The Woman In The Mirror: A haunting gothic story of obsession, tinged with suspense

‘Oh.’

‘As a widower, he has understandably struggled. These are difficult times.’

I’m surprised. ‘Did his wife die recently?’

Immediately I know I have spoken out of turn. I am not here to question this man; he is here to question me. My interest is unwelcome.

‘Tell me, Miss Miller,’ he says, bypassing my enquiry with ease, ‘what occupation did you hold during the war?’

‘I volunteered with the WVS.’

The man teases the end of his moustache. ‘Nurturing yet capable: would that be a fair assessment?’

‘I’d suggest the two aren’t mutually exclusive.’

He writes something down.

‘Have you always lived in London?’

‘I grew up in Surrey.’

‘And attended which school…?’

‘Burstead.’

His eyebrow snags, impressed but not liking to show it. I know my education was among the finest in the country. My mother was schooled at Burstead, and my grandmother before that. There was never any question that my parents would send me there. I tighten my fists in my lap, remembering my father’s face over that Sunday lunch in 1940. The ticking of the mantle clock, the shaft of winter sunlight that bounced off the table, the smell of burned fruit crumble… His rage when I told him what I had done. That the education they had bought for me had instead brought a nightmare to their door. The sound of smashing glass as my mother walked in, letting the tumbler fall, shattering into a thousand splinters on the treacle-coloured carpet.

He clears his throat, tapping the page with his pen. I see my own handwriting.

‘In your letter,’ he says, ‘you say you are keen to move away from the city. Why?’

‘Aren’t we all?’ I answer a little indecorously, because this is easy, this is what he expects to hear. ‘I would never care to repeat the things I have seen or done over the past six years. The city holds no magic for me any more.’

He sees my automatic answer for what it is.

‘But you, personally,’ he presses, those eyes training into me again. ‘I am interested in what makes you want to leave.’

A moment passes, an open door, the person on each side questioning if the other will walk through – before it closes. The man sits forward.

‘You might deem me improper,’ he says, ‘but my inquests are made purely on my client’s behalf. We understand that the setting of your new appointment is a far cry from the capital. Are you used to isolation, Miss Miller? Are you accustomed to being on your own?’

‘I am very comfortable on my own.’

‘My client needs to know if you have the vigour for it. As I said previously, he does not wish to be hiring a third governess in a few weeks’ time.’

‘I’ve no doubt.’

‘Therefore, if you will forgive my impudence, could you reassure us that you have no medical history of mental disturbances?’

‘Disturbances?’

‘Depressive episodes, attacks of anxiety, that sort of thing.’

I pause. ‘No.’

‘You cannot reassure us, or you can that you haven’t?’

For the first time, there is the trace of a smile. I am almost there. Almost. I don’t have to tell him the truth. I don’t have to tell him anything.

‘I can reassure you that I am perfectly well,’ I say, and it trips off my tongue as smoothly as my name.

The man assesses me, then squares the paper in front of him and replaces it in its folder. When he leans back in his chair, I hear the creak of leather.

‘Very well, Miss Miller,’ he says. ‘My client entrusts me with the authority to hire at will in light of my appraisal of an applicant’s suitability, and I am pleased to offer you the position of governess at the Polcreath estate with immediate effect.’

I rein in my delight. ‘Thank you.’

‘Before you accept, is there anything you would like to ask us?’

‘Your client’s name, and the name of the house.’

‘Then I must insist on your signature.’

He slides a piece of paper across the desk, a contract of sorts, listing my start date as this coming week, the broad terms of my responsibilities towards the children, and that my bed and board will be provided. There is a dotted line at the foot, awaiting my pen. ‘I understand it is unorthodox,’ he says, ‘but my client is a private man. We need assurance of your allegiance before I’m permitted to give details.’

‘But until I have details I have little idea what I am signing.’

The man holds his hands up, as if helpless. I wait a moment, but there is never any hesitation in my mind. I collect the pen and sign my name.

Chapter 2 (#ulink_8298e578-b0c4-53b3-9fa6-a41436d20761)

My train pulls into Polcreath Station at four o’clock on Sunday. The warmth has gone out of the day and a rich, autumn sun sits low on the horizon, casting the land in a burned harvest glow. I’m quick to see the car, but then it’s hard to miss, a smart, black Rolls-Royce whose white wheels gleam like bones in the fading light.

A man greets me, short, middle-aged, fair. ‘Miss Miller?’

‘How do you do.’

He lifts my bags into the car then opens the rear door for me. Up close, the Rolls is more decayed than it first appeared. Its paintwork is peeling and inside the upholstery is fissured and coming away from the seat frames. There is the smell of old cigarettes and petrol. It takes the chauffeur a moment to start the engine.

‘I’m Tom, Winterbourne’s houseman,’ he says, when I ask him: not a chauffeur after all, then. ‘I’ll turn my hand to anything.’ He has a gentle Northern accent and a friendly, easy manner. ‘There’s not many of us – just me and Cook. And you, now, of course. The house can’t afford anyone else, though goodness knows we need it. We’re mighty excited to have you joining us, miss. Winterbourne always seems darker at this time of year, when the evenings draw in and the light starts to go. The more company the better, I say.’

‘Please, call me Alice.’

‘Right you are, miss.’

I smile. ‘Is it far to Winterbourne?’

‘Not far. Over the bluff. The sea makes it seem further – there’s a lot of sea. Are you used to the sea, miss?’