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Chapter Text

Tomorrow, we would welcome the guests for Manderley’s costume ball. Tonight, I walked around the dark, quiet halls of Manderley, long after we had retired for the night. I had done so before and I would do so again, whenever I could not sleep. It was calming. No one looked at me, no one had any opinions to form or voice, no one was lurking behind a corner. The nervous energy found a way out. I never had a goal, a destination in mind. I walked wherever my legs would take me.

That had changed tonight, for right when I was about to leave my room, when I had opened the door just a crack, I heard Maxim’s open and close down the hall. I heard footsteps, heard them come closer, and then, lit by the moonlight, I saw a tall, slender figure walk past my door, never noticing me.

Mrs Danvers.

Mrs Danvers, just as I had always known her. Her steps perfectly measured, her posture eerily straight. Her hair in that tight knot at the base of her neck, her jaw set and eyes narrowed, her hands folded in front of her.

Mrs Danvers had just left Maxim’s room, in the middle of the night. I needed to know why. I did not make a conscious decision to follow her, hadn’t exactly known I had until, a quite large distance between us, I was following Mrs Danvers throughout the house.

I was grateful for all the nights I had been far too restless to fall asleep, for I knew exactly which floorboards creaked and where to plant my feet on the staircase as to not make any sounds. Mrs Danvers never noticed me. After a detour downstairs, where she disappeared in the library for only a moment and almost immediately returned, we went up to the west wing.

It should not have surprised me. Rebecca’s room was in the west wing, of course. Maybe she had found something of Rebecca’s earlier around the house and had wanted to ask Maxim what to do with it. What could have been so important that it could not have waited until morning, though?

I stayed and waited, peeking around the corner, to see where Mrs Danvers would go. To my surprise, she did not enter Rebecca’s room. Mrs Danvers continued down the hall, walked past the room Giles was sleeping in, past several doors that would be occupied by guests tomorrow night. Was there another hidden passageway I had not yet discovered in my time here at Manderley? Would she take me through a door that led to another staircase, would we end up at the servants’ quarters still, somehow?

Mrs Danvers paused in front of the last door on the right. I knew this room. This was Bee’s room. The one she was sleeping in now, the room she had grown up in, the one she occupied whenever she and Giles stayed the night. Why would Mrs Danvers stop here?

I was so utterly confused. Beatrice hadn’t mentioned Mrs Danvers that often. She’d told me Mrs Danvers was always civil to her, but I could not remember Beatrice mentioning them having a friendly enough relationship for Mrs Danvers to be in front of her door in the middle of the night.

My trying to recall anything and everything Bee had ever said about Mrs Danvers came to an abrupt halt when I saw Mrs Danvers take a deep breath, and let go of the tension in her shoulders when she released it. Then, her hands went up into her hair, and when she brought them down again after a moment, her hair was freed from its constrictive knot.

I would have never thought her hair to be so long. It flowed just above her waist, a slight wave to it. Mrs Danvers ran a hand through it, took another deep breath, and then used that hand to knock on Bee’s door, three times in quick succession. She had bowed her head and looked at her feet.

Beatrice could not have been asleep yet, despite the late hour, for not long after Mrs Danvers had knocked, she was there in front of her. Mrs Danvers did not look up when the door opened. Even from a distance, I could see the hesitation with which Bee had answered the door turn into devastation once she had seen Mrs Danvers. She tried to scan her face, tucked a strand of greying hair behind Mrs Danvers’ ear. She bent her knees to look her in the eye, looked down at how Mrs Danvers’ fingers were twisting up the fabric of her black dress, and Bee’s face fell.

She stepped forward, brought her arms up, wound them around Mrs Danvers neck and shoulders. “Oh, honey,” she said. She closed her eyes and grabbed Mrs Danvers even tighter.

And then—

After that night, I had never thought Mrs Danvers frightening again. Not even the next day, when I realized what her suggestion for my costume meant. Mrs Danvers had once been a little girl with hopes and dreams, had ran around her parents’ garden smiling and laughing, had used her birthday wishes for a happy life, to find love, to be seen and understood. Her life here at Manderley had hardened her, had turned her into a stoic, indifferent housekeeper with thick, thick layers of brick wall around her heart.

I realized all that when instantly, the moment Beatrice held her close, she had shattered. Quietly, at first. I could only see how her shoulders shook against Bee’s steady frame, how her hands trembled when she brought them up around Beatrice’s waist.

But then I had heard Beatrice again. “You’re safe here, love. You’re safe now.” And then the rest of Mrs Danvers’ walls tumbled down. They stood there, for a while, Mrs Danvers’ sobs the only sound either of them made. Beatrice rocked them softly, from side to side. She kept one hand around Mrs Danvers’ shoulders, rubbed her back with the other one. At some point, she slightly turned her head to place a kiss on Mrs Danvers’ temple.

I could do nothing but watch in stunned silence and realize a few things.

One, I knew Mrs Danvers was tall. I knew Beatrice was tall. I hadn’t ever put together that they were around the same height.

Two, I had never—not until that very moment, not until I had seen the Mrs Danvers I had feared ever since my arrival break down—realized that they must’ve spent many moments together. Dinner parties, balls thrown at Manderley, a younger Beatrice asking Mrs Danvers every question entering her mind. They had known each other for decades before I had ever set foot in Manderley. The two of them would surely have witnessed the same events, the same conversations, the same guests, the sam—

“Let’s get you inside, Cecilia.”

Three, Mrs Danvers having a first name had never entered my mind. Not even once. Somewhere I knew, of course, that everyone had a first name, but it had never registered that Mrs Danvers would ever be addressed as anything but Mrs Danvers. I hadn’t heard it in all my time here at Manderley. Cecilia. Such a soft name for such a hard w—

Well, no. I suppose it did suit her. For this woman in Beatrice’s arms was not Manderley’s detached housekeeper, precise to a fault. This was not the woman about whom I wondered if she had been happy even once in her life. This was not the woman who, with her hands folded before her, standing straighter than I had thought humanly possible, and her eyes just as hostile as her voice, instilled the fear of God in me.

This woman, the woman in Bee’s arms, with her hair down and her heart on her sleeve, I could see her as a Cecilia. I could see her smiling, I could see her walking along the shore without a care in the world. I could see her as a little girl, twirling around in a flowy dress. If only she weren’t so, so devastated, right this moment.

Mrs Danvers had lifted her head, rested it upon Beatrice’s shoulder. She’d sniffed, once, twice, was wiping a few stray tears away before Bee put only just enough distance between them to take over from her. She pressed a kiss to Mrs Danvers’ forehead. Mrs Danvers’ eyes closed.

It was a bright night. The moon outside reflected off the tears in Beatrice’s eyes.

“I hate him, Bea,” Mrs Danvers whispered. It was a quiet night, too.

Beatrice hugged her tightly once more, before loosening her arms, smiling at her softly, and guiding Mrs Danvers inside. I had expected her to close the door, too, but then she turned around, looked me right in the eye, dropped her smile, cocked her head to the side and raised an eyebrow at me.

I froze completely. I did not know what to think. Or do.

Our stare was broken by a small, wavering voice I only knew to be Mrs Danvers’ because I had seen her go into Bee’s room a moment ago. It did not at all sound like the monotonous words I had come to associate with her.

“Bea? Is everything okay?”

Immediately, Bee turned back around, that soft smile gracing her face once again. “Yes, love. Though I think we should see about the mice population of Manderley. But that’s not for tonight, Lia. Why don’t we clean you up and get you comf—”

The heavy door had closed behind her, and I was alone again, wandering the halls of Manderley in the middle of the night.

I did not sleep for the remainder of the night. I went back to my room, but had not been able to stop thinking about what I had witnessed. I looked out over the rose garden trying to make sense of all I had seen. When the sky lightened up with the first rays of sunshine, I realized I had been awake the entire night. I could hear the staff start to wake up and bustle around. I saw a few gardeners wander out of the house, off to water the plants.

I heard Maxim’s door open, heard him walk past my room. I did not go out after him. I would see him later, at breakfast, with Giles and Beatrice. Beatrice, who had looked at me so dismissively before she went inside her room. To Mrs Danvers.

Mrs Danvers, whom I had seen leave Maxim’s room in the middle of the night, whom I had followed throughout the house to Bee’s door, whom I had seen loosen her hair, and whom I had seen break down in Beatrice’s arms. Mrs Danvers, who was at breakfast every morning.

I did not know what to expect. Did Bee tell Mrs Danvers I was there? Would she still act like the sister I had always missed before I came to Manderley? Should I apologize? Ignore last night completely, act like I had never seen a thing, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened? I did not know, and this I pondered, over and over, looking at the roses.

I needn’t have worried about making a decision, for the decision was made for me; a knock on the door startled me. “Can I come in, dear? It’s me, Bee,” I heard her say. She did not sound the way she looked last night. I hoped that was a good sign.

“Of course.”

The door opened. There she was, dressed like she always had, as if any minute now, she would be asked to mount a horse and defend the county’s honor in a dressage competition. I suppose it suited her. I looked like I had last night. I should have changed.

Beatrice walked in, right at me. I moved out of the way. I could see her try—and fail—to surpress a grin. She hadn’t intended to walk into me after all, for she merely opened up the windows, turned around and sat herself on my bed. She hadn’t said a word since she knocked. It made me nervous. I put my hand over my mouth, had to stop the words from falling out of it.

“I plan on eating breakfast later and not human beings, dear, you musn’t worry about that.”

I looked at her, nodded too fast. I hadn’t worried about her killing me. Is that what she meant? Now I did worry about that. Or would she attack me and start eating the flesh of my arms while I was still alive? That would be worrisome. I was too tired to think logically. I had been up all night. I think she knew; she sighed and wrung her hands together.

Then she stood up and walked over to me. She planted her hands on my shoulders and looked me in the eye. “She doesn’t know. I don’t want her to know. Is that clear?”

I wanted to nod, wanted to pretend like that whole night had never happened. Pretend I hadn’t seen cold, terrifying Mrs Danvers crumble into loose-haired, crying Cecilia. But I had been up for so long and my mind had been so full of questions.

“Bee, I— Why was Mrs Danvers in front of your room in the middle of the night? What did she do in Maxim’s room? Did she stay with you? How do you even know her well enough to hug her? Why did Maxim need her last ni—” I should have kept my hand over of my mouth. I stopped talking then, looked at the floor. I could feel my cheeks heating up.

Beatrice had taken a few steps back. She pinched the bridge of her nose, took a deep breath. “I can’t tell you that. I mean, I can,” she sighed again, “but I would need her permission to tell you. And I can’t ask for that without her finding out eventually that you were there. Which, like I said, I don’t want to happen.”

She could be so principled when she wanted to be. I slightly hated her for it. I wanted to retort, wanted to demand she tell me why my housekeeper had come out of my husband’s room in the middle of the night, but I did not dare do so. Not when I could still see the way Bee had looked at me every time I closed my eyes.

It must’ve been eight, then, for Clarice entered my room to dress me for the day. She gave Beatrice a polite smile. Beatrice nodded at her. She nodded at me, too, and left. I did not know whether I felt better or worse than before, when it was just me, my thoughts, the rose garden, and the rising sun.

It surprised me that I was not the last one to walk into the dining room that morning. Maxim was there, as were Frank and Giles. Frith was pouring coffee in Maxim’s cup. I did not see Mrs Danvers. I did not see Bee, either. Maxim and Frank were busy discussing tonight’s costume ball; they did not acknowledge me. Giles smiled.

I sat down and put a hard-boiled egg onto my plate. Mrs Danvers walked in. I tried to look at her from the corner of my eyes. She was rearranging the extra breakfast items on the various side tables. I did wonder what the kitchen did with all the food we would and could not eat.

Mrs Danvers did not show a trace of the woman I had seen at Beatrice’s door. I would have started to think I had dreamt it all, that I had not followed Mrs Danvers late last night, that she had not, in fact, knocked on Bee’s room, that I had not seen Beatrice embrace her so tightly and lovingly, if it weren’t for Beatrice walking in right that moment.

It was a good thing humans were never given the ability to shoot balls of fire out of our eyes, for Maxim would have been dead. He didn’t notice, of course—he had been too involved in his discussion with Frank—and Giles was reading the morning paper. But I had seen, and Mrs Danvers must’ve seen, too, for as soon as Bee had sat down next to me, Mrs Danvers passed behind us and ran her fingers along Beatrice’s shoulders.

She left the room, Maxim none the wiser. Beatrice had taken a deep breath when she had felt Mrs Danvers’ touch, and had returned to the joyful, enthusiastic sister-in-law I had met that first time. She held most of our conversation throughout breakfast, discussing the weather, asking Giles about his night and the newspaper, and telling me all about the latest book she had read.

I could hear Mrs Danvers order around the maids, could hear Robert welcome the handymen, to arrange the last things for the ball tonight. The guests would arrive in less than ten hours and we had much to do still. Beatrice kept talking, but I did not hear the majority of what she said. I was grateful she had never needed much input from me.

When I had finished my plate, Frank and Maxim stood up to leave. Maxim came around the table and kissed the top of my head. “I’ll see you tonight, darling.” I smiled at him. They left. I dreaded the moment Beatrice and I would be alone. Giles left too, not much later. I did not know where he went or what he would do, nor did I find the energy to ask him. Beatrice took my arm and led me to the library.

Mrs Danvers was there, arranging all sorts of flowers—many of which I had never seen before—into tasteful bouquets. I had not expected her to be there. I would have thought she’d be following around the maids, making sure that the guest rooms were prepared to her liking.

She straightened up and turned around when she heard us enter. Mrs Danvers’ face was as stoic as it always had been, her words as monotonous as before, her hands folded in front of her. “Madam. Mrs Lacy,” she nodded, before returning to her flowers. I looked at Bee. She had a slight smile on her face. I did not know what to make of it.

After Mrs Danvers had left the library, Beatrice stood up as well and turned to me.

“Remember earlier, when you asked me how I know Mrs Danvers well? I can’t tell you much, dear, but I will say this: during the war, when Giles and Maxim were away, as was a bunch of the male staff, and Rebecca spent much of her time in London, I stayed here at Manderley. There was little work to be done, and many hours to be spent.”

With that, she left, too.

Beatrice had always slightly resented Rebecca. She and Giles had had an understanding from the beginning of their courting, of course, which meant it wasn’t wrong for her to take an interest in Manderley’s newest member of staff, courtesy of the just as newly acquired Mrs de Winter.

It’s just that Mrs Danvers—still Ms, back then—was fascinating, that’s all. Tall and stoic, rather unapproachable, distant and cold with everyone. But, Beatrice thought, beneath that indifferent front, surely there was to be an actual person? A young woman with hopes and dreams and memories, a young woman who knew laughter and happiness?

So yes, she had resented her sister-in-law, just a pinch, for Rebecca spent most of her days with Ms Danvers. Ms Danvers spent most of her days with Rebecca. Beatrice did not think her brother’s wife worthy of it; she had noticed Rebecca’s coldness, her selfishness, and her cruelty.

She had tried, truly, but she and Rebecca never really formed a close bond. Especially not after that disaster at the Lacy stables. One time, one time, in the early months, when Beatrice still put in an effort to get to know the young woman her brother was in love with, she had asked her to her stables. One time. Beatrice still mourned Old Pepper.

The stables on her and Giles’ grounds were, per their wishes, occupied by horses they had rescued from abuse, neglect and slaughter. Beatrice knew you mustn’t startle a rescued horse, knew how they’d flinch when you suddenly stood next to them, or when you started to pet them and they hadn’t expected you to. Beatrice knew you had to approach these horses slowly, so slowly, knew it took time for them to trust you. Knew that you had to invest many, many hours of your time.

She knew it paid off, too, though, which made it all worth it.

Beatrice had always known about her brother’s anger, too, of course. She’d grown up with it, though it only seemed to get worse. He’d be alright, for a rather long time, until the vessel overflowed and whoever was closest to him would pay the price—yelling, mostly. She had never seen him physically hurt someone.

Growing up, she often thought it unfair Manderley would eventually be his, not hers. Beatrice had left Manderley when she and Giles were married, and so she wasn’t there every day, anymore. They lived an hour away. She hadn’t the means to spend her every waking hour at Manderley. Nor had she the will, ever since Maxim brought Rebecca there, ever since her brother started to feel more like an old family friend she only visited out of obligation.

So it took a while, though it shouldn’t have, given her infatuation with Ms Danvers. Beatrice wished, once she had noticed, that those scarce, short visits to Manderley had been more frequent, longer ones. It was subtle, really, the first time she noticed something was off.

It had been the eve of Rebecca’s first ball at Manderley, when she’d been married to Maxim not quite a year. Whenever Beatrice returned for an overnight stay at Manderley, she—and Giles—took residence in the room she had grown up in, in the west wing. She knew Maxim and Rebecca’s rooms were in the west wing, too.

After an endless dinner, while readying herself for bed, she heard a commotion in the hallway. She’d gone out to see what was happening, as had Giles, as had Rebecca and Ms Danvers. Beatrice had noticed how half of Rebecca’s hair had yet to be tamed, noticed the brush in Ms Danvers’ hand.

Maxim and Frank had, so it seemed, been continuing the heated discussion they had begun right after dinner. They hadn’t been too loud, but it was intense. “Good God, Max, let it rest. We can deal with it later,” Rebecca had said, moving forward. Giles had too, trying to separate the two men. He and Rebecca were standing between them, doing their best to keep them apart.

Maxim, apparently, wasn’t finished, for he turned on Frank again. “A stupid mistake someone with your experience should not ever make, Frank”, he had yelled, quite aggressively.

Rebecca had been looking at Frank, trying to stop him from turning on Maxim, so she hadn’t seen. Giles did the same with Maxim, so he hadn’t seen, either. Frank was watching Rebecca, and Maxim was staring at Frank.

None of them had noticed. Beatrice had.

The very moment Maxim had started yelling at Frank, Beatrice had seen how Ms Danvers had tensed up, how she’d instantly straightened her back, how her hand had curled even tighter around Rebecca’s hairbrush, how she’d closed her eyes and had taken a deep breath.

It was small, so small, over before anyone else had had the chance to see. But Beatrice knew her frightened horses, and Beatrice knew why they were scared and how they behaved, still, even when they had been removed from the threat. Those horses wanted to please her, always, never did anything that could even be perceived as wrong, for fear of being hit again, for fear of having to work many hours with little rest, for fear of being starved. Beatrice knew her frightened horses.

Someone had, at some point in her life, turned Ms Danvers into a frightened horse. Beatrice’s heart broke.

The others had their hands full—quite literally—and so Beatrice had turned to look at Ms Danvers, had seen her let out another breath, had seen her nod to herself, once, and had seen her open her eyes, looking right at Beatrice, but averting her gaze quickly. Beatrice thought Ms Danvers must have figured out she knew, for Ms Danvers had never, not once, looked her in the eye again after that, for a long, long time.

Beatrice often thinks back to when that changed, the moment it shifted. During the war, when Maxim, and Giles, and many of the men on staff had been sent off to fight, when Manderley had been reduced to operating under a skeleton staff. Rebecca spent a lot of time in London, even then. She came back to Manderley, maybe, at most, one week a month. Ms Danvers was explicitly not allowed to go to London with her, even though she was Rebecca’s lady’s maid.

With Giles off to the war, Beatrice was lonely at home. With Maxim off to the war and Rebecca off to London, Manderley was much too big for the skeleton staff alone. Beatrice spent a lot of time at the house she grew up in, roaming familiar halls, wandering worn paths in the gardens, and waiting for Giles’ letters.

Ms Danvers hadn’t a job, with the mistress she tended to up in London. She helped the few house maids left with the regular upkeep of the house, but that, too, did not take up much of her time. And, even after five years, she had not really become a part of them. Beatrice knew Ms Danvers liked the sea, often saw her walk in its direction, from the library she frequented.

On a particular rainy day, though, Ms Danvers entered the library. Beatrice had been tucked away in a corner far away from, but with a clear view of the entry doors. That morning, she had heard the staff talk about Rebecca’s return, next week. It had been two months. Giles knew, of course, of her concern about Ms Danvers, shared in it. She had sat at one of the many desks spread around the library, writing to him, with a mostly finished letter. Ms Danvers has joined me in the library now. I’m afraid I must end here, dear Giles. Stay safe. I will see you soon. Love, Beatrice.

She’d heard Ms Danvers sit down, and was so tempted to walk up to her and start asking her every question that had entered her head since the day she had met Rebecca’s maid. She knew her frightened horses, though. Knew not to do that. Knew to approach slowly, knew to announce herself and not startle them.

“I don’t want to scare you, Ms Danvers. It’s Beatrice. I’m a few rows away from you, at the desk behind the history shelf, here.”

“Oh, Mrs Lacy, I had no knowledge of your presence in the library at this hour of day. My apologies. I will leave you to your reading, Madam.”

Her voice was steady enough, no one would have noticed had they not been attuned to every fibre of Ms Danvers’ being. Beatrice was. She had heard the slight waver in it. It concerned her. These last weeks, while Beatrice had been at Manderley, when she had had all day to observe and learn, Ms Danvers had been Ms Danvers, the way Beatrice knew her to be. Distant, closed off, and precise to a fault. Not one emotion visible on her face, her walk perfectly measured. Whenever Ms Danvers addressed anyone, be it staff or her, Beatrice knew she spoke eloquently, monotonously and without any hesitation. Everything she did, or said, held to the highest standard of perfection.

This was not that.

“Be assured you do not have to leave on my account, Ms Danvers. I don’t particularly mind,” she replied, making her way back to the front of Manderley’s vast library. Ms Danvers had stood up eerily straight again, had folded her hands in front of her, not a hair out of place.

“I am not to disturb the lady when she nor the master have requested me, Madam. Certainly not when the lady has turned to reading. Have a good day,” she said, as she made her way to the heavy library doors. Beatrice kept repeating ‘frightened horse’ in her head, so as to not make any sudden moves towards her brother’s wife’s maid.

“I am not your mistress, Ms Danvers, nor am I my brother. Frankly, I do not care what he instructs you to do. This is your home as much as it is his, has been for just as long as it has been hers. You are allowed in the library on your own time. Please sit down. Would you like me to fetch you some tea?”

That had made her falter, a little, Beatrice remembers. Ms Danvers had frowned at her. “The lady is never to serve me, Madam. I am to service the house, its master and its lady.”

“The lady is not here to see it, Ms Danvers. And given that I don’t much like her, I sure as the devil won’t tell her, or my brother,” Beatrice’d added, smirking.

She had faltered some more. Beatrice recalls how her hands had started to twist the fabric of her black dress, how she had bowed her head and looked at the floor. When she looked up again, she’d been worrying her lower lip between her teeth.

“I promise, Ms Danvers. Mr de Winter shall never know I brought you tea. Pinky promise, even, should that reassure you more,” Beatrice smiled. She had not gotten a smile back, like she’d hoped. But she hadn’t received a frown, either, so she’d counted it as a win.

Ms Danvers had looked down once more, and then given a slight nod. Beatrice’s heart grew ten sizes when those hands had unclasped, and a hesitant pinky had been outstretched towards her.

Beatrice locked her pinky into the offered one. “You will have to look me in the eye for it to count, though, Ms Danvers,” she had said lightly. To her surprise, her hazel eyes met Ms Danvers’ icy blue ones for the first time in years.

They’d spent many, many hours in the library, then, that week, late into the night. She hadn’t expected it. Hadn’t thought that, after Beatrice’s offer of tea, Ms Danvers would indeed sit down and stay. That she’d thaw, gradually, slowly, eventually. Hadn’t thought she would ever be given the opportunity to unravel the tightly coiled thread holding Ms Danvers together. It’s a week she still, to this day, treasures immensely.

It wasn’t much, at first, but she’d learned that Rebecca’s maid preferred black tea to green tea and that she never really had an appetite in the morning. She liked the winter more than she did the summer, she was right-handed for practicality but had been left-handed as a child—this Beatrice learned when, one night, Ms Danvers had tripped on her way to the sofa and had put out her left hand to break her fall—and she was an avid reader.

As the mornings turned into afternoons, and the afternoons turned into evenings, and the evenings turned into nights, Beatrice returned time and time again to the library with Ms Danvers right beside her. They didn’t talk all the time; Beatrice would write to Giles, Ms Danvers would dust the miles of shelves, they’d light the fire together, they’d drink tea, they’d read in opposing comfortable chairs.

Beatrice would, indeed, glance up from time to time, trying not to be caught, her eyes quickly returning to the book in her lap when, inevitably, she was—and fail, too, to stop the blush from heating up her cheeks when Ms Danvers raised a single eyebrow and let the corners of her mouth lift into a slight smile.

And slowly but surely, throughout the day and over the week, she would share little pieces of herself, all of which Beatrice kept closely to her heart. Her favorite fruit was an apple, she’d said, because ever since she’d been a little girl, she’d give half of them to the horses. Beatrice had asked if she rode, too, which she’d confirmed, and it had taken every single ounce of her formal upbringing for Beatrice not to eagerly suggest they go riding together, sometime.

She had a scar on her left wrist from burning herself once, lighting a fire, one on her left arm from when a horse bit her, and another set of scars on her right thigh, she’d said, though without giving any further details about those last ones. Beatrice didn’t ask.

Beatrice did tell her about her own scars—the cluster on her hip from when Maxim had pushed her and she’d fallen through a sheet of glass, growing up, the one from the time she ran barefoot across the garden as a child and was abruptly stopped by the pain and blood coming from the sole of her right foot, and the several scars on the underside of her left upper arm. Ms Danvers didn’t ask about those, either, but Beatrice let herself be directed next to her onto the sofa for their after-dinner reading session that day, didn’t protest at all when Ms Danvers guided her closer, and closer still, until she put Beatrice’s head on her shoulder and an arm around Beatrice’s waist.

She wouldn’t’ve sworn it in a court room, didn’t entirely (allow herself to) believe that she hadn’t imagined it, right between that space of being awake and falling asleep, but Beatrice thinks she felt Ms Danvers press a kiss into her hair when she couldn’t keep her eyes open long enough anymore to properly focus on the words swimming on the pages of the book she held in Ms Danvers’ lap.

Chapter Text

After lunch, when the overnight guests from our dinner party yesterday had left and Maxim, Giles, and Frank had gone out golfing, Beatrice and I retired to the library. The flowers in the garden had started to bloom a few days ago, but I thought it too chilly still to take a walk around the estate. Perhaps in a week or two. For now, the library was a fine substitute.

Beatrice and I had discussed a book we’d both read, ones we’d read before, and she recommended me several she had enjoyed in the past. I had shown her some recent sketches, mostly of Jasper and the flowers around Manderley, and we had been talking about preparations for the costume ball when Robert and Frith walked in to serve tea and scones, at our usual time of half past four.

“Oh, Frith, would you fetch Mrs Danvers for me?” Bee asked, as they were about to leave. I supposed she wanted to ask Mrs Danvers about the costume ball, something about the menu, maybe? Or which forgotten rooms the staff had to get ready for overnight guests, what bands we had to hire. I looked over at her in question, but she only smiled at me.

I had just taken a sip of my tea—rather too hot—and taken a bite of a scone, when the door to the library opened anew. Mrs Danvers entered, clad in that black dress. She closed the heavy door I continuously struggled with as if it weighed but a few pounds, and folded her hands before her, the expression on her face so distinctly neutral. I wondered, once more, if she had smiled or felt joy even once in her lifetime.

She addressed me: “You asked for me, Madam?”

I shook my head, turning to look at Beatrice next to me and let her take over, but she was focused on Mrs Danvers, who, in turn, was determinedly looking at me. “I did not, Mrs Danvers. Mrs Lacy asked Frith to bring you here.”

I saw her narrow her eyes at me, a frown forming. She nodded, once, still steadily only turned to me. “I see. No thank you, Madam,” she said. She made to turn back to the library doors, but was halted by Beatrice speaking up.

“You will stay, Mrs Danvers,” I heard her say, “and you know why.” I did not understand what was going on. What the devil did Bee have to talk to Mrs Danvers about? Had Mrs Danvers done anything reckless I was unaware of, which Beatrice had found out by accident? Had she impulsively fired half the staff for the thirty-minute delay yesterday’s dinner had, or some other most unthinkable thing?

Mrs Danvers’ back was facing us. Her voice was dull, devoid of any emotion. “I do know why, Mrs Lacy, which is precisely the reason I will be going, now, and return to my duties as housekeeper of Manderley.

“You will not,” Beatrice insisted. I wished either of them would tell me what was happening. Mrs Danvers turned back around, and did not look at Beatrice.

“I would like to assist the housemaids with overturning last night’s guest rooms, Madam. As you know, three of them are tucked away upstairs, sitting out their fever. I believe there is much work still to be done,” she said monotonously, talking to me.

I did not know what to do. Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced at Beatrice, who was shaking her head at me. It was clear she wanted Mrs Danvers to stay here. Why, though, I had no idea. “It seems Mrs Lacy has something to tell you, Mrs Danvers.”

“I do indeed, dear, thank you,” Bee smiled, patting my arm.

Mrs Danvers’ frown deepened. “Respectfully, Madam, I am leaving,” she replied. She was looking right into my eyes, steadily ignoring Beatrice.

Apparently, Beatrice had had enough of Mrs Danvers’ resistance, for she made to stand up. “You are most definitely not, or I will address you by your first name right this instant.”

I had never even considered that Mrs Danvers had a first name, which, in hindsight, was extremely naive on my part. Of course Mrs Danvers had a first name, everyone does. I had not heard anyone address her as anything other than ‘Mrs Danvers’ in all the time I had been here, though. Except for Mr Favell, who called her ‘Danny’, but that could hardly be her first name. No parent in their right mind would name their child ‘Danny Danvers’, surely? How did Bee know?

It was an effective threat, though, because this, at last, caused Mrs Danvers to stop staring at me. She turned to Beatrice, cocking her head, raising an eyebrow, those hands still folded in front of her, her voice just as cold as the look in her eyes. I had never been more afraid of her. “Are you keeping me hostage, Mrs Lacy, in a house not under your command?”

I could hear Beatrice’s sigh, to my left. She sat down again, placing her elbows on her knees. Beatrice, for as long as I’d known her, had been full of energy, and life, and joy. It was odd to see her saddened, looking at the floor, her head in her hands.

She looked up again, at Mrs Danvers.

“Please don’t talk to me like I treat you as anything less than my equal. I only wanted to— I thought before the men got back from their golfing, and I figured the library was a fine place to do so,” she said. I still did not understand what she was talking about. “I understand that this— I could ask Mrs de Winter to leave, if you would prefer?”

I was so lost. Mrs Danvers was not, for she straightened even more—I had not thought it possible—and set her jaw. She looked out the window behind us, now.

“It is not for the lady of the house to adhere to my wishes. I am here to service the house, its master and its lady.”

Bee closed her eyes. I had no idea what to do. Beatrice stood up and began making her way to Mrs Danvers, who took a step back and ended up pressed against the door, still that unsettingly stoic expression on her face. Beatrice walked right up to her, Mrs Danvers’ eyes darting between hers. I had never noticed they were about the same height.

“You might have forgotten, Mrs Danvers, that the lady of the house is my sister-in-law. I can ask her to leave if you need me to.”

“I did not forget, Mrs Lacy. I am acutely aware of your connection to my employer. Even so, the lady should do as she pleases. I shall not wish to dictate how or where she spends her day.”

They were speaking so formally to each other, and yet their body language did not seem to reflect that at all. They were still several inches apart, but had a stranger walked in, he would have never thought they were of a different social standing. Although maybe that is precisely what Beatrice had meant to convey, earlier.

“Must this really be so difficult, Ce—”

Before Bee could finish her sentence, before I had good and well processed her words, she had been cut off by Mrs Danvers’ hand, clamped over her mouth. It had happened so swiftly she had to stabilize herself, putting her hands on Mrs Danvers’ waist.

I was speechless, too. Never would I have expected Mrs Danvers to act in such a way, so human-like. Like any school-girl would, had a friend been on the verge of spilling her deepest secret. Like if a classmate were to tell the boy you fancied about your affection for him.

I was so utterly confused, but Beatrice sounded relieved. I saw her move her hands to Mrs Danvers’ cheeks. “There you are.”

Mrs Danvers let her head fall back against the library door, turned it to the side. It was not a smile, per se, but I could see her frown disappear, could see the corners of her mouth turn up slightly. “Please just get this over with, Bea,” she said, looking her in the eye.

This whole encounter was so strange. I did realize in that moment, for the first time in all these months, that they must have known each other for many, many years, long before I ever arrived at Manderley, and that they must have an extensive history of shared memories. Of Rebecca, of Maxim, of the staff and the grounds and the dogs and the rooms and the parties and th—

“Happy birthday, Cecilia,” Beatrice whispered, only just loud enough for me to hear, too.

What?

Beatrice knew she’d won their little stand-off the instant she had walked over there, when she’d seen Mrs Danvers take a step back, had seen her pressed against the heavy, intricate library doors. She had won, once her dear, dear Mrs Danvers had put that hand with long, slender fingers over her mouth, trying to stop her from revealing a first name none of the staff had ever known about. It hadn’t worked, of course, for Beatrice adored the name. She’d prefer to call Manderley’s housekeeper by her first name anytime she addressed her.

“There you are.”

There she was. Her beautiful Cecilia, softened just enough. Softened enough to drop the act, softened enough to let go of the thick, thick brick layers protecting that wonderful heart. It didn’t happen often, Beatrice knew. Knew, too, that she was one of the very, very few people in the history of the world with whom Mrs Danvers was able to be Cecilia, with whom she let herself be Cecilia.

It was a marvelous thing, seeing Mrs Danvers soften to Cecilia.

Beatrice had won, already, but she gave herself a few extra points when Mrs Danvers rested her head against the door, when—reluctantly, Beatrice knew—the corners of her mouth started to resemble a smile.

“Please just get this over with, Bea.”

Quietly, so quietly. She was so soft-spoken. Someone who knew only Mrs Danvers could never even begin to suspect how soft her Cecilia was. Mrs Danvers was strict, formal, business-like, cold, efficient. Her face without emotion, at all times.

Cecilia, though, Cecilia smiled. Tiny ones, yes, which weren’t much more than upturned corners of her mouth, but oh, Beatrice favorites were the ones where her joy was so, so apparent there was no choice but to smile. And when Cecilia smiled, her nose scrunched, and Beatrice could see the small, pretty lines around her eyes.

“Happy birthday, Cecilia.”

Beatrice hadn’t expected her to smile that smile, knew that, especially in front of Maxim’s wife, Mrs Danvers would do everything in her power to remain Mrs Danvers, but the one she did receive was more than enough for her. The butterflies in her stomach had awoken the moment she had seen her enter the library, but here, now, so, so close to her, seeing her drop Mrs Danvers for Cecilia, only for her, they seemed to burst out of her.

Beatrice could see the amused roll of her crinkled eyes, the faint blush to her cheeks she had never been able to hide, the way she tilted her head slightly, and knew—even though her sister-in-law was undoubtedly still standing right there, staring at them—Cecilia would let her kiss her.

She ran a thumb across her cheek, felt her hands on her waist, raised an eyebrow in question just to be absolutely sure her Cecilia was as okay with this as she was, and when she received a tiny nod, she leaned forward, and did exactly that. The scratch of nails on her belly did extremely little to tame those butterflies.

Chapter Text

Beatrice and I had been in the library, discussing the latest gossip she had heard on her most recent trip to London, when I heard the house phone ring. I need not concern myself with it, for either Robert, Frith, or Mrs Danvers would answer. While Bee went on and on, I strained my ears to try and listen in, but I could not hear anything after it had been picked up.

Beatrice’s recount of her fitting appointment was interrupted by the heavy library doors opening. Mrs Danvers walked in, turned around and closed the doors again. When she turned back to us, she was standing eerily straight, her gaze narrowed, her hands folded at her waistline, though she did not address either of us. She kept walking, to the deeper parts of the library. I turned to Bee, frowning. Beatrice was watching Mrs Danvers walk away.

“Edith? May I speak with you for a moment?”

I knew Edith, she was one of our young house maids. I hadn’t realized it earlier, but indeed, Edith would dust all shelves and all books in the library every three weeks, which must’ve been today. She had been at Manderley longer than me, was a quiet, efficient worker.

“Of course, Mrs Danvers. How can I help?”

That, too. Always willing to assist with anything she could.

“Nothing of the sort, Edith. I need to discuss a personal matter with you,” I heard Mrs Danvers say. Though her voice was not as cold as I had expected, not as flat as when she would address me. “Manderley received a phone call just now. I spoke to your mother.”

“Oh? Is she alright?”

I could hear Mrs Danvers’ sigh. “She is not, Edith. I’m terribly sorry to— Yesterday evening, your father sadly passed away in an accident at work. He did not suffer, dear, it was instantaneous. I’m sorry for your loss. Oh—”

Mrs Danvers suddenly stopped talking, when I heard two bodies collide. Edith started sobbing, then.

“Oh, honey. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Never before had I known Mrs Danvers to apologize to—or to empathize with—anyone else. I could not imagine Mrs Danvers as she must be now, holding onto a crying girl, stroking her back. The idea was absurd to me, and yet it had to be the precise thing happening at the moment.

“He’s dead?”

“He is, dear. I’m sorry,” Mrs Danvers answered.

The crying went on for a while. Beatrice and I sat in absolute silence. We could hear Mrs Danvers comfort Edith. From time to time, we could hear Edith fight a sob that made it to the surface nonetheless. Eventually, when she had quieted down, when she only sniffled, Mrs Danvers spoke up again.

“Here at Manderley, Edith, you get two weeks to go home, to be home. You can decide when you go. Your mother told me on the phone that the funeral would be next Saturday. You can leave today if you want, be back in two weeks’ time. Or you could stay here for a few days longer and travel home on Friday, to be there in time for the funeral. It is all up to you. You only have to let me know and I will arrange your travel plans.”

I had not known this myself. Should I have been the one to inform Edith of her father’s passing, I could not have told her she was allowed two weeks to go home to her family. I felt so inadequate. Maxim had never told me how the staffing worked, how we seeked new employees or how much vacation time they were allowed.

Mrs Danvers continued: “You are free for the rest of the day, too, Edith. I’ll finish up here. And should you ever wish or need to talk, please do come find me. Anytime, okay?”

“Thank you, Mrs Danvers,” Edith responded, timidly. She sniffled once more, blew her nose. I could hear her footsteps coming to the front of the library, then, could hear her breath hitch when she saw Beatrice and me sitting there.

I stood up, but dared not move closer to her. “I’m sorry for your loss, Edith,” I said. I did not know what else to say. What do you say to a young girl who lost her father? No one had known what to say to me, either.

Bee had stood up, too. “As am I, dear. Like Mrs Danvers said, you say the word and we will arrange your travel plans back home. I hope you can find some peace in the fact that he did not suffer. I know that his spirit will live on in you and your siblings, and I hope that the Manderley library may, in time, remind you of his appreciation for the classics and not only be the place where you heard of his passing. I am certain that the rest of the staff will be of great support to you, and I hope that, should you wish to, my brother, sister-in-law and I, can be, too.”

So, as it turned out, Beatrice knew what to say to a young girl who lost her father.

Edith bowed, slightly. “Thank you, Mrs de Winter, Mrs Lacy.” She left the library, then. I watched her go. When I moved to sit down again, Mrs Danvers was making her way toward us. Bee had, while Edith had been leaving, taken a seat on the couch, although she rose once she had seen Mrs Danvers.

Mrs Danvers’ eyes were red-rimmed. I had never seen even a hint of emotion on her face before. It was a strange sight. “Thank you, Beatrice,” Mrs Danvers had said, still quite a few feet away from us.

That was strange, too. Although the strangest thing had been yet to come, for Bee crossed the distance in only three quick strides, and embraced Mrs Danvers tightly. “Thank you, Cecilia,” she sighed, “that was beautiful. Edith will forever remember your gentleness. She will never have to weep in a quiet, dark corner of this massive house because her housekeeper was so immensely unkind to her, left only for her employer’s sister to find her in the middle of the night.”

It was harder to hear Beatrice’s quiet words, but I could just make them out. I had not processed Beatrice addressing Mrs Danvers by another name. I did not understand what she seemed to be alluding to with her words. Mrs Danvers did, though, for she let go of the tension in her shoulders even more, more than she initially had when Beatrice had taken her into her arms, and bowed her head to rest her forehead on Bee’s shoulder. “I hope so, Bea,” she whispered.

I did not believe what I saw. Mrs Danvers had almost seemed like a normal human being, then, and not like the woman I had come to fear. She straightened up again, not much later, smiled at Bee. That was unexpected, too. I had never seen Mrs Danvers show even a hint of a smile. I had not ever imagined her with anything but that stern expression on her face.

Beatrice put her hands on Mrs Danvers’ shoulders and kissed her forehead. Mrs Danvers closed her eyes, took a deep breath when Beatrice rested her hands on her waist, next. Then she looked at Bee again, raised a hand to caress her cheek. “Thank you,” she said softly. Beatrice smiled at her and let her go, after squeezing her hand one last time.

Mrs Danvers addressed me. “I will ask the maids to distribute Edith’s tasks among themselves, Madam, once she has decided when she is going home. For today, I will carry out the rest of her duties.”

Then she turned around again, started walking to the back of the library where Edith had been dusting the shelves. I looked at Beatrice, who was watching Mrs Danvers go with a small smile. She shook her head at me, when she sat back down.

Neither of us ever spoke again about what I had witnessed.

Chapter Text

Mrs Danvers had not been feeling well that morning, had probably caught the cold that had been making its way around the staff these last few weeks, and so the mail had come unfiltered to the morning room. It was a beautiful day, the first days of autumn fast approaching; I had opened the windows to let the cool breeze blow around the warm room.

Sat at the desk, I began to look through the letters that had arrived the last two days. I saw a few letters addressed to Frank or Maxim, so I put those to the side. There were sweet letters and drawings from children who had toured Manderley during one of our open days, we had some for Mrs Danvers, Frith and Mrs Rutherford—I assumed those were about the upkeep of Manderley—and we had received letters for several members of our staff, letters from home.

Somewhere in between the orders, bills, and children’s letters, though, there had been one addressed to ‘Cecilia’. We did not have a Cecilia on our staff, I was certain of it. After all this time, I knew enough about the people working here to know this. I would have thought it a mistake, had Manderley’s name and address not been written underneath ‘Cecilia’, though.

I did not recognize the handwriting. There was no return address on the back. I did not know a Cecilia who lived at Manderley. What would be the harm in satisfying my curiosity? I was Mrs de Winter, the mistress of the house, I had a right to know what this mysterious letter said.

With this conviction in mind—and after making sure the door to the morning room was, indeed, closed—I picked up a letter opener from the desk and put it to work. I took out the several sheets of fancy paper. It did not have a house crest or stamp on it, to my disappointment. I would have to read the letter to find out to whom it was addressed and who sent it.

My dearest, Cecilia,

Oh. This was to be a letter for a lover, I was sure of it. My dearest, comma, Cecilia. Maxim sparsely wrote to me when he was away on his trips, but whenever he did, he wrote ‘Dear’, and then described his days. He had never started off his letters or postcards by calling me ‘his dearest’. This man must love his woman very much.

Shall we do business or pleasure first, my love? I do prefer to end on a hopeful and loving note, though I do not think I can keep my thoughts of you off of this paper until then. We will find out together. As always, I was delighted to see your letter among the usual ones, this week.

What you wrote rings true: I can barely believe how long it has been since I last had the honor of looking at you. It is possible, as you have mentioned, that we had both gotten too used to it. I did not mind it as much in the moment, my dear.

One can hardly be expected to not want to be in your company as often as one seems fit, however I find that now, as the days and weeks drag on, a part of me wishes I would not have thought it a regularity, for my heart hurts with every second I do not spend with you.

These people did not appear to see each other often. It was a romantic sentiment, to have a heart hurt due to not seeing the one you love. I had never felt that. Whenever Maxim left for a few days, I did miss him, in a sense, but I never felt as if a part of me had been ripped out. I was always happy when he returned, and the first thing he’d do was kiss me.

I was incredibly sad to read about our Amor, though I had never expected it to survive as long as it did. I am not superstitious—and I do not believe you are, either—so we should be just fine, my love. It hurts, I know it does, it hurts me too, but we are built on more than a statue, Cecilia.

We are winter nights. Mysterious, secretive, ever-lasting. Long winter nights are, I believe, the world’s gift to us. The stars have always known we were destined to be, long before we ever came into existence. The universe decided to listen, granted us our nights.

The statue of Amor? Manderley had one of those, in the morning room. I broke it by accident. Hmm. I was even more destined to find out who this Cecilia was; if she had written to someone about the statue being broken, she must indeed live here at Manderley. But Manderley did not have a Cecilia on staff. What a curious case.

And what a romantic idea, to think that your relationship has been written in the stars for as long as they have existed. I did not believe Maxim and I’s relationship to be like that; our meeting was purely coincidental. Why would these two people be winter nights, though? That’s a strange concept. I would compare love to brightness and sun and warmth. Not any of those. Had I been wrong in thinking they were soulmates?

Jasper nudged at my feet, then, and I relocated to a more comfortable seat in the morning room. He followed me, plopped down at my feet. I continued to read the intriguing letter.

The dark had always scared me, until it became the one thing that keeps us safe. The dark hides the color in your cheeks, hides my trembling hands, hides the tears you kiss away. I would still be wary of the dark, had it not brought me this, had it not brought me all of you.

You let your hair down in the dark and you smile so softly when I invent constellations out of the freckles on your skin. You are not afraid to exist and you tell me you love me. I can freely whisper how intoxicatingly beautiful you are and the dark lets you touch me, hold me, embrace me.

In the dark, the light of the moon reflects off your eyes. I believe the moon sees us, my dearest, and does her best to stay as long as she can. She buys us all the precious time she can afford, for she knows the days are so unbearably long. The sun does not shield us; the moon is gentle.

I don’t think anyone had ever made me feel that way, how the writer had when expressing these thoughts. Cecilia, whoever she may be, was so deeply loved, I could feel it with every word I read. And it seems she loved the writer a great deal, too.

I had never had the urge to connect the birthmarks on Maxim’s skin. What a foreign concept. I had also never thought the moon sentient. The moon is just there, at night. And why would they have to hide? I wished for my eyes to read faster and faster.

‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’ would be an insult to us both, Cecilia. Summer brings short nights with her, nights that inevitably, far too soon, turn into days again. Our time together during those months is so scarce I cannot help but resent the sun. We are not summer days.

I know the light of day hurts us, my love. Springtime and summer, those sunny, sunny months where life begins anew, when the flowers bloom and the birds sing, the breeze over the cliffs is calm and the world at large turns green, cannot ever enchant me the way you do.

Having finished these two paragraphs, I had two reasons for not ever wanting to meet these people, whoever they were. Did they think themselves better than Shakespeare? Granted, it was not my favorite work of his, either, but to call Sonnet 18 an insult? Unbelievable. And who in their right mind hates summer? What kind of person sees the world waking up again after a long, cold winter, and does not feel immense joy from that?

I had half a mind to throw the letter away, then. I was, however, much too invested still to find out who wrote it, and who this Cecilia was. Surely, if the letter had been sent to Manderley, someone here must have been the beneficiary? I needed to know who.

I continued reading, then, but afterwards, I wished I hadn’t, many, many times. How I wished I could go back in time and never open this letter.

I can hardly wait to have you in my arms again, see you let go of the Manderley housekeeper front and truly become my Cecilia once more. My Cecilia, who smiles and caresses, who blushes and hugs, who loves and loves and loves. My Cecilia, who brightens every night.

The letter fell out of my hands onto my lap. Cecilia was……Mrs Danvers? Mrs Danvers, Manderley’s housekeeper? Mrs Danvers, who at all times looks like the most stern teacher you will ever meet? Mrs Danvers, clad in her black dress, with her hair forever tied back in a low knot, her hands folded at her waistline, her eyes narrowed, and her words as flat as can be?

That Mrs Danvers was Cecilia—”who smiles and caresses, who blushes and hugs, who loves and loves and loves”? Not a chance in the world. It couldn’t be. Surely this was a mistake. Perhaps the writer meant a different housekeeper, the one before Mrs Danvers.

I did not know how long Mrs Danvers had been head of staff and Maxim had never told me the name of Manderley’s previous housekeeper, but surely the writer must’ve written to that woman. Not Mrs Danvers. I was convinced of this. The Mrs Danvers I know could never kiss away someone’s tears, could not let her hair out of its knot. I think she sleeps in it.

But then again, it had not been that long since I broke the statue of Amor. The previous housekeeper could have never written that. I needed to know more, needed more input to further prove that Cecilia was not Mrs Danvers. Or that Mrs Danvers was not Cecilia. Either way worked.

But enough of that; I truly am aware that you do not have the time to sit around and let your cheeks color to that shade of pink I so adore—or, heaven forbid, be caught smiling by the rest of the Manderley staff. Moving on to business, then.

I do not have many requests this time around, Cecilia. She is not the inviting kind, which is a shame. I could, of course, invite them over here for dinner once every fortnight should they not show initiative themselves, but that would defeat the purpose entirely now, would it not?

I know the two of you don’t really get along, my dearest, as is your right—God knows the first one and I did not—but could you subtly ask? Make her organize a ball, start a new tradition with the come of autumn for all I care.

Am I the woman the writer refers to? Who would invite Maxim and me over for dinner? Not many people do. The writer doesn’t, it appears, so that did not help me. Of course, if his purpose was to see her, he would not invite us over. We would not take our staff with us to have dinner at someone else’s house.

And “the first one”—Rebecca? I thought everyone loved Rebecca. I thought Rebecca infatuated every man in the wide surroundings. Everyone except this writer, it seems.

When I had read that second paragraph, it started to dawn on me that Cecilia might very well be Mrs Danvers; Clarice and I are the closest thing to friends, the other maids and I have a good rapport, the staff in the kitchen and I get along as well. The only woman employed at Manderley I’m afraid of is Mrs Danvers. It couldn’t be. Right?

I just wish to see you. More often than I do now, for longer periods of time than I do now. That half an hour, last time, was hardly enough. And don’t tell me you disagree. You forget I know you better than you do yourself.

I miss you. I love you. I am in love with you. Years and years and years I have loved you. I will love you far beyond the limits of our earthly lives. I have loved you from the moment the universe was born and will love you until the very second it collapses.

Even though I had said earlier that I would never want to meet this writer for calling Sonnet 18 an insult, I did want to meet the man that thought the world of his Cecilia. The man that thought Mrs Danvers the center of his universe. I wanted to talk to him, wanted to ask him how he could ever believe her to be anything but cold and cruel. There was no return address on the envelope, though, no way to find out who had written such loving words about Mrs Danvers.

I read the last lines. It felt as if my eyes would fall out of their sockets. I was in shock.

It is an outright miracle I hadn’t suffered a heart attack after finishing the letter.

Yours, always, but especially in our beloved dark,

Beatrice