We stepped gingerly through the debris of rotting food on the floor if the old nursery, stirring clouds of flies up into the air as we passed. Charlie had been living like an animal. Dirty plates covered with mold were on the floor, on the mantelpiece, on chairs and on the table. The bedroom door was ajar. With the end of the battering ram he still had in his hand, John nudged the door cautiously, and a startled rat came scurrying out over our feet. It was a gruesome scene. More flies, more decomposing food and worse: The man had been ill. A pile of dried, fly-spotted vomit encrusted the rug on the floor. On the table by the ed was a heap of bloody handkerchiefs and the Missus’s old darning needle.
Proof.
Your servant,William Henry CadwalladrI turned straight to the end of the neat copy Professor Cadwalladr had made. Here was space for the signatures of Charlie’s nieces. As he said, Mr. Lomax had signed for Emmeline. That told me that she had survived the fire, at least. And on the second line, the name I had been hoping for. Vida Winter. And after it, in brackets, the words, formerly known as Adeline March.
We did not speak. We tried not to breathe, and when, of necessity, we inhaled through our mouths, the sick, repugnant air caught in our throats and made us retch. Yet we had not had the worst of it. There was one more room. John had to steel himself to open the door to the bathroom. Even before the door was fully open, we sensed the horror of it. Before it snagged in my nostrils, my skin seemed to smell it, and a cold sweat bloomed all over my body. The toilet was bad enough. The lid was down but could not quite contain the overflowing mess it was supposed to cover. But that was nothing. For in the bath—John took a sharp step back and would have stepped on me if I had not, at the same moment, taken two steps back myself. In the bath was a dark swill of bodily effluence, the stink of which sent John and me racing to the door, back through the rat droppings and the flies, out into the corridor, down the stairs and out of doors.
No. I couldn’t imagine it. It would be my father’s addition. Written without her knowledge. Why did he bother? To please me? To make it true? Was it for me or for her that he made these thankless efforts to connect us? It was an impossible task. My mother and I were like two continents moving slowly but inexorably apart; my father, the bridge builder, constantly extending the fragile edifice he had constructed to connect us.
It was John-the-dig who realized in the silence of the days that something had happened.
In the top right-hand corner was an address in London.
Meanwhile the Missus was in a state of confusion over what had happened to Hester. John, reluctant to disillusion her about the governess, said nothing, but his silence only encouraged her to wonder aloud. “I suppose she’ll have told the doctor where she’s gone,” she concluded miserably. “I’ll have to find out from him when she’s coming back.”
The bed was empty. Just crumpled, filthy sheets stained with blood id other human vileness.
Emmeline remained where shewas, on the table, until John came to find her hours later. He took her to the Missus, who washed the blood out of her hair, put a compress on her eye and treated her bruises with witch hazel. “This wouldn’t have happened when Hester was here,” she commented. “I do wish I knew when she was coming back.”
We had found Charlie’s blood. We had found Charlie’s shit, Charlie’s piss and Charlie’s vomit. But Charlie himself?
When Adeline’s rage was spent, she stood for a few minutes watch-g her sister. Blood was seeping into the green baize. Playing cards ere scattered everywhere. Emmeline was curled into a ball, and her shoulders were jerkily rising and falling with her breath. Adeline turned her back and walked away.
At the beginning there was only the delight of reunion. They were inseparable. Where one went, the other followed. In the topiary gardens they circled around the old trees, playing endless games of now-you-see-me-now-you-don’t, a repetition of their recent experience of loss and rediscovery that Adeline never seemed to tire of. For Emmeline, the novelty began gradually to wear off. Some of the old antagonism crept in. Emmeline wanted to go one way, Adeline the other, so they fought. And as before, it was usually Emmeline who gave in. In her new, secret self, she minded this.
Was the third from Hester?
No. The third was from the asylum. Isabelle was dead.
He did not knock at the door. What was the point? He had to go to his shed for a piece of timber strong enough to use as a battering ram. The noise of it against the oak, the creaking and smashing as metal hinges tore away from wood, was enough to bring us all, even the Missus, to the door.
Charlie would have to be told, but the Missus quailed at the prospect. Better talk to Dig first, she resolved, putting the letters aside. But later, when John was sitting at his place at the kitchen table and she was topping up his cup with fresh tea, there remained no trace of the letter in her mind. It had joined those other, increasingly frequent, lost moments, lived and felt but unrecorded and then lost. Nevertheless, a few days later, passing through the hall with a tray of burnt toast and bacon, she mechanically put the letters on the tray with the food, though she had no memory at all of their contents.
It was a serious wound that Hester and the doctor had inflicted. Of course things would never be the same again. The twins would always hare a scar, and the effects of the separation would never be entirely eradicated. Yet they felt the scar differently. Adeline after all had fallen quickly into a state of fugue once she understood what Hester and the doctor were about. She lost herself almost at the moment she lost her twin and had no recollection of the time passed away from her. As far as she knew, the blackness that had been interposed between losing her twin and finding her again might have been a year or a second. Not that it mattered now. For it was over, and she had come to life again.
When the battered door fell open, half broken off its hinges, we could hear buzzing flies, and a terrible stench billowed out, knocking Emmeline and the Missus back a few steps. Even John put his hand to his mouth and turned a shade whiter. “Stay back,” he ordered as he entered the room. A few paces behind, I followed him.
It was inevitable that one day rumors of Hester’s “behavior” (a village euphemism for misbehavior) should reach the ears of the Missus. At first she was scandalized. She refused to entertain the idea that Hester—her Hester—could have done such a thing. But when she reported angrily to John what was being said, he only confirmed it. He had been at the doctor’s that day, he reminded her, collecting the child. He had heard itdirectly from the housemaid. On the very day it occurred. And besides, why would Hester have left so suddenly, without warning, if something out of the ordinary hadn’t occurred?
Did she really say it? I wondered. Father mentioning, I’ll write to Margaret this afternoon, and she—casually? warmly?—Send her my love.
I was sick. On the green grass, my pile of yellow vomit looked fresh and clean and sweet.
Emmeline did not raise a finger to defend herself. Nor did she cry. She made not a sound, neither during the attack nor when it was all over.
I have made inquiries and gather that the trains run only to Banbury. Perhaps you would advise me how I can best make my way to Angelfield from there. I shall arrive at Banbury Station at half past ten.
Dear Miss Lea,I was not aware Ivan Lea even had a daughter, but now I know he has one, I am pleased to make your acquaintance—and even more pleased to be of assistance. The legal decree of decease is just what you imagine it to be: a presumption in law of the death of a person whose whereabouts have been unknown for such a length of time and in such circumstances that death is the only reasonable assumption. Its main function is to enable the estate of a missing person to be passed into the hands of his inheritors.
So it was that on the third day after the reunion, Emmeline abandoned the lost-and-found game in the topiary garden and wandered off to the billiards room, where she kept a pack of cards. Lying on her stomach in the middle of the baize table, she began her game. It was a version of solitaire, but the simplest, most childish kind. Emmeline won every time; the game was designed so that she couldn’t fail. And every time she was delighted.
The second was an invoice from the builders for the work done on the roof.
An hour later, when Adeline came storming into the room, eyes screwed tight with rage, there was nothing Emmeline could do to defend herself. Adeline clambered onto the table and, hysterical with fury, launched herself at Emmeline.
‘All right,“ said John, and he patted my back with a hand that was still trembling.
Vida Winter was Adeline March.
‘He’s not there,“ we told her. ”He’s gone.“
I returned to my room, thinking about the story. It was curious in more than one respect. There was Charlie’s disappearance, of course, which was an interesting turn of events. It left me thinking about the almanacs and that curious abbreviation: ldd. But there was more. Did she know I had noticed? I had made no outward sign. But I had noticed. Today Miss Winter had said I.
Objects, too, went quickly back to their old ways. The keys were first to go walkabout. Overnight they slipped themselves out of locks and off keyrings, then they gathered together in dusty companionship in the cavity beneath a loose floorboard. Silver candlesticks, while they still had their gleam of Hester’s polish, made their way from the drawing room mantelpiece to Emmeline’s stash of treasure under the bed. Books left their library shelves and took themselves upstairs, where they rested in corners and under sofas. Curtains took to drawing and closing themselves. Even the furniture made the most of the lack of supervision to move about. A sofa inched forward from its place against the wall, a chair shifted two feet to the left. All evidence of the house ghost reasserting herself.
Yet still they reconnected and were twins again. Though Emmeline was not the same twin as before, and this was something Adeline did not immediately know.
In the nursery Charlie’s rage and fury seemed to have deserted him, leaving in their place a woeful fatigue. You could sometimes hear his slow, dragging steps across the floor, and sometimes, ear to the door, you heard him crying with the exhausted sobs of a wretched two-year-old. Could it be that in some deeply mysterious though still scientific way, Hester had influenced him through locked doors and kept the worst of his despair at bay? It did not seem impossible.
Then John had to speak, and he spoke roughly. “Don’t you go asking him where she’s gone! Don’t ask him anything at all. Besides, we won’t be seeing him around the place no more.”
He went upstairs. Outside the locked door, plates and cups were arranged in a long queue. The food, untouched by Charlie, was providing a fine feast for the flies that buzzed over it, and there was a powerful, unpleasant smell. How many days had the Missus been leaving food here without noticing that the previous day’s was still untouched? He toted up the number of plates and cups and frowned. That is when he knew.
For Emmeline, things were different. She had not had the relief of amnesia. She had suffered longer, and she had suffered more. Each second was agony in the first weeks. She was like an amputee in the days before anesthesia, half crazed with pain, astounded that the human body could feel so much and not die of it. But slowly, cell by painful cell, she began to mend. There came a time when it was no longer her whole body that burned with pain but only her heart. And then there came a time when even her heart was able, for a time at least, to feel other emotions besides grief. In short, Emmeline adapted to her twin’s absence. She learned how to exist apart.
Dear Dr. Maudsley,Thank you for the offer of work you have kindly made to me.
My father’s letters were always a comfort, and this one was no exception. He hoped I was well. Was my work progressing? He had read a very strange and delightful nineteenth-century Danish novel that he would tell me about when I returned. At auction he had come across a bundle of eighteenth-century letters no one seemed to want. Might I be interested? He had bought them in case. Private detectives? Well, perhaps, but would a genealogical researcher not do the job just as well or perhaps better? There was a fellow he knew who had all the right skills, and come to think of it, he owed Father a favor—he sometimes came into the shop to use the almanacs. In case I intended to pursue the matter, here was his address. Finally, as always, those well meant but desiccated four words: Mother sends her love.
I reached for paper, and before I began my transcription, wrote a letter to the genealogist Father had recommended. It was a longish letter: I had to introduce myself, for he would doubtless be unaware Mr. Lea even had a daughter; I had to touch lightly on the matter of the almanacs to justify my claim on his time; I had to enumerate everything I knew about Hester: Naples, London, Angelfield. But the gist of my letter was simple: Find her.
Halfway through a game, she tilted her head. She couldn’t exactly hear it, but her inner ear, which was tuned constantly to her twin, told her Adeline was calling her. Emmeline ignored it. She was busy. She could see Adeline later. When she had finished her game.
The next morning, when Judith came with my breakfast tray, I gave her the letter for Mr. Lomax, and she took a letter for me from her apron pocket. I recognized my father’s handwriting.
Mr. Lomax, the solicitor, had replied to my letter by return of post. Attached to his brief but kindly note were copies of Hester’s contract, which I glanced at and put aside, a letter of recommendation from a Lady Blake in Naples, who wrote positively of Hester’s gifts, and, most interesting of all, a letter accepting the offer of employment, written by the miracle worker herself.
The Missus went round and around it in her head. She didn’t know what to believe. The world had become a very confusing place.
You will see that the solicitor himself has signed on behalf of one of the beneficiaries. This is common in situations where the beneficiary is unable for some reason (illness or other incapacity, for instance) to take care of his own affairs.
Adeline and Emmeline spent the first night and the first day in their room, in bed, arms wrapped around each other and gazing into each other’s eyes. There was a tacit agreement between the Missus and John-the-dig to treat them as though they were convalescent, and, in a way, they were. An injury had been done to them. So they lay in bed, nose to nose, gazing cross-eyed at each other. Without a word. Without a smile. Blinking in unison. And with the transfusion that took place via that twenty-four-hour-long gaze, the connection that had been broken, healed. And like any wound that heals, it left its scar.
‘Her family,“ the Missus stammered, ”an emergency…“
Yet change did come for Charlie, though it had nothing to do with Hester.
It was with a most particular attention that I noted the signature of the other beneficiary. It was almost illegible, but I managed to work it out in the end. Have I stumbled across one of the best-kept secrets of the day? But perhaps you knew it already? Is this what inspired your interest in the case?
Though Emmeline had once been fond of Hester, she didn’t miss her now. During the experiment her affection had waned. She knew, after all, that it was Hester who had separated her from her sister. And not only that, but Hester had been so taken up with her reports and her scientific consultations that, perhaps without realizing it, she had neglected Emmeline. During that time, finding herself in unaccustomed solitude, Emmeline had found ways of distracting herself from her sorrow. She discovered amusements and entertainments that she grew to enjoy for their own sake. Games that she did not expect to give up just because her sister was back.
‘Where’s the letter, then? She’d have written, wouldn’t she, if she meant to come back? She’d have explained. Have you had a letter?“
‘Well then,“ finished John, unable to keep the satisfaction from his voice, ”she’s done something that she didn’t ought to, and she won’t be coming back. She’s gone for good. Take it from me.“
A letter had come for me at the shop; my father enclosed it with his own. It was from the law professor Father had recommended to me.
John shook his head. He’d heard this a dozen times, this idea the Missus clung to, that Hester would be coming back. The whole village knew she would not come back. The Maudsleys’ servant had heard everything. She professed to have seen it, too, and more besides, and by now it was impossible that there was a single adult in the village who did not know for a fact that the plain-faced governess had been carrying on an adulterous affair with the doctor.
Fear not! I am a man of the greatest discretion! Tell your father to give me a good discount on the Justitiae Naturalis Principia, and I will say not a word to anyone!
In my room, on a tray next to the ham sandwiches, I found a large brown envelope.
The Missus, having followed at her own hurried shuffle, approached us across the lawn, questions all over her face. What could we tell her?
On the first day of silence, and as if nothing had ever happened to interrupt it, the house picked up again its long, slow project of decay. Small things first: Dirt began to seep from every crevice in every object in every room. Surfaces secreted dust. Windows covered themselves with the first fine layer of grime. All of Hester’s changes had been superficial. They required daily attention to be maintained. And as the Missus’s cleaning schedules at first wavered, then crashed, the real, permanent nature of the house began to reassert itself. The time came when you couldn’t pick anything up without feeling the old cling of grime on your fingers.
I have undertaken the necessary researches and traced the documents relating to the case you are particularly interested in. Your Mr. Angelfield was apparently a man of reclusive habits, and the date and circumstances of his disappearance appear not to be known. However, the painstaking and sympathetic work carried out by one Mr. Lomax on behalf of the inheritors (two nieces) enabled the relevant formalities to be duly carried out. The estate was of some significant value, though diminished somewhat by a fire that left the house itself uninhabitable. But you will see all this for yourself in the copy I have made you of the relevant documents.
I shall be pleased to take up the post at Angelfield on the 19th April as you suggest.
Only Charlie was unaffected. There were changes, of course. The proper meals that under Hester’s regime had been placed outside the door at breakfast, lunch and dinner became occasional sandwiches, a cold chop and a tomato, a bowl of congealed scrambled egg, appearing at unpredictable intervals, whenever the Missus remembered. It didn’t make any difference to Charlie. If he felt hungry and it was there, he might eat a mouthful of yesterday’s chop, or a dry end of bread, but if it isn’t there he wouldn’t, and his hunger didn’t bother him. He had a more powerful hunger to worry about. It was the essence of his life and something that Hester, in her arrival and in her departure, had not changed.
John, though he regretted the unhappiness of the Missus, was relieved that Hester had gone. The departure of the governess seemed to take a great burden from him. He came more freely into the house, and in the evenings spent longer hours with the Missus in the kitchen. To his way of thinking, losing Hester was no loss at all. She had really made only one improvement to his life—by encouraging him to take up work again in the topiary garden—and she had done it so subtly, so discreetly, that it was a simple matter for him to reorganize his mind until it told him that the decision had been entirely his own. When it became clear that she had gone for good, he brought his boots from the shed and sat polishing them by the stove, legs up on the table, for who was there to stop him now?
The Missus stared at the letter. Dead! Isabelle! Could it be true? Influenza, the letter said.
And then the days passed and nothing seemed to happen at all, except that the dust got thicker, and the grime accumulated on the windowpanes, and the playing cards crept farther and farther from their box in the drawing room, and it became easier and easier to forget that there had ever been a Hester.
It was not only people who reacted to Hester’s absence. The house responded to it instantly. The first thing was the new quiet. There was no tap-tap-tap of Hester’s feet trotting up and down stairs and along corridors. Then the thumps and knocks of the workmen on the roof came to a halt, too. The roofer, discovering that Hester was not there, had the well-founded suspicion that with no one to put his invoices under Charlie’s nose, he would not be paid for his work. He packed up his tools and left, came back once for his ladders, was never seen again.
He was an outdoors man and not domesticated. Nevertheless he knew that there comes a time when cups cannot be made to do for one more cup of tea without being first washed, and he knew moreover that a plate that has held raw meat cannot be used straight after for cooked. He saw how things were going with the Missus; he was no fool. So when the pile of dirty plates and cups piled up, he would set to and do the washing up. It was an odd thing to see him at the sink in his Wellington boots and his cap, so clumsy with the cloth and china where he was so adroit with his terra-cotta pots and tender plants. And it came to his attention that the number of cups and plates was diminishing. Soon there would not be enough. Where was the missing crockery? He thought instantly of the Missus making her haphazard way upstairs with a plate for Master Charlie. Had he ever seen her return an empty plate to the kitchen? No.
The Missus turned away from him, frowning. What was the matter with everyone? Why was Hester not there? Why was John all upset? And the doctor—he who had been the household’s constant visitor— why should he not be coming anymore? Things were happening that were beyond her comprehension. More and more often these days, and for longer and longer periods, she had the sense that something had gone wrong with the world. More than once she seemed to wake up in her head to find that whole hours had passed by without leaving a trace in her memory. Things that clearly made sense to other people didn’t always make sense to her. And when she asked questions to try and understand it, a queer look came into people’s eyes, which they quickly covered up. Yes. Something odd was happening, and Hester’s unexplained absence was only part of it.
The Missus shook her head.
GONE!
‘But I don’t see why she would have gone like that. Without a word. Whatever can have happened? Some emergency, I suppose. With her family…“
One from Charlie’s banker: was he interested in an investment opportunity… ?
With this in mind, I went to my appointment in the library, and listened and scribbled in my little book as Miss Winter recounted the aftermath of Hester’s departure.
‘She won’t be coming back,“ John said, trying to contain his annoyance. He didn’t like to see the child like this either.
She was telling the truth.
Good, I thought. I can find you now.
Yours sincerely, Hester BarrowThere was firmness in Hester’s sturdy capitals, consistency in the slant of the letters, a sense of smooth flow in the moderate loops of the g’s and the m’s. The letter size was small enough for economy of ink and paper, yet large enough for clarity. There were no embellishments. No elaborate curls, flounces or flourishes. The beauty of the orthography came from the sense of order, balance and proportion that governed each and every letter. It was a good, clean hand. It was Hester herself, made word.
From time to time a letter would come to the house, and from time to time someone would open it. A few days after John-the-dig’s comment about there having been no letter from Hester, the Missus, finding herself in the hall, noticed a small pile of letters gathering dust on the mat under the letter box. She opened them.
A roof in the process of being repaired gets worse before it gets better. Some of the holes left by the roofer were larger than the ones he had been called in to mend. It was all right to lie on the floor of the attic and feel the sunshine on your face, but rain was another matter. The floorboards began to soften, then water dripped through into the rooms below. There were places you knew not to tread, where the floor sagged precariously beneath your feet. Soon it would collapse and you would be able to see straight through into the room below. And how long before that room’s floor gave way and you would see into the library? And could the library floor give way? Would it one day be possible to stand in the cellars and look up through four floors of rooms to the sky? Water, like God, moves in mysterious ways. Once inside a house, it obeys the force of gravity indirectly. Inside walls and under floors it finds secret gullies and runways; it seeps and trickles in unexpected directions; surfaces in the most unlikely places. All around the house were cloths to soak up the wet, but no one ever wrung them out; saucepans and bowls were placed here and there to catch drips, but they overflowed before anyone remembered to change them. The constant wet-less brought the plaster off the walls and was eating into the mortar. In the attic, there were walls so unsteady that with one hand you could rock them like a loose tooth. And the twins in all of this?
