The Thirteenth Tale-第74章

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molished；　it　was　time　for　them　to　start　building　the　future。

i　took　the　envelope　from　my　bag。　i　had　been　waiting。　for　the　right　time。　the　right　place。

the　letters　on　the　envelope　were　curiously　misformed。　the　uneven　strokes　either　faded　into　nothing　or　else　were　engraved　into　the　paper。　there　was　no　sense　of　flow：　each　letter　gave　the　impression　of　having　been　pleted　individually；　at　great　cost；　the　next　undertaken　as　a　new　and　daunting　enterprise。　it　was　like　the　hand　of　a　child　or　a　very　old　person。　it　was　addressed　to　miss　margaret　lea。

i　slit　open　the　flap。　i　drew　out　the　contents。　and　i　sat　on　a　felled　tree　to　read　it；　because　i　never　read　standing　up。

dear　margaret；here　is　the　piece　i　told　you　about。

i　have　tried　to　finish　it；　and　find　that　i　cannot。　and　so　this　story　that　the　world　has　made　so　much　fuss　about　must　do　as　it　is。　it　is　a　flimsy　thing：　something　of　nothing。　do　with　it　what　you　will。

as　for　titles；　the　one　that　springs　to　my　mind　is　“cinderella’s　child；　”　but　i　know　quite　enough　about　readers　to　understand　that　whatever　i　might　choose　to　call　it；　it　will　only　ever　go　by　one　title　in　the　world；　and　it　won’t　be　mine。

there　was　no　signature。　no　name。

but　there　was　a　story。

it　was　the　story　of　cinderella；　like　i’d　never　read　it　before。　laconic；　hard　and　angry。　miss　winter’s　sentences　were　shards　of　glass；　brilliant　and　lethal。

picture　this；　the　story　begins。　a　boy　and　a　girl；　one　rich；　one　poor。　most　often　it’s　the　girl　who’s　got　no　gold　and　that’s　how　it　is　in　the　story　i’m　telling。　there　didn’t　have　to　be　a　ball。　a　walk　in　the　woods　was　enough　for　these　two　to　stumble　into　each　other’s　paths。　once　upon　a　time　there　was　a　fairy　godmother；　but　the　rest　of　the　time　there　was　none。　this　story　is　about　me　of　those　other　times。　our　girl’s　pumpkin　is　just　a　pumpkin；　and　she　crawls　home　after　midnight；　blood　on　her　petticoats；　violated。　there　will　be　a　footman　at　the　door　with　moleskin　slippers　tomorrow。　she　knows　that　already。　she’s　not　stupid。　she　is　pregnant；　though。

in　the　rest　of　the　story；　cinderella　gives　birth　to　a　girl；　raises　her　in　poverty　and　filth；　abandons　her　after　a　few　years　in　the　grounds　of　the　house　owned　by　her　violator。　the　story　ends　abruptly。

halfway　along　a　path　in　a　garden　she　has　never　been　to　before；　cold　and　hungry；　the　child　suddenly　realises　she　is　alone。　behind　her　is　the　garden　door　that　leads　into　the　forest。　it　remains　ajar。　is　her　mother　behind　it　still？　ahead　of　her　is　a　shed　that；　to　her　child’s　mind；　has　the　look　of　a　little　house。　a　place　she　might　shelter。　who　knows；　there　might　even　be　something　to　eat。

the　garden　door？　or　the　little　house？

door？　or　house？

the　child　hesitates。

she　hesitates…

and　the　story　ends　there。

miss　winter’s　earliest　memory？　or　just　a　story？　the　story　invented　by　an　imaginative　child　to　fill　the　space　where　her　mother　ought　to　have　been？

the　thirteenth　tale。　the　final；　the　famous；　the　unfinished　story。

i　read　the　story　and　grieved。

gradually　my　thoughts　turned　away　from　miss　winter　and　to　myself。　she　might　not　be　perfect；　but　at　least　i　had　a　mother。　was　it　too　late　to　make　something　of　ourselves？　but　that　was　another　story。

i　put　the　envelope　in　my　bag；　stood　up　and　brushed　the　bark　dust　from　my　trousers　before　heading　back　to　the　road。

i　was　engaged　to　write　the　story　of　miss　winter’s　life；　and　i　have　done　it。　there　is　really　nothing　more　i　need　do　in　order　to　fulfill　the　terms　of　the　contract。　one　copy　of　this　document　is　to　be　deposited　with　mr。　lomax；　who　will　store　it　in　a　bank　vault　and　then　arrange　for　a　large　amount　of　money　to　be　paid　to　me。　apparently　he　doesn’t　even　have　to　check　that　the　pages　i　give　him　are　not　blank。

‘she　trusted　you；“　he　told　me。

clearly　she　did　trust　me。　her　intentions　in　the　contract　that　i　never　read　or　signed　are　quite　unmistakable。　she　wanted　to　tell　me　the　story　before　she　died；　she　wanted　me　to　make　a　record　of　it。　what　i　did　with　it　after　that　was　my　business。　i　have　told　the　solicitor　about　my　intentions　regarding　tom　and　emma；　and　we　have　made　an　appointment　to　formalize　my　wishes　in　a　will　just　in　case。　and　that　ought　to　be　the　end　of　it。

but　i　don’t　feel　i　am　quite　done。　i　don’t　know　who　or　how　many　people　will　eventually　read　this；　but　no　matter　how　few　they　are；　no　matter　how　distant　in　time　from　this　moment；　i　feel　a　responsibility　toward　them。　and　although　i　have　told　them　all　there　is　to　know　about　adeline　and　emmeline　and　the　ghost…child；　i　realize　that　for　some　that　will　not　be　quite　enough。　i　know　what　it　is　like　to　finish　a　book　and　find　oneself　wondering；　a　day　or　a　week　later；　what　happened　to　the　butcher　or　who　got　the　diamonds；　or　whether　or　not　the　dowager　was　ever　reconciled　with　her　niece。　i　can　imagine　readers　pondering　what　became　of　judith　and　maurice；　whether　anyone　kept　up　the　glorious　garden；　who　came　to　live　in　the　house。

and　so；　in　case　you　are　wondering；　let　me　tell　you。　judith　and　maurice　stayed　on。　the　house　was　not　sold；　provision　had　been　made　in　miss　winter’s　will　for　the　house　and　garden　to　be　converted　into　a　kind　of　literary　museum。　of　course　it　is　the　garden　that　has　real　value　（“an　unsuspected　gem；”　an　early　horticultural　review　has　called　it）；　but　miss　winter　realized　that　it　was　her　reputation　for　storytelling　more　than　her　gardening　skill　that　would　draw　the　crowds。　and　so　there　are　to　be　tours　of　the　rooms；　a　teashop；　and　a　bookshop。　coaches　that　bring　tourists　to　the　bronte　museum　can　e　afterward　to　“vida　winter’s　secret　garden。”　judith　will　continue　as　housekeeper；　and　maurice　as　head　gardener。　their　first　job；　before　the　conversion　can　begin；　is　to　clear　emmeline’s　rooms。　these　will　not　be　visited；　for　there　will　be　nothing　to　see。

and　hester。　now；　this　will　surprise　you；　it　certainly　surprised　me。　i　had　a　letter　from　emmanuel　drake。　to　tell　you　the　truth；　i’d　forgotten　all　about　him。　slowly　and　methodically　he　continued　his　searches；　and　against　all　odds；　late　in　the　day；　he　found　her。　“it　was　the　italian　connection　that　threw　me　off　track；”　his　letter　explained；　“when　your　governess　had　gone　the　other　way　entirely—to　america！”　for　three　years　hester　had　worked　as　clerical　assistant　to　an　academic　neurologist；　and　when　the　time　was　up；　guess　who　came　to　join　her？　dr。　maudsley！　his　wife　died　（nothing　more　sinister　than　the　flu；　i　did　check）；　and　within　days　of　the　funeral　he　was　on　the　boat。　it　was　love。　they　are　both　deceased　now；　but　after　a　long　and　happy　life　together。　they　had　four　children；　one　of　whom　has　written　to　me；　and　i　have　sent　the　original　of　his　mother’s　diary　to　him　to　keep。　i　doubt　he　will　be　able　to　make　out　much　more　than　one　word　in　ten；　if　he　asks　me　for　elucidation；　i　will　tell　him　that　his　mother　knew　his　father　here　in　england；　during　the　time　of　his　father’s　first　marriage；　but　if　he　does　not　ask；　i　will　keep　my　silence。　in　his　letter　to　me；　he　enclosed　a　list　of　his　parents’　joint　publications。　they　researched　and　wrote　dozens　of　highly　regarded　articles　（none　on　twins；　i　think　they　knew　when　to　call　it　a　day）　and　published　them　jointly：　dr。　e。　and　mrs。　h。　j。　maudsley。

h。　j。？　hester　had　a　middle　name：　josephine。

what　else　will　you　want　to　know？　who　looked　after　the　cat？　well；　shadow　came　to　live　with　me　at　the　bookshop。　he　sits　on　the　shelves；　anywhere　he　can　find　a　space　between　the　books；　and　when　customers　e　across　him　there；　he　returns　their　stares　with　placid　equanimity。　from　time　to　time　he　will　sit　in　the　window；　but　not　for　long。　he　is　baffled　by　the　street；　the　vehicles；　the　passersby；　the　buildings　opposite。　i　have　shown　him　the　shortcut　via　the　alley　to　the　river；　but　he　scorns　to　use　it。

‘what　do　you　expect？“　my　father　says。　”a　river　is　no　use　to　a　yorkshire　cat。　it　is　the　moors　he　is　looking　for。“

i　think　he　is　right。　full　of　expectation；　shadow　jumps　up　to　the　window；　looks　out；　then　turns　on　me　a　long；　disappointed　stare。

i　don’t　like　to　think　that　he　is　homesick。

dr。　clifton　came　to　my　father’s　shop—he　happened　to　be　visiting　the　town；　he　said；　and　remembering　that　my　father　had　a　bookshop　here；　he　thought　it　worthwhile　to　call　in；　though　it　was　something　of　a　long　shot；　to　see　if　we　had　a　particular　volume　on　eighteenth…century　medicine　he　was　interested　in。　as　it　happened；　we　did　have　one；　and　he　and　my　father　chatted　amiably　about　it　at　length；　until　well　after　closing　time。　to　make　up　for　keeping　us　so　late　he　invited　us　out　for　a　meal。　it　was　very　pleasant；　and　since　he　was　still　in　town　for　another　night；　my　father　invited　him　the　next　evening　for　a　meal　with　the　family。　in　the　kitchen　my　mother　told　me　he　was　“a　very　nice　man；　margaret。　very　nice。”　the　next　afternoon　was　his　last。　we　went　for　a　walk　by　the　river；　but　this　time　it　was　just　the　two　of　us；　father　being　too　busy　writing　letters　to　be　able　to　acpany　us。　i　told　him　the　story　of　the　ghost　of　angelfield。　he　listened　closely；　and　when　i　had　finished；　we　continued　to　walk；　slowly　and　in　silence。

‘i　remember　seeing　that　treasure　box；“　he　said　eventually。　”how　did　it　e　to　escape　the　fire？“

i　stopped　in　my　tracks；　wondering。　“you　know；　i　never　thought　to　ask。”

‘you’ll　never　know　now；　will　you？“

he　took　my　arm