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