She allowed herself a moment to mourn Sarah Miller, to hold her mother in her heart and then let her go. And in her mourning she found warmth. Warmth in the love Sarah gave her in the first weeks and months of her life; in the fact she had never been rejected, she had been adored; warmth in the knowledge she had been called Rachel from the start, because she hadn’t realised until now how much it mattered.
Sarah had been heading to Winterbourne for the very reason Rachel was now here: to seek answers. They had come together, in a way, in the end.
She imagined her mother on the road to Winterbourne, high on the hill in the driving rain. She imagined the headlights of the truck, the blare of its horn, and the steering wheel rushing through Sarah’s hands as she lost control and knew she was doomed. What had she thought in her final moments? Had she worried for Rachel? Had she reached out and touched her, told her she’d be OK?
Winterbourne was never the wiser.
Winterbourne never knew Sarah existed.
Chapter 31
Cornwall, 1947
I dream of high towers and high turrets, clouds that pool and dissolve against a midnight sky; I dream of moonlit marshes and figures in white; of torches blazing in a forest, torches descending a hillside, shouting that they will drive me out; I dream of water, dark and clinging, and I dream of diving beneath its surface to a shimmering, glimmering shard on the bed, and when I reach it, it is Laura de Grey’s mirror.
I wake, my breath as sharp as glass. I go to the hallway where Constance always stops and force myself to look up at the ceiling – only this time, instead of darkness, I see it: the small, thick black hook driven into the beam. It is a curled finger, a beckoning finger: Come closer, come close, a little bit closer…
This is where Laura did it. The hook beckoned, and she followed.
Chilled, I creep back to bed.
‘Winterbourne wants the women… Some say it’s the spirit of a witch…’
I could leave. I could pack my bags and board a train to London, and be rid of this place once and for all. But I cannot abandon him. I cannot abandon my hopes of our future, here, in this house that would, with my help, be happy and peaceful at last, with these children who need me and whom I still adore. Winterbourne is my chance: the only place that has offered me rebirth. Here, I can begin again. So can Jonathan. I still carry this belief and I must carry it carefully, like a candle held in the wind.
By morning, I am cold. I lie watching the foliage on the wall. I follow its stalks but the tangle leads me back on myself, back to where I started, back to front and front to back and there is no sense to it, no reason! It really is most queer.
Time passes. Winter deepens, the frost hardening on the ground and the sky solid grey, as if it is not open air but a leaden, sunken roof. Freezing mists hem us in, and when I look out of the window I see my reflection looking back. Occasionally I hear the fog blast of the tower light, a reminder of those on the sea, cut adrift, and it reminds me of the Sleeping Beauty and how her prince slashed through dense leaves to rouse her, and how I might be roused if I could only slash through mine. But still the foliage gazes back at me, an impossible screen, impenetrable and watching.
Marlin’s words haunt my every waking hour. ‘Winterbourne wants the women…’ My every sleeping hour, too, in toxic, frightful imaginings, terrible imaginings, as the phantasms of these women, invented women, come flying into my dreams on leathery wings. Winterbourne cannot want to destroy me. Winterbourne likes me. It has always liked me. It knows me, and wants to give me what I crave.
And then, suddenly, it does.
On Christmas Day, everything changes.
I suppose it should not come as a surprise. These past weeks I have felt a thing latch on to me, draining my energy and blood. Lessons with the twins are a struggle. I drift away while they complete their exercises, or else I visit the lavatory, feeling sick, and sit with my head in my hands, thinking dreadful thoughts. I am thinking back to the war, to Betty and our canteen… I am thinking of Betty lighting a cigarette inside her cupped hand, the flare of it, and of my hurting stomach and of lifting up my skirt.
It is an effort to join the celebrations, such as they are. I am tired, very tired. The children squeal over Father Christmas and pillowcases, which they leave at the fireplace with sherry and mince pies. Mrs Rackstile encourages the decoration of the giant tree, the smartly wrapped presents and red and white paper streamers, pursuits that might formerly have been mine but now she is preferred. The children spoil her with their smiles and love, their kisses and their trust, whereas they regard me warily, as one might a beggar on the street corner, obliged to pass me each day, perhaps even to exchange a word, but secretly wishing I would be cleared away.
I know they are frightened of me. They have not forgotten that morning in the snow, and are convinced of my madness and neglect. The more I grasp for them, the madder I seem. But I force myself to, for if I do not then I will become frightened of them in return. ‘It uses the children to get what it wants. It tells them what to do…’
Mrs Rackstile observes my deterioration with pleasure. She would never crow, for she is too contained. I have never learned to master myself in this way, my feelings too rampant to hold down. Mrs Rackstile is a study in mastery.
My father would have liked her – something closer to the boy he craved. She reminds me of the matrons at school with their wide cream calves and pleated skirts, looming in the doorway with their hands on their hips. Come along, Miller, no time to waste; chop-chop, Alice, get on with you, girl!’ Those beady eyes are on me now, and I am the fool again. Mrs Rackstile belittles me in front of the twins: ‘Let’s get on with it, shall we, or we’ll be waiting all day for Alice.’ She makes asides to Jonathan that she thinks I cannot hear: ‘Are you certain your governess is quite well, Captain? I find her anxious and secretive – and she makes plain her disdain of me.’ She cannot understand why he keeps me on. Because he loves me, I long to say, for then she would see who was the woman of this house.
And he can’t get rid of me now, can he? Not now I am carrying his child.
The realisation comes at Christmas lunch. Turkey turns in my stomach and the cranberry sauce tastes queer. I have been cramping since Tuesday but there is no blood. My bleed was late last month, so now, surely, here it is. But there is no blood. Before now, alone and dreaming of him, I have let the thought of it cross my mind.
Today I am no longer dreaming. I know.
‘You look awfully pale,’ says Edmund from across the table.
‘Manners, young man!’ reprimands Mrs Rackstile. How I wish she did not have to sit with us. I wish Jonathan would banish her to the servants’ quarters, for that is where she belongs, and then it would be the four of us – the five! – as a perfect family. So much for Marlin’s curse. Winterbourne has granted my wish. It longs not to destroy me but to have me create: to nurture its future and preserve its prosperity.
I fear I am going to be sick, so churning is the lunch in my belly, but instead of vomit, I want to bring up my good news, simply blurt it out to the table.
Dear Jonathan, I think. Happy Christmas, darling… I wonder what gifts Laura bought her husband over the years. A watch, a leather case – but none so grand as this! This will change everything. This will bring us together.
The feeling passes, and instead I look to Mrs Rackstile and smile.
‘It’s quite all right, Mrs Rackstile,’ I say, putting my hand to where life grows, in my lap out of sight. Across the room, Jonathan broods long-haired and unshaven, blue eyes searching mine. ‘It’s the excitement of Christmas, that’s all.’
*
I must find a way to tell him. I do not sleep at all Christmas night, thinking of the child inside me, a piece of Jonathan, growing, flourishing. It will be marvellous.
Pregnancy wasn’t like this before. Before, I was scared, frightened of war, uncared for and alone. Now, it is different. We are together. Naturally Jonathan will be challenged by our news ??
? it will represent fundamental change at Winterbourne – but his joy will overtake his doubt. This is what he has been waiting for.
I am not afraid of losing it – not this time. This child is meant to be. My child will be born and it will thrive, for it will be a magnificent de Grey.
*
On Boxing Day, the children are distracted by their presents. Edmund runs up and down the hallways with his fighter aeroplane, while Constance decorates her dolls’ house with wallpaper. Mrs Rackstile chose the presents. Jonathan praises her for it.
I wonder what the children will make of my present – a new sister or brother to play with. They will accept me again, then. They will have to! I will be their stepmother, because Jonathan will have to marry me. He will want to marry me. I will become Mrs Alice de Grey, married by the rector at Polcreath Church.
I try to conjure the image of us as man and wife, but when I see my reflection in Laura’s mirror my appearance lets me down. I am lowly. My clothes are drab and plain, my hair limp and my face drawn. What images this mirror has seen! What beauty! With her lashings of hair and embellished gowns, how perfectly suited Laura would have been in preparing for marriage: how seamless a transition from a Hensley to a de Grey. Not so for me. I must work harder. I must be eligible.
Late that night, when the house falls quiet, I descend once more to the cellar. Laura’s belongings are as I left them, her robes boxed up, disturbed only where I ran my hand across their tempting surface. I seize the case, my footsteps padding quietly as a cat’s. I am a thief. But Laura and I know each other now. Laura will not mind.
I undress in the privacy of my room. My naked skin prickles with cold, the fire in the grate dwindling to ash. I light more candles, which I am glad of because they lend my reflection a romantic, dramatic feel, perfectly in keeping with Laura. The flickering light plays tricks, shifting and moving so that in glimpses my image morphs into hers, overlapping with my own; her spirit is inside me, becoming me. In the little painting by the window, the girl has dropped to the soil outside her cottage; she is on her knees and praying to the sky. A shadow descends the hills beyond, a shadow coming to catch her. She is afraid. I hear their shouts; I see the flames in their hands.
Poor girl.
I am used to her by now. I do not mind her games. I do not mind if I imagine her because it does not matter, not really. All that matters is Jonathan and this family. After that, there will be no need of anyone else. I feel myself falling and I like that feeling. I want to fall and fall and never be caught.
I slip on the costume I prefer best: a high stiff collar and a full red skirt, the kind of costume befitting a lady. In front of the mirror I sway and turn, admiring my reflection. In wearing this creation I can believe that, one day soon, I will be at the helm of this house, swishing through Winterbourne in a fragrant, feminine cloud. I douse Laura’s perfume across my neck and wrists. I pin back my hair, as Laura wore hers on her wedding day. In the hesitant candlelight, I am changed – from myself, to Laura, and then on again to another woman, another black-haired woman, maybe two women, maybe three more, swift as blinks, and my gaze, held so cautiously, is not my own but belonging to something far wilder and savage and more ancient than me.
The mirror is powerful. It holds me in thrall. I wonder if the dog Tipper would now bark so dreadfully at the cellar door, or whether it would be my door he feared.
The girl in the painting has gone. They have chased her away.
It is only me, only me who is left, and so immersed am I in the image of the woman in the mirror that I do not see the shadow lurking at my threshold.
Chapter 32
Mrs Rackstile takes my arm and drags me downstairs, handling me like a child. She has made it her business to acquaint herself with every aspect of Winterbourne, and accordingly will have seen pictures of Laura; she will know my purpose. How I detest her! If she weren’t here, I could go to Jonathan myself and remind him how it is to gaze upon a woman he loves. Instead, I am released at the door to his office.
‘Captain, forgive the interruption,’ she begins, ‘but you should be aware…’
On Jonathan’s desk is a collection of glasses, coated in amber hue. He turns to us, his eyes rheumy and shot with blood. For a moment, he believes I am Laura. He reaches for me, stumbles, then realises I am not she. His expression is one of such intensity, such loathing and bewilderment and downright desire that I have to grip the edge of the table to stop myself fainting. He, too, is in the grip of a lethal spell.
‘I found her like this,’ says Mrs Rackstile. ‘Dressed up like Mrs de Grey. Surely, Captain, you see now that she needs help! I will telephone the doctor right away.’
Jonathan cannot tear his gaze from mine. I stand transfixed, awaiting my fate; I half fear it, I half fear it will not be delivered. But I do not look away. I am not ashamed. I am beautiful. He comes to me and gently touches my face.
I resist the urge to put his hand on my stomach and tell him, I am yours.
‘Go downstairs,’ he tells the housekeeper. ‘Fetch every item of Laura’s that remains in the cellar and bring it here to me. Bring me everything. Now.’
Mrs Rackstile does as she’s told. When she has gone, he says:
‘Strip.’
I assume I have not heard correctly.
‘Strip,’ he says again. ‘I will not ask you a third time.’
There is thrill in my disrobing. Rain spits against the windowpanes like glitter thrown from an endless night. I remove the high collar. I step out of the skirt. I let down my hair. Standing before him in my undergarments I must remind myself that he has seen me naked before. Here, though, it feels like the first time. He surveys my body. I reach to unfasten my brassiere. Jonathan stops me. ‘Don’t do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Alice… Oh, Alice.’ He covers me with a blanket, wrapping me tight.
‘Tell me, Jonathan,’ I say, his lips close enough to mine now that we could kiss. ‘Tell me what it is.’
He closes his eyes. ‘You are not safe here. At Winterbourne.’
‘Yes, I am. I’m safe with you.’
‘Mrs Rackstile is right. You should leave. Tomorrow. Tonight.’
‘I cannot! Captain, you must listen to the truth!’
‘Oh, Alice, not you.’ His eyes open. ‘I prayed this would not happen to you.’
‘Nothing has happened to me,’ I cry. ‘Nothing has happened to me but you! Don’t you see? It’s you I live for, Jonathan. I have ever since I met you.’
His voice breaks. ‘It’s too late,’ he says. ‘Look at you.’
I glance down at my body. My skin is mottled with thumb-sized bruises, criss-crossed scratches and brittle pinch marks that scatter from my shins to my neck.
‘Do they hurt?’ he asks.
‘No. They’ll clear. It’s a sensitivity, the sea air, nothing to fret about.’
He shakes his head. ‘It’s my fault. I should never have brought you here.’
‘Yes, you should! You have shown me love, Jonathan, you and the twins, and Winterbourne, all of you. It’s all I want. I can be happy here, with you—’
I touch his cheek but in a flare his aggression is back and he strikes me away.
‘I am not what you think I am,’ he says bitterly.
‘Then what are you?’
‘Not a man you would want in your life.’
‘I will decide that for myself!’
‘There isn’t a decision to make.’ He turns to the window, drink loosening his tongue, his head bowed in confession. ‘I’ve never been good for anyone. My mother told me so and she was right. She used to tell me, Boy, you’re a demon; everything you touch rots and dies. She was a cruel woman, a difficult woman I’ve since been told, but as I said, she was right. After all, I drove her from Winterbourne; she left in the night without a word and never came back. Then I married the girl I loved and I lost her too. Then the governess before you, Christine: she came to me for help and I turned her away. Now you, Al
ice, now you… It’s been proven. My mother was right. I’m no good. I’m dangerous. You should stay away from me, far, far away.’
I step towards him and touch his shoulder. ‘You mustn’t believe it,’ I whisper. ‘I promise only good things will happen to us.’
‘It isn’t your decision,’ he rages, ‘don’t you understand? Aren’t you listening? It’s me, it’s this house; it’s bigger than you, or us, or any of it! I’ve tried protecting the people I care for. I stay away from the children. I stay away from Tom, and the doctor, and from Mrs Yarrow when she was here. God knows I tried to stay away from you, but…’ His voice breaks. ‘I ought to let the children away from Winterbourne, send them to board in the city, but I’m fearful of what will become of them. I’m afraid they will meet with some terrible fate, that Winterbourne will wreak vengeance on them for trying to escape! One thing is certain: they will hear dreadful talk about their mother and me, about what I did to her.’
‘You tried to protect Laura.’
‘And I failed.’
‘She would always have died, whatever you did. She wished to die.’
‘How could she have? We were happy. We had two beautiful children. We had a home and a future and we were in love.’
It is on the tip of my tongue to say it: Marlin’s dreadful vision. Winterbourne plays with its mistresses, lets them believe in joy for the pleasure of stealing it away.
‘Jonathan, you must stop blaming yourself.’ But he is far beyond my reach. There is only one thing left, the quiet miracle that might bring him back to me.
‘I have news,’ I say. I take his hand. ‘You see—’
Mrs Rackstile returns, clutching the residue of Laura’s possessions, which she holds out to him. The spell of our confidence is broken. Jonathan seizes Laura’s clothes and stalks out to the courtyard, through the storm, where he heaps them up in a pile. In the dark, in the wet, they resemble spilled blood, a dark smudge against glistening earth. Rain tears in. The deep howl of a winter gale flips across the cliffs. Jonathan is untiring, limping without his cane, his inky hair plastered across his forehead and his clothes sodden. Box after box he seizes from the housekeeper – the jewels, the fragrances, the photograph of Laura and he on their wedding day.