Chapter Text
She still dreamed of it, sometimes. The luscious gardens, covered in shadows, beckoning her to disappear inside them, and never emerge again. Some days, the smell of the blooming lilacs still clung to her, even though she knew it was impossible.
Too many years had passed.
She could still hear the waves lapping at the cliffs, in her dreams. The voices she had been so sure had been calling out to her then – their whispers, rising from the ocean and carrying through the night, all the way up to her bedroom window. They sang of a name, hiding in every corner, every painting, every closed drawer, waiting to emerge and return once more. To take possession of what was rightfully his. She remembered, more often than not, waking up in the dark, and feeling eyes on herself.
She remembered, too, the hope. The wishing, desperately, that love would set them both free.
It had to.
Of course, the garden, the house – it was all gone now. And still, in her mind it was alive.
Sometimes, her memory would be gracious, and carry her back further. Those fateful days, spent in Monte Carlo, when she had been young and made foolish by love, and it had truly all begun.
—
A gentle breeze made its way through the terrace doors, lifting the corner of the cream coloured tablecloth. She watched it as it made a brief twist in the air, like a gymnast, then settled back down again, gently grazing the side of her leg through her stockings. Once it had calmed, she returned to the task at hand. A pencil scratched across paper, adding shade to the detailed sketch of a doric column.
It was quiet in the breakfast hall that morning, with most guests already out of the hotel. Not so her employer – no, she enjoyed taking her time, having a frivolous glass of champagne or two with her meal. To everyone who would pass their table, it looked like she was engrossed in her book, oblivious to the world around her. But their spot in the breakfast hall had been strategically chosen – it offered a perfect view into the hotel lobby. Over the rim of her book, her employer’s eyes were always catching glimpses of who came out of the elevator in the corner, who had their suitcases brought in, who was complaining to the staff and who had inquiries for the front desk. Nothing went past her, and it was sometimes quite a fascinating thing to watch in itself.
Given the professor's love for knowledge, her ability to know everything about everyone around her should not have taken Yasmin by surprise. And still, she had not expected the woman’s penchant for observing society around her, and when Yasmin had finally had the courage to inquire about it, Professor Song had winked at her over her glass of champagne at breakfast and said: “Sweet girl, we all need favours from time to time. And when that time comes, it is always good to know things about those whom you might ask them from.”
With the professor busy observing, Yasmin returned to her sketch, and added a detail at the base of the column – unnecessary from a scholarly perspective, but she enjoyed adding the surrounding fauna. It made her sketches more lively, and the memory of the actual scene returned to her more easily this way. Or at least she liked to think so. The notebook in front of her was well-worn, and not many pages were left empty, some others coming loose from days spent thumbing through them again and again. Suddenly remembering the task she had been sent out for this morning, Yasmin slotted her pencil into her notebook, and reached for her bag. It was a simple thing, nothing flashy, but sturdy and of good quality. Her employer had been generous with her wages, making sure she could afford everything she needed for their excursions.
“I got the book you asked for, professor. It arrived for you this morning.”
Professor Song instantly dropped the book she had been holding, eagerly reaching out for the one Yasmin was offering instead. She turned it over in her hands, opening it to the title page, and let out a satisfied hum. “Wonderful, it’s exactly what I was looking for. Well done, Yasmin.”
Yasmin couldn’t help the proud smile that lit up her face. She had worked hard over the last few years, doing her best to understand the ins and outs of Professor Song’s day to day and of her profession.
A waiter appeared at their side, topping up the professor’s glass, and Yasmin smiled at him. He seemed surprised for a moment, then smiled back. It was a reminder of the fact that most guests who came here did not want to bother with being polite to staff. Yasmin herself had been at the receiving end of that callousness more than once – even with the professor at her side, she was mostly ignored, sometimes even shot a questioning look. To the people here – those who had wealth in abandon and titles and estates held by their families for generations – no matter how many times the professor introduced her to them as her research assistant, Yasmin remained no different in standing than the maids at their great houses.
The waiter retreated from their table, and with Professor Song now truly engrossed in her new book, Yasmin allowed herself to pick up her sketch once again. However, she found her mind wandering, distracted by the world around her. Even after the first week of their trip to Monte Carlo had passed, she hadn’t gotten used to how lavish everything looked around them. From the crystal champagne flute sitting in front of the professor and the marble arches bending around the windows, to the luxurious carpets muffling the sound of the ladies’ heels and allowing the staff to move in utter silence around them. She still felt displaced in the midst of all this luxury – it was certainly not how she had grown up. Over the years, she had become more at ease at the professor’s home, first in the room that had been set up for her there, then in the entire house as well. For the home of a woman of the professor’s standing, it was small, almost cosy, and by now Yasmin found she was no longer afraid to pick up a porcelain tea cup or to break one of the ancient vases by simply looking at it, like she had once been. The professor was kind to her, although it had taken Yasmin quite a while to get used to the woman’s sass. Professor Song had a fire burning in her, and Yasmin found it equal parts intimidating and fascinating. She had found herself wishing, on occasion, that she could allow a similar fire to break out in herself.
She caught a glimpse of a bell boy carrying suitcases in the periphery of her vision. The professor was still flipping pages, her eyes shining, and so Yasmin sat up a little straighter. She turned her head, eager to maybe for once know something, anything, before the professor did.
The bellboy disappeared into the elevator, and someone appeared at the front desk. They were in cream-coloured linen trousers, a matching suit jacket slung casually over their shoulder. A hat sat atop their head, and when they pulled it off, a short blonde bob fell free. A short glance to the side revealed delicately painted lips.
A woman. Yasmin realised she was staring, but she couldn’t help it. She had read about it, of course, the recent fashion of women dressing in what was traditionally a man’s garb, but besides Professor Song wearing the occasional pair of slacks at home, she had not seen someone dressed like this.
The woman at the front desk turned towards the returning bellboy, and nodded as she held out her hand to him. Yasmin recognised the handshake. It was of the kind that rich people used when they wanted to slip someone money unnoticed. The polite way to go about it, or so it was seen by most, was not to flash your wealth. Although, given the surroundings they found themselves in, Yasmin found the effort ironically obsolete. For now, however she was more focused on the rest of the woman’s outfit coming into view: a vest, in the same colour as the rest of her suit, hugging her torso, and a deep blue tie around her neck. On one ear – and, peculiarly, only on one – hung an extravagant earring, gold and silver. She couldn’t make out what exactly it was from the distance, just saw it shimmer in the sunlight that fell into the lobby. As the bellboy retreated once more, the woman casually snuck one hand into her pocket, and leaned against the front desk as she talked to the receptionist behind it.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
Yasmin’s head snapped back towards the professor. Instant fire lit up her cheeks – she had been staring. It seemed she had much more to learn from Professor Song’s discrete observational skills. When she looked at her employer, however, she found that the woman herself was now quite openly looking towards the stranger in the lobby.
“I can’t believe she’s here.”
Yaz couldn’t help the curiosity that flared up inside her, and she allowed herself another brief glance at the woman in the suit before leaning across the table. “Who is that?” she asked.
Without looking at her, the professor replied: “Lady de Winter. Nobody thought she would leave Manderley this summer, everyone was convinced she’d skip the season.”
Lady de Winter. A member of the aristocracy, then, higher in standing still than Professor Song.
“Manderley?” Yasmin asked.
“Her estate”, the professor replied, not taking her eyes off Lady de Winter. “Gorgeous place, right on the coast of Cornwall. Her late husband used to throw the most extravagant parties there. Of course, there have been no more of those since he passed last year.” A look of sympathy appeared on her face, and a moment later was replaced by an air of mischief that Yasmin knew all too well by now. “I’ll go and have a chat.”
“You two know each –”
But the professor was already halfway through the breakfast hall before Yasmin could finish her sentence, and so she was left simply watching. As Professor Song greeted Lady de Winter with a kiss on each cheek, her hand lingering on the Lady’s arm, Yasmin realised with a sudden jolt that the two not only knew each other, but were perhaps even friends. At the very least, Professor Song must have been a guest at those lavish parties the late Mr de Winter had thrown. Having learned from the professor that body language could reveal much about a person, Yasmin watched Lady de Winter closely throughout the whole scene. It would not have taken an expert to notice the woman seemed tense. She was leaning back, her shoulders drawn, quite clearly keeping the professor at an arm’s length.
From the distance, it was hard to properly guess her age, but Yasmin figured she must be around the professor’s age – forty, maybe a few years older. She was smiling now, but even that seemed tense – given how recently she had been widowed, Yasmin was not surprised that proper smiles probably came hard to her still.
As the two women parted, Yasmin’s gaze followed Lady de Winter until she disappeared into the elevator, the doors closing behind her with a quiet ping that rang faintly into the breakfast hall.
Professor Song sat down a moment later, and pulled her champagne flute to her lips with a resigned sigh. “Still grieving, apparently”, she said before taking a sip.
Yasmin returned her attention to the professor, frowning. The woman seemed saddened by the fact, although why she would be made no sense to Yasmin, unless –
Oh. The lingering touch against Lady de Winter’s arm, the way Professor Song had leaned in closely to kiss her cheeks – it had been a way to test the waters, for the possibility of… Yaz stopped herself, not daring to think further.
“But”, she said, unable to keep the words from tumbling over her lips, “you said late husband ?”
Professor Song let out a laugh, clear and bright, and Yasmin felt her cheeks darken once more. Of course she knew there were women who preferred to take wives, and men who preferred to take husbands. It was rare, although not a secret these days. But Yasmin had thought people would rather stick to one if they knew their preference.
When the professor spoke, her voice had turned soft, and Yasmin felt a bit of her embarrassment ebb away with the tone. “My dear”, Professor Song said gently, “just because I had spinach over poached eggs for lunch yesterday doesn’t mean I’ll want to eat the same thing every day the rest of the week.” She reached across the table, and patted Yasmin’s hand. “Variety is key to happiness, Yasmin. And now come. There are Roman ruins in the mountains that I am dying to inspect.”
With that, she was up and out of her seat again. Yasmin quickly grabbed her bag, and smoothed out her skirt before hurrying after the professor. The woman was like that, making decisions on a whim, changing plans and rushing away if she so fancied, and Yasmin had learned to simply let herself float in the current of the professor’s temperament. As they went through the lobby, her eyes were inadvertently drawn towards the elevator doors.
“I’ll have the car brought around!” Professor Song called towards her, and Yasmin had to give herself a push to step outside.
A small part of her had wished for the doors to open again, and allow her a closer look at Lady de Winter’s face.