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Clouds of black smoke filled the hallways and dominated the spaces within the house so arrogantly. The fire licked up anything it touches whether it be the walls, ceiling, floor, and furniture so greedily. And the heat, like phantom bodies, surrounded and pressed upon her so heavily as she walked to the infamous room on the west wing of Manderley.
It’s suffocating and it burns.
And yet, Mrs. Danvers felt no different. She believes that she had been suffocating even before the fire—even before she held the candle too close to the curtains and watched with a sinister smile on her face as it was set alight. She had been suffocating before that incompetent, foolish and airheaded Mrs. De Winters with her wide eyes and naivety, arrived and stained the only place she considers home. “Perhaps,” the head housekeeper thinks, “Perhaps I had been suffocating from the beginning”.
But to burn however, was something else entirely. Mrs. Danvers had been burnt only once before. She has been scorched- not by fire, although she recalls that particular moment possessing the same alluring blaze. She would even go so far as to admit that her skin might’ve as well been branded, like some cattle. As that memory stirs inside her mind, Mrs. Danvers lifts a hand to her throat, tugs at her collar before slipping a finger under her fabric and grazes at a small section above her collarbone. She feels the slick of sweat on her skin- an unremarkable effect to heat, before finally feeling a slight bump. Underneath her clothes, unbeknownst to most, a horizontal scar that spans roughly five inches settles on Mrs. Danvers skin.
A laborious creak from above warns Mrs. Danvers to quicken her pace. The lone woman doesn’t have to look up to know what it was, the sound provided sufficient prompting. It could’ve been from one of the many chandeliers, the timber trusses, or hell- even the roof itself that’s on the verge of collapsing. It didn’t matter; and even if it did, it held the same level of insignificance as the uncontrollable fire around her. What mattered was reaching the room.
Beads of sweat upon her temple had compounded into streams of ever-flowing perspiration that travels down to her neck and soaks the collar of her uniform but that wasn’t as annoying as when it travels into her eyes and stings her, somewhat impairing her vision. But when she turns the familiar corner, entering the last hallway that practically ushers her to her destination, all discomfort leaves her. She exhaled a breath of relief before she broke into a run, unable to contain her excitement. Pushing past the fire and smoke, she has a hand held out in front of her, eyes focused on the doorknob. The head housekeeper almost entirely forgot about the heat when she was close enough to reach for it, a discernable sizzle as her fingers and palm came in contact with the doorknob. Pain shoots up, filling her mind. Suddenly, she thinks that the inviting door morphed into an unstoppable barrier. She pulled her hand away, even with the obnoxious orange glow from the fire she could tell the inside of her hand reddening. That pain dominated her mind, but a new concerning thought began to scratch at her soul; of the possibility that she may die right here, and not in that room.
“Danny, could you come here and help me?”
Now that wasn’t the sound of the estate on its way to irreversible ruin. No—that was the soft lilt of her lady. The textbook example of femininity and grace, the true warmth within the walls of Manderley, the close competitor to the radiant sun, the-
Screams filled her ears before registering that it came from Mrs Danvers herself, as her hand was back to the doorknob, trying to grip it tight enough to twist it. I’m coming, my lady! It was thrice as torturous than the first touch, and her hand felt as though it was melting and fusing with the metal piece. It probably was in the process to do so when the crack between the double doors widens and her eyes are welcomed with the insides of the room. Untouched by fire…yet.
Mrs. Danvers throws her whole body into the room, barely able to balance her body upright to close the door behind her. The taunting and howling from the inflowing limbs of flame becomes muffled, but the threat remains and Mrs. Danvers couldn’t help herself but pray for the door to keep her safe. Not for forever but make it long enough, she thought as her gaze shifted to her hand. Hesitantly, she flipped it over to examine the damage.
The sight is absolutely disgusting, the redness Mrs. Danvers saw before could be considered as blush compared to this. Parts of her skin were peeling off which revealed a harsh, ugly red. When inspected closer, she notes the clusters of tiny pores that would have been hidden, now uncovered and leaking, creating a thin glossy surface. She attempted to flex her hand yet it was too painful to do so since the exposed flesh would stick to whatever it touches. She’s never seen something as grotesque.
“What’s the matter, Danny?” The voice was incredibly soft, but Mrs. Danvers heard it. She would hear her no matter what. Her head snaps upright.
Behind the sheer curtain that separates the bedroom section from the lounging section, Mrs. Danvers' eyes are welcomed with the familiar, but still achingly alluring silhouette of a woman. Looking up higher, Mrs. Danvers also noticed the flow of luscious wavy hair that ended at the middle of her back; hair that she knows would have usually been fashioned neatly into the most recent style. It’s her; Rebecca.
“It’s nothing, Mrs. De Winters.”
A long pause settles between them. Mrs. Danvers can feel the ticking seconds as though a clock is embedded inside of her chest. She would lie, at first. She always does so with Rebecca. The silhouette suddenly becomes too still, but just as Mrs. Danvers questions what she’s seeing, Rebecca begins to move towards her, elegantly pushing past the curtain.
“You do know that I don’t like it when you lie to me, Danny.” It wasn’t a question. Rebecca was teasing her like she always does. With her rouge-lipped grin, eyelashes batting slowly, and beguiling eyes looking up at Mrs. Danvers. The head housekeeper’s eyes followed her lady’s hand as she lifted it to her face and with her forefinger, tucked a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear. Mrs. Danvers almost forgot to apologize.
“And what did I tell you about calling me Mrs. De Winter when it’s just the two of us, hm?”
“To not use it, ma’am.”
“Exactly.”
Rebecca is now inches in front of Mrs. Danvers, she could smell the perfume Mr. De Winter got for his wife three summers ago. To the head housekeeper, it wasn’t the loveliest of smell nor was it a scent that fit Rebecca well. It was a generic floral-toned fragrant, made from lily of the valleys and pears- a combination too sweet and too innocent for her. But at least he could shower her with presents; what could you give? Nothing. Mrs. Danvers' mind was quick to chastise herself. And who are you to think it doesn’t suit her…you’re a nobody!
Mrs. Danvers flinched, but it wasn’t her conscience that hurt her—it was the ache from her injured hand as Rebecca gently grips it to bring it between them before twisting her wrist to expose the horrid-looking palm.
“Oh Danny, it must hurt badly, doesn’t it?” Mrs. Danvers nodded. In her mind, there’s still a disbelief of having Rebecca here. If it weren’t for the stinging pain, she would have wanted to entwine her fingers with her lady’s.
“Use your words, Danny.”
“It does hurt.”
“Use my name too. I would like to hear it.”
“It does hurt, Rebecca.” The last word was so overwhelming for Mrs. Danvers that she needed to close her eyes. She feels Rebecca’s thumb caressing her hand. “It does, doesn’t it…because it’s real. I, however, am not.”
She felt the motion and the shooting pain that came a second later before realising what actually happened. It was her elbows first followed by the back of her head that slammed onto the carpeted floor. Mrs. Danvers struggled to breathe, all the air was knocked out from her lungs. Her vision grew blurry at that. Looking up at the ceiling, she sees fire tearing apart the ceiling, but in a blink—it’s gone.
Something presses heavily on top of Mrs. Danvers body, but when she tries to push it off her wrists are caught in a vice-like grip and locked on top of her head.
“Rebecca!”
Mrs. Danvers cries out as her mind scrambles to piece the information her senses took in. Her clothes had disappeared leaving her bare and exposed, her injured hand doesn’t hurt even as she balled it tightly, the ceiling is different—in fact the whole room is different. But what left her the most stupefied is the weight atop of her. Rebecca is straddling her stomach wearing a simple dress; the kind young ladies wore. She is hunched over Mrs. Danvers, to accommodate her hands that are holding Mrs. Danvers wrists. Staring at Rebecca’s face, she too looked younger—as though she’s back to being nineteen; when youth bloomed the blush on her cheeks, and eyes that still sparkled. However, these beauties were hidden under her scowling mouth and furrowed brows. Rebecca was enraged.
“W-what’s wrong, my Rebecca?” Mrs. Danvers hears her voice. She could’ve sworn her lips were motionless.
“What’s wrong?! You know damn well what’s wrong!”
Mrs. Danvers shifts her gaze to the space behind Rebecca. It was Rebecca’s room, but it was the previous one when she lived with her grandparents where it was smaller, less grand and duller. Her humble home before she married Mr De Winter and his intimidating wealth. Mrs. Danvers' head turns to her left, to where a fireplace hums warmly in front of her. Her eyes caught the scattered papers on the floor beside them and it took less than a second to remember what it was; the letter her father wrote, informing her that within two weeks, she’d be married to the richest man in town.
Then it clicks.
She knows this night all too well.
“Mr De Winter is a good man. You would have anything you can ever dream of. Anything you want, he’d be the man that can give it to you!”
“No, he can’t! Marrying him is the exact opposite of what I want in life.”
“Then what is it that you want, my Rebecca?”
“I want control, I want freedom. Do you think I can get that by being someone’s wife?!”
Mrs. Danvers is at a loss for words. She recalls the arguments Rebecca and Mr. De Winter would have. She recalls the sound of slammed doors, of her lady crying some nights. “Do you?” Rebecca repeats her question, her eyes watering up in frustration as Mrs. Danvers nodded fervently.
“I can never have anything. If it weren’t for ridiculous rules and tradition, then it’s myself and my sex. A lady is nothing in this world except for when she becomes a nasty woman.”
The blonde paused, her unfocused eyes blinked before refocusing on her maid’s eyes. A long minute later, those eyes start treading south. “Look at you, all that beauty and youth gone. Everything you are, has been owned, and is owned. Your poor mother, forcing you to work the second you could hold a broom and clean. Then my grandmother, who has you under beck and call before I came and she tossed you to me. Now, it’s that stupid man, Mr Danvers; the quartermaster’s young and charming son. When you’ll have children, they won’t be yours too, believe me. Now, tell me. Do you think I would like any of that? To be like you?”
Mrs. Danvers hadn’t realised that tears streamed down her cheeks. The pain in her chest burned. She has said nothing but the truth, but somehow, she didn’t expect such harshness from Rebecca. If only Mrs. Danvers understood sooner that her lady would always find a way to get what she wanted, and if it meant that she would be a nasty woman, then she would grow into those shoes perfectly. Mrs. Danvers couldn’t be that, not because of her morals or anything, it was simply because she didn’t have the spine to. She didn’t have to acknowledge it to have known that. The knowledge is as basic as the sky being blue, or that Rebecca is beautiful. Perhaps, because she knew it was never her fate, that she gave herself to her lady.
“No, you wouldn’t like that.”
“Then tell me what it is I can do. Let me have at least one thing.”
“You can have me, entirely.”
Rebecca releases her grip on Mrs. Danvers wrists before sitting up. She has a blonde eyebrow raised in confusion. “What do you mean?” She asked.
Mrs. Danvers stood up and headed to the writing desk. She opened a drawer before reaching for the letter opener and headed back to her lady who was still on the floor, her gaze glued to the fire and her lips turned downwards in confusion and tiredness. She settles beside Rebecca, and without waiting for the blonde’s attention to shift back to her, she began to speak.
“You can have me— own me. I will devote my whole life to you. I wouldn’t have to make a promise because promises entail that I could break it. But like ownership, to prove that you own something, there must be a mark.” She ends her words by passing the knife to Rebecca. The letter opener isn’t the sharpest of tools, but it could do the job that Mrs. Danvers had in mind.
That night, much like tonight, Mrs. Danvers proved her loyalty to the woman she knew was better than her—not like she needed to prove anything, she was owned. And it’s only natural for her to be here. But unlike that night, the most beautiful woman she has ever laid eyes upon was not present. Selfishly, like Mrs. Danvers had always known her to be, died before her. Initially she had thought it meant that the scar on her chest would be for nought, but she couldn’t accept it to be so. She would devote herself to Rebecca for as long as she could, even if her lady was no longer physically around.
Despite Mrs. Danvers hallucination of being back with Rebecca in their old home, in reality the ceiling she had seen for a split second was very much real. The fire had made its way to the room, and a beam had broken apart from the mansion’s structure and fell upon her after she had laid unconscious from inhaling too much smoke. It crushed her spine and burnt all that was left of her.
Eternally, however, Mrs. Danvers is satisfied.
Rebecca is no longer alone; her Danny is here. The head housekeeper with her lady.
With… my Rebecca.