The thirteenth tale by Diane Setterfield Page A

servants’ rooms, family rooms, the study, the
library, the music room, the drawing room, the kitchens. It was a restless,
endless, hopeless search. At night he went out to roam the estate, his legs
carrying him tirelessly forward, forward, forward. All the while he fingered
the Missus’s needle in his pocket. His finger-tips were a bloody, scabby mess.
He missed Isabelle.
     
    Charlie lived like this through September, October, November,
December, January and February, and at the beginning of March, Isabelle
returned.
     
    Charlie was in the kitchen, tracing his footsteps, when he heard
the sound of hooves and wheels approaching the house. Scowling, he went to the
window. He wanted no visitors.
     
    A familiar figure stepped down from the car—and his heart stood
still.
     
    He was at the door, on the steps, beside the car all in one
moment, and Isabelle was there.
     
    He stared at her.
     
    Isabelle laughed. “Here,” she said, “take this.” And she handed
him a heavy parcel wrapped up in cloth. She reached into the back of the
carriage and took something out. “And this one.” He tucked it obediently under
his arm. “Now, what I’d like most in the world is a very large brandy.”
     
    Stunned, Charlie followed Isabelle into the house and to the
study. She made straight for the drinks cupboard and took out glasses and a
bottle. She poured a generous slug into a glass and drank it in one go, showing
the whiteness of her throat, then she refilled her own glass and the second,
which she held out to her brother. He stood there, paralyzed and speechless,
his hands full with the tightly wrapped bundles. Isabelle’s laughter resounded
about his ears again and it was like being too close to an enormous church
bell. His head started to spin and tears sprang to his eyes. “Put them down,”
Isabelle instructed. “We’ll drink a toast.” He took the glass and inhaled the
spirit fumes. “To the future!” He swallowed the brandy in one gulp and coughed
at its unfamiliar burn.
     
    ‘You haven’t even seen them, have you?“ she asked.
     
    He frowned.
     
    ‘Look.“ Isabelle turned to the parcels he had placed on the
study desk, pulled the soft wrapping away, and stood back so that he could see.
Slowly he turned his head and looked. The parcels were babies. Two babies.
Twins. He blinked. Registered dimly that some kind of response was called for,
but didn’t know what he was supposed to say or do.
     
    ‘Oh, Charlie, wake up, for goodness’ sake!“ and his sister took
both his hands in hers and dragged him into a madcap dance around the room. She
swirled him around and around and around, until the dizziness started to clear
his head, and when they came to a halt she took his face in her hands and spoke
to him. ”Roland’s dead, Charlie. It’s you and me now. Do you understand?“
     
    He nodded.
     
    ‘Good. Now, where’s Pa?“
     
    When he told her, she was quite hysterical. The Missus, roused
from the kitchen by the shrill cries, put her to bed in her old room, and when
at last she was quiet again, asked, “These babies… what are they called?”
     
    ‘March,“ Isabelle responded.
     
    But the Missus knew that. Word of the marriage had reached her
some months before, and news of the birth (she’d not needed to count the months
on her fingers, but she did it anyway and pursed her lips). She knew of
Roland’s death from pneumonia a few weeks ago; knew too how old Mr. and Mrs.
March, devastated by the death of their only son and repelled by the fey
insouciance of their new daughter-in-law, now quietly shunned Isabelle and her
children, wishing only to grieve.
     
    ‘What about Christian names?“
     
    ‘Adeline and Emmeline,“ said Isabelle sleepily.
     
    ‘And how do you tell them apart?“
     
    But the child-widow was sleeping already. And as she dreamed in
tier old bed, her escapade and her husband already forgotten, her virgin’s name
was restored