Frank reached out as if to caress her cheek; at the same moment, Maud ducked away. She knew that her mother’s speech must be almost over.
She hurried out of the cloakroom, relieved that the anteroom was still empty. Frank emerged just behind her. He stood still, watching her, then stretched an arm toward her as if he wanted to detain her and uttered a single word in a hoarse whisper: “Please!”
“And don’t ever spring yourself on me again,” Maud whispered after him, though she suspected he hadn’t heard, as he was already disappearing into the night, leaving nothing but a blast of frigid air behind him.
Maud composed herself, reentered the auditorium, and slipped back into her seat. When Matilda’s speech concluded, Maud waited until most of the crowd had departed before walking to the front of the hall to take leave of Mother. But her mother, always perceptive to subtle changes in Maud’s mood, pressed her about what was bothering her. When Maud was not forthcoming, Matilda assumed that it was the interruption of the hecklers that had flustered Maud.
“Witches are wise women. There is no greater compliment than to have a broom brandished at you. Now, study hard, my dear. Every day gets you one step closer to your diploma.”
Maud embraced her mother and listened as the well-wishers gathered around her and spoke to her about the fineness of her speech, then kissed her on the cheek and said goodbye.
Outside, Maud picked her way over the icy paths toward Sage, where warm lights beckoned in the distance. She could not stop thinking about what had happened, and wondering how she was going to convince her mother to change her mind.
But as she pushed the doors open to enter Sage College, she felt a new sense of uneasiness. Someone among her small group of friends must have spread their intimate activities as gossip—and now, it seemed, Maud had been branded a witch. A good witch, her mother would say, not that the distinction would help any. Maud had watched her mother spend a lifetime trying to secure votes for women, to no avail. How much less likely was it that Matilda Gage would ever convince anyone that witches could be forces for good?
* * *
—
IN THE AFTERMATH OF Matilda’s visit, Maud felt constantly on her guard. She knew that the campus was chattering about the escapades of the men during Matilda’s speech, and in Sage, she tried to suppress the suspicion that girls’ whispered conversations would fall silent as she passed. Josie was ever loyal, but Maud had clammed up even to her—afraid that she would be tempted to blurt out the news of her secret visit from Frank. No place seemed safe. To shelter herself from the gossip, she spent most of her time at one of the long mahogany tables in Sage Library, her Bain’s Composition Grammar, Lounsbury’s English Language, and Select Poems of Tennyson beside her. In whispers, she memorized Titania’s speech to Oberon from A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Maud had always loved books. She had read and reread her copies of Little Women and Rose in Bloom until the spines were broken and the pages were soft. As a girl, she had enjoyed nothing more than curling up in front of the fire and listening to Matilda read aloud from Sir Walter Scott—Rob Roy or The Bride of Lammermoor. Yet, sitting in the library in silence, working out the scansion of Keats’s “Ode on a Grecian Urn” with neat rows of pencil marks, Maud felt alone. In the parlor at home, reading invoked lively discussion, with Matilda pontificating, Maud arguing, and even Julia surprisingly opinionated when it came to bookish romance. Maud had imagined that her life as a coed would be full of light and life and discussion. Instead, she sat alone, aloof, her nose buried in a book, trying to rise above the gossip that seemed to follow her everywhere except the library. When not focused on her work, her mind was consistently drawn back to Christmas, to the merry dancing eyes of Frank Baum, to his insouciant and evident disregard for formal education.
One day, staring out a beveled window at fat snowflakes drifting down, she remembered Frank’s odd tale about Jim the Cab Horse—how cab horses had interesting stories to tell because they went so many places. Where was Frank Baum right now on this wintry day? What was it like to be in a traveling theater? Perhaps a person could learn more from being out in the world and seeing new things every day than from being shut up in a library? Was it only six months ago that Maud had been certain that her life at Cornell would be full of adventure? And couldn’t she be reading these poems anywhere? Maud imagined herself somewhere, on a train, Frank by her side, reading her Tennyson as fantastic, unfamiliar landscapes whirred by. But out the window of Sage, there was nothing moving except the snow, against a background of dark trees. The more Maud thought about Frank, the more she longed to see him again, but the winter just dragged on. February turned to March, then March to April, yet the shadows in the library and the gray skies out the window never seemed to change.
At last, small signs of spring appeared on campus, bald patches of brown grass appearing from under the snow and a few crocuses poking bravely through the sodden ground. The girls shed their heavy woolens and tied flat straw boaters on their heads. And then it was time to return home for Easter. Maud had decided. She would speak to her mother about Frank.
* * *
—
MATILDA WAS WRITING FURIOUSLY when Maud popped her head into her mother’s small office. Two days ago, Maud had arrived home from Cornell for her spring recess.
“May I have a word with you?”
Her mother looked up, her expression conveying not so much irritation as bewilderment. Maud was most familiar with this look, the one that her mother bore when interrupted in her writing, as if beckoned from a great distance.
“Come in,” Matilda said.
Maud sat on the wooden chair in the corner of the room, a familiar spot from which to have an audience with her mother.
“There is a matter I wish to discuss with you,” Maud said.
Matilda nodded. “Certainly.”
“You may recall that at Christmas I was introduced to Josie Baum’s cousin, a gentleman by the name of Mr. Frank Baum.”
Maud watched her mother’s face for clues to her mood, but her mother appeared calm and attentive, giving no hints of her disposition.
“I do recall,” Matilda said. “You are speaking of the young man who travels with a troupe of actors and has no steady line of employment?”
Maud sighed. “Mother, what difference does it make if you don’t approve of the line of work he’s in? It seems to me that you would give my own opinion more consideration…”
Matilda removed her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose, then looked out the window, where a bright spray of forsythia was visible at the back edge of the garden.
“You are surrounded by young men at college, yet your interest is being held by one who is not a student at all. You might as well go next door and marry Mr. Crouse’s scarecrow, whose head is stuffed with straw.”
“Mother! The very idea! Surely you don’t believe that unless a man has a diploma, he has no brains at all? By that logic, every woman who has been deprived of an education, through no fault of her own, is no better than a man of straw.”
Matilda smiled in spite of herself, appreciating Maud’s verve in fighting back.
“Duly noted,” Matilda said. Laughter bubbled up in her eyes. “What is it that you like about him?”
Maud was surprised by her mother’s question. What did she like about him? She’d only met him twice. The first time, he had struck her as fanciful and unusual, and the second time the circumstances had been impromptu and, more than anything, quite unsuitable. But whenever she thought of him, she imagined his eyes, and his smile.
“I like his eyes,” Maud finally said. Then, realizing that this was most likely exactly the wrong thing to say, she sat back and waited for her mother’s retort.
To Maud’s amazement, Matilda smiled. “Well, then,” she said. “That is a genuine reason—so I know you are sincere. I shall invite him to come call. I see no harm in it, as long as you remember that your diploma is an armamentarium against all of the poor outcomes of women. Your father is a fine man, and so is your brother, but don’t forget that whether he be a drunk or a fool, a pauper or a bully, a husband can drive his wife any way he wishes, just as a ragman drives his hack—and, Maud, you know that you do not fancy being harnessed at all.”
Maud nodded her assent, reluctantly. Her mother was certainly right about this.
“And you know what gives a woman her freedom?” Matilda asked.
“A diploma,” Maud answered dutifully.
“Indeed,” Matilda said. “Yet the heart cannot be denied. You will have your visit from the minstrel with the beautiful eyes. Happy now?”
Maud jumped up and threw her arms around her mother, but Matilda was already settling her glasses on her nose and picking up her pen, her mind back in her writing. Maud knew that her mother was so immediately absorbed that she didn’t even hear her leave the room.
CHAPTER
10
HOLLYWOOD