The Woman In The Mirror. Rebecca James
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Yes, I have.’
‘You’ll be staying a while?’
‘As long as it takes.’
‘There’re people round here that can show you around, if you like.’
‘I’ll be fine. But thank you.’
‘Always friendly faces in Polcreath, you’ll see. And if you’re really short on company, I’m in the Landogger Inn most nights.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ But he’d said it with a twist of humour, which she returned. ‘The Landogger – that’s an unusual name.’
‘Named after the cliffs,’ he said, ‘right by Winterbourne. They’ll surround you. Lethal they are, too: a sudden drop. The house is right on the Landogger Bluff.’
‘You seem to know a lot about Winterbourne.’
‘Not much. Just that for those of us who’ve been in Polcreath all our lives, it’s the stuff of legends. Always there, you know, there on the hill, but no one ever goes.’
‘You must remember my family.’ It was a difficult thought, the idea that this man, friendly though he was, had been closer to her ancestors than she would ever be – that he might have seen them, heard their voices, and maybe even met them. She didn’t know how to feel as the cab drew closer to Winterbourne. A ripple of frustrated anger obscured any sense of homecoming. She wanted to know why she’d been dismissed and forgotten about: why her whole family, it seemed, had cast her aside.
‘I never met them,’ the driver said. ‘They were, and I don’t mean no offence by this, curious. Liked to keep themselves to themselves. I’m going way back now, to the sixties, when I was a boy.’ Rachel could tell by his voice that he liked the memory. ‘The de Grey children… Well, isn’t that a posh name? They weren’t children any more by the sixties, of course, but they stayed on at Winterbourne, a lad and a woman, coming up for thirty, they were. People said there was something funny about the lad, that he was gone in the head. I always thought it was odd, even then, that they should have remained at the house, unmarried, with no families of their own. It was as if they were married to each other. But listen to me, just an idle gossip, talking about your people like I knew them myself.’
He met her gaze in the mirror and she was thankful night was falling. She didn’t want him to see the naked truth: that these were mysteries she could not yet answer. That he, an ‘idle gossip’, knew more about her family than she did.
‘Are we close?’ Rachel said.
‘Not far now,’ he replied. ‘Not far at all.’
*
It was, in fact, another half an hour, and by the time they reached the Winterbourne gates the night outside was pitch black. They’d left the last settlement many miles ago, and the house was so alone and remote that not one light of civilisation could be seen anywhere across the black, boundless moors. The only glow was the glow of the moon, which hung above them like a marble, throwing the sea into glittering grey.
As Rachel stepped out of the cab, glad of its reassuring interior bulbs and the familiar hum of its engine, she looked above at the sky. The stars were immense. Stars like this didn’t exist above New York. Exotic words surfaced in her mind – Cassiopeia, Betelgeuse, Europa. She must have learned them long ago and forgotten, or else had little reason to remember, but here, beneath the vast beauty of space, the stars appeared to her as jewels, unfathomably rare and precious.
‘You sure you’ll be all right?’ The driver leaned over as she got out. ‘There’s a warm bed at the Landogger, I’ll bet. I can always take you back there.’
Rachel shook her head. ‘I’ll be fine.’ Winterbourne was hers, after all. Staying here alone might be a foreboding prospect, but she felt as if the house and its ghosts had thrown her a challenge. She had been held back for too many years, against her will, ignorant of its existence, robbed of her choice, letting the years drain out like bath water. She had a choice now, and she’d never find answers if she ran away.
She paid the driver and watched his tail lights disappear into the night. She turned to the mansion, her eyes travelling up its enormous façade, whose shape, in the darkness, she could barely decipher. It loomed, shadow-like, amorphous and huge, a lake of black except where the moonlight caught it and a detail could be glimpsed, like the snap of glass in a window or the gnarled arm of a tree. She regretted her decision – although it hadn’t been conscious, just the way things had worked out – to arrive so late. It’ll be better in the morning, she told herself, bracing herself against the long night ahead. Wait for the daylight. She could hear the roar of the sea against the Landogger cliffs, the foam and spit of it as it churned against rocks.
She took the key from her pocket and let herself in.
Cornwall, 1947
My first week passes in a contented haze. Being around the children is a constant tonic, their smiles and laughter warming me utterly and their sweet enquiries occupying my mind in a way it hasn’t known in years. I realise that I was merely treading water back in London: working at the solicitors’ office was a way to earn money but it was also a way to let time pass, to allow my life to wash past me in a flat tide. Here, at Winterbourne, with Constance hanging off my arm and Edmund running ahead, I feel hopeful and alive. There is nothing to be afraid of any longer.
Why my predecessor absconded I shall never understand. If a matter should arise of such urgency that I should be called away, that would be very well, but to disappear completely from my charges’ lives? I cannot imagine turning my back on the twins, accepting that I would never see them again. Already, and these are early days, Constance and Edmund have become part of me. Simply, I adore them. Each morning I wait for the sound of running footsteps on the landing above, the excitement of their squeals and their smiles lit up across the breakfast table. I was deeply touched on the afternoon they sketched me in the clearing; I should have known by their furtive whispers that they were planning a surprise, but when I saw the finished portraits I couldn’t help but gasp. They had drawn me all in white, in a sumptuous wedding dress with a full skirt and pretty sleeves, just as I had always dreamed of for myself, and just as I might have had, had I not lost the only man I ever loved. My love, my dearest love… For a fleeting moment the sun disappeared and I had simply stared, wondering how intuitive these angels could be to sense what had happened to me – the happiness that now remained for ever beyond my reach – and the heady mix of irony and sweet enticement their drawings provoked…before their laughter drew me from my reverie and reminded me it was children’s folly, nothing more. ‘You’d make a beautiful bride,’ Constance said, kissing my cheek. That the previous nurse could have left such heavenly companions in her wake astonishes me.
I spoke to Mrs Yarrow on Friday:
‘Isn’t it odd that the last governess sent no word of her whereabouts?’
‘It was a family matter,’ Mrs Yarrow replied.
‘Yes, Tom explained. But, knowing the children as I do, I find it strange to say the least. The captain hasn’t heard from her since?’
‘No one has.’
‘Did she have friends here? In the village?’
‘I wouldn’t know the first thing about her private life, miss.’
‘Of course not. Forgive me.’
Since our exchange, I have tried not to think too deeply about it. Just because I have found an intense connection with Edmund and Constance does not mean every woman would. I can only praise the governess, whoever she was, for the work she completed before her departure. Her students are courteous, inspired, loving and tender. I dote on them as I would my own. But I am training myself away from such fancies, for the children are my wards and there it