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rough the pattern of the curtains。 when she succeeded in freeing one； she surreptitiously put it in her pocket； ready to add later to the magpie stash under her bed。 but her concentration was broken。 someone was ing； and whether she knew what that meant or not； she had been contaminated by the sense of expectation that hung about the house。
it was emmeline who first heard the brougham。 from the window we watched the new arrival alight； brush the creases out of her skirt with two brisk strokes of her palms and look about her。 she looked at the front door； to her left； to her right； and then—i leaped back—up。 perhaps she took us for a trick of the light or a window drape lifted by the breeze from a broken windowpane。 whatever she saw； it can’t have been us。
but we saw her。 through emmeline’s new hole in the curtain we stared。 we didn’t know what to think。 hester was of average height。 average build。 she had hair that was neither yellow nor brown。 skin the same color。 coat； shoes； dress； hat： all in the same indistinct tint。 her face was devoid of any distinguishing feature。 and yet we stared。 we stared at her until our eyes ached。 every pore in her plain little face was illuminated。 something shone in her clothes and in her hair。 something radiated from her luggage。 something cast a glow around her person； like a lightbulb。 something made her exotic。
we had no idea what it was。 we’d never imagined the like of it before。
we found out later； though。
hester was clean。 scrubbed and soaped and rinsed and buffed and polished all over。
you can imagine what she thought of angelfield。
when she’d been in the house about a quarter of an hour she had the missus call us。 we ignored it and waited to see what happened next。 we waited。 and waited。 nothing happened。 that was where she wrong…footed us for the first time； had we only known it。 all our expertise in hiding was useless if she wasn’t going to e looking for us。 and she did not e。 we hung about in the room； growing bored； then vexed by the curiosity that seeded itself in us despite our resistance。 we became attentive to the sounds from downstairs： john…the…dig’s voice； the dragging of furniture； some banging and knocking。 then it fell quiet。 at lunchtime we were called and did not go。 at six the missus called us again； “e and have supper with your new governess； children。” we stayed on in the room。 no one came。 there was the beginning of a sense that the newer was a force to be reckoned with。
later came the sound of the household getting ready for bed。 footsteps on the stairs； the missus； saying； “i hope you’ll be fortable； miss；” and the voice of the governess； steel in velvet； “i’m sure i will； mrs。 dunne。 thank you for all your trouble。”
‘about the girls； miss barrow…—“
‘don’t you worry about them； mrs。 dunne。 they’ll be all right。 good night。“
and after the sound of the missus’s feet shuffling cautiously down the stairs； all was quiet。
night fell and the house slept。 except us。 the missus’s attempts to teach us that nighttime was for sleeping had failed as all her lessons had failed； and we had no fear of the dark。 outside the governess’s door we listened and heard nothing but the faint scratch scratch of a mouse under the boards； so we went on downstairs； to the larder。
the door would not open。 the lock had never been used in our lifetime； but tonight it betrayed itself with a trace of fresh oil。
emmeline waited patiently； blankly； for the door to open； as she had always waited before。 confident that in a moment there would be bread and butter and jam for the taking。
but there was no need to panic。 the missus’s apron pocket。 that’s where the key would be。 that’s where the keys always were： a ring of rusted keys； unused； for doors and locks and cupboards all over the house； and any amount of fiddling to know which key matched which lock。
the pocket was empty。
emmeline stirred； wondered distantly at the delay。
the governess was shaping up into a real challenge。 but she wouldn’t catch us that way。 we would go out。 you could always get into one of the cottages for a snack。
the handle of the kitchen door turned； then stopped。 no amount of tugging and jiggling could free it。 it was padlocked。
the broken window in the drawing room had been boarded up； and the shutters secured in the dining room。 there was only one other chance。 to the hall and the great double doors we went。 emmeline； bewildered； padded along behind。 she was hungry。 why all this fuss with doors and windows？ how long before she could fill her tummy with food？ a shaft of moonlight； tinted blue by the colored glass in the hall windows； was enough to highlight the huge bolts； heavy and out of reach； that had been oiled and slid into place at the top of the double doors。
we were imprisoned。
emmeline spoke。 “yum yum；” she said。 she was hungry。 and when emmeline was hungry； emmeline had to be fed。 it was as simple as that。 we were in a fix。 it was a long time ing； but eventually emmeline’s poor little brain realized that the food she longed for could not be had。 a look of bewilderment came into her eyes； and she opened her mouth and wailed。
the sound of her cry carried up the stone staircase； turned into the corridor to the left； rose up another flight of stairs and slipped under the door of the new governess’s bedroom。
soon another noise was added to it。 not the blind shuffle of the missus； but the smart； metronomic step of hester barrow’s feet。 a brisk； unhurried click； click； click。 down a set of stairs； along a corridor； to the gallery。
i took refuge in the folds of the long curtains just before she emerged onto the galleried landing。 it was midnight。 at the top of the stairs she stood； a pact little figure； neither fat nor thin； set on a sturdy pair of legs； the whole topped by that calm and determined countenance。 in her firmly belted blue dressing gown and with her hair neatly brushed； she looked for all the world as though she slept sitting up and ready for morning。 her hair was thin and stuck flat to her head； her face was lumpen and her nose was pudgy。 she was plain； if not worse than plain； but plainness on h