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.
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.