out the minutes and the seconds； and with a vigorous swish of a duster； the motes were gone。
after cleanliness came order； and the house was first to feel the changes。 our new governess did a very thorough tour。 she went from bottom to top； tutting and frowning on every floor。 there was not a single cupboard or alcove that escaped her attention； with pencil and notebook in hand； she scrutinized every room； noting damp patches and rattling windows； testing doors and floorboards for squeaks； trying old keys in old locks； and labeling them。 she left doors locked behind her。 though it was only a first “going over；” a preparatory stage to the main restoration； nevertheless she made a change in every room she entered： a pile of blankets in a corner folded and left tidily on a chair； a book picked up and tucked under her arm to be returned later to the library； the line of a curtain set straight。 all this done with noticeable haste but without the slightest impression of hurry。 it seemed she had only to cast her eye about a room for the darkness in it to recede； for the chaos to begin shamefacedly to put itself in order； for the ghosts to beat a retreat。 in this manner； every room was hestered。
the attic； it is true； did stop her in her tracks。 her jaw dropped and she looked aghast at the state of the roof cavity。 but even in this chaos she was invincible。 she gathered herself together； tightening her lips； and scratched and scribbled away at her page with even greater vigor。 the very next day； a builder came。 we knew him from the village—an unhurried man with a strolling pace。 in speech he stretched out his vowel sounds to give his mouth a rest before the next consonant。 he kept six or seven jobs going at once and rarely finished any of them； he spent his working days smoking cigarettes and eyeing the job in hand with a fatalistic shake of the head。 he climbed our stairs in his typical lazy fashion； but after he’d been five minutes with hester we heard his hammer going nineteen to the dozen。 she had galvanized him。
within a few days there were mealtimes； bedtimes； getting…up times。 a few days more and there were clean shoes for indoors； clean boots for out。 not only that； but the silk dresses were cleaned； mended； made to fit and hung away for some mythical “best；” and new dresses in navy and green cotton poplin with white sashes and collars appeared for everyday。
emmeline thrived under the new regime。 she was well fed at regular hours； allowed to play—under tight supervision—with hester’s shiny keys。 she even developed a passion for baths。 she struggled at first； yelled and kicked as hester and the missus stripped her and lowered her into the tub； but when she saw herself in the mirror afterward； saw herself clean and with her hair neatly braided and tied with a green bow； her mouth opened and she fell into another of her trances。 she liked being shiny。 whenever emmeline was in hester’s presence she used to study her face on the sly； on the lookout for a smile。 when hester did smile—it was not infrequent—emmeline gazed at her face in delight。 before long she learned to smile back。
other members of the household flourished； too。 the missus had her eyes examined by the doctor； and with much plaining was taken to a specialist。 on her return she could see again。 the missus was so pleased at seeing the house in its new state of cleanliness that all the years she’d lived in a state of grayness fell away from her； and she was rejuvenated sufficiently to join hester in this brave new world。 even john…the…dig； who obeyed hester’s orders morosely and kept his dark eyes always firmly averted from her bright； all…seeing ones； could not resist the positive effect of her energy in the household。 without a word to anyone； he took up his shears and entered the topiary garden for the first time since the catastrophe。 there he joined his efforts to those already being made by nature to mend the violence of the past。
charlie was less directly influenced。 he kept out of her way and that suited both of them。 she had no desire to do anything other than her job； and her job was us。 our minds； our bodies and our souls； yes； but our guardian was outside her jurisdiction； and so she left him alone。 she was no jane eyre and he was no mr。 rochester。 in the face of her spruce energy he retreated to the old nursery rooms on the second floor behind a firmly locked door； where he and his memories festered together in squalor。 for him the hester effect was limited to an improvement in his diet and a firmer hand over his finances； which； under the honest but flimsy control of the missus； had been plundered by unscrupulous traders and businesspeople。 neither of these changes for the good did he notice； and if he had noticed them i doubt he would have cared。
but hester did keep the children under control and out of sight； and had he given it any thought he would have been grateful for this。 under hester’s reign there was no cause for hostile neighbors to e plaining about the twins； no imperative to visit the kitchen and have a sandwich made by the missus； above all； no need to leave； even for a minute； that realm of the imagination that he inhabited with isabelle； only with isabelle； always with isabelle。 what he gave up in territory； he gained in freedom。 he never heard hester； he never saw her； the thought of her never once entered his head。 she was entirely satisfactory。
hester had triumphed。 she might have looked like a potato； but there was nothing that girl couldn’t do； once she put her mind to it。
miss winter paused； her eyes set fixedly on the corner of the room； where her past presented itself to her with more reality than the present and me。 at the corners of her mouth and eyes flickered half…expressions of sorrow and distress。 aware of the thinness of the thread that connected her to her past； i was anxious not to break it； but equally anxious for her not to stop her story。
the pause lengthened。
‘and you？“ i prompted softly。 ”what about you？“
‘me？“ she blinked vaguely。 ”oh； i liked her。 that was the trouble。“
‘trouble？“
she blinked again； shuffled in her seat and looked at me with a new； sharp gaze。 she had cut the thread。
‘i think that’s enough for today。 you can go now。“
the box of liveswith the story of hester； i fell quickly back into my routine。 in the mornings i listened to miss winter tell me her story； hardly bothering now with my notebook。 later in my room； with my reams of paper； my twelve red pencils and my trusty sharpener； i transcribed what i had memorized。 as the words flowed from the point of my pencil onto the page； they conjured up miss winter’s voice in my ear； later； when i read aloud what i had written； i felt my face rearranging itself into her expressions。 my left hand rose and fell in mimicry of her emphatic gestures； while my right lay； as though maimed； in my lap。 the words turned to pictures in my head。 hester； clean and neat and surrounded by a silvery gleam； an all…body halo that grew broader all the time； enpassing first her room； then the house； then its inhabitants。 the missus transformed from a slow…moving figure in darkness to one whose eyes darted about； bright with seeing。 and emmeline； under the spell of hester’s shiny aura； allowing herself to be changed from a dirty； malnourished vagabond into a clean； affectionate and plump little girl。 hester cast her light even into the topiary garden； where it shone onto the ravaged branches of the yews and brought forth fresh green growth。 there was charlie； of course； lumbering in the darkness outside the circle； heard but not seen。 and john…the…dig； the strangely named gardener； brooding on its perimeter； reluctant to be drawn into the light。 and adeline； the mysterious and dark…hearted adeline。
for all my biographical projects i have kept a box of lives。 a box of index cards containing the details—name； occupation； dates； place of residence and any other piece of information that seems relevant—of all the significant people in the life of my subject。 i never quite know what to make of my boxes of lives。 depending on my mood they either strike me as a memorial to gladden the dead （“look！” i imagine them saying as they peer through the glass at me。 “she’s writing us down on her cards！ and to think we’ve been dead two hundred years！”） or； when the glass is very dark and i feel quite stranded and alone this side of it； they seem like little cardboard tombstones； inanimate and cold； and the box itself is as dead as the cemetery。 miss winter’s cast of characters was very small； and as i shuffled them in my hands their sparse flimsiness dismayed me。 i was being given a story； but as far as information went； i was still far short of what i needed。
i took a blank card and began to write。
hester barrowgovernessangelfield houseborn： ？
died： ？
i stopped。 thought。 did a few sums on my fingers。 the girls had been only thirteen。 and hester was not old。 with all that verve she couldn’t be。 had she been thirty？ what if she were only twenty…five？ a mere twelve years older than the girls themselves… was it possible？ i wondered。 miss winter； in her seventies； was dying。 but that didn’t necessarily mean