I shrugged my shoulders. “Just tired. That’s all.”
She pursed her lips and regarded me sternly, but I said nothing more, and she took up her story.
For six months things went on. We sequestered ourselves in a handful of rooms: the kitchen, where John still slept at night, the drawing room and the library. We girls used the back stairs to get from the kitchen to the one bedroom that seemed secure. The mattresses we slept on were those we had dragged from the old room, the beds themselves being too heavy to move. The house had felt too big anyway, since the household had been so diminished in number. We survivors felt more at ease in the security, the manageability of our smaller accommodation. All the same, we could never quite forget the rest of the house, slowly festering behind closed doors, like a moribund limb.
Emmeline spent much of her time inventing card games. “Play with me. Oh, go on, do play,” she would pester. Eventually I gave in and played. Obscure games with ever-shifting rules, games only she understood, and which she always won, which gave her constant delight. She took baths. She never lost her love of soap and hot water, spent hours luxuriating in the water I’d heated for the laundry and washing up. I didn’t begrudge her. It was better if at least one of us could be happy.
Before we closed up the rooms, Emmeline had gone through cupboards belonging to Isabelle and taken dresses and scent bottles and shoes, which she hoarded in our campsite of a bedroom. It was like trying to sleep in a dressing-up box. Emmeline wore the dresses. Some were out of date by ten years, others—belonging to Isabelle’s mother, I presume—were thirty and forty years old. Emmeline entertained us in the evenings by making dramatic entrances into the kitchen in the more extravagant outfits. The dresses made her look older than fifteen; they made her look womanly. I remembered Hester’s conversation with the doctor in the garden—There is no reason why Emmeline should not marry one day—and I remembered what the Missus had told me about Isabelle and the picnics—She was the kind of girl men can’t look at without wanting to touch—and I felt a sudden anxiety. But then she flopped down on a kitchen chair, took a pack of cards from a silk purse and said, all child, “Play cards with me, go on.” I was half reassured, but still, I made sure she did not leave the house in her finery.
John was listless. He did rouse himself to do the unthinkable, though: He got a boy to help in the garden. “It’ll be all right,” he said. “It’s only old Proctor’s boy, Ambrose. He’s a quiet lad. It won’t be for long. Only till I get the house fixed up.”
That, I knew, would take forever.
The boy came. He was taller than John and broader across the shoulders. They stood hands in pockets, the two of them, and discussed the day’s work, and then the boy started. He had a measured, patient way of digging; the smooth, constant chime of spade on soil got on my nerves. “Why do we have to have him?” I wanted to know. “He’s an outsider just like the others.”
But for some reason, the boy wasn’t an outsider to John. Perhaps because he came from John’s world, the world of men, the world I didn’t know.
‘He’s a good lad,“ John said time and time again in answer to my questions. ”He’s a hard worker. He doesn’t ask too many questions, and he doesn’t talk too much.“
‘He might not have a tongue, but he’s got eyes in his head.“
John shrugged and looked away, uneasy.
‘I won’t always be here,“ he said eventually. ”Things can’t go on forever like this.“ He sketched a vague gesture that took in the house, its inhabitants, the life we led in it. ”One day things will have to change.“
“Change?”
‘You’re growing up. It won’t be the same, will it? It’s one thing, being children, but when you’re grown up…“
But I was already gone. I didn’t want to know what it was he had to say.
Emmeline was in the bedroom, picking sequins off an evening scarf for her treasure box. I sat down beside her. She was too absorbed in her task to look up when I came in. Her plump, tapered fingers picked relentlessly at a sequin until it came away, then dropped it into the box. It was slow work, but then Emmeline had all the time in the world. Her calm face never changed as she bent over the scarf. Lips together. Her gaze at once intent and dreamy. Every so often her eyelids descended, closing off the green irises, then, as soon as they had touched the lower lid, rising again to reveal the green unchanged.
Did I really look like that? I wondered. Oh, I knew what a good match my eyes were to hers in the mirror. And I knew we had the same sideways kink underneath the weight of red hair at the back of our necks. And I knew the impact we could make on the villagers on those rare occasions when we walked arm in arm down The Street in matching dresses. But still, I didn’t look like Emmeline, did I? My face could not do that placid concentration. It would be screwed up in frustration. I would be biting my lip, pushing my hair angrily back over my shoulder and out of the way, huffing with impatience. I would not be tranquil like Emmeline. I would bite the sequins off with my teeth.
You won’t leave me, will you? I wanted to say. Because I won’t leave you. We’ll stay here forever. Together. Whatever John-the-dig says.
‘Why don’t we play?“
She continued her silent work as though she hadn’t heard me.
‘Let’s play getting married. You can be the bride. Go on. You can wear… this.“ I pulled a yellow piece of gauzy stuff from the pile of finery in the corner. ”It’s like a veil, look.“ She didn’t look up, not even when I tossed it over her head. She just brushed it out of her eyes and carried on picking at her sequin.
And so I turned my attention to her treasure box. Hester’s keys were still in there, still shiny, though Emmeline had, so far as one could tell, forgotten their previous keeper. There were bits and pieces of Isabelle’s jewelry, the colored wrappers from the sweets Hester had given her one day, an alarming shard of glass from a broken green bottle, a length of ribbon with a gold edge that used to be mine, given to me by the Missus more years ago than I could remember. Underneath all the other junk there would still be the threads of silver she had worked out of the curtains the day Hester arrived. And half-hidden beneath the jumble of rubies, glass and junk, there was something that didn’t seem to belong. Something leather. I put my head on one side to get a better view. Ah! That was why she wanted it! Gold lettering. I A R. What was I A R? Or who was I A R? Tilting my head the other way I caught sight of something else. A tiny lock. And a tiny key. No wonder it was in Emmeline’s treasure box. Gold letters and a key. I should think it was her prize possession. And suddenly it struck me. I A R! Diary!
I reached out a hand.
Quick as a flash—her looks could be deceiving—Emmeline’s hand came down like a vise on my wrist and stopped me from touching. Still she didn’t look at me. She moved my hand away with a firm movement and brought the lid down on her box.
There were white pressure marks on my wrist where she had held me.
‘I’m going to go away,“ I said experimentally. My voice didn’t sound terribly convincing. ”I am. And I’m going to leave you here. I’m going to grow up and live on my own.“
Then, full of dignified self-pity, I stood up and walked out of the room.
It wasn’t until the end of the afternoon that she came to find me on the window seat in the library. I had drawn the curtain to hide me, but she came straight to the place and peered around. I heard her approaching steps, felt the curtain move when she lifted it. Forehead pressed against the glass, I was watching the drops of rain against the window-pane. The wind was making them shiver; they were constantly threatening to set off on one of their zigzag courses where they swallow up every droplet in their path and leave a brief silvery trail behind. She came to me and rested her head against my shoulder. I shrugged her off angrily. Would not turn and speak to her. She took my hand and slipped something onto my finger.
I waited for her to go before I looked. A ring. She had given me a ring.
I twisted the stone inward, to the palm side of my finger, and brought it close to the window. The light brought the stone to life. Green, like the color of my eyes. Green, like the color of Emmeline’s eyes. She had given me a ring. I closed my fingers into my palm and made a tight fist with the stone at its heart.
John collected buckets of rainwater and emptied them; he peeled vegetables for the pot; he went to the farm and returned with milk and butter. But after every task, his slowly gathered energy seemed exhausted, and every time I wondered whether he would have the strength to heave his lean frame up from the table to get on with the next thing.
‘Shall we go to the topiary garden?“ I asked him. ”You might show me what to do there.“
He didn’t reply. He hardly heard me, I think. For a few days I left it, then I asked again. And again. And again.
Eventually he went to the shed, where he sharpened the pruning shears with his old smooth rhythm. Then we lifted down the long ladders and carried them out-of-doors. “Like this,” he said, reaching to show me the safety catch on the ladder. He extended the ladder against the solid garden wall. I practiced the safety catch a few times, then went up a few feet and down again. “It won’t feel so secure when it’s resting against yew,” he told me. “It’s safe enough, if you get it right. You have to get a feel for it.”
And then we went to the topiary garden. He led me to a medium-size yew shape that had grown shaggy. I went to rest the ladder against it, but “No, no,” he cried. “Too impatient.” Three times he walked slowly around the tree. Then he sat down on the ground and lit a cigarette. I sat down and he lit one for me, too. “Never cut into the sun,” he told me. And “Don’t cut into your own shadow.” He drew a few times on his cigarette. “Be wary of clouds. Don’t let them skew your line when they blow about. Find something permanent in your line of vision. A roof or a fence. That’s your anchor. And never be in a hurry. Three times as long in the looking as in the cutting.” He never lifted his eye from the tree all the time he spoke, and neither did I. “You have to have a feeling for the back of the tree while you’re trimming the front, and the other way around. And don’t just cut with the shears. Use your whole arm. All the way up to your shoulder.”
We finished the cigarettes and stubbed out the ends under the toes of our boots.
‘And how you see it now, from a distance, keep that in your head when you’re seeing it close up.“
I was ready.
Three times he let me rest the ladder against the tree before he was satisfied it was safe. And then I took the shears and went up.
I worked for three hours. At first I was conscious of the height, kept looking down, had to force myself to go one more step up the ladder. And each time I moved the ladder, it took me several goes to get it safe. But gradually the task took me over. I hardly knew how high I was, so absorbed was my mind in the shape I was making. John stood by, mostly silent. Once in a while he made a comment—Watch your shadow! or Think of the back!—but mostly he just watched and smoked. It was only when I came down from the ladder for the last time, slipped the safety catch and telescoped it, that I realized how sore my hands were from the weight of the shears. But I didn’t care.
I stood well back to study my work. I walked three times around the tree. My heart leaped. It was good.
John nodded. “Not bad,” he pronounced. “You’ll do.”
I went to get the ladder from the shed to trim the big bowler hat, and the ladder was gone. The boy I didn’t like was in the kitchen garden with the rake. I went up to him, scowling. “Where’s the ladder?” It was the first time I had spoken to him.
He ignored my brusqueness and answered me politely. “Mr. Digence took it. He’s around the front, fixing the roof.”
I helped myself to one of the cigarettes John had left in the shed, and smoked it, sending mean looks to the boy, who eyed it enviously. Then I sharpened the pruning shears. Then, liking the sharpening, I sharpened the garden knife, taking my time, doing it well. All the time, behind the rhythm of the stone against the blade, was the rhythm of the boy’s rake over the soil. Then I looked at the sun and thought it was getting late to be starting on the large bowler hat. Then I went to find John.
The ladder was lying on the ground. Its two sections made a crazy clock-hands angle; the metal channel that was supposed to hold them at a constant six o’clock had been wrenched from the wood, and great splinters protruded from the gash in the side rail. Beside the ladder lay John. He did not move when I touched his shoulder, but he was warm as the sun that touched his splayed limbs and his bloodied hair. He was staring straight up into the clear blue sky, but the blue of his eyes was strangely overcast.
The sensible girl deserted me. All of a sudden I was only myself, just a stupid child, almost nothing at all.
‘What shall I do?“ I whispered.
‘What shall I do?“ My voice frightened me.
Stretched out on the ground, with John’s hand clutched in mine and shards of gravel digging into my temple, I watched time pass. The shadow of the library bay spread across the gravel and reached the farthest rungs of the ladder. Rung after rung it crept up the ladder toward us. It reached the safety catch.
The safety catch. Why had John not checked the safety catch? Surely he would have checked it? Of course he would. But if he did check it, then how… why…?
It didn’t bear thinking about.
Rung, after rung, after rung, the shadow of the bay crept nearer and nearer. It reached John’s worsted trousers, then his green shirt, then his hair—how thin his hair had grown! Why had I not taken better care of him?
It didn’t bear thinking about. Yet how not to think? While I was noticing the whiteness of John’s hair, I noticed, too, the deep grooves cut into the earth by the feet of the ladder as it lurched away from under him. No other signs. Gravel is not sand or snow or even newly dug earth. It does not hold a footprint. No trace to show how someone might have come, how they might have loitered at the base of the ladder, how, when they had finished what they came for, they calmly walked away. For all the gravel could tell me, it might have been a ghost.
Everything was cold. The gravel, John’s hand, my heart.
I stood up and left John without looking back. I went around the house to the kitchen garden. The boy was still there; he was putting the rake and the broom away. He stopped when he saw me approach, stared at me. And then, when I stopped—Don’t faint! Don’t faint! I told myself—he came running forward to catch me. I watched him as though from a long, long way away. And I didn’t faint. Not quite. Instead, when he came close, I felt a voice rise up inside myself, words that I didn’t choose to say, but which forced their way out of my strangled throat. “Why doesn’t anybody help me?”
He grasped me under my arms; I slumped against him; he helped me gently down to the grass. “I’ll help you,” he said. “I will.”
With the death of John-the-dig still fresh in my mind, the vision of Miss Winter’s face, bereft, still dominating my memory, I barely noticed the letter that was waiting for me in my room.
I didn’t open it until I had finished my transcription, and when I did, there wasn’t much to it.
Dear Miss Lea,
After all the assistance your father has given me over the years, may I say how glad I am to be able in some small way to return the favor to his daughter.
My initial researches in the United Kingdom have revealed no indication of the whereabouts of Miss Hester Barrow after her period of employment at Angelfield. I have found a certain number of documents relating to her life before that period, and I am compiling a report that you should have within a few weeks.
My researches are by no means at an end. I have not yet exhausted my investigation of the Italian connection, and it is more than likely that some detail arising from the early years will throw up a new line of inquiry.
Do not despair. If your governess can be found, I will find her.
Yours sincerely, Emmanuel Drake
I put the letter away in a drawer, then pulled on my coat and gloves. “Come on, then,” I said to Shadow.
He followed me downstairs and outdoors, and we took the path along the side of the house. Here and there a shrub grown against the wall caused the path to drift; imperceptibly it led away from the wall, away from the house, to the mazelike enticements of the garden. I resisted its easy curve and continued straight on. Keeping the house wall always on my left meant squeezing behind an ever-widening thicket of densely grown, mature shrubs. Their gnarled stems caught my ankles; I had to wrap my scarf around my face to avoid being scratched. The cat accompanied me so far, then stopped, overwhelmed by the thickness of the undergrowth.
I kept going. And I found what I was looking for. A window, almost overgrown with ivy, and with such a denseness of evergreen leaf between it and the garden that the glimmer of light escaping from it would never be noticed.
Directly inside the window, Miss Winter’s sister sat at a table. Opposite her was Judith. She was spooning mouthfuls of soup between the invalid’s raw, patched lips. Suddenly, midway between bowl and mouth, Judith paused and looked directly toward me. She couldn’t see me; there was too much ivy. She must have felt the touch of my gaze. After a moment’s pause, she turned back to her task and carried on. But not before I had noticed something strange about the spoon. It was a silver spoon with an elongated A in the form of a stylized angel ornamenting the handle.
I had seen a spoon like that before. A. Angel. Angelfield. Emmeline had a spoon like that, and so did Aurelius.
Keeping flat to the wall, and with the branches tangling in my hair, I wriggled back out of the shrubbery. The cat watched me as I brushed the bits of broken twig and dead leaves from my sleeves and shoulders.
‘Inside?“ I suggested, and he was more than happy to concur.
Mr. Drake hadn’t been able to trace Hester for me. On the other hand, I had found Emmeline.
THE ETERNAL TWILIGHT
In my study I transcribed; in the garden I wandered; in my bedroom I stroked the cat and held off my nightmares by staying awake. The moonlit night when I had seen Emmeline appear in the garden seemed like a dream to me now, for the sky had closed in again, and we were immersed once more in the endless twilight.
With the deaths of the Missus and now John-the-dig, an additional chill crept into Miss Winter’s story. Was it Emmeline—that alarming figure in the garden—who had tampered with the ladder? I could only wait and let the story reveal itself. Meanwhile, with December waxing, the shadow hovering at my window grew always more intense. Her closeness repelled me, her distance broke my heart, every sight of her evoked in me the familiar combination of fear and longing.
I got to the library in advance of Miss Winter—morning or afternoon or evening, I don’t know, they were all the same by now—and stood by the window to wait. My pale sister pressed her fingers to mine, trapped me in her imploring gaze, misted the glass with her cool breath. I only had to break the glass, and I could join her.
‘Whatever are you looking at?“ came Miss Winter’s voice behind me.
Slowly I turned.
‘Sit down,“ she barked at me. Then, ”Judith, put another log on the fire, would you, and then bring this girl something to eat.“ I sat down.
Judith brought cocoa and toast. Miss Winter continued her story while I sipped at the hot cocoa.
‘I’ll help you,“ he said. But what could he do? He was just a boy.
I got him out of the way. I sent him to fetch Dr. Maudsley, and while he was gone I made strong, sweet tea and drank a potful. I thought hard thoughts and I thought them quickly. By the time I was at the dregs, the prick of tears had quite retreated from my eyes. It was time for action.
By the time the boy returned with the doctor, I was ready. The moment I heard their steps approaching the house, I turned the corner to meet them.
‘Emmeline, poor child!“ the doctor exclaimed as he came near, hand outstretched in a sympathetic gesture, as though to embrace me.
I took a step back, and he halted. “Emmeline?” In his eyes, uncertainty flared. Adeline? It was not possible. It could not be. The name died on his lips. “Forgive me,” he stammered. But still he did not know.
I did not help him out of his confusion. Instead I cried.
Not real tears. My real tears—and I had plenty of them, believe me—were all stored up. Sometime, tonight or tomorrow or sometime soon, I did not exactly know when, I would be alone and I would cry for hours. For John. For me. I would cry out loud, shrieking my tears, the way I used to cry as a little girl when only John could soothe me, stroking my hair with hands that smelled of tobacco and the garden. Hot, ugly tears they would be, and when the end came—if it came— my eyes would be so puffed up I would have only red-rimmed slits to see out of.
But those were private tears, and not for this man. The tears I gratified him with were fake ones. Ones to set off my green eyes the way diamonds set off emeralds. And it worked. If you dazzle a man with green eyes, he will be so hypnotized that he won’t notice there is someone inside the eyes spying on him.
‘I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do for Mr. Digence,“ he said, rising from beside the body.
It was odd to hear John’s real name.
‘However did it happen?“ He looked up at the balustrade where John had been working, then bent over the ladder. ”Did the safety catch fail?“
I could look at the corpse without emotion, almost. “Might he have slipped?” I wondered aloud. “Did he grab at the ladder as he fell and bring it down after him?”
‘No one saw him fall?“
‘Our rooms are at the other side of the house, and the boy was in the vegetable garden.“ The boy stood slightly apart from us, looking away from the body.
‘Hmm. There is no family, I seem to remember.“
‘He always lived quite alone.“
‘I see. And where is your uncle? Why is he not here to meet me?“
I had no idea what John had told the boy about our situation. I had to play it by ear.
With a sob to my voice, I told the doctor that my uncle had gone away.
‘Away!“ The doctor frowned.
The boy did not react. Nothing to surprise him so far, then. He stood looking at his feet so as not to look at the corpse, and I had time to think him a sissy before going on to say, “My uncle won’t be back for a few days.”
‘How many days?“
‘Oh! Now, when was it exactly he went away…?“ I frowned and made a little pretense of counting back the days. Then, allowing my eyes to rest on the corpse, I let my knees quiver.
The doctor and the boy both leaped to my side, taking an elbow each.
‘All right. Later, my dear, later.“
I permitted them to lead me around the house toward the kitchen door.
‘I don’t know exactly what to do!“ I said as we rounded the corner.
‘About what, exactly?“
‘The funeral.“
‘You don’t need to do anything. I will arrange the undertakers, and the vicar will take care of the rest.“
‘But what about the money?“
‘Your uncle will settle that when he returns. Where is he, by the way?
‘But what if he should be delayed?“
‘You think it likely he will be delayed?“
‘He’s an… unpredictable man.“
‘Indeed.“ The boy opened the kitchen door, and the doctor guided me in and pulled out a chair. I collapsed into it.
‘The solicitor will sort out anything that needs doing, if it comes to it. Now, where is your sister? Does she know what’s happened?“
I didn’t bat an eyelid. “She is sleeping.”
‘Just as well. Let her sleep, perhaps, eh?“
I nodded.
‘Now, who can look after you while you’re on your own here, then?“
‘Look after us?“
‘You can hardly stay here on your own… Not after this. It was rash of your uncle to leave you in the first place so soon after losing your housekeeper and without finding a replacement. Someone must come.“
‘Is it really necessary?“ I was all tears and green eyes; Emmeline wasn’t the only one who knew how to be womanly.
‘Well, surely you—“
‘It’s just that the last time someone came to take care of us— You do remember our governess, don’t you?“ And I flashed him a look so mean and so quick he could hardly believe he’d seen it. He had the grace to blush and looked away. When he looked back, I was nothing but emeralds and diamonds again.
The boy cleared his throat. “My grandmother could come and look in, sir. Not to stay like, but she could come every day, just for a bit.”
Dr. Maudsley, disconcerted, considered. It was a way out, and he was looking for a way out.
‘Well, Ambrose, I think that would be the ideal arrangement. In the short term, at least. And no doubt your uncle will be back in a very few days, in which case there will be no need, as you say, to, her, to—“
‘Indeed.“ I rose smoothly from my chair. ”So if you will see to the undertakers, I will see the vicar.“ I held out my hand. ”Thank you for coming so quickly.“
The man had lost his footing entirely. He rose to his feet at my prompt, and I felt the brief touch of his fingers in mine. They were sweaty.
Once again he searched in my face for my name. Adeline or Emmeline? Emmeline or Adeline? He took the only way out. “I’m sorry about Mr. Digence. Truly I am, Miss March.”
‘Thank you, Doctor.“ And I hid my smile behind a veil of tears.
Dr. Maudsley nodded at the boy on his way out and closed the door behind him.
Now for the boy himself.
I waited for the doctor to get away, then opened the door and invited the boy to go through it. “By the way,” I said as he reached the threshold, in a voice that showed I was mistress of the house, “there’s no need for your grandmother to come in.”
He gave me a curious look. Here was one who saw the green eyes and the girl inside them.
‘Just as well,“ he said with a casual touch to the brim of his cap, ”since I haven’t got a grandmother.“
* * *
‘I’ll help you,“ he had said, but he was only a boy. He did know how to drive a car, though.
The next day he drove us to the solicitor in Banbury, I beside him and Emmeline behind. After a quarter of an hour waiting under the eye of a receptionist, we were finally asked into Mr. Lomax’s office. He looked at Emmeline and he looked at me and he said, “No need to ask who you two are.”
‘We’re in something of a quandary,“ I explained. ”My uncle is absent, and our gardener has died. It was an accident. A tragic accident, since he has no family and has worked for us forever, I do feel the family should pay for the funeral, only we are a little short…“
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