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!
I inquired after the father's family--for though Mr. March is deceased and the children never knew him, still, his blood is theirs and has an impact on their natures. Mrs. Dunne was able to tell me very little, though. Instead, she began a seriesof anecdotes about the mother and the uncle, which, if I am to read between the lines (as I'm sure she meant me to), contained hints of something scandalous… Of course, what she suggests is not at all likely, not in England at least, and I suspect her of being somewhat fanciful. The imagination is a healthy thing, and a great many scientific discoveries could not have been made without it, but it needs to be harnessed to some serious object if it is to come to anything. Left to wander its own way, it tends to lead into silliness. Perhaps it is age that makes her mind wander, for she seems a kind thing in other ways, and not the sort to invent gossip for the sake of it. In any case, I immediately put the topic firmly from my mind.
As I write this I hear noises outside my room. The girls have come out of their hiding place and are creeping about the house. They have been done no favors, allowed to suit themselves like this. They will benefit enormously from the regime of order, hygiene and discipline that I mean to instill in the house. I shall not go out to them. No doubt they will expect me to, and it will suit my purposes to disconcert them at this stage.
Mrs. Dunne showed me the rooms on the ground floor. There is filth everywhere, all the surfaces thick with dust, and curtains hanging in tatters, though she does not see it and thinks of them as they were years ago in the time of the twins' grandfather, when there was a full staff. There is a piano that may be beyond saving, but I will see what can be done, and a library that may be full of knowledge once the dust is wiped and one can see what is there.
The otherfloors I explored alone, not wanting to inflict too many stairs at once on Mrs. Dunne. On the first floor I became aware of a scuffling, a whispering and smothered giggling. I had found my charges. They had locked the door and fell silent when I tried the handle. I called their names once, then left them to their own devices and went on to the secondfloor. It is a cardinal rule that I do not chase mycharges, but train them to come to me.
The second-floor rooms were in the most terrible disorder. Dirty, but I had come to expect that. Rainwater had come through the roof (I expected as much) and there were fungi growing insome of the rotting floorboards.This is a truly unhealthy environment in which to raise children. A number of floorboards were missing, looked as if they had been deliberately removed. I shall have to see Mr. Angelfield about getting these repaired.I shall point out to him that someone could fall downstairs or at the very least twist an ankle.
