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Chapter Text

I dream of Manderley again. Seemingly every night I dream of the old house, no matter that in my days I’ve left it behind. I dream that it’s still standing, proud and stoic against the hard-nosed clifftops, giving away into the violent crash of the waves that eat at the sandstone so slowly there is no warning when the ground suddenly dropped. Eating away at the rock as the ghost of Rebecca had once eaten away at me.

I roll over onto my side, hair trapped between my neck and shoulder – damp with the sweat of a fever dream. It was just a dream. Rebecca is dead. She cannot hurt us anymore. I shiver, pulling the thin sheets over my body.

I reach out, struggling to find the hand I so desperately want to hold. When our fingers are intertwined, I can sleep again.

*

Manderley was home. I can’t remember ever being as excited as I had been that day I left Monte Carlo, sitting beside Maxim in his car, twisting a piece of hair between my fingers to give me something to do. He talked of his home, and I listened, careful not to interrupt him and bring on one of his darker, brooding moods. During our honeymoon – I had only seen that dark mood once or twice. Always when Rebecca was mentioned.

Rebecca.

His first wife, the one Mrs Van Hopper said he would never forget, never stop loving. I could feel her between us, in the back of my mind – her dark hair so different to the pale blonde lock twisted around my fingers. I dropped the piece of hair like it was hot, letting it unravel against my cheek. We would be at Manderley soon.

The wildness of the trees we had passed so far was beginning to be tamed, giving away into manicured fields and gardens. Soon came the drive, a long, winding gravel path and further along that – the gates. Gates higher than I had seen before, cast in iron and twisting like ivy vines. The gates were already open for us, and Maxim drove towards Manderley.

Much of my time at Manderley feels like a blur, many of the days like a whisper – but the first day, I remember every detail of the moment I set eyes on the house, how it stood against the landscape as it belonged there. Manderley had not been built into the countryside, it had grown there, imposing in grey brick. Wisteria trailed up the walls. I could already see hints of the famous Manderley garden, bright arrangements sat in every window box and the house itself was flanked by rows of red rhododendrons that stood fierce like soldiers, protecting the house from intruders. Me.

‘Do you like them? I thought you would,’ Maxim said, misreading the expression across my face. The red rhododendrons were too fierce, too dark and foreboding around a house so beautiful. I could imagine the house much lighter in the summer, perhaps with white jasmine planted around it. Maybe – maybe when the house became as much mine as it was Maxim’s – I could make that change. But for now, I supposed the red flowers would have to stay.

‘I love them,’ I lied. Maxim smiled, patting my leg.

‘Oh, I hate it when they do this,’ he muttered, ‘the entire staff…’

My excitement hadn’t worn off, but it was now tinged with nervousness. I had never seen so many people, maids and footmen and cooks – all waiting outside in perfect line for us. Maxim turned off the ignition and two men stood forward, opening the doors and taking our bags.

‘This is Frith,’ Maxim said, gesturing towards the older man, ‘Manderley’s butler.’ Frith smiled politely and I said hello, ‘Frith, this is Mrs De Winter. And this-’ He now looked to the younger man, ‘this is Robert.’

Robert blushed as he bowed slightly. He seemed rather nervous and very young. I wondered if he had been at Manderley long, but before I could ask, Maxim had taken my hand and was leading me into the house.

Inside, Manderley was just as grand as it was on the outside, the floor black and white tiles, the high ceilings covered from the floor in paintings – all old, regal and in gold frames. The heavy drapes were deep red, just as the rhododendrons had been. I looked around the room in wonder, then to my own feet at the Persian rugs that littered the floor. Maxim’s home was a museum to the past, brimming with antiques. He told me that the house had been in his family, passed from father to son for generations. I wondered if one day it would be passed to my own son.

Then I saw her.

There was a woman standing at the back of the room, close to the door arch that lead down into the corridor.

‘The whole staff?’ Maxim called to her.

‘There’s a way things are done at Manderley,’ she replied. Her voice was deep and clear, ‘I won’t let standards fall, Mr De Winter.’

Maxim laughed at that. She approached us slowly, a slight swing to the way she walked – like a great wild cat about to stalk a mouse. I felt my nerves increase when I realised her eyes were fixed on me. But something else tinged with my nerves, something I couldn’t quite name.

She was slightly taller than me, dressed in a dark blue suit, her dark hair twisted back and neatly pinned. I made to shake her hand, foolishly dropping my glove. It fluttered down to my feet and instinctively I scurried to grab it. She bent gracefully, taking the glove before my shaking fingers could reach it. I looked up as she placed it in my palm, her hand cool as it brushed against mine slightly.

Her eyes were green, guarded and quiet. Every feature of her face was strong, her jaw, her nose – but her eyes… there was something within them, beneath the surface, something like reluctant curiosity. I noticed then a single red orchid – pinned to her lapel. Her eyebrow cocked slightly when she looked at me, my lips parting – and I wondered if she had felt the same chill I had when our skin had touched.
She was rising, gracefully and smoothly again and I followed her, tucking blonde hair behind my ear. I shoved the glove into my pocket.

‘Thank you,’ I murmured.

‘Madam,’ she replied, curt – closed off.

‘Darling, this is Mrs Danvers – our housekeeper,’ Maxim said. I could hear his voice faintly and hear my own shy hello. Mrs Danvers began to retreat as another figure bounded forward. The man shook Maxim’s hand heartily and for a moment they seemed to forget my existence. Instead, I watched Mrs Danvers stand in the door arch. She looked directly back at me, her hands clasped, her eyes cool and unreadable. I blushed.

Introductions to Frank – Maxim’s best friend – were fast and easy. Out of everyone at Manderley so far, he was the most open. His smile was kind and friendly and his hands warm as he shook mine.
‘I’m sorry to steal him away,’ Frank said, grinning, ‘but there’s something urgent-’

Maxim waved his hand, ‘it’s fine. Darling-’ he turned to me then, hand on my shoulder, ‘I won’t be long.’ He looked beyond me then, ‘Danvers! Show Mrs De Winter the house.’

‘Oh, it’s alright,’ I said quickly, ‘I’ll wait for you.’

‘Nonsense, I’ll see you later,’ he replied. He was walking away before I could think of any excuse. I turned and looked back to Mrs Danvers. She was waiting for me – seeming almost as reluctant to spend time with me as I was with her.

‘Madam?’ she said, almost impatiently. She opened her arm, waving to the corridor behind her, ‘this way.’

‘Right, yes,’ I said quickly, scurrying up behind her. Like Maxim, she had begun to walk before I reached her. I caught up and walked beside her, my own steps fast and rushed compared to her own languid movements.

‘Manderley was originally a gift from Henry the eighth,’ Mrs Danvers said. Her voice was cool, friendly in an indifferent way as if she was a tour guide, simply leading me through the house knowing she would be rid of me soon. I nodded enthusiastically.

'It’s beautiful,’ I replied.

The library at Manderley was grand, bookshelves fill from head to foot with leatherbound books. There was a large fireplace in the centre of the room, surrounded by plush, red armchairs. Frith stood stoking the fire. He smiled at me as I paused by one of the shelves, running my hand over the books, taking out various first editions from the shelves. I had never seen a library so splendid before. Mrs Danvers stopped, allowing me time to look through everything. I reached for one book, perhaps the eldest on the shelf. It was faded and the gold thread on the leather spine was coming loose.

‘Not that one, Madam,’ Mrs Danvers said urgently. I jumped backwards as if her words had burnt me, ‘it’s fragile and very valuable.’ She walked towards me, still keeping a slight, careful distance between us. I smiled slightly and moved along.

There was an open writing desk in the library, covered in piles of unopened letters. My fingers ghosted over them.

Rebecca De Winter.

Her name written in blue ink, black ink, crimson ink. Different handwriting – looping letters and block letters – cream and white and yellow envelopes. I sifted through them.

‘If there’s anything you like, I can have it ordered for you,’ Mrs Danvers said suddenly. I turned. She was watching me, her eyes falling to the letter in my hand, ‘I suppose you prefer contemporary fiction. Most of the books here are older…’ she paused, and her green eyes looked damp for a moment, ‘the late Mrs De Winter never cared for reading.’ Then, as if by magic, she was staring at me with the same detached coldness as before.

‘That… I would like that, Mrs Danvers. Thank you,’ I said, meaning it genuinely. She nodded slightly.

‘This way,’ Mrs Danvers was already walking away.

She led me to Manderley’s wide and twisting grand staircase, a huge portrait stood at the top of the stairs, a woman in a long white dress, a wide brimmed hat balanced on her head.

‘This is Caroline De Winter,’ Mrs Danvers said, ‘Mr De Winter’s great aunt. This is his favourite of all the paintings in Manderley.’

‘She’s beautiful,’ I replied.

‘Yes. She was also the first woman to qualify as a doctor in England.’

Mrs Danvers continued upstairs, and I was suddenly overcome with the urge to ask her something about herself. She frightened me slightly, but my mind was still caught on that moment where our hands had touched. I watched her from the corner of my eye as we walked along Manderley’s halls in silence. Her name. I could ask her name.

‘Mrs Danvers-’

She stopped abruptly outside a closed door. I felt my confidence ebb away as she waited for me to speak.

‘I’m very glad you’re here,’ I said eventually, ‘I wouldn’t remember all of this without you.’

She didn’t reply, but her upper lip twitched – almost like a smile.

Chapter Text

2

My hair is longer now. Before it was neat, cut to my chin, but now it hangs down my back. It takes ages to brush – not that we mind. It’s our routine now – every evening. Standing behind me, brush in hand. It’s the only time we’re silent. I used to wonder who she truly thought of as she ran the brush along my hair, but now I know her mind is only on one thing. On me, and the quiet road ahead for us both.

We don’t talk about my nightmares. Talking about them makes them real. Sometimes, I think she will ask, but she never does. Sometimes I think I wish she would ask, but no – not really. If we both dwell on the past, it’ll engulf us. We’ve been running for a while now, and I wonder how long it’ll be before Manderley and Maxim creeps up on us, crouching the corners of the dream we’ve created for ourselves, jumping out and cruelly snatching away from me what I’ve fought for. Snatching away from her what she’s wanted for her entire life.

Sometimes I wish she would ask. Just once.

****

'Why don’t you grow it out, Madam?' Clarice asked. 

I looked back at her in the mirror. 'Do you think it'd suit me?' I asked.

I'd never had long hair, always short, always cut around my chin or slightly longer. It was easier to care for, I didn't really have any interest in pinning it up or styling it in anyway - but Clarice had other ideas. At Manderley, she was perhaps my only friend. Her fingers worked quickly, but often clumsily - pinning back my hair in curls and creating beautiful updos I could never have dreamed of making. Sometimes, she pinned it half back, allowing curls to fall around my face in a way that was almost ladylike. It made my face look like that of a stranger.

She'd been my maid since I arrived. Her mother was one of the head cooks at Manderley, Clarice herself younger than me - and never had a job before. It put us on a level footing, she had no expectations of me – and having never had a maid – I had no expectation of her. My mind began to wander as Clarice worked on my hair. Back to that first day.

Mrs Danvers had shown me the bedroom I was to stay in – live in. It was light and airy, with blue bed covers and cream curtains, the walls brocade and beautiful. I'd never seen anything like it. When I’d gasped in awe - she'd made no reaction. I ran my hand over the pale wooden vanity table, picking up each of the bottles of perfume, face cream, everything new and bought for me. I almost forgot about the figure dressed in blue standing by the door, too taken up in luxuries I had never dreamed in having for myself.

'And when will your maid be arriving, Madam?' she had asked coolly, a question that froze me for a moment. She was staring at me with an almost bored expression, whatever smile she had briefly given me well and truly gone. I watched her carefully. It was as if a mask lay between us, hiding her face from me. I struggled to think of what to say.

'I... I don't have one,' I replied. 'I shan't need one.'

She'd scoffed at that, her eyes almost rolling like I was a child asking a foolish question, 'I think you'll find you'll need one. It’s usual for ladies in your position to have a maid.’

After that, hot with embarrassment, I asked her to bring up a young girl from the village, someone who wanted to train. She'd brought me Clarice the following morning. Clarice’s shyness and feeling of displacement complemented mine rather well. We were going to be firm friends.

That morning, she had begun to cough ever so slightly, her fingers slower as she curled my hair.

'Are you alright?' I asked, as she turned away from me to cough again, louder this time.

'Yes,' she said, weakly ‘I just feel a bit under the weather, that's all.'

I nodded, knowing she was lying. She got back to work.

Maxim was away yet again, allowing me to fall into my usual routine at Manderley, taking Jasper out for a walk along the gardens. I had almost explored every single one of Manderley's secret gardens, working up the courage to talk to the gardener about the red rhododendrons that had continued to bother me. I remarked on the strength of their colour. Perhaps it would be good to introduce some white, softer shades into the garden. He stood, nodded along. Until finally, it came. The words I had been expecting.

'These were Mrs De Winter's favourite,' he said flatly. My stomach sank. Perhaps that was the reason I liked Clarice so much. She was the only one who didn't instinctively compare me to Her. To Rebecca.

I moved on, Jasper bounding along by my ankles. Once he was tired, he rolled onto his back, and I sat on the grass beside him. The red rhododendrons towered over us, blocking out the afternoon sunlight. I sighed, feeling the pins dig into the back of my scalp. I wished Maxim was here. The early days at Manderley were blissful, peaceful, but I found myself with little to do often. My boredom allowed my mind to wander, wander back to thoughts of Rebecca. I tried to picture the ghost of her in my mind, the woman who loved rhododendrons, the previous mistress of Manderley who had been so confident, so self-assured. I thought back to my nervous explorations of the house. She was everywhere. Her initial, a foreboding, sloping ‘R’ on napkins, on diaries, once even embroidered into the very pillows I slept on.

That night, I turned them over, refusing to feel the thread against my skin. I imagined it leaving an indentation in my cheek, a backwards ‘R’, branding me with the initial of the woman who haunted the house. The following night the pillowcases had been changed. It was a mistake, I assumed, but one that stuck in my mind so sharply.

Jasper closed his eyes, I stroked his belly, laughing at his wagging tail. He had forgotten Rebecca rather quickly, with little more than pieces of bacon I stole from my breakfast plate, passing to him when I thought nobody was looking. Frith had caught me once, but simply smiled. Now, Jasper followed me around wherever I went. I lay back in the grass, and as I did, I noticed a quick movement, a shutter closing. I sat back up, so quickly that Jasper flinched. He barked at me in annoyance.

A curtain twitched and shut. The room was on the west side of the house, part of the house I hadn’t explored. Part of the house that Maxim told me was no longer used. I got to my feet and headed back towards the house, curious to as to who was by the window. Were they watching me? The idea made my heart thud nervously. I thought back to how I had almost danced through the gardens like a child, sitting in the grass beside Jasper. Had the rhododendrons shielded me? I felt suddenly as if I had done something terribly wrong.

‘Madam.’

The cool voice floated down to me the moment I had stepped into Manderley’s great entrance hall. Standing at the top of the staircase was Mrs Danvers. Behind her, a large portrait of a woman in white watched over us. I felt my cheeks flushing red. Since that first day at Manderley, I had seen little of Mrs Danvers. I spoke to her briefly on the house telephone, stuttering that the menus I never looked at were perfect, that I was most pleased. Other than interactions she couldn’t escape from, she kept her distance from me. She never sought me out.

‘Hello, Mrs Danvers,’ I replied, glad that for once my traitorous voice hadn’t wavered, hadn’t betrayed the odd feeling that settled in my stomach when I saw her. It felt something like nerves but laced with something else I couldn’t quite explain. My eyes settled on her, the harsh line of her clenched jaw, the way her hips moved so elegantly as she stepped down towards me. Seeing her then, I felt as if she was the mistress of Manderley, and that I was her housekeeper.

As she stepped from the stairs to the black and white tiled floor, her heels began to thud, the echo of it filling the hall. She stopped a few feet away from me, hands clasped in front of her, face still with that unreadable mask I had spent hours trying to decipher. Lying in bed, with Maxim snoring beside me, I often thought of that moment, that fleeting touch where I had felt something. I longed to know if she had felt the same feeling.

‘Frith tells me you’ve been spending your mornings in the library,’ Mrs Danvers began. She stepped closer.

‘That’s alright, isn’t it?’ I asked.

Her eyebrow quirked, ‘you can do as you please, madam.’

I began to chew on my bottom lip. Frith had started especially lighting the fire for me. After breakfast, I would retire to the library, search through Manderley’s impressive collection of old books. Once I had found something to read, I settled in an armchair for an hour or two. Never did I touch the old first edition Mrs Danvers had warned me from. Was I an inconvenience? Manderley had routines, things were done certain ways. Did I disrupt this?

‘Madam, you’ll cut yourself,’ Mrs Danvers said. She reached out slightly, but stopped suddenly, her arm falling back to her side. I stopped biting my lip immediately. We were silent for a moment. Jasper wagged his tail. ‘That’s a bad habit. Do you have lip salve?’ I shook my head. ‘Ask Clarice for some.’ She hesitated; her eyebrows knitted slightly. I studied her face, the regal slope of her nose, the red stain of her lips against her softly lined skin. Freckles beneath her eyes. Perhaps one day, I would sketch again. I would sketch her.

Suddenly, I realised she was speaking. I flushed red.

‘I offered to order new books for you,’ Mrs Danvers said, ‘if you can’t find something to your satisfaction, I can go into town. I-’ she hesitated again, and for one moment, I saw the great mask drop, ‘I used to do that when Mrs De Winter was alive. She would send me into town… and I would-’ her face contorted in anguish, her cheeks flushing. For one horrible moment, I thought she would cry, but then the mask was back, and she slipped into the same cool voice I had grown used to hearing, ‘if there’s anything you need.’

‘I’m quite alright, Mrs Danvers,’ I replied. ‘it’s good to… broaden our horizons, don’t you think? Classic works are very interesting and…’ my voice trailed off, unaware of the point I was trying to make, ‘I like romance novels.’ I blurted out suddenly, ‘anything romantic. If you have any suggestions.’

She nodded curtly, ‘of course, Madam.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, and before I could stop myself, I reached out – placing my hand on her wrist. Why? I still don’t know. Perhaps I meant it as a gesture of comfort, after seeing her become so oddly emotional. Perhaps her talking about Rebecca had rattled me, and I wished to touch her, to remind her that it was I in front of her now, not Rebecca. Perhaps I had no motive at all, perhaps I did it simply because I wanted to, because I wanted to feel her cool skin beneath mine again, to feel the same chill I had felt when our fingers had brushed. Perhaps I wanted to see if it had been real, or all in my head. I wanted to see how she would react.

As my fingertips ghosted her skin, I felt it. The same chill, the same jolt I had felt before, as real as daylight. I looked up at her, noticed the slight flash of… something… in her green eyes. Not quite panic, but I could tell the feeling had taken her by surprise. Perhaps she had thought it in her head, whatever it was. She met my gaze and stared at me, almost challenging me to act further, to reveal to her why I had touched her. When I felt myself flush again, hastily pulling my hand from hers – I saw something like triumph in her eyes. Her proud chin jutted out and now she was the one to study me. I felt myself wither beneath her gaze, that odd feeling of nervousness in my stomach fluttering.

‘Is that all, Madam?’ she asked, her voice emotionless.

‘Yes,’ I murmured, not daring to meet her eye, ‘that’s all.’

Chapter Text

3

We keep ourselves to ourselves now. The hotel we stay in is small, modest, yet comfortable. Our room does not have a sea view. She doesn’t like the sea, and she hates me going anywhere near it. Not that she says of course, but I have grown used to reading her body language, noting the way her jaw tightens, how her eyes betray her. She has the most expressive eyes of anyone I've ever known. She has reasons to hate the sea, I do not. On windy nights, if we leave the balcony doors open, the wind carries the gentle hum of the sea towards us, the waves hitting against the rocks, the spray of the spittle across the cliffs. Her hands tighten on me on those nights, even in her sleep.

To keep myself occupied, I wander through the hotel gardens, much as I did during those early weeks at Manderley. I read too, sometimes to myself, sometimes aloud to her. Sometimes, I fear she thinks herself useless. For someone like her, someone so used to being in control of a house, busy, swept off her feet – I fear our new lethargic existence is too empty for her. My fears do not matter, for being bored is for our safety’s sake. The bigger hotels are Maxim’s haunts. If we were to risk a luxurious break that neither of us could really afford, we would be discovered. Word would get back to the ruins of Manderley.

*

After I had touched her wrist, Mrs Danvers took to avoiding me. I wondered if I had destroyed any chance of friendship with her, but two days later – a pile of paperbacks appeared on my favourite armchair in the library. I saw her in fleeting glances – her back as she left the room, a flash of her heel around the doorframe. I heard her voice every day on the house telephone, her sentences clipped, as brief and brisk as possible. The little click as she put the receiver down always reverberated through me, and I cursed myself for ruining the relationship we had once had.

Relationship? I shook my head, instead focusing back to the words on the page. We barely spoke. She was still not over… She was like Maxim. She was haunted. We could not be friends whilst Rebecca’s ghost still resided within the halls of Manderley – and I knew that of the two of us, this would always be Rebecca’s home. I knew it when I walked through the halls, when I spoke to the maids and the butler, I couldn’t be rid of Rebecca, Rebecca, Rebecca. The text blurred and I closed the paperback. I was reading carefully, as to not break the spine. Usually I wouldn’t worry, but Mrs Danvers had bought these books especially for me. I had cleared out a space on the shelves for them, moving a stack of old sailing books into a cupboard. It was one of my bravest actions within the house. I never touched anything else. I never dared.

My heart felt nervous and fluttery – today was the day Maxim returned from London. That morning, I had Clarice put my hair up, pinning back the tendrils around my face in little curls. Her cough was growing worse and worse. I dismissed her early, telling her to go home and rest – that I could do my own hair until she was better. We both knew that was a lie, but she left, coughing all the way down the corridor. I had dressed well, in a pale blue dress, anticipating his arrival. Perhaps now I would have more to do. Now I could be the Lady of Manderley, and put Rebecca's ghost to bed.

At the sound of gravel crunching under tires, Jasper jumped up from his spot beside me, barking wildly. His ears flapped like wings as he scuttled from the room, his tail wagging and tongue lolling from his mouth. I grinned and followed him into the entrance hall. He jumped up at Maxim, who swatted him away.

‘Maxim!’ I cried, wrapping my arms around him. He kissed my cheek and untangled himself, quickly moving past me. Feeling slightly stung, I wrung my hands together. There was something dark about his face, something drawn in and unpleasant. Whatever lightness my heart had held at his return was squashed out into nothing but nerves. I imagined what Rebecca would do… she would laugh at his foul mood, gently, enough to make him smile and soon they would both be laughing. Then they’d sit in the library – my library – and he would tell her everything that was troubling him. She would offer solutions, because she was the kind of woman who knew what to do in every scenario. She would know how to help him.

I, however, was not that kind of woman – and so I stood quietly, watched him almost thrust his coat and hat into Frith’s arms. He stalked off past me into the library, but remembered himself and turned abruptly.

‘Hello darling,’ he said, with little warmth. He kissed my forehead and was gone again, shutting the door behind him. I kept close to the wall, unsure if whether I should follow him. This was the action of a frightened between maid – someone new to the house. With a stab of hurt, I realised I was behaving the same way Clarice had on her first morning. Keeping away, keeping out of sight. I let my clasped hands open and drop to my sides.

‘Maxim?’ I spoke gently as I opened the library door. He was sitting in my chair, his chin in his hand. For one moment, I thought he had sat on my book, but with a pang of horror I realised he had shoved it from the chair, almost bending the cover in half, ‘my book!’ I cried, rushing to pick it up. My sudden hysteria had jolted him out of his thoughts and his head snapped up.

‘It’s only a paperback,’ he said as I tried to smooth the crease in the front cover. He watched me.

‘I know, but…’ my voice trailed off. I didn’t want Maxim to know that Mrs Danvers had bought me the books. It was not born of guilt, but instead I felt a strange protectiveness. I didn’t want him – with his foul moods, his abruptness, to ruin it. I had seen him interact with her enough times to know he didn’t care for her, only keeping Mrs Danvers at Manderley because of how efficiently she ran the house. And, I had seen the way her eyes hardened when she looked at him, how her jaw tightened when he barked an order at her. I was not sure who was more resentful of who.

‘I’m sorry,’ he replied, sounding genuine enough.

I smiled, ‘it’s alright.’ I returned the book to its space on the shelf and sat down on the arm of the chair. He looked up at me. I looked down at him, ‘tell me.’ I spoke finally.

And he did. The version of events he wanted to tell me. He claimed business, that he had received a phone call from his sister, saying she wanted to visit. I could tell from his body language that were was more to his mood than an impending relative. But I did not question it. We spent a quiet evening together and as the night went on, his coldness began to feel normal.

Maxim’s return to Manderley bought the end of my listless days exploring the house and gardens, and I found myself missing them greatly. His presence in the house had changed everything. Over the days, his mood improved, until he got word to expect his sister in a week and he darkened again. A cloud settled over us then, I felt it from the moment I walked into the dining room for breakfast in the morning, to the last waking moment at night. Everyone in the house seemed to notice his mood too. Robert became more nervous, his eyes darting to and from me and Maxim, his hands slightly shaky as he brought us our plates. Frith, who I assumed accustomed to Maxim’s moods, changed his manner of speaking. He was gentle, almost fatherly. The maids scuttled away when Maxim entered a room.

I had not felt welcome in Manderley without him, and now with him, I felt even more like an outsider, Now, I wasn’t just suffocating under the weight of the house, the gardens, the way Jasper looked at me as I sat down in my chair – as if he was willing me to be someone else. Now I was suffocating under Maxim, his expectations, his memories. I would never be Rebecca. Everyone knew it. Why couldn’t he?

Only one member of Manderley’s staff either didn’t notice Maxim or rather took no notice of him. Mrs Danvers remained as she always did, cool and calm. One night, as Maxim and I sat in the library, entered the room and noticing the pile of books beside my chair, her lips quirked.

‘Madam,’ she said coolly, ‘have you read everything?’

‘Yes, Mrs Danvers,’ I replied. I blushed red as I noticed the book Maxim had tossed aside was on the top of the pile. Her eyes lingered on the crease in the cover. My voice was quiet, with a slight tremble. This was the closest I’d been to her in days. I remembered the feeling of her skin beneath my hand, the slight jolt her touch had sent through me. In the amber light of the library, she looked softer, closer to ethereal than I think she’d ever been.

‘Were they satisfactory?’ she asked.

‘I loved them,’ I said, very honestly. Her lips twitched again, and a pleased gleam entered her eye.

‘Good.’ She turned away from me then, her movements almost twitchy as she looked at Maxim, who had not looked up from his newspaper. ‘Clarice is unwell. I want to hire a new maid for Mrs De Winter.’

‘My wife told me,’ he said simply, ‘do what you think best.’

‘I like Clarice,’ I said quietly, ‘she only has a cough. She’ll be back soon; I can manage on my own without her.’ I hoped they wouldn’t look at the uneven pins in my hair.

‘Madam-’

Maxim cut Mrs Danvers off with a wave of his hand. Whilst he was still busy reading, I instead focused on Mrs Danvers. I watched the way she bristled at his rudeness, unable to hide the hatred within her eyes. It scared me, the force, the intensity of her feeling – but it fascinated me also. Whenever her cool façade slipped, I found myself mesmerised by her. She felt my eyes upon her and her own met mine.

‘If Clarice will only be away for a short time longer…’ Maxim paused in thought. A hint of amusement crept across his face, and he closed his paper, ‘Danvers. You can help Mrs De Winter with her hair.’

‘But-’ Mrs Danvers begun; her face almost white with concealed anger.

‘That’s easier for all of us,’ he said. He opened his newspaper again. I could see from the way his shoulders shook slightly that he was laughing to himself. I felt myself blush again. I didn’t like his laughter. There was something cruel in it.  I got back to my book, hoping Maxim wouldn’t notice the way I had flushed red. My heart was thudding so loudly I was sure he could hear it. I couldn’t bare the idea of looking up, of seeing the anger in Mrs Danvers’ eyes.

What had I done to make her hate me so badly? I had just wanted her friendship – I wanted an ally in this house, someone other than Jasper that I could talk to. Had I invented everything? I felt my eyes burn with childish tears and rapidly, I blinked them away. I would rather die than cry in front of her. I imagined how she would react. Would she simply stare at me? Or would she try and reach out the way she had when she caught me biting my lip? I had to say something. I had to attempt to build a bridge over what was left of our early friendship.

‘If it isn’t too much trouble, I know you’re busy, Mrs Danvers, and I wouldn’t like to impose…’ my voice trailed away. She kept on looking at me with her cold, empty expression, but with eyes so alight with anger I almost trembled at the sight of her.

‘It’ll do for a short while. Very well,’ Mrs Danvers said finally. After that, she was gone, turning on her heel and shutting the library door quietly behind her. I expected Maxim to burst into laughter, but instead he was silent. When I looked to him, he was staring at me with a rather queer look, as if I had done something out of the ordinary.

Chapter Text

4

We never speak about Manderley. We both lived those tumultuous months, why would we speak it? This morning, I woke in her arms as usual, my dreams still cursed by that house, by Maxim. I can see him in my mind’s eye so clearly. Sometimes, I worry that our precautions, our boredom will be wasted – that he will find us, and this will be over. I won’t lie to myself anymore. I know he is furious.

I know he’s waiting.

But for now, we’re safe. I watch her sleep and tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear.

****

There was a terrible row about it, of course, a row in the Manderley way – passed through walls in hushed whispers, spoken from person to person through the gardener and housemaids and footmen so by the time it was relayed to me – it was gargled and broken in a way I couldn’t understand. All I knew was the horrible feeling it left in my stomach. I spent my days subject to odd looks, housemaids peering at me out of the corner of their eyes when they thought I was not looking. If Clarice had been there, I could ask. I desperately missed my only ally.

Something had happened. First, I wondered if it was to do with Maxim’s sister Beatrice. She was due to arrive at Manderley that afternoon and normal life had paused in preparations. At first, it was an afternoon tea visit – but that soon evolved into her spending the weekend with us. It became apparent though, one morning, that Beatrice was not the reason for the house’s foul mood.

I first heard of Mrs Danvers’ outburst three days later, over breakfast when Frank finally whispered it to Maxim. He went white, bundling up his napkin in a ball in his hand. I watched the way the bones of his knuckles pressed against his tightening skin, obsessed by the almost casual violence of it. I tried to read his thoughts, wondered what exactly he was thinking as he clenched his fist tighter.

‘Damn that woman,’ Maxim scowled. My heart lurched.

‘What happened?’ I asked. I had not seen Mrs Danvers since Maxim ordered her to maid for me. Like a fool, I sat waiting the following morning – my heart thudding with a perverse sense of excitement that I couldn’t justify. I waited, and I waited – but of course she never came. I saw her in the library later that day, but she breezed past me wordlessly.

‘Nothing you need to worry about, Mrs De Winter,’ Frank replied, delicately cutting up his morning bacon into small pieces. Maxim threw the bundled-up napkin down the table. The chair squeaked against the floor when he got up. I barely flinched.

As I watched him leave, I realised I ought to be angry with him, that I should storm away and scream and cry as much as he did, that I should blame him, blame him for bringing me here and forgetting about me. But I didn’t. I felt a peculiar sense of nothingness. His behaviour was not new, not shocking, not surprising now. I told myself I still loved him. Loved him despite his faults, but instead I grew a feeling of resentment for him, for Manderley – Manderley the collective. Would they dare look at Rebecca this way? Would he be so cruel to Rebecca?

Now, I felt angry at Frank for denying me any information. I pushed my plate away.

‘I want to know,’ I said, perhaps sharper than I had expected. My first attempts of assertiveness were clumsy, not as refined as I imagined Rebecca had been. Frank looked at me strangely. ‘Please,’ I added, softly. ‘Nobody tells me anything.’ I’m the lady of Manderley now. Not Rebecca.

Frank put down his knife and fork. He was a very careful man, reserved and decent to me when we spoke. His hair was strawberry blond, fixed carefully away from his face. He had a kind face, with soft, inoffensive features. Out of everyone at Manderley, he was the most straightforward. I felt that perhaps I knew Frank better than I did Maxim.

‘It’s Mrs Danvers,’ Frank replied. He shrugged his shoulders slightly, as if that was explanation enough. I pressed on.

‘What’s happened?’

‘She…’ two spots of red appeared high on Frank’s cheeks. He cleared his throat.

‘It’s alright,’ I replied, ‘I want to know.’

‘She believes that maiding for you is… beneath her,’ Frank said eventually, clearly reluctant, ‘she… she was quite angry about it, and I don’t suppose you’ve seen much of her since.’

‘I haven’t.’

‘She’s been difficult before, she was unsettled after Rebecca’s death – as we were all, but this is one of the first times she’s been openly defiant. Maxim had a word with her, but I heard this morning she is still refusing her new duties.’

I felt ill all of a sudden, overwhelmed by the strength of her hatred for me. Frank said nothing else, going back to his food. My plate was untouched, the napkin beneath my knife still folded neatly. The embroidered ‘R’ stood out. I curled it up in my fist, squeezing tightly. It was not my fault. I had done nothing. I thought back to library, to Maxim’s cruel laughter. He knew this request would drive Mrs Danvers away from me, would make her hate me. He had alienated me further from Manderley.

I clutched the napkin tighter, Rebecca’s R almost branding my skin.

***

After breakfast, I made the biggest mistake I had made at Manderley. Sometimes, when I think about that day, I go through my actions step by step, wondering my way through every possible variant of every movement, every step, every thought. I drag myself through it in an act of self-flagellation, wondering how much more easily my future would have found me if I hadn’t acted the way I had.

After Frank, Jasper was second to leave the dining room. With a wag of his tail and a bark, he sprinted from his spot beside my chair, leaving me alone with my full plate. He paused in the doorway, barked again and sat down.

‘What is it, Jasper?’ I asked, unable to not smile at him. He tilted his head to one side, his ears flopping. ‘Jasper? Come here!’ He barked again and jumped to his feet, running from the room. His paws seemed to slip underneath him, his claws making a scuttling noise against the tile floor. I got up, following him out into the hall. I found him pawing at a closed door. ‘Do you want to show me?’

When I opened the door, I was hit with the scent of rhododendron. Jasper sprinted inside. I inhaled deeply. So far, as strange as it might seem, I had not opened all of Manderley’s doors. Despite my frequent explorations of the house, I had simply taken court of the open rooms, the rooms I knew and the rooms available to the public. I scuttled around Manderley more like a guest than its mistress. I supposed I had been afraid of questions, people asking me what exactly I was doing. It never once occurred to me that it was my home.

Emboldened by my assertiveness with Frank and by Jasper, I stepped inside the room, closing the door behind me. The fragrance was strong, overpowering even, fresh and light and so prettily feminine I wondered why my own room didn’t smell this way. I inhaled again. Beneath it, the prettiness, there was a slightly old, cloying scent to the room. The sweetness preserved and kept rather than natural. I rubbed my nose, trying to lessen the scent.

The flowers were fresh, cut from the red rhododendron bushes outside. Why had nobody told me of this room? It was perhaps the prettiest I had seen so far, a patchwork of Manderley’s treasures in vivid shades of red and gold and pink, so startling and alive compared to the understated elegance of the dining room, or the simplicity of my own, blue room. The furniture was made of a deep, almost red wood, the cushions plump and perfect. Jasper had curled up on the floor beside the armchair. I sat on the chair, then the sofa, then ran my fingers along the polished table. I wished to absorb the elegance of the room, the splendour, the sophistication, to make it my own and become like the great woman who had curated it.

I did not have to think hard to know who had inhabited this room, who had made it hers, left her mark so deeply on it that it had been shut away from me. I was allowed to try to change the rest of Manderley, but this room (the morning room, as I later learnt), was to be kept as it was.

The centrepiece of the room was the writing desk. A large, intimidating beast, it was not a pretty little toy to write letters in, or for the lady of the house to sit and pose at for photographs. I thought of the smaller desk in the library. That was for quick correspondence, I decided, but the house had been run from this desk. It was organised with methodical detail, a preciseness that takes training rather than comes to one naturally. Each pigeon-hole was labelled, filled with neat piles of envelopes, some opened – some not, menus, tickets, addresses written neatly on card. This was Rebecca’s life, written down and organised and left pristine until I had rifled through it.

I looked through each pile, becoming more and more acquainted with her handwriting, the slope of her letters, the elaborate way she crossed her t’s, the delicateness of her e’s and the decisive way she dotted her I’s. I could have spent hours examining her writing, shifting through the drawers of her desk. It felt thrillingly intimate, peering into her life in this way. I felt wrong, but I couldn’t help but continue my search.

After I had exhausted the drawers, my attention turned to the top of the writing desk. Beside the telephone and little vase of pens there a china statue of a cupid, a pretty, heavy thing. I picked it up in both hands and turned it over, admiring the soft paintwork and gold detailing. It was so unlike the rest of the room, it felt different in a way I couldn’t explain.

The telephone rang. I started, and the china cupid slipped from my hands, landing on the wooden floor with a thud and exploding into pieces. The noise was so loud I looked to the door in fright, expecting Frith or Frank to burst into the room. Nobody came, I continued to stare at the door. The telephone continued to ring, jolting me back into life. I dropped to my knees and frantically clutched at the pieces, scooping them into a pile on the floor. The china had burst spectacularly into jagged pieces, some large, some almost powder as I tried to pick them up.

When I grabbed the final piece it sliced my palm, the cut so deep blood immediately sprung from the wound. I registered the blood before I did the pain, but then it hit me, so sharp and overpowering I fell back, sitting on the floor and cradling my injured hand. I wrapped a handkerchief around it, remembering the telephone.

I caught it moments before it rang off. My hand trembled around the receiver. ‘Hello?’

‘Mrs de Winter?’ the voice was low and constrained. I couldn’t recognise it over the crackle and fuzz of the phone.

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘I’m terribly sorry, but Mrs de Winter has been dead for over a year.’ I put the receiver down and went back to inspecting my hand. It was a nasty cut, throbbing with pain. I had bleed practically through the handkerchief. I whimpered, fear pulsing through me when I realised I could need stitches. How could I explain to Maxim? How could I explain what I had done? Shamefully, I bundled up the pieces and put them at the back of the desk’s top drawer, covering them in Rebecca’s monogramed notepaper.

Rebecca. Rebecca was dead. I am Mrs de Winter. A clamped my good hand over my mouth, staring at the telephone in shock. The house telephone! I had answered Mrs Danvers’ calls from the library before, how could I have been so stupid? The telephone began to ring again.

Before I had chance to reply, Mrs Danvers spoke. ‘Madam, it’s Mrs Danvers. This is the house telephone.’ Her voice was raised, pointed and slightly amused. ‘I’m sorry to have startled you.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ I babbled, ‘I was… I was reading, I didn’t realise I was speaking on the house telephone… oh, how humiliating, I’m so dreadfully sorry.’

There was a short exhale of breath from the other end of the receiver, much like a laugh. It was not explicitly unkind, yet not exactly kind either.

‘Madam, I’m sorry I disturbed you. I need to speak with you at once, about Clarice.’

‘No, please don’t apologise,’ I said. I do enough of that for both of us. ‘Clarice? Is she better?’

‘I think it would be better if we were to speak in person, rather than over the phone. Are you busy? Have you finished your chapter?’

‘I…’ I looked down to my hand, my once white handkerchief, ‘no, Mrs Danvers, I’m not busy.’

‘Then I suggest we speak now. I’ll wait for you in your room.’ I heard a sharp click. She had replaced the receiver. I did the same.

She was expecting me now, I couldn’t keep her waiting. I peeled the stained handkerchief from my palm and shoved it into my trouser pocket, finding a replacement one. Unlike the napkins, my handkerchiefs were my own, with my own initials embroidered onto the corner in blue thread. I wrapped my palm in a new one, called Jasper away from the armchair and left the room.

As I climbed the staircase, I paused, looking towards the west wing. The other part of the house I had not dared to explore. The maids had let slip that the west wing had been Rebecca’s, whilst I was relegated to the east wing. I thought of the overpowering scent I had just escaped from. The scent I knew was haunting the west wing.

When I opened my bedroom door, Jasper at my heels, I hid my injured hand behind my back.

Mrs Danvers was standing by my dressing table, leaning slightly against my chair. She straightened when she saw me, her lips pursing. Her face was white, paled with leftover anger. 

‘Hello, Mrs Danvers,’ I said. My heart thudded. I wondered if she could see right through me, see my bleeding hand, and realise that I had done something. She looked at me for a moment. I felt my cheeks beginning to heat up.

‘Clarice is still ill,’ she said, her voice flat. ‘Her mother said she doesn’t expect her to be ready to work for quite some time.’

‘Oh.’ I felt a pang of sadness for Clarice. I liked her a lot, she was perhaps my only friend. I looked down and then back to Mrs Danvers. She was watching me. ‘Everyone’s been looking at me like that,’ I said suddenly. Her eyebrows raised.

‘Like what?’ she asked.

‘The way you’re looking at me now,’ I replied, blushing, ‘like you’re expecting me to react to something. But I don’t know what. Nobody tells me anything, least of all you.’

‘I didn’t think we had anything to say to each other,’ her voice was so cold that I gasped slightly. ‘Don’t take offense, Madam.’ She shrugged, ‘we haven’t known each other very long. I haven’t settled into your habits quite yet. A satisfactory working relationship takes time, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Then…’ the words caught in my thought. I thought of Rebecca, of her precise, organised writing desk. The stack of addresses she had written perfectly, ready for thank you notes. The telephone perfectly placed so she could continue writing as she spoke. She wouldn’t shy away from Mrs Danvers. She wouldn’t break a silly old statue and hide it. She would behave like the lady of Manderley. I am the lady of Manderley.

‘Then why do you hate me so?’ I said bravely. My chin jutted out. It was my turn to feel defiant. I felt the air leave my room. The windows were open, but suddenly I felt hot, swaying slightly on the spot. I hid my other hand behind my back, clutching at my injured one. I pressed the handkerchief against the cut. It was wet. I needed stitches. I needed to tell her. ‘Mrs Danvers, before-’

She pulled out the dressing table chair roughly, gesturing for me to sit.

‘You don’t look well, Madam,’ she said, her voice so harsh each word struck my heart. If I was alive with frightened heat, she was alight with cold anger. I had caught her out, questioned her strange prejudice against me. She bought me books one day, ignored me the next. The very notion of spending time with me drove her to defy Maxim. I couldn’t work her out, I couldn’t define my strange fascination with her.

I sat down in the chair, cradling my hand underneath the dressing table. She stared at me, my eyes meeting her’s in the mirror. As she reached for my hairbrush, her arm grazed my cheek. The sleeve of her blue suit was rough against my skin. I could feel the heat of her behind me, so alarmingly close in a way I didn’t mind.

‘I don’t hate you,’ she said, finally. She had gained control over her voice so masterfully that it was hard to believe she had been so angry moments earlier, ‘I’ve decided I will help you until Clarice returns.’ She said it as if I had asked a favour from her, rather than a task Maxim had asked of her, ‘I will also show you the run of Manderley. I can’t both run this house and braid your hair, Mrs de Winter.’ Again, there was that sharp exhale of breath. This was as close as she would get to a laugh.

She began to brush my hair, so gently that I closed my eyes, not entirely sure of what to do. Would I ruin it if I spoke to her?

‘Your hair is thicker than I thought,’ she said, putting the brush down, trading it for a comb. She worked her way through the small tangles in the ends of my hair, ‘the late Mrs de Winter… her hair was almost black. It shone in the light. It was thick too, thicker than yours.’ The way she said it, the almost dreamlike quality to her voice made my eyes snap open. Talking about Rebecca had drawn out a softness to her, one I found endlessly fascinating.

‘Did you do this for Rebecca?’ I asked, wishing to preserve this softness.

‘Oh, she refused to have a lady’s maid. “I don’t want anyone else but you, Danny”, she told me once… “only you”.’

Danny. I felt a pang of jealousy. Rebecca called her Danny. I hadn’t earnt that privilege yet, if I ever could. Rebecca had left her mark on the house, on Maxim, but on Mrs Danvers… I thought back to breakfast. If even Frank, gentle, good-natured Frank, noticed a change in Mrs Danvers after Rebecca’s death…

I tried to imagine what she was like before. Was she softer all the time? I wished desperately to ask her, but fearing upsetting her, I pushed the thought to the back of my mind. Rebecca's ghost remained elusive. 

‘I was thinking I’d cut mine,’ I said, ‘to my chin.’

‘You’d regret it, Madam,’ Mrs Danvers said. She got to work, twisting tendrils of hair from away from my face, starting from the crown of my head and working backwards. Unlike Clarice, her movements were deliberate, her fingers slow and careful as she arranged my hair into an elaborate updo. It was the prettiest my hair had ever looked.

I felt that strange chill again, and without meaning to, I found myself leaning into her touch, feeling a thrill at the way her fingers felt against my skin. As she arranged pearl hairpins, she tilted my head gently, her palm cool against my burning cheek. I met her eyes in the mirror. She knew it, she had seen how her touch affected me. Her lips quirked, her hand still against my skin. This was revenge, in some way – revenge for when I had touched her wrist.

I cleared my throat, ‘you’re going to teach me how to take care of Manderley?’

‘No, Madam. I take care of Manderley. I’m going to teach you how to run Manderley. I think it’s in both of our best interests for you to step up,’ her fingers pinched at me in a way that felt almost playful. ‘It would make Mr de Winter happy.’

‘Yes,’ I said flatly, ‘it would make him happy.’

She was watching me again, her green eyes deeply curious. She tucked stray pieces of my hair into place, before stepping back, her hands on the back of my chair. I wondered if she could feel my discontentment. Suddenly, I felt rather clear about it all. I cared more of what she thought of me than I did Maxim. It was such a strange thing, one I would never admit out loud, but as I watched her admire her work on my hair, I felt proud. I blushed again. I should not be thinking this way.

‘There,’ she said, her eyes dropping, assessing me before she met my gaze. She was taunting me, trying to see how far she could push me. A feeling of triumph bloomed in me. She had felt it too, she felt the same fascination with me as I did with her.

‘Mrs Lacey is due to arrive at three,’ Mrs Danvers continued, ‘what will you wear when she arrives?’ I said nothing. I looked down at my hand again. I had practically forgotten about Beatrice’s visit. I began to feel hot again, this time uncomfortably so. I got to my feet, stumbling out of my chair. She blocked my path, waiting for an answer.

‘I’m not sure,’ I said faintly, ‘perhaps my blue dress… the new one.’

‘That needs to be hemmed,’ Mrs Danvers replied. We were standing close together now, facing each other. My heart beat wildly and I found my eyes dropping to her lips, the sharpness of her cupid’s bow. Her lipstick was dark, the same red as her blouse. Why did she do this to me? Why did I notice all these details in her appearance? I’d always had an eye for detail, but never like this. ‘Perhaps the green one- Madam?’

She moved to support me, her hand underneath my elbow. I stumbled into her slightly, my head now spinning. Her nostrils flared. I felt sick, could she smell blood? 

‘Madam?’ she repeated, her voice raising, there was something frantic – guilty almost, in it. I swayed slightly. She spoke my first name then, the first time she ever had, the concern in her voice so evident that I truly believed she did not hate me.

‘Mrs Danvers…’ I held out my injured hand. She looked at me incredulously, her shock fading into rage.

‘You stupid- How could you not have said anything?!’ roughly, she grasped my hand, pulling the bloodied handkerchief from it. I whimpered, ‘how did you do this?!’

‘It was an accident,’ I protested, ‘you called me, and I didn’t want to keep you waiting-’ this only angered her further. Her fingers dug into my wrist.

‘You didn't want to keep me waiting? You should be maiding me,’ she scoffed. ‘Are you really so ridiculous?’ She was furious, her nails leaving angry marks in my skin. We were so close, too close, her breath hot on me, ‘are you really so petrified of us all that you can’t-’

‘It was an accident!’ I repeated, close to weeping.

‘If anything was to spoil today your husband-’ she almost spat the words, ‘would blame me! You’ve already caused enough problems!’

‘I didn’t ask for you to do this!’ I argued weakly, ‘it was his idea! Why do you hate him so much? I know you do - I can tell you hate him!’

'Do you know that he came looking for me this morning? He ranted at me in front of everyone, do you know that? He humiliated me - he ordered me to come up here, even though I told him it was a bad idea. You’ll never be her,’ Mrs Danvers hissed, ‘I've tried to accomodate you, I really have. You are nothing like her. I tried to be kind to you, but you- you inserted yourself into my life. I have to live with you in this house, but I will not-’

You’ll never be her. I closed the small distance between us, and before I could stop myself, second guess my actions and come to my senses, I kissed her. I kissed her and heard a muffled, soft oh of surprise under my lips and fearing I had offended her, I pulled away – but her hand was around my waist and pulling me to her body so I could do nothing but clutch and her and kiss her again, holding my hand awkwardly to not get blood on her. I kissed her in a way I had never kissed Maxim, my hand scrabbling up to clutch at her, the blue fabric of her suit almost scratchy under my hand, but the skin of her neck so soft it almost entranced me.

She broke the kiss. I looked at her lips – how her red lipstick had smudged and was bleeding pink into the little lines around her mouth. I felt a thrill when I realised it was smudged around my mouth too.

A noise from the hall broke the spell. She jumped away from me, her hand flying to her mouth.

‘I-’ I almost apologised. Rebecca would not have apologised.

‘Go down to the kitchen, they’ll help you,’ she said, ‘go before you lose any more blood.’

As I left, I looked over my shoulder at her one more time. Her expression was one of stunned disbelief.

Chapter Text

5

I did need stitches.

The Manderley kitchens were large, an entire world beyond the upstairs of the house. I stumbled down the stone steps and was hit with a whirl of activity, Maxim’s valet elegantly breezing past me holding his waistcoat, scullery maids did not look up from their work. I stood there stupidly for a moment, leaning against the white wall, holding my injured hand when one of the kitchen maids – Alice, finally noticed me. She took me to the sink and once she had washed my hand carefully, I saw that the cupid had cut me deeply and painfully, extending from the base of my little finger, across my palm and down to my wrist.

I sat silently by the kitchen worktable as she phoned for the doctor, my mind as far away from the dull pain and instead still upstairs. After leaving my room, I had wiped my face roughly, trying to rid myself of all traces of Mrs Danvers. I knew I couldn’t. Everything was so clear to me now, as if someone had cleaned a smudged mirror. I could finally see myself; I recognised the excitement and strange sense of nervousness I felt around her. Now it had a name, it terrified me. I looked down at the floor, willing it to swallow me up. I had never felt this for Maxim, I doubted I ever would.

‘No wonder it bled so badly!’ Alice gasped, looking at me with wide eyes. I shrugged, so disjointed from it all. ‘The doctor’s on his way, Mrs de Winter!’

‘What have you done, Mrs de Winter?’ Manderley’s cook – Mrs Rutherford approached me, gently taking my hand, ‘that’s a nasty one – how on earth did you manage that?’

The doctor arrived shortly after, and with him he brought the attention I’d been wishing to avoid. He walked calmly down the back staircase, but behind him with eyes wild with panic was Maxim. Guilt bloomed in my stomach.

‘What did you do? Are you hurt?’ he asked frantically, swatting Mrs Rutherford aside and looking at my hand. He pulled at me; his care too rough that it hurt. I flinched away from him, shielding my hand.

‘It was an accident,’ I said feebly, the same weak explanation I gave to the doctor. A crowd had gathered around us, Frank had followed Maxim and Alice was still standing over my shoulder, watching the doctor’s movements with fascination. The scullery maid stood by my side. I blinked rapidly, trying to catch my tears. The cupid would be detected soon, of course it would, then my childish lie would be revealed, and I’d have to explain everything – shyly and tearfully like a maid caught in a mistake.

‘Is there anywhere private?’ the doctor asked, a hint of irritation in his voice. Nobody moved away.

Suddenly, the kitchen maids jumped and went back to their work.

From the moment I saw her panic rose within me. Fearfully, I looked to Maxim, to Frank, expecting my guilt to have revealed itself, kicking and screaming out the truth. Mrs Danvers, however, stood as she always did. Hands clasped in front of her, her face so painfully neutral that I did begin to cry.

‘Oh darling,’ Maxim said, patting my shoulder, an act void of anything beyond casual and surface affection. He patted me the same way I would pat Jasper’s head. I cried harder.

‘I’m sorry, it’s just so painful,’ I lied. Mrs Danvers was watching me. Her eyes betrayed her face, a secret expression – just meant for me. Why? Why did you do that? Her gaze seemed to scream at me. We were both screaming at each other in our own silent language – I realised. We were screaming without translation, without mediation. Neither of us would get anywhere like this. I had to apologise, I had to fix this.

Would she tell Maxim? She still did not move. I tried to place myself in her shoes, grant myself access to her thoughts that she had withheld from me. No, no she would not tell Maxim. It would not serve her any purpose. A darker, thrilling thought tugged at me. She would not tell Maxim because she had kissed a woman like that before.

***

Stitched, bandaged, and still shaking with nerves, I left the kitchen with Maxim’s arm tightly around my waist. He had never kissed me like that. Hoping desperately that he mistook my guilt for pain, I let him lead me through Manderley’s corridors to meet Beatrice. He had barely spoken of her, or any of his family for that matter. Manderley had become disconnected in Rebecca’s absence, without her mistress, the house was empty – a ghost of what it had been. There were no parties now, no balls, no grand engagements in the newspapers. Nobody spoke of Manderley in awed tones. I was letting the house down. I could feel it, as if the very bricks rejected me.

I simply did not know how to run a house. Mrs Danvers had offered to teach me, of course, but did that offer still stand?

‘Beatrice arrived some time ago,’ Maxim said, his voice pointed, ‘but don’t worry, I told her about your accident.’

I felt like crying again. His grip on me felt suffocating. Here I was – the new wife, the new prize, ready to be paraded about in front of his family like a prize mare around the ring. I thought of how I would be described. Small, meek, blonde. Pretty in a sort of forgettable, uninspiring way, if I was lucky – or plain if I was not. Innocent.

Innocent.

Secrets are wonderful things – I learned then. I realised that despite my guilt, coiled beneath the shame and dread of detection, I felt excitement deep in my stomach. A powerful drug, that led me feeling guilty. I had kissed her. She kissed me back. If it wasn’t for the noise from the hall – would she have kissed me again? The thought was so thrilling I smiled.

We turned the corner into Manderley’s entrance hall, where Beatrice and her husband stood.

‘There you are!’ she called. She was an intimidating woman – in a different way to Mrs Danvers. She was tall, almost as tall as Maxim, sharing his broad shoulders and refined, handsome features. Her brown hair was cropped and styled in waves, and she wore a tweed jacket and brown trousers. Jasper was lying by her heels. I could imagine her with him, taking more interest in him than Rebecca ever had. She smiled at me, pulling me into a hug, patting my back firmly.

‘Oh dear,’ Beatrice said, as she pulled away and looked at my bandaged hand. ‘Maxim said you’d injured yourself. What did you do?’

‘I was clumsy,’ I said. She laughed. Not unkindly. I decided at once I liked her. She reminded me of Maxim, but in a more direct, unfiltered way. I could not imagine her having foul moods or tantrums. I pictured her as level-headed in a crisis, shaking her head in irritation every so often, but ultimately keeping her cool. She was the kind of woman I wanted to be.

Next, I was introduced to her husband Giles, who seemed so unlike her that at first I did not register him as her husband, until she made a sarcastic joke that both Giles and Maxim laughed at heartily. Not quite caught up with them, I laughed too – late enough that they noticed. The blunder was forgiven, and conversation moved on.

‘She’s a dreamer,’ Maxim said, ‘always has her head in the clouds.’

We retired to the library, and instantly my nerves dissipated. This place was mine. I sat down in my usual chair; my eyes drawn to the pile of paperbacks on the table beside it. Frith served tea.

‘Look at all those,’ Giles said, nodding at my pile of books.

‘I like to read,’ I said shyly. Beatrice got up from the sofa, inspecting the pile of books, sorting through them one by one, ‘nothing too intellectual though, I’m afraid…’

‘Rightly so,’ Beatrice replied, ‘if we wanted heaviness we’d close the book and look to real life. The papers are so dreadful these days, don’t you think? Fear mongering gossip fiends.’

I saw a muscle in Maxim’s jaw twitch.

‘Mrs Danvers got them for me,’ I said. Beatrice stopped looking through the books. She had an honest face – whilst Giles and Maxim had not reacted, I saw the subtle shock in her expression, turning into something like horror before it was gone again – and she was shifting through the books again, putting them back into the pile neatly. I had always found women easier to read than men – until Mrs Danvers.

‘How do you like Manderley?’ she asked steadily, taking her seat beside Giles. ‘I’m sorry we’ve only just come to visit, but we thought we’d let you enjoy your first few weeks together.’

‘A good idea,’ Maxim said.

‘Now now,’ Beatrice admonished.

Frank arrived slightly later, and to my relief the conversation turned away from me. I watched the four of them, studying their dynamics. Every so often, I glanced at the door, willing her to walk in. When Frith told us lunch was ready, she still did not come.

I was seated beside Beatrice at lunch – Bee as she told me to call her. Whilst the men talked amongst themselves, she told me of her own home, of her horses, of a story about Giles and a tricky paving stone that made me laugh. I laughed properly, perhaps the first time I had laughed this way since coming to Manderley. I spluttered, hiding behind my napkin. I could feel myself turning red, which only made me laugh harder.

‘You know, you’re not at all what I expected,’ she said, when dessert was brought out.

‘Oh?’

‘No, no, my dear – take that as a compliment. I don’t think I’ve seen Maxim that happy for almost a year now. He looks healthier – like himself. You’re good for him, and I like you,’ she grinned, ‘I can’t help but meddle in my brother’s affairs, and I had the idea that if I thought you a wrong fit – I would tell you so. I can be frightfully honest when I want to be and being honest now – I think perhaps you could be perfect for my brother.’

Perfect for Maxim.

I thought about how Mrs Danvers’ lips had felt against mine and how desperately I wanted that again.

‘You really think so?’ I asked.

‘Oh, I know it. I’m never wrong,’ Bee replied. She clapped her hands when she looked at the dessert plates, ‘oh, how wonderful!’

‘You can’t beat Manderley’s desserts,’ Giles said, talking with his mouth full. Bee scowled at him. ‘I’ve always said that. New cook, Max?’

‘I think so,’ Maxim shrugged, ‘that’s Mrs Danvers’ domain.’

My heart jolted at the mention of her.

‘Good old Mrs Danvers,’ Giles continued. ‘You really can’t beat her.’

Maxim said nothing. Bee was watching me again. I looked at my plate, willing Giles to stop talking. I was saved by Jasper, bounding into the dining room with such force his feet seemed to slide from underneath him. He narrowly avoided barrelling into the table. Bee jumped.

‘Careful!’ she cried. The table had been set beautifully, with meticulous precision that meant it could only have been supervised by one person. My first family lunch since arriving went well, I thought. Alive with voices, the dining room had changed from somewhere cold that I avoided. I felt disappointed when lunch was over, afraid that Bee and Giles would leave, and I would be stuck with my thoughts again. Bee had provided a welcome distraction.

‘Shall we go for a walk?’ Giles suggested. He began to talk about golf – a subject I knew nothing about. However, it was a subject other than Mrs Danvers, so I welcomed it – letting him explain the game to me, instantly forgetting every rule he told me in fastidious detail. As I got up from the table, I hit it with my hip, spilling a glass of wine.

Bee laughed, ‘you really are clumsy!’

‘No, I’m tired,’ Maxim said. He looked drawn, clearly irritated by the noise of his relatives. I deflated slightly. I wished he would not do this – turn into himself at the notion of company. He was staring at the wine glass on the white tablecloth. It spread like blood, saturating the cloth. My injured hand itched.

I should have been more careful.

‘You’re a bore,’ Bee said, ‘come on, dear. I’ll walk with you.’

She linked her arm gently through mine, mindful of my bandaged hand.

****

‘There is something I would like to ask you,’ she said, as she walked me through Manderley’s smooth, green lawns. We crossed over into the flower gardens. The rhododendrons towered above us, like soldiers. Through their leaves, I could see hints of Manderley, as if the house was spying on us.

‘Of course,’ I replied.

‘Are you happy here?’

The question surprised me. I looked at her, blinking nervously. She smiled grimly.

‘Yes, that was a rather difficult question to ask,’ Bee said, ‘but one I felt I had to ask. You see, my brother is not an easy person to live with. He has an awful temper when he wants to… not that I can imagine you would ever do anything to upset him.’

I shrugged. We walked around the perimeter of the walled flower gardens. Finding a bench, we sat down, our arms still linked. I felt if I lost her touch, I would cry. She had shown me the most comfort of anyone here, her friendliness open and without agenda, or secret. Open care proved too much for me. Her faith in me made the guilty feeling in my stomach grow larger. I had done something that would upset him greatly, especially if he knew how much it thrilled me.

‘I think I am,’ I said, ‘it’s beautiful, and I…’ love Maxim. The words caught in my throat. I thought of the girl I was, a few short weeks ago in Monte Carlo. I had been just as alone then as I was now. It was easier to confuse infatuation for love when lonely in a bright place such as that, but in the cool Cornwall air, my loneliness had changed, warping into something new. I cared for him. I liked him. I wished he was happier. I did not love him. ‘I like it here.’

‘Manderley is beautiful,’ she agreed, she crossed her legs, one over the other. I mirrored her and she laughed. ‘I think you should cut your hair.’ She sat straight and tucked my long hair up. Bee squinted, ‘no… no actually. No that’s not it. Perhaps a different colour frock. Has Max taken you shopping? You could have a weekend away in London. It’s nice to get away.’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘He went to London alone for a while, but we haven’t had a chance to go shopping yet.’

Bee made a small, surprised noise, but said nothing else, instead gazing up at the house. I studied her face. She was beautiful in a masculine way, from her face to her clothes. It suited her well. She was not someone I could imagine in a dress and fur coat. She was at home in the countryside, gun slung over her shoulder, more content with the stables then a lively court of people.

‘Mrs Danvers must like you, to buy those books for you,’ Bee said suddenly, still gazing up at the house. Following her eyes, I realised she was looking at the west wing. I had not been brave enough to explore Rebecca’s rooms yet. I wondered if I ever would.

‘I don’t think she paid for them herself,’ I said, stalling my true answer, ‘but yes, it was kind. I didn’t expect it from her.’

‘Has she been unkind to you?’

‘No, no, not at all,’ I said quickly, startled by Bee’s pointed tone. Her brow was furrowed, and when she looked back to me her brown eyes were full of concern. ‘She… she is rather scary, but I think I need to know her better. I haven’t met anyone like her before.’

At that, Bee laughed.

‘No, I don’t suppose you have,’ she replied, ‘well, I haven’t had much to do with her for a long time. Just don’t have more to do with her than you have to.’

What an odd thing to say! I sat silently for a while, knowing I was not being told the full story. Desperate for any insight into Mrs Danvers, I pressed on.

‘She offered to teach me how to run the house,’ I said. Bee’s eyebrows shot up.

‘Now that does surprise me.’

‘Why? If… If I can ask?’

Bee shrugged, ‘of course you can ask, I have no loyalty to that woman.’ She laughed in a mirthless way that suggested past hurt to me. Nervously, I chewed my bottom lip. ‘I was expecting her to be ghastly to you. Of course, she’s jealous of you, insanely jealous – I imagine.’

‘Jealous? Why would she be jealous of me?’ I asked. ‘Maxim doesn’t like her – and she can’t stand him. I can tell.’

Bee shook her head, ‘no, darling - she tolerates Maxim because she has to. No, dear. She can’t tolerate you because… she simply adored Rebecca.’

I looked at the ground. Rebecca. She had kissed Rebecca that way.

****

It all made painful sense now.

I walked back to the house with Bee, conversation now turned to a holiday I would take with her. She promised to show me London, introduce me to her friends and take me on the shopping trip that Maxim had deprived me of. As the day went on, I only liked her more and more. I hoped she realised that I would rather take the trip with her than Maxim.

Maxim, Giles and Frank were still in the library, Giles’ laughter loud and brash enough to be heard down the hall. Bee tutted. I wondered why she married him. There didn’t seem to be much love between them. I busied myself with thinking about Bee and Giles to ignore the sick feeling in my stomach.

When it was time for them to leave, I stood beside Maxim – waving them off with a smile. Bee left Manderley blissfully unaware of the fire she ignited in me.  Mrs Danvers had kissed Rebecca. Mrs Danvers had… adored Rebecca.

What a charming couple we looked – me and Maxim – standing by the doorway, Jasper at our feet.

She adored Rebecca.

For the first time in my life I felt a sense of purpose. Rebecca was gone, I was not. Mrs Danvers would be up to take the pins from my hair and help me to bed. I thought of my original plan, to grovel, to apologise. Rebecca would never apologise.

She kissed me. She kissed me back.

‘I think I’m going to go to bed early,’ I said to Maxim. He nodded, giving me a sullen smile. He had not yet recovered from Bee’s visit, and as much as I want to comfort him, I felt as if my mind had been co-opted, taken out of my control and placed in the hands of a more confident woman. I could play the façade of the Mistress of Manderley. I could manage another façade.

As I climbed the stairs, I saw that my bedroom door was open. Another thrill ran through me. She was here. She was waiting for me.

*****

I stepped into my bedroom. She was by my dressing table, her back to me. I made no noise. I would not apologise to her.

It was a duel. I had walked into a duel. One of us would make a move, leaving the other fatally wounded. Whether she or I would shoot first, I did not know – but I closed my bedroom door, my back against it. My heart raced. The click of the door handle alerted her to my presence. She said nothing, only stared at me with that same secret honesty. I had started this; I had kissed her. Her move.

‘Mrs Danvers,’ I said.

‘Madam,’ she replied.

I did not move. I watched her, standing by my dressing table. I watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the stillness of her fingers as she straightened my hairbrushes, feigning indifference. Not once did she take her eyes off me. Curiosity had fuelled us – all of our interactions. It had been acts of me prodding her, poking at the weaknesses in her armour, searching for a way in, seeking to expose her soft underbelly. I had not meant to at first, but soon it became deliberate.

Reaching to lock the door was a deliberate action. I let my shaking hand rest against the lock. Her eyebrow quirked.

‘I told Maxim I was going to bed early,’ I said. She raised an eyebrow.

‘Are you tired?’ she asked. I shook my head.

I said nothing. I did not dare. Her gaze on me was hypnotic.

‘I’m not sorry,’ I said finally.

‘What do you have to be sorry for?’ Mrs Danvers asked. I blinked at her. She was toying with me again; I was a happy participant in a game I didn’t know how to play. She wanted me to say it. I said nothing, hoping the gentle part of my lips was enough. It was a gesture she noted, her smile smug.

‘I am Mrs de Winter now,’ my voice was louder, with sureness that was not my own. Her smile widened.

‘Sometimes, Madam, I don’t think you know what’s good for you,’ she said. She walked towards me slowly, her gaze fixed and heavy lidded. We were a foot apart now, and she reached to place her hand on my chest – directly over my thumping heart. She laughed; a laugh less restrained than I had heard before. Her hand travelled from my chest, her fingers resting on my throat.  She tilted my jaw upwards.

The look in her eye was unmistakable. Victory.

With her other hand, she locked the door. I could feel her breath, hot against my lips. She did not kiss me.

‘Mrs Danvers…’ I murmured.

‘Danny,’ she corrected, and then her mouth was on mine.

Chapter Text

6

And so began a strange transitional period of my time at Manderley. The next morning, I sat at the breakfast table, the feeling of her branded onto my skin beneath my dress. I could still feel her body pressed against mine, hear the low laugh she made when her fingertips trailed up my inner thighs. You’re full of surprises, she murmured, and then she spoke my first name and touched me in a way that Maxim had never bothered to, until I was clinging to her, and her hand was clamped over my mouth to silence me.

I leant my elbows on the dining table. Maxim had not looked up from his paper. I stirred a cube of sugar into my tea, the edge of my spoon clinking against the china cup.

Nobody had ever made me feel the way she did. I thought back to the way I collapsed into her, my parted legs trembling wildly - barely unable to catch my breath before she kissed me again, her kisses slow and lazy against my lips, my neck, my chest. I thought of the way she tasted her fingers. I thought of how strands of her hair fell loose against my unbuttoned shirt, how I twisted tendrils around my fingers, marvelling at how soft, how giving she was. Darling, I thought I heard her murmur, so quietly against my skin it was barely audible. Her eyes were closed. Darling.

‘Darling!’ Maxim’s voice was sharp. I stopped stirring. My tea continued to swirl like a whirlpool. ‘did you hear me?’

I rested my chin in my hands, turning to him with a smile.

‘Sorry,’ I said.

‘I was asking you about yesterday,’ he said, semi-nervously. He reached for his napkin and rolled it in his hand, ‘did you like Beatrice?’

‘Yes. She was kind,’ I looked down at my plate, ‘I was awfully nervous, I didn’t want to disappoint her.’

He latched onto this, swatting the napkin away, ‘why would you disappoint her?’

‘No, not disappoint her,’ I said slowly, ‘but I wasn’t what she expected… and I’ve heard that a lot recently. It’s hard to tell if I’m a shock or a surprise.’ I laughed, he did not. He was still mulling my words over, his lips pressed tightly together. Sometimes, I felt as if I walked right into his traps, saying things he could disagree with as easily as breathing. I went back to my tea, sipping it carefully.

Stay. He sleeps in a separate room. Danny had taken her hair down by then, stretching her neck and rolling her shoulders with a pleased little sigh. Despite her smudged lipstick and a satisfied glint in her eye, she looked frustratingly put together. Danny… The name felt strange against my lips, too familiar, not meant for me. She looked at me then, and I imagined how I must have looked to her, too spent to raise my head from the pillow, flushed and ruined by her. I imagined how intoxicating that must feel, and my imaginings were confirmed when she smirked, caressing my cheek. Not tonight, she said, kissing me one more time, and then she was gone.

That morning, I had not seen her, and going into the dining room for breakfast with Maxim felt so painfully natural that I wondered if I had dreamed the night before. I looked up from my tea and back to him. He had not recovered from yesterday’s headache, which I guessed was code for visit from Beatrice. In fact, he looked rather drawn, pale… tired. It confused me that a brief, friendly visit from family could be so draining. Despite the odd blunder, the visit had been successful.

Shock. I thought of the pleasurable sting of Danny’s teeth against my neck. Shock… not surprise, I think I would shock them.

‘Don’t pay any attention to her,’ Maxim said crossly, ‘my sister can be a fool.’

I smiled at him again, feeling the first stab of guilt. I was very guilty in those days. Guilty of my occupation of the house. Guilty of my actions, guilty of my badly timed words. Guilty of the fact that whilst I still felt affection towards Maxim, I did not love him. I wondered if all married people felt this way, when the first excitement of love wore away. Maybe affection would be enough. It made me feel uneasy. More than anything, I supposed, I wanted to be loved. With Rebecca’s ghost and Manderley between us, I doubted Maxim and I could have ever loved each other freely, if we ever did at all away from the Monte Carlo sun.

To my relief– the dining room doors opened, and Frank bumbled in, Jasper at his heels. Maxim broke into a small, unconvincing smile. They took their usual places, Frank beside Maxim, and Jasper beside me. I sneaked Jasper small pieces of toast once Maxim and Frank were fully engrossed in their conversation.

‘We should really do something about the cottage,’ Frank said quietly. At the mention of it, Maxim stiffened.

‘No,’ he said, ‘no. Nothing yet.’

‘What’s the cottage?’ I asked. The farmland surrounding Manderley was littered with small cottages, that all made up the estate. I was used to Frank discussing some matter about rent, but I had never seen Maxim react so strongly and violently to a normal request. His face had gone white, and he looked at me with wide eyes, before he shook his head.

‘Nothing,’ he replied, ‘an old fisherman’s cottage by the bay. The path down is corroded. It’s dangerous.’ From his tone, I knew the matter was final. I went back to my breakfast. Maxim and Frank’s conversation droned on, and again I slipped away. I traced the skin of my neck with my thumb, remembering Danny’s kisses.

‘If you’re that concerned we’ll go down this afternoon,’ Maxim snapped, ‘I don’t care if the sea washes it away.’

Frank said nothing. He shrugged in his usual, gentle-natured way and looked down to the floor, clicking his fingers at Jasper, who dutifully trotted over to him. Suddenly, I felt a pang of resentment. Jasper and I were painfully alike, running along after Maxim or Frank when called.

‘I’m going to paint today,’ I announced, to neither of them in particular. Both men looked up.

‘You paint, Mrs de Winter?’ Frank asked. He never spoke my first name, despite the fact I called him Frank. I only called him Frank as Maxim did, which I supposed summed up the extent of our relationship. I liked Frank, I liked his gentle nature and his kind eyes – but I knew he was Maxim's ally more than mine. He took interest in me because I was Maxim’s wife, nothing more.

‘Sketch, mainly… But I’d like to paint. I might paint in the gardens,’ I replied. My mind had gone somewhere else. The way Maxim talked about the cottage was deeply intriguing. Perhaps I would walk down to the beach to see it for myself.

‘Yes,’ Maxim said, picking up his paper again, ‘my wife will show you her little sketches someday. She won’t show me.’

I blushed a furious red.

*

I excused myself from the dining room shortly after that. He made me feel like a child, so artfully and so swiftly. Jasper’s got a little bone. Jasper’s playing a little game. My wife has a little sketchbook. As I stormed across the hall, unable to contain my frustration, I heard a maid giggling away at me in another room. My shoes clicked against the black and white tiled floor.

The library was my sanctuary, away from them all. I settled in my chair and reached for my sketchbook. Danny’s earlier offer, to teach me how to run the house entered my mind. Perhaps that was what I needed. I needed to make Manderley my own, lift Maxim out of this strange depression he had settled into, erase Rebecca’s influence from this place. It would be hard, I knew it. She was in the very walls of this house, at the forefront of everybody’s minds. The maids giggled at me because I could never be her. I was like a tourist, allowed into Manderley’s hall with the rest of the county. Oh, how nice, I still tittered nervously at a portrait if I was drawn into a conversation with Frith, unable to think of anything else to say. He was good natured about it, and humoured me of course, but there were only so many portraits.

I opened my sketchbook. I had been working on a drawing of Danny before she even kissed me. It was a most frustrating piece, whatever line I placed down never seemed to be right, and then would stubbornly refuse to erase. I had sketched out her features, her sharp cheeks, her aquiline nose, but beyond that… I sighed and erased another line. I was making progress, and I had four failed attempts on previous pages to show for it. Maxim had asked to see my sketches several times, but each time I would shake my head, shutting my sketchbook and holding it close to my chest as if he was about to snatch it.

The house telephone rang. I rushed to pick it up, forgetting my injured hand. I winced.

‘Good morning, Madam,’ Mrs Danvers said, her voice cool and polite. My heart lurched and furtively I looked over to the closed library door. Frith would often say good morning after breakfast.

‘Hello,’ I murmured. At the quietness breathlessness of my voice, she let out a sharp exhale of laughter. ‘Hello Danny.’ She laughed again. I blushed.

‘I wanted to let you know that I will be slightly late to style your hair. I have something I need to see to,’ she said. She paused before continuing, ‘you’re much calmer than our last telephone conversation. How's your book?’ I could picture her, smirking to herself.

‘I was expecting you this time,’ I replied. I pictured her smirk growing wider. ‘Of course. Please don’t hurry for me.’

*

I sat in my chair, struggling away with my sketching for a little while longer before going upstairs. I skirted around the west wing, my eyes lingering on the door to Rebecca’s bedroom, and made my way to my own.

‘Mrs Danvers?’ I called, stepping into the room. The curtains were still drawn. My bed had been made and staring at it, I felt a slight pang of desire in my stomach. The feeling shocked me. It was new, which embarassed me slightly. My childhood had been made up of weak crushes I soon lost interest in, and then Maxim. Maxim. Had I ever truly desired him? Thinking about it made me prickle with discomfort.

I sat down at my dressing table. Perhaps I expected a transformation. I taken a lover - a female lover - behind my husband's back, and I looked disturbingly pleased about it. I sighed. How could Danny face me? I could not face her. I was glad she didn’t come into the dining room. If I had seen her, I imagined being unable to hold my tongue, filled with the unstoppable desire to shout out our secret to Maxim, as inappropriate as a laugh at a funeral.

Instead, I would see her alone, in the same room where I had come undone in her arms, my husband completely forgotten. In the gloom of the bedroom, I felt guilt begin settle over me, and I hurried to the curtains to let in some light. I tugged at them, the heavy blue velvet slippery in my hands.

‘Be careful.’

‘Mrs Danvers- Danny,’ I breathed, spinning around. She stood by my side, entering the room as quietly as a ghost. I felt myself blushing. She held my elbow gently. I faltered, my eyes trailing down to her lips. It was a conflicting feeling, guilt and desire. I knew precisely what was making me feel so strange, but I would never give it up.

‘Your hand, Madam,’ she said, ‘be careful of your hand.’ Before she could open the curtains, I caught her wrist. I took a moment to survey her - her stern, severe, beautiful face, the way her dark hair still shone in the half light. I smiled. She raised an eyebrow at me.

I hesitated before I kissed her, my kiss gentle and slightly nervous as if I expected her to pull away.

‘Don’t tell me you’re shy now, Madam,’ Danny murmured. She pressed her body against mine and weaved her fingers into my hair. The velvet curtains were soft against my back, and I felt a thrill at the idea they were all that stood between us and the mirror. She kissed me deeply, leaving me breathless.

 ‘Now sit. We have much to talk about.’ She said after she pulled away from me, wiping her lipstick from my mouth with her thumb.

As commanded, I sat at my dressing table, feeling slightly dazed. I thought of the first time we had been here, me – paralysed with fear and dripping blood onto my dress, and her – buzzing with barely contained rage. How incredible it was, that things had changed this much. I ran my fingers along my bandaged hand.  

The pain had settled to a dull throb, reminding me of my secret, tucked away into the back of Rebecca’s writing desk. I flexed my fingers. Perhaps I had gotten away with it. I looked up as Danny began to brush my hair, smoothing it into place.

‘I heard that some lady’s maids sleep next door to their mistress,’ I said. Danny’s hands slowed.

‘Sometimes,’ she replied, ‘if the lady requires her often…’ she set down the brush and placed her hands on my shoulders, her thumbs drawings soft circles, ‘do you require me often?’ I met her eyes in the mirror, my cheeks flushing red. Her left hand caressed my neck and I leaned into her touch, my lips parting. I jumped harshly when suddenly she pinched me, ‘you’re getting ahead of yourself, Madam.’

‘I suppose so,’ I said, my shoulders sagging. It was unfair of me to expect romance from her. The unsettled feeling within me was growing.

Suddenly, an air of awkwardness settled over us. She said nothing, every so often looking at me as if waiting for me to speak. What could we say? If I spoke candidly, I would tell her that now I could not imagine letting Maxim touch me again. But I would also voice my insecurities that I wished to bury deep. Rebecca. I looked down at my hand again. There she was, Rebecca, unable to let me have anything. 

As I looked in the mirror, I saw two faces.

I saw my own face, thin, pale, surrounded by lank blonde hair that could pass for golden after Danny’s work, but hanging loose it was neither blonde or brown, plain and completely uninspiring. I saw my small shoulders, my fingernails bitten and ugly. Then, I saw her. I saw Rebecca, with her head of black curls, running down her back. I saw her bright eyes, her full red lips. I saw Danny behind her, brushing her hair and laughing wildly – not the restrained laugh she used with me, but a laugh of pure happiness. I saw her apply the finishing touches to Rebecca’s hair, and then lean over and press a kiss to her lover’s forehead, so soft – so delicate – an image so gentle and so utterly repulsive to me that I felt sick with jealousy.

I looked to Danny now, brushing my hair, her eyebrow quirking in irritation when one curl wouldn’t stay – no matter what she did to it. I bit down on my lower lip. Had last night been a moment of pure madness for the both of us? Me – trapped in a marriage with Maxim that I had not thought through – and Danny – longing, yearning for another that I could never be. Was that all we were – two lonely people – searching for a way out of our loneliness that did not exist?

You’ll never be her. Her own words came back to me, and my heart thundered wildly. 

‘After I’ve finished your hair,’ Danny said, ‘I need to talk to you about the menu for when the bishop and his wife visit.’

‘The bishop?’ I asked faintly.

‘Yes. He’s coming for dinner with his family later this week,’ Danny continued, ‘I told you Madam,’ she stroked my cheek, ‘I’m going to teach you how to run the house. I don’t have a lot of confidence in your abilities quite yet, but I think you can handle preparations for a small dinner party.’

I nodded. ‘Yes, yes I can.’

Darling, she’d murmured, so earnestly, so lovingly that I had thought I was dreaming. That night was the first time I had been me, not Mrs de Winter, not Madam. I was not Maxim’s wife in those moments, I belonged to her. It had awoken something in me, a fire that I knew if not nurtured would burn me. Each time she called me Madam felt like a pin sticking deep.

‘Please don’t call me that,’ I said.

Her eyebrows raised. ‘Then what shall I call you?’

I met her eyes in the mirror, ‘by my first name.’

‘That isn’t appropriate,’ she replied instantly, so instantly that I felt slightly hurt.

‘Then… Mrs de Winter. If you have to call me something appropriate call me Mrs de Winter.’ She had never called me Mrs de Winter. They all did, but not Danny. I wondered why-

Her eyes had been closed. Darling, she’d called me – with her eyes closed. The thought hit me, and my heart clenched, the memory turned into something so vicious that I swayed forward, the exhilarating memory of last night suddenly tainted. She said nothing. I got up from my chair, pushing past her.

‘What is it?’ Danny asked. 

‘Did you love Rebecca?’ I asked. I sat down on the bed, clutching at the sheets. I felt like crying. Danny stared at me, bewildered. I stared right back at her, praying for her to say something, say anything – but she was silent. Her hands fell to her sides.

‘Madam,’ she said – a warning. I could tell from her tone, the way her eyes darkened slightly. I could see it happening in front of me, that cool, stone-like mask returning, shutting me out and away from her. Rebecca. Why did I bring up Rebecca - now of all times?

‘Mrs de Winter,’ I corrected. Her lips tightened.

‘It’s difficult for me…’ I began. She closed her eyes with a silent sigh, ‘I feel second best in this house. I feel Rebecca. I feel Rebecca constantly, she’s always here… With Maxim and Frank and Frith... with all of them. I feel them compare me to Rebecca. But you - before last night I felt like you never did. I thought you made a point to remind me how much I wasn't like Rebecca... But now... I can't get the thought of her out of my head.’  Her silence made me feel sick. ‘Did you pretend I was her?’

Her eyes snapped open then and she stared at me in horror.

‘Of course I didn’t!’ Danny retorted; her voice so full of disgust that I believed her. I got up from the bed, pacing back towards the window, the dressing table. Her eyes didn’t leave me once. I could feel her gaze, hot and wary on my back.

She didn’t react as I walked to her, tenderly reaching for her hand. An action so similar to the one that had started this whole mess, but now the power was hers. I did not feel any thrill in the way I felt her pulse jump beneath my fingers. It filled me with an odd sense of hopelessness. 

‘Perhaps I made a mistake,’ she said finally, her chin jutting out with defiance. ‘When you’re ready to discuss the menus, Madam, I’ll be downstairs.’

She wrenched her hand free and left me feeling bitterly regretful, with the strange sense that someone, somewhere - was laughing at me.

Chapter Text

She left me frozen, standing in my bedroom alone and straining to listen to the distant sound of her footsteps, fading away into nothing. I sunk back into my chair, unable to stare at my face in the dressing table mirror. I had ruined it. I had ruined everything.

My memory of Manderley is often hazy, being so long ago now, but in my dreams I never forget the way I cried – hot, angry, bitter tears that flooded down my face with no reprieve. I did not care if anyone heard me, unlike the first nervous nights I had wept into my pillow, homesick for a past home that never existed. Anyone could have walked in for all I cared; in that moment I was filled with such a corrosive hopelessness that it didn’t matter.

For a brief moment, I had felt something beyond affection. I felt desire, I felt feelings I had expected to feel with Maxim. I knew now that her touch had changed me, and that I would never be satisfied with him again. How could she leave me now, after unlocking something in my heart that had been dormant for many years? How could I have pushed her away, needling at her with the mentions of Rebecca, accusing her of all sorts? I needed to apologise, but despite my desperation I knew an attempt to fix this so soon would simply make it worse. She had shut me out, after trusting me so completely.

That thought made me cry harder, and in a moment of hysteria, I tore the bandage from my hand, staring down at the jagged cut as if it was some sort of black spot, a curse upon me to make me act so foolishly and so naively. I yanked the pins from my hair and let it fall down onto my shoulders, the curls Danny had crafted so effortlessly bending out of shape and sticking away from my cheeks in odd angles. I could no longer see that second face in the mirror, the face of a confident, strong woman – but only my own, blotchy red, my eyes already beginning to puff up.

When I had exhausted myself, I wiped my eyes and nose in an unladylike manner, with the back of my hand, the way I had always done until Mrs Van Hopper caught me, slapping my hands away from my face with a scowl. I could not sit around in the house in this state. A housemaid seeing me so upset did not bother me, as I knew they would simply report my distress to Danny. But Frith, Frith was Maxim’s man and would be bound to say something. Even worse, if I was to happen upon Frank, or Maxim himself. How could I explain it?

I would complete my original plan for today, I would go into the gardens and sketch. Not Danny, no – but I’d sketch the gardens, and perhaps I would venture beyond to the coast, and paint the sea. Landscapes were not my specialty, and the difficulty would distract my troubled mind. Another idea came to me. The cottage on the beach. I wasn’t sure exactly of where it was, but it would not hurt to venture down. I felt a rather childish glee cutting through my sadness. It would be a treasure hunt, searching for a lost cottage. I would take Jasper too.

With a hint of fear, I snuck downstairs, my breath still escaping my lips in ragged jolts, betraying that I had been crying. With luck, I found that the main hall was empty, and I hurried into the library, grabbing my sketchbook and a small set of watercolours. Jasper was waiting for me on my armchair.

‘Come on Jasper!’ I tickled his ears and he looked up at me, ‘let’s go on an adventure.’

The phone rang. I stared at it as if it had shot me. It rang relentlessly, refusing to ring off, and with great trepidation I picked it up.

‘Hello,’ I whispered.

‘Hello? Hello, my dear, I could barely hear you!’ Bee exclaimed, ‘are you alright?’

At that question, I let out a sniffle, knowing that not only would she notice, but that she would not drop it.

‘You mustn’t worry about Maxim’s moods,’ she said gently, ‘he sulks but there’s never anything much more to it.’ I tried briefly to explain that it wasn’t Maxim that unsettled me, but I caught myself. ‘He can have a frightful temper, but once he blows over that’s the matter done. I can’t imagine you doing anything to upset him anyway.’

‘I imagine not,’ I said weakly, knowing this was far from the case.

‘Now, tell me about your day. I suppose we must get those dreadful social niceties out of the way first,’ Bee yawned slightly down the phone. I heard a rustle, and imagined her reclining back into her sofa, her tweed jacket crinkling against the chair.

‘I’m going to go into the garden and paint,’ I replied, ‘I might go onto the beach too. I’m not sure yet, I need something to occupy my mind.’

‘Yes, yes, - of course. I was phoning you because I’m going to London in a fortnight’s time. I thought about our conversation yesterday and I want to invite you along,’ Bee said, ‘perhaps before then you could come and have tea. Meet Granny.’

The idea of meeting another relative filled me with fright, but the idea of spending time alone with Bee was so welcome that very excitedly I replied that I would love to. Our walk in the garden had been the first time since Clarice that I felt like I had an ally – other than Jasper. I couldn’t exactly talk to Jasper about Danny… could I confide in Beatrice? I thought of Bee. She was honest, blunt, but perhaps she could stomach an altered version of events.

She said goodbye and sounded rather pleased that I had accepted her offer.

I collected my art materials together in a small bag and left the library, shutting the door behind me once Jasper had trotted out. It was a sullen, slightly overcast day, beaming grey light into the hall.

‘Madam.’

Her voice made my heart lurch. I stopped, turning away from the front doors. Danny stood at the base of the stairs; her hands clasped together. I looked at her face, stoic, unreadable. She had reapplied her lipstick. Her eyes settled on my face, and I knew she could see the puffiness of my eyes, how my skin was mottled and blotchy.  

‘It’s cold. If you’re going out to paint, take a raincoat,’ she said, ‘there’s plenty spare in the flower room. I’ll have Robert fetch one for you.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. Her jaw tightened and she looked away from me hastily. I refused to let my lower lip quiver. Something about our differences made anger settle over me. Here I was, my hair a mess, ripped from its pins – desperately searching for a way to escape the mess we made – and her, so perfectly put together, her suit uncreased despite how I had clutched at it earlier. It was difficult to imagine that I had felt her kisses again, that she had been there and pressed against me, her touch warm and soft.

‘Thank you, Mrs Danvers.’ The use of her full name felt falling backwards, and I saw that a muscle in her jaw twitch. When she looked back at me then, I looked away – instead focusing on Robert as he passed me a white mackintosh. It was too long for me and slightly too narrow in the shoulder. I put it on anyway.

‘Madam-’

‘What is it, Mrs Danvers?’ I cut her off, like a petulant child. She had stepped forward, off the base of the stairs, with one arm outstretched. ‘There isn’t much light today. I’d like to get outside.’

Robert looked between us both curiously, before taking his leave.

Her open hand clenched and fell back to her side. Her eyes hardened.

‘Nothing, Madam.’ There was a bite to her voice this time, one that made my heart ache. Not looking back at her as I left made the ache grow.

First I headed out into the walled garden, retracing my steps from my walk with Bee. I missed having a companion by my side, but Jasper made up for it, bounding along and spinning in circles so quickly he would fall over. I laughed, loud enough that the gardener heard me, and raised his hand in a wave. The overcast day had left a haze over the flowers, dulling the vibrancy of the red rhododendrons that I found so intimidating. I paused, turning my head this way and that, searching for the perfect view to paint. The walled garden was beautiful, but too structured, too well formed for my artistic skills. I could see it now; I would draw the walls sloping in the completely wrong direction.

Instead, I walked on – through the gap in the wall and out onto the grass. Beyond the lawns was a steep drop into the woods. I had never explored the woods, so made sure to tread carefully with Jasper as my guide. He bounded through the trees, weaving on ahead and as I shuffled over broken twigs and slippery leaves from last autumn, praying desperately I didn’t fall over. The base of the white mackintosh was surely trailing in the mud now. These woods were dark and slightly depressing. I felt like red riding hood, travelling through a place full of secret dangers – one of which presented itself when I almost stood into a rabbit hole.

I held onto the thin birch trees for stability, wishing I had not torn the bandages from my hand. I wondered if Mrs Danvers would go back up to my room and find the mess I had left – pins scattered everywhere, the old bandage tossed onto my dressing table. For a moment I felt guilty, wishing I had tidied up. I pictured her, opening the door, seeing the mess and ignoring it out of spite, remembering how cruel I had been on the stairs. How strange and how upsetting it was, that for one night she had been Danny and I had been me, everything and everyone else forgotten. I wasn’t Madam, I was hers – and I wanted that again so desperately that tears sprung to my eyes again. I stood in the dark woods beyond Manderley and wept, wishing that for once things could be easy.

Jasper barking drew me out of my thoughts. I followed him to a clearing. Two paths were presented to me, one leading left, the other leading right. On the left path I could see hints of flowers, bluebells and open azaleas shining bright within the trees. It was such a breath-taking view that I turned to marvel at it, a ghost of the scent of flowers still on the wind. It would be a gorgeous painting, the softness of the petals against the twisting trees and roots, the spots of blue within the fallen leaves. I headed down the left path, but again I heard barking.

As I turned, I saw Jasper run out of the corner of my eye. He headed down the right path, tail wagging wildly.

I chased him down the path, through an arch of trees that suddenly gave away in a stark contrast to a cove. I stopped in surprise, watching as the tide mercilessly hit against the white sand. Shingle crunched beneath my feet and in the distance I caught a glimpse of Jasper, leaping over a large rock. The wind whipped around my loose hair.

‘Jasper!’ I cried, ‘come back!’

It was a perfect place to paint, the cove was romantic in its own way, tucked down a steep precipice of uneven rocks. Jasper clambered over them, barking and yelping every so often. Fearful that he was hurt, I climbed over the rocks – my hand slipping. My shoes had little grip and the surface of the rocks were smooth from years of the sea hitting against them. As I pulled myself over one particularly difficult rock, I felt a tugging sensation in my palm, followed by a sharp pain. The half-healed cut had been torn open again, smearing blood onto the grey stone.

‘Jasper!’ my voice was frantic now, ‘Jasper, wait!’

Beyond the rocks, there was less sand. I was in another cove, this one much more sheltered than the last. The wind around me died down.  I padded across the shingle, Jasper in the distance like an X on a treasure map. As I followed him for what seemed like an age, distantly a cottage came into sight. Tucked beneath an old tree, it was set back from the coast, peering at me from beneath the cliffs. The shape of the cove formed a harbour, and though there was a buoy, no boat was attached to it.

As I approached I realised the windows had been hastily boarded up. The cottage itself was falling into disarray. Nobody lived here. I felt a queer, uncanny feeling as I walked towards it. There was an air of profound loneliness about the place, an awful feeling. I shivered. This was a bad place.

Jasper paused outside the door, lying on the step, and growling slightly.

‘Can you feel it too?’ I whispered. My father had always told me that there was nothing as perceptive as animals. They could feel the unspoken emotions in the air that we humans could not even begin to fathom. I knew that whatever unnamed discomfort this place was giving me, Jasper knew the name. No wonder Maxim wanted to forget the cottage’s existence.

The hinges on the door were rusting. I pushed harshly against it, expected it to be locked but the door gave away so quickly that I fell into the cottage, only just managing to keep my footing. Jasper sprinted past me, and laid down on the rug.

Once, this cottage had been a beautiful place, but now it was covered in a thick layer of dirty dust, that turned the red armchairs a strange shade of dull brown. It was not a boat shed, as I had expected, but a hideaway, a well-furnished room with a sofa-bed and table and chairs, and even a dresser – cups and plates and glasses and just about anything that anyone could need.

I investigated the bookshelves. They were not full of the classic tomes within Manderley’s library, but instead covered with paperbacks, newish books – titles from about a year ago. I ran my fingers across the spines. Like the books Mrs Danvers bought for me. On the top of the bookcase lay several model ships, spiderwebs making their flags now. This place was not inhabited, not anymore. There was the same stuffy, musty smell that haunted the morning room, but worse. The air was damp and prickled against the back of my throat. When I inspected the sofa-bed, I found the red sheets on it dirty and nibbled through by mice.

The ghostly silence was interrupted by the tapping of rain against the thin roof. It barrelled against the boarded windows. As much as this place made me feel queasy, I sat down on one of the chairs, putting my paints down on the table. Underneath the old smell of the place, there was something else. Something feminine, floral – the same cloying smell of the morning room. The same smell that I knew haunted the west wing. I looked at Jasper lying comfortably on the moth-eaten rug.

‘Rebecca brought you here, didn’t she?’ I asked. He blinked at me, ‘you wanted to show me where she took you.’

My hand was bleeding terribly again, and on closer inspection I saw I had torn the stitches. I reached into the pockets of the old mackintosh, hunting for a handkerchief or glove I could wrap it in. My fingers touched something soft, and I pulled a white cotton handkerchief free.

Embroidered in the corner, in the same silver thread as on my pillows – was a long sloping ‘R’.

I dropped it as if it was burning hot and staggered to my feet, my chest heaving. The ‘R’ stared back up at me, bright against the dank floorboards and in a fit of rage, I stood on it, yanking the coat off my body. I balled it up and threw it down at the floor, startling Jasper. He whined at me and I began to cry again. The rain pounded against the roof as I sobbed, trapped in Rebecca’s cottage, wearing Rebecca’s coat, the scent of her filling my nose.

‘G’day.’

I turned around, my heart thumping wildly. A young man stood in front of me, by the door. He was dressed in dirty clothes, and when he smiled there were gaps in his teeth. In his hands he clutched shells.

‘Good afternoon,’ I said nervously, ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t know anyone lives here.’

‘She don’t go here now,’ he said.

‘No,’ I replied, ‘not anymore.’

‘She’s gone,’ he said, a sense of urgency entering his voice, ‘she’s gone now, she’s not coming back, is she? I never said nothing. I never did.’

‘Of course not. You didn’t say anything,’ I said, ‘I… I must be getting back now. This is Mr de Winter’s dog. I need to go back to the house.’

The young man shook his head. ‘That’s her dog. But she won’t come back. She went off into the sea. She won’t ever come back.’

‘Yes,’ I said faintly, ‘come on Jasper, we must be going.’

For once, Jasper was content to play ball, and I stumbled out of the cottage in my thin dress and cardigan, the rain instantly soaking through me. He followed by my side diligently. I felt like sobbing again, a feeling only made stronger by two figures approaching me.

‘Maxim,’ I breathed. The colour drained from his face when he saw me. Frank quickly took hold of Jasper, and passed me his umbrella.

‘What the devils are you doing down here?!’ he demanded.

‘I came for a walk, I wanted to paint somewhere,’ I said, my voice full of misery, ‘Jasper ran off and I tried to follow him, and I cut my hand open again and-’ I sniffled weakly, ‘It started raining so I took shelter in the cottage and then a man came to talk to me. Who was that?’

‘Probably Ben,’ Frank replied, ‘the keeper’s son. He does odd jobs on the estate.’

Whatever plans Maxim and Frank had for the cottage were quickly forgotten and we headed back up to the house. Maxim didn’t say a word, so Frank talked awkwardly for him, filling the silence.

‘I can’t keep up with you,’ I said. Maxim was walking at a tremendous, furious pace that even Frank was having to add steps to keep up.

‘You shouldn’t have been down here,’ he snapped back at me. Hurt, I hurried up alongside him.

‘I went to the gardens first and I happened upon the place accidentally,’ I argued. It was partly true, I supposed – and given everything that had happened with Mrs Danvers I did not feel guilty about a tiny lie to placate him, ‘Jasper ran over the rocks and I didn’t want to lose him.’

‘He would have found his way back. Stupid dog,’ Maxim looked back at Jasper, who was wet with rain and walking alongside an equally bedraggled Frank, ‘you’re a stupid dog.’

‘Why do you hate the cottage?’ I asked, ‘I know you hate it, and I’m sorry. I didn’t want to upset you. I didn’t mean to.’

‘You’d hate it too if you had my memories,’ his teeth clenched, ‘you wouldn’t go there. You wouldn’t talk about it. You wouldn’t even think about it. But you’ve gone there now, and you know the damned place.’ His eyes were stormy and dark, with a furious glint that frightened me slightly. I tried to take his arm, but he jerked away from my touch. ‘I should have never brought you here.’ He said finally.

I felt as if I had been punched. I let him walk ahead, instead falling back beside Frank. I refused to let tears fall. I thought of Beatrice, how she had mentioned Maxim’s temper. Here it was, I was experiencing it for sure now. I felt like a child scolded. I could not let anyone see me cry, and when we approached Manderley, I passed Frank the umbrella back, letting the rain fall upon my face. The tears that did fall were washed away instantly.

Frank held open the front doors for me and I walked inside, shivering and clutching at my arms. I felt a low throbbing pain in my hand. I had smeared watery blood onto my pale dress.

We were met with an audience as we walked into the main hall. Mrs Danvers, Frith and Robert stood waiting. At the sight of me, I saw her mask slip, and I saw Danny. I saw her eyes widen with shock as she took in my sodden hair, the open wound on my hand. I wondered if she could tell I’d been crying. Her fingers twitched against her skirt.

‘What is this?’ Maxim demanded. I tore my eyes away from Mrs Danvers, and then noticed that Robert was snivelling. His eyelashes were clumped together with tears.

‘There has been a slight unpleasantness,’ Frith said, his voice tight and uncomfortable. His kindly old eyes darted between Mrs Danvers and Robert. ‘A china cupid has gone missing from the morning room, and… Mrs Danvers has…’

‘It has been stolen,’ Mrs Danvers cut him off, her voice harsh with that barely restrained anger I had heard many times. ‘Stolen or it has been broken and concealed.’ She glared at Robert then, ‘the maids are not allowed in the morning room. Only I go in the morning room, and I am not the culprit. Only I and Robert. He replaces the flowers.’

‘And what would you like me to do?’ Maxim asked impatiently, staring at Mrs Danvers with slight contempt. Her back straightened.

‘I want the culprit apprehended at once!’

‘And as mistress of Manderley you have the right to give that order?’ Maxim’s voice was quiet and frightening, and Mrs Danvers stopped talking at once.

‘Perhaps we should discuss this somewhere else,’ Frank chimed in, ‘in the dining room. Let’s sit down and get to the bottom of it. I don’t believe Robert would be so careless and then dishonest.’ Robert looked at him gratefully.

‘Thank you sir,’ he said earnestly.

‘What does a china cupid matter,’ Maxim muttered, ‘it isn’t one of our treasures. I never understood why she cared for it.’

‘That cupid was one of Mrs de Winter’s most cherished possessions!’ Mrs Danvers exclaimed, her eyes so wide they were completely surrounded by white. She looked wild, seconds away from lashing out at any of us.

‘I didn’t take it!’ Robert wept. Frith tried to calm him. Maxim’s face was thunderous. Frank desperately attempted to keep some semblance of peace.

‘It was me,’ I murmured. The argument continued over me – Maxim now turning fiercely to Mrs Danvers. She did not back down. ‘It was me!’ I exclaimed. I couldn’t stop myself from breaking into a grimace, a heavy sob threatening to leave my lips. ‘I broke it. I broke it! It was an accident. I broke it!’

Mrs Danvers was staring at me as if I had slapped her across the face. Everyone looked at me and I flushed bright red.

‘I broke it… It was an accident. I dropped the cupid and I tried to fix it and…’ I held out my hand, ‘that’s how I cut my hand. I cut it on the china pieces.’

‘There’s one mystery solved at last,’ Maxim muttered. A hint of amusement spread across his lips in an unkind manner. I was not sure who he was laughing at, me or Mrs Danvers.

‘Where are the pieces, Madam?’ Frith asked kindly.

‘In the writing desk…’ I admitted, ‘I… I hid them. I didn’t know what to do.’

Maxim laughed.

‘Now, Robert - go and get the pieces and see if they can be mended,’ Maxim said, ‘if not, don’t bother.’ Robert scurried away, ‘there we are, Mrs Danvers. Mrs de Winter broke the cupid and seemed to think you would put her in jail.’

‘I’ll apologise to Robert at once,’ Mrs Danvers said. She went on looking at me, her eyes laced with betrayal that I could not understand. I did not know why she was so affected by this piece of china, worthless from what Maxim said.

‘Of course,’ Maxim said. ‘I remember now. It was a gift, wasn’t it?’ He laughed again, and went off towards the library, Frank following him. Frith took his leave shortly after and Mrs Danvers and I were left alone.

We stood facing each other. Rainwater dripped from my ruined hair. Her shoulders sagged, and for once I saw something like defeat in her.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said wretchedly, feeling as if I would cry again. She said nothing but reached out. She took my hand in both of her own, holding my wrist. Her fingers pressed into my pulse point, feeling it jump. She caressed her thumb across my palm, carefully avoiding the angry cut. ‘a gift…’ my voice was quiet, and slowly – I formed the thought, ‘from you.’

Her thumb stilled.

‘Next time,’ she said quietly, ‘come to me first. If something like this happens again, talk to me.’

I said nothing.

‘Talk to me,’ she said again, more urgently this time. She let go of my hand, ‘I must apologise to Robert.’

After that she was gone. She did not reappear that day, not even when I went down to the kitchens to ask a maid to phone for the doctor again.

***

Now, I could say that when I walked into the grand hall I knew my game was up, that my first great mistake in Manderley had been discovered. But the truth is – I did not know. At that time, I was clueless, and it was only when Mrs Danvers spoke that I realised what had occurred.

I did not know what I had brought down on my head when I went to sleep that night, tossing and turning and dreaming of the cottage. I did not know when I woke in the morning, hellbent on confronting the final ghost of Manderley. I did not know when I went to Mrs Danvers’ rooms that night.

Now, I lie in bed and dream in our quiet hotel. Sometimes, this is the point where I wake. But not tonight. Tonight, I will toss and turn throughout my entire life at Manderley. I will wake in a cold sweat, crying out and she will clutch at my flailing arms, with a soft command of go to sleep. It is the closest she gets to discussing my dreams. She will hold me tightly in her arms and despite my thumping heart I will be safe.

I am older now, and I know that hunting ghosts will never bring me peace, but my sleeping mind and younger self do not. I do not wake. I continue to dream.