The Woman in the Mirror:

  ‘It’s all right.’

  I touch his arm, just fleetingly, but it is enough to set my own on fire.

  *

  The cook is looking anxiously out of the scullery window when I return. ‘I was starting to think you’d got lost!’ she says, as I hand over the herb.

  But I am not lost. I am thinking perfectly clearly. Jonathan de Grey needs my help and so do the children. Without me, this house will fall apart! It is plain to me now. The previous governess hadn’t the strength to protect this family – but I do.

  ‘I met Storm,’ I say.

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Mrs Yarrow chops the parsley. ‘She’s a beautiful beast, isn’t she? Apple of the captain’s eye.’

  ‘And Laura’s, apparently.’

  Mrs Yarrow glances sharply at me, as if surprised that I would utter her name.

  ‘Indeed,’ she says. ‘Could you pass me that bowl, please?’

  I reach for it. Then I ask forthrightly: ‘The governess who was here before me – she didn’t abscond on a family matter, did she?’

  The cook doesn’t look up. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, miss.’

  ‘Come now.’ My hunch is growing by the second, fed by the cook’s every evasion. I pass her the bowl, which she gingerly accepts. ‘That woman didn’t leave Winterbourne abruptly. There was no home emergency, was there?’

  Mrs Yarrow stirs for a moment then rests the spoon. She looks about her to check we are alone, before leaning in to whisper: ‘I’ve been forbid to tell you, miss. All of us have. You mustn’t breathe a word, please, promise me.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘She killed ’erself, miss. It was the most terrible business. Everything seemed fine, she never let on she was troubled and then one day… Such a shock, it was!’

  I remember being asked at my interview if I was of sound mind. Could you reassure us that you have no history of mental disturbances? So that was why. The governess before me had lost her mind. I remember the man’s expression as he asked me, intent on sniffing out my secrets. Only I hid them well.

  ‘What did she do?’ I say.

  ‘She threw herself off those cliffs there.’ Mrs Yarrow closes her eyes, remembering it yet hating to remember. When her eyes open, they are moist with fear. ‘Oh, it were dreadful, miss. Right there on the Landogger Bluff.’

  My mouth goes dry. ‘Who found her?’

  ‘The captain did, miss. And the worst part was that she didn’t die straight away, oh no. She broke every bone in her body. By the time he got to her, she was a sack of skin. But still — ’ Mrs Yarrow swallows hard, her face ashen. ‘Still she was trying to crawl towards the sea. I don’t know why. There was nothing left of her, but she was dragging herself into that water. She died before she reached it.’

  Images creep into my mind. The figure I saw on the beach, limping and crawling, that slithering shape…‘We heard her screams,’ says Mrs Yarrow. ‘It were a horrible sound. Have you ever heard foxes scrapping at night? It was like that, like moaning from hell. And that’s why the captain won’t have the children anywhere near the sea, miss. That’s why the sea’s off limits. He thinks she’s still there, waiting to drag them in.’ Mrs Yarrow shudders. ‘You mustn’t tell a soul, miss. I should never have said. The captain keeps it quiet, there’s been enough suffering already.’

  I consider my question; I almost don’t ask. ‘Were she and the captain close?’

  ‘What do you mean, miss?’

  ‘Did they have a close relationship? I’m wondering, after Laura…’

  ‘Oh, you must never suggest such a thing! Oh, my dear girl, you must never suggest it to me again! The captain could never betray his wife’s memory. He is a good man, a kind and a decent man. I wish you had not thought it!’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘If anything,’ the cook checks about her, ‘he did not hold that woman in high regard. I used to hear him shouting at her. It could be awful frightening.’

  ‘What had she done?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you, miss. I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘And there was nothing unusual about her behaviour before it happened?’

  Mrs Yarrow scratches the strip of hair escaping her cap. ‘Only that she stayed in her room more in those last few days. Said she was ailing. And when they took in her body…well, it were covered in marks. Lots of red marks, strange they were too – scratches and scabs, bruises and the like.’ She looks at me. ‘She had your room, miss, the one you sleep in. I suppose you’d rather I didn’t tell you that. I was going to say it on the day you arrived but the captain put you there and who was I to object?’

  ‘Yes. He did put me there, didn’t he.’

  ‘I wouldn’t think on it, miss. It was – is – the old nurse’s room, is all.’

  We jump at the sound of the great door opening. Tom enters with a bundle of firewood and we resume preparing the meal as if nothing has been said.

  *

  That night, as I undress for bed, I notice that the colour of the bruise on my arm has deepened, not eased – and surrounding it is a pattern of tiny scratches, as if made by a small, sharp, determined nail. I cover the marks with the sleeve of my gown and lie awake in the dark for a long time, my eyes wide open and watchful, waiting for sleep.

  Chapter 15

  Cornwall, present day

  Rachel hadn’t seen the exterior in daylight before. Now, in the bright morning, the house appeared kinder than it had when she arrived, and grander than any showpiece she had ever seen. Its dramatic arches reminded her of Parisian cathedrals, and the high turrets with their tremendous gargoyles brought to mind fortresses buried deep in the Romanian hills. Gleaming stained glass adorned the chapel windows, and crowning the spire was a decorative finial that shone and glittered in the optimistic sun.

  It was with some reluctance that she crossed the overgrown parkland to get down to the south gate. She didn’t relish the thought of seeing Jack Wyatt again, much less accepting a favour from him, but she had little choice: the gallery would be wondering what edge of the world she had slipped over, and she’d promised Paul she would stay in touch. Here, she was completely cut off. She hadn’t even checked the news since her arrival in London – a meteorite could have wiped out the whole of the west coast for all she knew. Her boots swished through the long grass and she could hear the gentle tumble of the sea as it washed into shore. Turning back to Winterbourne, she shielded her eyes and watched as a swoop of large black birds descended on its roof. That’s my house, she thought, incredulously. It’s mine.

  Then she was down over the next dip and Winterbourne was out of sight. Rachel had underestimated the walk to the perimeter – the estate was huge – and when she arrived at the gate it was quarter past, and she thought she’d missed him.

  But there was the Land Rover, with Jack inside it.

  ‘I saw you coming down the hill,’ he said, releasing the passenger door so she could climb inside. ‘I thought Americans were sticklers for punctuality.’

  She ignored him. ‘It’s good of you to give me a ride.’

  ‘I was a little surprised, to be honest,’ he released the clutch and they moved off, bouncing down a narrow dirt track away from the estate, ‘you taking me up on my offer on day one. Couldn’t you wait to see me again?’

  She changed the subject. ‘You have dogs?’

  Jack grinned his slightly off-centre grin. It transformed his face, Rachel thought, into something quite warm and compelling. But then he spoke. ‘You really are Sherlock Holmes.’ However, it didn’t take much detective work to attribute the carpet of hairs on the back seat and the array of blankets gathered there to a band of hounds. There was also an earnest, wheaty fragrance that brought to mind cosy November nights and dogs resting by the hearth, not unpleasant, in fact rather cheering.

  The inside of the Land Rover was suggestive of more haphazard living. Several bits of material – rags covered in engine oil; chamois leather – were stuffed beneath the handbrake.
A stash of old cassette tapes was jammed in her door pocket. A notepad lay discarded in the footwell, a list of some sort, untidily scrawled.

  ‘I thought I’d spare you the circus,’ he told her. ‘The dogs are a bit too friendly for some people. Especially women.’

  ‘That’s sexist.’

  ‘Not really, just an observation.’

  ‘Based on…?’

  ‘Most of the women I’ve been out with.’ Jack turned on to the main road. ‘Given the choice they’d rather not be mauled by muddy paws, or have bad breath in their face, or stub their toe on a knackered chew trying to get to the sofa.’

  ‘And what didn’t they like about the dogs?’

  ‘Ha.’ But he thought it was funny because his grin reappeared, wider this time, and she noticed the crease in his cheek. ‘They used to hate having the dogs in the house, thought I should tie them up outside in the barn, even in winter when the ground was frozen. I always think if a person is kind to a dog then they’re all right.’

  ‘I’ve never had a dog.’

  ‘Well, you’ve missed out.’

  Rachel wondered if the de Greys had kept animals. What else had she missed out on in her childhood? What else could her upbringing have contained if she had stayed with her birth mother and been raised at Winterbourne? It was a parallel universe, an impossible one, and yet one that had been at her fingertips from the very start, her fate decided by a woman she had never met. It was difficult to picture herself in that grand castle, running through the corridors as her mother would have, as Constance and her brother would have, playing with the dolls’ houses and rocking horse, clamouring on the piano and climbing the shelves in the library.

  Instead, she’d had Maggie and Greg – decent, honest, good-hearted people – in their suburban mainstream home. She hated to sound spoiled, and it wasn’t that, really. It was just hard to consider how that altered background might have changed things at the most innate level: the way Rachel connected with life, the people she met, the chances she had. She might never have met Seth, the man who threw light on her small planet, and she might never have lost him. Sliding doors. Pointless fiction.

  Seth…

  Rachel focused on the here and now, on what she could see and feel, as she had trained herself to since the accident: Jack’s hands on the steering wheel, his paint-splashed trousers, the road rushing past. Except it hadn’t been an accident, had it?

  There were only so many words that would do. Event. Incident. Tragedy. And the worst of them: atrocity. Sometimes she could abide only the vaguest of references, simply what happened, or that day, or the phone call. That last one seemed the easiest to use, the most anodyne, as if Paul had been ringing to discuss the next day’s schedule. Still, it had the power to wind her. It’s over. You’re here. He’s gone.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Jack asked. ‘Is my driving making you sick?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she managed, though his driving was haywire. They undertook a truck and then ducked on to a slip road, which looped back towards the sea.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Jack. ‘Welcome to civilisation.’

  The word for Rachel conjured her Manhattan skyline, sushi bars and late-night bistros, subways that ran all night. Polcreath was a fishing town, pretty and compact, with a pub, high street, a church, a waterfront restaurant and a modest settlement that constituted the population. She discovered this as Jack’s car wound down through the centre and emerged all too quickly at the harbour, prompting her to ask: ‘Was that it?’

  He laughed. ‘What were you expecting?’

  They parked illegally (Jack didn’t seem bothered about road signs) and walked up to the high street. ‘That’s your best bet,’ said Jack, pointing out a café. ‘I’ll see you back at the car at eleven.’ She wanted to say she’d need longer than that, but before she could he was stalking away in the opposite direction.

  Rachel crossed to the café and opened the door. Neat floral-print tablecloths were laid with vintage tea sets, and there was pretty bunting strung up over the counter. ‘Hello, excuse me,’ she approached the girl, ‘do you have Wi-Fi?’

  The girl slid the code across and took her order for a flat white. Moments later she was online. Her email account was bursting and she fielded as many as she could, cutting and pasting an outline as to her whereabouts and how the gallery was operating without her. It seemed to be operating very well. Paul had been in touch with a report and had run interviews for her, explaining that she’d been called abroad on business and that that was the price to pay for swift and sudden success. She replied, explaining her lack of connection at the house and promising to be available once a day. ‘I owe you,’ she wrote, ‘for having my back. Thank you.’

  A young man came into the café. He and Rachel exchanged a smile before the man took an adjacent table. He flipped a magazine out of his bag and Rachel had to do a double take, as she saw on its cover a shot of Aaron Grewal, impeccably suited, arms folded, above the banner BUSINESS HAS NEVER LOOKED SO GOOD.

  It was weird seeing Aaron, this polished, renowned entrepreneur who was a galaxy away from a tiny teashop at the foot of the UK, where all you could hear was the gentle tap of a spoon on a saucer or the steady slow wash of the sea. She wondered what he was doing, if he was with someone else (they had never agreed on exclusivity) and whether that mattered. Rachel found her heart intact. It always had been, since Seth: losing him had been enough to make her lock it away for good.

  Several of her emails were from him. A glance at her phone revealed more attempts at contact. She was surprised by the attention. They’d always kept it casual, and while she’d expected Aaron to be in touch to check she’d arrived, and that the inheritance had gone as planned, she didn’t expect the devotions of, well, a boyfriend.

  The most recent email, sent late last night, his time, surprised her. It read:

  Hey again, elusive R. It hasn’t been long but I’m going crazy here without you. I get that things could take a while your end, so why don’t I come to you? I’m worried about you, dealing with this. I hate to imagine you on your own. I know you said I didn’t get it, but I do. I’ve been thinking a lot about us, Rachel, and I want to be part of it. I can help, even if it’s just taking you for dinner or bringing you coffee in the morning. I can get away this weekend; I’ll fly over and we can spend it together. Let me know.

  Can’t wait.

  Aaron x

  Rachel absorbed the message with mounting apprehension. She should have found it sweet, kind, romantic, and it was all of those things – but instead alarm bells sounded. Worry wasn’t a word she had thought to associate with Aaron Grewal. He was composed and unflappable, and he definitely didn’t spend his time ‘thinking about us’: that was what couples did, couples who bore secrets and resentments, couples at crossroads. Not them. She didn’t want him coming over. It was impossible to picture him at Winterbourne. He’d never occupied a less than five-star dwelling in his life and she could imagine his dismay at the state of the property. Already it felt precious and private to her, something she must keep close to her heart.

  It was odd watching the man at the next table read all about her lover while Rachel was mere feet away in a pair of muddy wellington boots, her hair dragged into a scruffy ponytail, trying to think up how best to reply to him.

  She composed a message and quickly pressed Send:

  Dear Aaron, Sorry for my radio silence. Turns out Winterbourne’s well and truly off grid – who’d have guessed? Anyway, no need to come; I’ll be leaving in a few days and will look you up when I’m back.

  Hope all’s well with you. Rachel x

  Feeling better at having touched the outside world, she logged off, drained her coffee and set off to explore her ancestors’ town.

  *

  Jack found her at a bike stall. ‘You’re late,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not. I’ve got five minutes.’

  ‘Exactly. It’s at least seven to the car.’

  ‘Not if I’m on one of
these.’

  Jack put his hands in his pockets, watching the bicycle stall with disdain. ‘Waste of money,’ he declared. ‘I’ve got an old thing in the garage you can use if you want a bike, give it a bit of grease, she’ll be good as new.’

  The storekeeper came out. ‘Ten per cent discount if you buy before midday,’ he said, passing Rachel a leaflet. Jack snorted. He was unbelievably rude.

  Perhaps it was Jack’s rudeness that she felt she had to compensate for, or perhaps it was the sheer fact of his disapproval, but Rachel bought the shiny red bike she’d been looking at with a ten per cent discount and felt mightily pleased with herself as she wheeled it away over the cobbles. No, it wasn’t strictly necessary for the sake of a few days – but she couldn’t bear to ask Jack for another favour (she couldn’t bear to see him again at all, as it went), and if she was going to keep her promise to Paul then she had to have her own way of getting in. Besides, being stranded up at the house with no means of escape wasn’t a feeling she enjoyed. The bike was better than nothing, and doubly satisfying for the look on Jack’s face.

  ‘Actually, I think I’ll cycle back,’ she said when they reached the Land Rover, and Jack opened the tailgate to load it in.

  ‘Really? It looks like rain.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘Clearly you haven’t been out in a Polcreath wind.’

  Rachel disliked that he imagined her to be an uninitiated city girl who would wither at the first spot of drizzle. She remembered how he’d been sent by the others at the Landogger Inn to rescue her, and turned her back and mounted the bike.

  ‘Do you want my number?’ he said as he was opening the driver’s door.

  She raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Very funny,’ he said, and it wasn’t clear – nor was it clear to her when she thought about it later that night – what the joke was. ‘I mean if you need anything at Winterbourne. Right now you’ve got your boyfriend in America and that’s about it.’

  ‘Excuse me? You don’t know the first thing about my private life.’