Miss Winter, I knew, would not object if I asked to stay. She might even be glad to have a companion in the days ahead. But I did not ask. I could not. I had seen Emmeline's decline. As she had weakened, so the hand on my heart had squeezed more tightly, and my growing anguish told me that the end was not far off. It was cowardly of me, but when Christmas came, it was an opportunity to escape, and I took it.
In the evening, I went to my room and did my packing, then went back to Emmeline's quarters to say good-bye to Miss Winter. All the sisters' whispers had fluttered away, the dimness hung heavier, stiller than before. Miss Winter had a book in her lap, but if she had been reading, she could see to read no longer; instead, her eyes watched in sadness her sister's face. In her bed, Emmeline lay immobile, the covers rising and falling gently with her breath. Her eyes were closed and she looked deeply asleep.
"Margaret," Miss Winter murmured, indicating a chair. She seemed pleased that I had come. Together we waited for the light to fade, listening to the tide of Emmeline's breath.
Between us, in the sickbed, Emmeline's breath rolled in and out, in a smooth, imperturbable rhythm, soothing like the sound of waves on a seashore.
Miss Winter did not speak, and I, too, was silent, composing in my mind impossible messages I might send to my sister via this imminent traveler to that other world. With every exhalation, the room seemed filled with a deeper and more enduring sorrow.
Against the window, a dark silhouette, Miss Winter stirred. "You should have this," she said, and a movement in the darkness told me she was holding something out to me across the bed. My fingers closed on a rectangular leather object with a metal lock. Some sort of book. "From Emmeline's treasure box. It will not be needed anymore. Go away. Read it. When you come back we will talk."
Book in hand, I crossed the room to the door, feeling my way by the furniture in my path. Behind me was the tide of Emmeline's breath rolling in and out.
A DIARY AND A TRAIN
Hester's diary was damaged. The key was missing, the clasp so rusted that it left orange stains on your fingers. The first three pages were stuck together where the glue from the inner cover had melted into them. On every page the last word dissolved into a brownish tide mark, as if the diary had been exposed to dirt and damp together. A few pages had been torn; along the ripped edges was a tantalizing list of fragments: abn, cr, ta, est. Worst of all, it seemed that the diary had at some point been submerged in water. The pages undulated; when closed, the diary splayed to more than its intended thickness.
It was this submersion that was going to cause me the greatest difficulty. When one glanced at a page, it was clear that it was script. Not any old script, either, but Hester's. Here were her firm ascenders, her balanced, fluid loops; here were her comfortable slant, her economic yet functional gaps. But on a closer look, the words were blurred and faded. Was this line an /or a r? Was this curve an a or an e} Or an s, even? Was this configuration to be read as bet or lost}
It was going to be quite a puzzle. Although I subsequently made a transcript of the diary, on that day the holiday train was too crowded to permit pencil and paper. I hunched in my window seat, diary close to my nose, and pored over the pages, applying myself to the task of deciphering. I managed one word in three at first, then as I was drawn into the flow of her meaning, the words began to come halfway to meet me, rewarding my efforts with generous revelations, until I was able to turn the pages with something like the speed of reading. In that train, the day before Christmas, Hester came to life.
I will not test your patience by reproducing Hester's diary here as it came to me: fragmented and broken. In the spirit of Hester herself, I have mended and tidied and put in order. I have banished chaos and clutter. I have replaced doubt with certainty, shadows with clarity, lacunae with substance. In doing so, I may have occasionally put words into her page that she never wrote, but I can promise that if I have made mistakes, it is only in the small things; where it matters I have squinted and scrutinized until I am as sure as sure can be that I have distinguished her original meaning.
I do not give the entire diary, only an edited selection of passages. My choice has been dictated first by questions of relevance to my purpose, which is to tell the story of Miss Winter, and second by my desire to give an accurate impression of Hester's life at Angelfield.
Angelfield House is decent enough at a distance, although it faces the wrong way and the windows are badly positioned, but on approaching, one sees instantly the state of dilapidation it has been allowed to fall into. Sections of the stonework are dangerously weathered. Window frames are rotting. And it did look as thoughparts of the roof are storm-damaged. I shall make it apriority to check the ceilings in the attic rooms.
The housekeeper welcomed me at the door. Though she tries to hide it, I understood immediately that she has difficulty seeing and hearing. Given her great age, this is no surprise. It also explains the filthy state of the house, but I suppose the Angelfield family does not want to throw her out after a lifetime's service in the house. I can approve their loyalty, though I fail to see why she cannot be helped byyounger, stronger hands.
Mrs. Dunne told me about the household. The family has been living here with what most would consider a greatly reduced staff for years now, and it has come to be accepted as part ofthe way ofthe house. Quite why it should be so, I have notyet ascertained, but what I do know isthat there is, outside the family proper, only Mrs. Dunne and a gardener called John Digence. There are deer (though there is no hunting anymore), but the man who looks after them is never seen around the house; he takesinstructionfrom the same solicitor who engaged me and who acts as a kind of estate manager-so far asthere is any estate management. It is Mrs. Dunne herself who deals with the regular household finances. I supposed that Charles Angelfield looked over the books and the receipts each week, but Mrs. Dunne only laughed and asked if I thought she had the sight to go making lists of figures in a book. I cannot help but think this highly unorthodox. Notthat I think Mrs. Dunne untrustworthy. From what I have seen she gives everyindication of being a good-hearted, honest woman, and itis myhope thatwhen I come to know her better I shall be able to ascribe her reticence entirely to deafness. I made a note to demonstrate to Mr. Angelfield the advantages of keeping accurate records and thought that I might offer to undertake the job myself if he was too busy to do it.
Pondering this, I began to think it time I met my employer, and could not have been more surprised when Mrs. Dunne told me he spends his entire day in the old nursery and that it is not his habit toleave it.After agreat many questions I eventually ascertained that he is suffering from some kind of disorder of the mind. A great pity! Is there anything more sorrowful thana brain whose proper function has been disrupted?
Mrs. Dunne gave me tea(which I pretended to drink out ofpoliteness, but later threw into the sink for I had nofaith in the cleanlinessof the teacup, having seen the state of the kitchen) and told me a little about herself. She is in hereighties, never married, and has lived here all her life. Naturally enough our talk then turned to the family. Mrs. Dunne knew the motherof the twins as agirl and young woman. She confirmed whatI had already understood: that it is the recent departure of the mother to an asylum for the sick of mind thatprecipitated my engagement. She gave me such a contorted account of the events that precipitated the mother's committal that I could not make out whether the woman had or had not attacked the doctor's wife with a violin. It hardly matters; clearly there is a family history of disturbance in the brain, and I confess, my heart beat a little faster when I had it confirmed. What satisfaction is there, for a governess, in being given the direction of minds that already run in smooth and untrammeled lines? What challenge in maintaining ordered thinking in children whose minds are already neat and tidy? I am not only readyfor thisjob, I have spent years longing for it. Here, I shallfinally find out what my methods are worth!