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.