judith said sternly, “don’t talk with your mouth full.”
    Maud nodded hard and resumed eating. Luckily neither of the Misses Hawthorne seemed eager for her to finish the story. She spread a second piece of toast with marmalade, which she had never tasted before and which she found very good. After devouring the toast, she dragged the bacon dish across the tablecloth, only to discover that it was empty. The Hawthorne ladies were staring at her, appalled by her table manners. Maud shrank back against her chair. “I’m