Maud hastily stuck her now-mussed hair back into her combs and straightened her blouse as she ran down the stairs and burst out the front door. The kitten peered down at her wide-eyed. The tree trunk was studded with familiar footholds from her younger, short-pants-wearing, tree-climbing days. Now she was all hemmed in with heavy skirts, petticoats, and a corset, just when she needed to be limber. But the kitten’s pitiful cries were too much for Maud. Without further thought, she hitched up her skirts and shinnied up the tree, then slowly inched forward along a bending branch, trying to get close enough to the kitten to reach out and grab it. But before she got there, a loud crack sounded and the branch swayed, boomeranging the kitten into the air. At that exact moment, Frank Baum strolled up the front walk. Maud watched in silent horror as the ball of calico fur tumbled down, knocked Frank’s hat askew, then somehow gained purchase on his shoulder, where it clung for dear life.
“Now, what in the name of all that is holy!” Frank exclaimed. One hand flew up to retrieve his hat, while the other grabbed at his shoulder. When he realized that a live kitten was fastened to his wool morning coat, he reached up and ever so gently coaxed the terrified animal into unhooking from his jacket, then cradled it against his chest, crooning.
Maud held tight to the tree branch just over Frank’s head. How could she possibly have found herself up in a tree, hair all in a muss, white blouse streaked with tree sap, just as Frank Baum arrived? Desperate to think of a solution, she determined to hide silently there, hoping that he would knock on the door and enter the Gage house so that she could escape the tree, slip into the house through the back door, and pull herself together. For a moment, she held steady while Frank stroked the kitten and murmured softly, but she felt her hands tiring. Slowly, she loosened her grip and tried to adjust her position, but no sooner had she done so than Frank, hearing the rustling leaves, looked up and spotted her.
“Well, hello there, Miss Gage! Will you be the next creature to fall from the sky? I’ve already received this precious kitten.”
The jig being up, Maud climbed down from her perch. A moment later, she stood face-to-face with Frank.
“The kitten was stuck,” Maud said.
Frank beamed. “A kitten rescue! Well done, well done.”
“But I’m all a mess!” Maud blurted out in spite of herself.
Frank only smiled and reached out to brush a few leaves from her hair.
Smoothing her skirt and patting down her hair, Maud showed Frank up the front steps and ushered him through the door. The wayward kitten was now contentedly asleep in Frank’s arms. Standing in the foyer as they entered, frowning, her mother looked Maud up and down, taking in her state of disarray.
“Good heavens,” Matilda said. “What happened to your clothes?”
“Mrs. Gage. What a delight to see you again!” Frank interrupted, extending his right hand in greeting while continuing to cradle the now-purring kitten with the other. “Do you suppose you might have a bit of milk for this poor puss?”
Matilda was trying to keep a stern face, but she had a soft spot for all furry creatures. She opened her mouth as if to say something critical, then shut it again, and led Frank into the kitchen. There she unlatched the icebox and poured out a generous saucer of cream.
“I think she likes you,” Maud whispered to Frank as they headed back to the parlor, leaving Matilda in the kitchen fussing over her newfound pet.
“The kitten?” Frank smiled. “I thought she was quite forward, leaping into my arms like that.” He winked.
“No!” Maud whispered. “Mother! She’s trying to dislike you, but she just can’t help herself.”
After that first visit, Frank began to make a weekly buggy trip from his home in Chittenango, eight miles away, to Fayetteville. Mother made no further protest, but Maud feared that this was more because Matilda was occupied with her work than because she’d altered her overall opinion on the matter. The kitten slept in a basket at Matilda’s feet in her study while she worked. Her mother had grown quite fond of her foundling pet. Maud could only hope she would have as much affection for Frank. But as much as Maud looked forward to seeing him, often their conversations felt stilted and awkward. Frank was charming and affable, always ready with an amusing tale, but neither of them could relax knowing that Mother was always seated within earshot. Maud understood how deeply her mother concentrated on her writing, but it was still hard to believe that she didn’t occasionally eavesdrop.
One afternoon in early August, Frank and Maud were seated in the front parlor and Mother was working in her study, so close that the feverish scritch-scratch of her fountain pen was audible, punctuated now and again by pauses while she stopped for reflection. Each time the sound of writing stopped, Frank stopped, too, cocking his ear, and would not speak again until he could tell that Matilda’s writing was once again under way. Maud noticed his affliction with bemusement until, unable to resist the impulse, she raised her voice and said loudly, “Why, I do believe that the house is afire—we’d best get out!” Frank looked around the quiet parlor, the grate empty in midsummer.
“What on earth, Maud?”
Instead of answering, she jumped up, grabbed Frank by the hand, and pulled him out the front door, shutting it loudly behind them.
Once outside, Maud started to giggle as she watched a mystified expression cross Frank’s face.
“There is clearly no fire. Do you wish to explain what you are doing, Miss Gage?”
Maud kept giggling and pointed at the window where her mother’s head, bent intently over her writing, was visible. “Just as I suspected! Mother has not budged from her writing desk. You see? Not even a cry that the house is on fire would disturb Mother from her work. We could do almost anything and she would never notice!”
“Well, in that case, let’s go for a ride!”
Maud looked at him—a wicked smile on her face.
“Hurry up, then. I’ll bring round the horses,” he said encouragingly.
Maud hesitated, but just for a moment. “Let’s go!” she whispered. “But we can’t stay out too long. Mother always breaks for tea around four.”
Moments later, Maud was seated next to Frank in a jarring buggy headed west, out of town. At first, Maud worried that people would see them—Maud alone, unchaperoned, in a buggy with a man—but then she thought, Well, really, what difference does it make? She was the coed, the Cornell girl, the suffragist’s daughter. Wasn’t this exactly the kind of behavior her closed-minded neighbors would expect? Maud was certain that if any gossip came Matilda’s way, she would staunchly defend her daughter, as a matter of principle. But as it happened, in the quiet midday torpor, houses were shut up tight with the blinds drawn, and they encountered no one in the street as they clattered swiftly out of town.
For the first few minutes, Frank wouldn’t tell her where he was heading, but soon they were bouncing along a wooden road, its planks rattling under the buggy’s wheels, until they had entered the nearby town of Mattydale. Just outside of town, on the crest of a high hill, was a large brick house, fronted by an ornate wrought-iron gate. It was prettily situated among formal gardens. Frank pulled up in front of the house, descended from their buggy to tie up the horses, then helped Maud down.
“This is where I grew up—our home, Rose Lawn. I wanted you to see it.”
Paths traced around the garden, bordered by a profusion of pink, red, and yellow roses that delicately scented the air. He pushed open the iron gate, and once inside, Maud could see that the elegant garden was neglected, the house shuttered, paint peeling from its shiny black shutters and sturdy front door.
Maud looked at him, wondering.
“When my father and oldest brother died, my mother couldn’t keep it up anymore. She decided to sell it. It was once the grandest estate in these parts, but by the time she sold it, it wasn’t worth much. The man who bought it lives in New York City and has never set foot on the property, as far as I know.” Maud heard an unfamiliar note of melancholy enter his voice.
“That must be hard!” she said.
A momentary frown crossed Frank’s face, though it soon passed. “But today, it is ours!” he said.
She linked her arm through his, and they walked up a leaf-littered path toward the crest of the hill. Dried leaves also littered the wide front porch.
Frank led her behind the big house, where the view took in a shallow valley, dotted with gracious oaks and maple trees, an apple orchard, and a stream meandering at the far end of a pasture. Turning around, Frank pointed up to a pair of windows on the south end of the second story. “That was my room,” he said.
“What a lovely view you must have had.”
“I used to imagine that I was a prince and that these were my realms,” Frank said. “Every piece of this place had an imaginary name, and the whole of it was a kingdom. I called it Roselandia…”
“Realms,” Maud said, teasing. “That is quite a big imagination for a small boy.”