secret? It sounds to me as if they’re up to something that isn’t right.”
“What, then?” Maud threw out her hands. “What could it be?”
Samm’l’s brow knotted.
Maud’s voice sank to a whisper. “I can’t figure it out, either.”
“Are they good to you?”
Maud nodded vehemently. “They give me everything I want,” she said. “Beautiful dresses and books and the food is so good — bacon at breakfast and meat every night — and dessert. They let me eat s’much as I want. And there’s a bathtub and a water closet, and I don’t have to do any chores except lessons and setting the table and dusting. And Hyacinth Hawthorne, she says I’m clever, and she likes the way I sing. And nobody’s hit me — ever — or even slapped me.”
“There aren’t any men around, are there?” inquired Samm’l. “Coming to the house at night, after dark?”
“No,” Maud said firmly. “They’re old maids. And they’re ladies, ” she added, as if that clinched it. Maud’s ideas of social class were as vague as they were snobbish, but she knew that ladies did not do wicked things.
“Do they go to church?”
“Judith does,” Maud answered. “Victoria doesn’t. But she’s always reading the Bible, and she makes me learn a psalm every Sunday.”
Samm’l shook his head again. Then he gave a little leap, as if he had just remembered something. “I almost forgot.” He dug into his pockets and brought out a necklace of coral beads. “I wanted you to have it. ’Twas Mother’s.”
Maud’s hand went out. The beads were warm from the heat of her brother’s body. A silver crucifix hung from one end of the necklace. Carefully she spread the string of beads over her fingers, preparing to put it on.
“You don’t wear it,” Samm’l said critically. “It’s a rosary — Mother’s coral rosary. Each bead is a prayer. Don’t you remember? Mother was Catholic. Kit and I” — he frowned, as if embarrassed — “well, the Vines are Presbyterian, so we’ve had to be Presbyterians, too, but once I’m a man, I’m going to be Catholic again. You ought to be Catholic, too. It’s what Mother would want. You ought to go to Mass every Sunday.”
“I can’t,” Maud said. “I don’t go out.”
They were back to the secret again. Maud watched her brother’s face knot with incomprehension. “I don’t like it,” he said. “I don’t like leaving you in a place where I don’t know what’s going on.”
Maud watched him. A cold wisdom passed through her mind. She knew that he would leave her whether he liked it or not.
“I like it here.” She spoke so forcefully that he flinched. “I don’t care if I have to be a secret. I want to stay here. Promise me” — she clutched his hand — “promise me you won’t tell anyone. If the neighbors find out I live here, I might get sent back to the Asylum.” She held out the rosary. “Promise. Swear it on Mama’s necklace.”
Samm’l took her hand, but he did not promise. Instead, he pulled her into his arms.
Maud hid her face against his sodden jacket. He smelled of wet wool and wood smoke and cows. It was the smell of the home she had lost, and all at once she could remember it. She envisioned the farmhouse kitchen, with her father’s boots just inside the door and her mother’s geraniums by the window. She remembered the touch of her mother’s skirts and the softness of her mother’s lap. She gritted her teeth. She had raged and cried when Samm’l left before. This time she wouldn’t shed a tear. She threw back her head and spoke fiercely. “Promise. Promise not to tell.”
“I promise,” Samm’l said. He drew her close again and she sagged against him, closing her eyes in relief.
A fter Samm’l’s visit, Maud became a spy in her own home.
She knew that curiosity was risky. She wasn’t supposed to ferret out the secret that hung over her; she was supposed to wait patiently until the Hawthorne sisters trusted her enough to
“What, then?” Maud threw out her hands. “What could it be?”
Samm’l’s brow knotted.
Maud’s voice sank to a whisper. “I can’t figure it out, either.”
“Are they good to you?”
Maud nodded vehemently. “They give me everything I want,” she said. “Beautiful dresses and books and the food is so good — bacon at breakfast and meat every night — and dessert. They let me eat s’much as I want. And there’s a bathtub and a water closet, and I don’t have to do any chores except lessons and setting the table and dusting. And Hyacinth Hawthorne, she says I’m clever, and she likes the way I sing. And nobody’s hit me — ever — or even slapped me.”
“There aren’t any men around, are there?” inquired Samm’l. “Coming to the house at night, after dark?”
“No,” Maud said firmly. “They’re old maids. And they’re ladies, ” she added, as if that clinched it. Maud’s ideas of social class were as vague as they were snobbish, but she knew that ladies did not do wicked things.
“Do they go to church?”
“Judith does,” Maud answered. “Victoria doesn’t. But she’s always reading the Bible, and she makes me learn a psalm every Sunday.”
Samm’l shook his head again. Then he gave a little leap, as if he had just remembered something. “I almost forgot.” He dug into his pockets and brought out a necklace of coral beads. “I wanted you to have it. ’Twas Mother’s.”
Maud’s hand went out. The beads were warm from the heat of her brother’s body. A silver crucifix hung from one end of the necklace. Carefully she spread the string of beads over her fingers, preparing to put it on.
“You don’t wear it,” Samm’l said critically. “It’s a rosary — Mother’s coral rosary. Each bead is a prayer. Don’t you remember? Mother was Catholic. Kit and I” — he frowned, as if embarrassed — “well, the Vines are Presbyterian, so we’ve had to be Presbyterians, too, but once I’m a man, I’m going to be Catholic again. You ought to be Catholic, too. It’s what Mother would want. You ought to go to Mass every Sunday.”
“I can’t,” Maud said. “I don’t go out.”
They were back to the secret again. Maud watched her brother’s face knot with incomprehension. “I don’t like it,” he said. “I don’t like leaving you in a place where I don’t know what’s going on.”
Maud watched him. A cold wisdom passed through her mind. She knew that he would leave her whether he liked it or not.
“I like it here.” She spoke so forcefully that he flinched. “I don’t care if I have to be a secret. I want to stay here. Promise me” — she clutched his hand — “promise me you won’t tell anyone. If the neighbors find out I live here, I might get sent back to the Asylum.” She held out the rosary. “Promise. Swear it on Mama’s necklace.”
Samm’l took her hand, but he did not promise. Instead, he pulled her into his arms.
Maud hid her face against his sodden jacket. He smelled of wet wool and wood smoke and cows. It was the smell of the home she had lost, and all at once she could remember it. She envisioned the farmhouse kitchen, with her father’s boots just inside the door and her mother’s geraniums by the window. She remembered the touch of her mother’s skirts and the softness of her mother’s lap. She gritted her teeth. She had raged and cried when Samm’l left before. This time she wouldn’t shed a tear. She threw back her head and spoke fiercely. “Promise. Promise not to tell.”
“I promise,” Samm’l said. He drew her close again and she sagged against him, closing her eyes in relief.
A fter Samm’l’s visit, Maud became a spy in her own home.
She knew that curiosity was risky. She wasn’t supposed to ferret out the secret that hung over her; she was supposed to wait patiently until the Hawthorne sisters trusted her enough to
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