The Thirteenth Tale-第12章

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　flower　in　a　northern　winter　garden。　she　wore　no　sunglasses　today；　but　her　eyelids　were　colored　purple；　lined　cleopatra…style　with　kohl　and　fringed　with　the　same　heavy　black　lashes　as　yesterday。　in　the　clear　daylight　i　saw　what　i　had　not　seen　the　night　before：　along　the　ruler…straight　parting　in　miss　winter’s　copper　curls　was　a　narrow　margin　of　pure　white。

‘you　remember　our　agreement；“　she　began；　as　i　sat　down　in　the　chair　on　the　other　side　of　the　fire。　”beginnings；　middles　and　endings；　all　in　the　correct　order。　no　cheating。　no　looking　ahead。　no　questions。“

i　was　tired。　a　strange　bed　in　a　strange　place；　and　i　had　woken　with　a　dull；　atonic　tune　ringing　in　my　head。　“start　where　you　like；”　i　said。

‘i　shall　start　at　the　beginning。　though　of　course　the　beginning　is　never　where　you　think　it　is。　our　lives　are　so　important　to　us　that　we　tend　to　think　the　story　of　them　begins　with　our　birth。　first　there　was　nothing；　then　i　was　born…　yet　that　is　not　so。　human　lives　are　not　pieces　of　string　that　can　be　separated　out　from　a　knot　of　others　and　laid　out　straight。　families　are　webs。　impossible　to　touch　one　part　of　it　without　setting　the　rest　vibrating。　impossible　to　understand　one　part　without　having　a　sense　of　the　whole。

‘my　story　is　not　only　mine；　it　is　the　story　of　angelfield。　angelfield　the　village。　angelfield　the　house。　and　the　angelfield　family　itself。　george　and　mathilde；　their　children；　charlie　and　isabelle；　isabelle’s　children；　emmeline　and　adeline。　their　house；　their　fortunes；　their　fears。　and　their　ghost。　one　should　always　pay　attention　to　ghosts；　shouldn’t　one；　miss　lea？“

she　gave　me　a　sharp　look；　i　pretended　not　to　see　it。

‘a　birth　is　not　really　a　beginning。　our　lives　at　the　start　are　not　really　your　own　but　only　the　continuation　of　someone　else’s　story。　take　me；　for　instance。　to　look　at　me　now；　you　would　think　my　birth　must　have　been　something　special；　wouldn’t　you？　acpanied　by　strange　portents；　and　attended　by　witches　and　fairy　godmothers。　but　no。　not　a　bit　of　it。　in　act；　when　i　was　born　i　was　no　more　than　a　subplot。

‘but　how　do　i　know　this　story　that　precedes　my　birth；　i　hear　you　thinking。　what　are　the　sources？　where　does　the　information　e　from？　well；　where　does　any　information　e　from　in　a　house　like　angelfield？　the　servants；　of　course。　the　missus；　in　particular。　not　that　i　earned　it　all　directly　from　her　lips。　sometimes；　it　is　true；　she　would　reminisce　about　the　past　while　she　sat　cleaning　the　silverware；　and　seem　o　forget　my　presence　as　she　spoke。　she　frowned　as　she　remembered　village　rumors　and　local　gossip。　events　and　conversations　and　scenes　rose　to　her　lips　and　played　themselves　out　afresh　over　the　kitchen　table。　but　sooner　or　later　the　story　would　lead　her　into　areas　unsuitable　for　a　child—unsuitable　in　particular　for　me—then　suddenly　she　would　remember　i　was　there；　break　off　her　account　mid…sentence　and　start　rubbing　the　cutlery　vigorously；　as　if　to　erase　the　past　altogether。　but　there　can　be　no　secrets　in　a　house　where　there　are　children。　i　pieced　the　story　together　another　way。　when　the　missus　talked　with　the　gardener　over　their　morning　tea；　i　learned　to　interpret　the　sudden　silences　that　punctuated　seemingly　innocent　conversations。　without　appearing　to　notice　anything；　i　saw　the　silent　glances　that　certain　words　provoked　between　them。　and　when　they　thought　they　were　alone　and　could　talk　privately…　they　were　not　in　fact　alone。　in　this　way　i　understood　the　story　of　my　origins。　and　later；　when　the　missus　was　no　longer　the　woman　she　used　to　be；　when　age　confused　her　and　released　her　tongue；　then　her　meanderings　confirmed　the　story　i　had　spent　years　divining。　it　is　this　story—the　one　that　came　to　me　in　hints；　glances　and　silences—i　am　going　to　translate　into　words　for　you　now。“

miss　winter　cleared　her　throat；　preparing　to　start。

‘isabelle　angelfield　was　odd。“

her　voice　seemed　to　slip　away　from　her；　and　she　stopped；　surprised。　when　she　spoke　again；　her　tone　was　cautious。

‘isabelle　angelfield　was　born　during　a　rainstorm。“

it　came　again；　the　abrupt　loss　of　voice。

so　used　was　she　to　hiding　the　truth　that　it　had　bee　atrophied　in　her。　she　made　one　false　start；　then　another。　but；　like　a　gifted　musician　who；　after　years　without　playing；　takes　up　her　instrument　again；　she　finally　found　her　way。

she　told　me　the　story　of　isabelle　and　charlie。

isabelle　angelfield　was　odd。

isabelle　angelfield　was　born　during　a　rainstorm。

it　is　impossible　to　know　whether　or　not　these　facts　are　connected。

but　when；　two　and　a　half　decades　later；　isabelle　left　home　for　the　second　time；　people　in　the　village　looked　back　and　remembered　the　endlessness　of　the　rain　on　the　day　of　her　birth。　some　remembered　as　if　it　was　yesterday　that　the　doctor　was　late；　delayed　by　the　floods　caused　by　the　river　having　burst　its　banks。　others　recalled　beyond　the　shadow　of　a　doubt　that　the　cord　had　been　wrapped　round　the　baby’s　neck；　almost　strangling　her　before　she　could　be　born。　yes；　it　was　a　difficult　birth；　all　right；　for　on　the　stroke　of　six；　just　as　the　baby　was　born　and　the　doctor　rang　the　bell；　hadn’t　the　mother　passed　away；　out　of　this　world　and　into　the　next？　so　if　the　weather　had　been　fine；　and　the　doctor　had　been　earlier；　and　if　the　cord　had　not　deprived　the　child　of　oxygen；　and　if　the　mother　had　not　died…

and　if；　and　if；　and　if。　such　thinking　is　pointless。　isabelle　was　as　isabelle　was；　and　that　is　all　there　is　to　say　about　the　matter。

the　infant；　a　white　scrap　of　fury；　was　motherless。　and　at　the　beginning；　to　all　intents　and　purposes；　it　looked　like　she’d　be　fatherless；　too。　for　her　father；　george　angelfield；　fell　into　a　decline。　he　locked　himself　in　the　library　and　refused　point…blank　to　e　out。　this　might　seem　excessive；　ten　years　of　marriage　is　usually　enough　to　cure　marital　affection；　but　angelfield　was　an　odd　fellow；　and　there　it　was。　he　had　loved　his　wife—

his　ill…tempered；　lazy；　selfish　and　pretty　mathilde。　he　had　loved　her　more　than　he　loved　his　horses；　more　even　than　his　dog。　as　for　their　son；　charlie；　a　boy　of　nine；　it　never　entered　george’s　head　to　wonder　whether　he　loved　him　more　or　less　than　mathilde；　for　the　fact　was；　he　never　thought　of　charlie　at　all。

bereaved；　driven　half　mad　with　grief；　george　angelfield　sat　all　day　in　the　library；　eating　nothing；　seeing　no　one。　and　he　spent　his　nights　there；　too；　on　the　daybed；　not　sleeping　but　staring　red…eyed　at　the　moon。　this　went　on　for　months。　his　pale　cheeks　became　paler；　he　grew　thin；　tie　stopped　speaking。　specialists　were　called　from　london。　the　vicar　came　and　left　again。　the　dog　pined　away　from　want　of　affection；　and　when　it　died；　george　angelfield　barely　noticed。

in　the　end　the　missus　got　fed　up　with　it　all。　she　picked　up　baby　isabelle　from　the　crib　in　the　nursery　and　took　her　downstairs。　she　strode　past　the　butler；　ignoring　his　protestations；　and　went　into　the　library　without　knocking。　up　to　the　desk　she　marched；　and　she　plumped　the　baby　down　in　george　angelfield’s　arms　without　a　word。　then　she　turned　her　back　and　walked　out；　slamming　the　door　behind　her。

the　butler　made　to　go　in；　thinking　to　retrieve　the　infant；　but　the　missus　raised　her　finger　and　hissed；　“don’t　you　dare！”　he　was　so　startled　that　he　obeyed。　the　household　servants　gathered　outside　the　library　door；　looking　at　one　another；　not　knowing　what　to　do。　but　the　force　of　the　missus’s　conviction　held　them　paralyzed；　and　they　did　nothing。

it　was　a　long　afternoon；　and　at　the　end　of　it　one　of　the　underhouse　maids　ran　to　the　nursery。　“he’s　e　out！　the　master’s　e　out！”

at　her　normal　pace　and　in　her　normal　manner；　the　missus　came　downstairs　to　hear　what　had　happened。

the　servants　had　stood　about　in　the　hall　for　hours；　listening　at　the　door　and　peeking　through　the　keyhole。　at　first　their　master　just　sat　there；　looking　at　the　baby；　with　a　dull　and　perplexed　expression　on　his　face。　the　baby　wriggled　and　gurgled。　when　george　angelfield　was　heard　cooing　and　chuckling　in　response；　the　servants　exchanged　looks　of　astonishment；　but　they　were　more　astonished　later　to　hear　lullabies。　the　baby　slept　and　there　was　silence。　her　father；　the　servants　reported；　did　not　once　take　his　eyes　from　his　daughter’s　face。　then　she　awoke；　hungry；　and　set　to　crying。　her　shrieks　rose　in　intensity　and　pitch　until　finally　the　door　was　flung　open。

there　stood　my　grandfather　with　his　baby　in　his　arms。

seeing　his　servants　standing　idly　about；　he　glared　at　them　and　his　voice　boomed　out：　“is　a　baby　left　to　starve　in　this　house？”

from　that　day　on　george　angelfield　took　personal　charge　of　his　daughter。　he　fed　her；　bathed　her　and　the　rest；　moved　her　cot　into　his　room　in　case　she　cried　of　loneliness　in　the　night；　fashioned　a　papoose　so　that　he　could　take　her　riding；　read　to　her　（business　letters；　the　sports　pages　and　romantic　novels）；　and　shared　all　his　thoughts　and　plans　with　her。　he　behaved；　in　short；　as　though　isabelle　was　a　sensible；　pleasant　panion　and　not　a　wild　and　ignorant　child。

perhaps　it　was　her　looks　that　made　her　father　love　her。　charlie；　the　neglected　older　child；　nine　years　isabelle’s　senior；　was　his　father’s　son：　a　lumpen；　pasty；　carrot…topped　boy；　with　heavy　feet　and　a　slow　expression。　but　isabelle　inherited　her　looks　from　both　her　parents。　the　g