The Woman in White

von Wilkie Collins

The next morning, I woke up and pulled up the blind, revealing the sea stretching out joyfully before me under the bright August sun. The distant Scottish coast melted into the horizon, painted in soft shades of blue.

The view was such a refreshing surprise after my exhausting time in London, filled with its endless brick and concrete, that I felt like I was stepping into a new life, filled with new thoughts, the moment I took it all in. A strange sensation washed over me, as if I had suddenly lost touch with my past without gaining any clarity about the present or future. Memories from just a few days ago felt distant, as if they belonged to a different time altogether. Pesca’s quirky explanation of how he had arranged my current job, the farewell evening with my mother and sister, even my mysterious encounter on the way home from Hampstead—all of it seemed to belong to a different chapter of my life. The image of the woman in white lingered in my mind, but it was already fading, becoming dull and faint.

Just before nine o’clock, I made my way down to the ground floor. The solemn manservant from the night before found me wandering through the hallways and kindly led me to the breakfast room.

As he opened the door, my first glance revealed a well-set breakfast table in the center of a long room filled with windows. I shifted my gaze from the table to the farthest window and saw a lady standing there, her back to me. The moment I laid eyes on her, I was struck by her rare beauty and the effortless grace of her posture. She was tall but not too tall, elegantly shaped but not overweight. Her head sat on her shoulders with a natural, flexible firmness, and her waist was perfect in a way that only nature could achieve—no corsets, just a lovely, natural curve.

She hadn’t noticed me enter, so I allowed myself a moment to admire her before I moved a chair, hoping to catch her attention without startling her. She turned to face me immediately. The fluid elegance of her movements as she approached made my heart race with anticipation to see her face clearly. She stepped away from the window, and I thought to myself, She’s dark. She took a few more steps, and I noted, She’s young. Then, as she drew nearer, I was struck with a sense of surprise that I can hardly put into words: She’s ugly!

Never had the old saying that nature makes no mistakes felt more wrong. The promise of her beautiful figure was shockingly betrayed by the face that adorned it. Her complexion was almost swarthy, and the dark hair on her upper lip resembled a mustache. She had a strong, masculine mouth and jaw, piercing brown eyes that seemed resolute, and thick, coal-black hair that grew unusually low on her forehead. While her expression was bright, open, and intelligent, it lacked the gentle softness and femininity that usually complete a woman’s beauty. To see such a striking figure paired with such a masculine face was a jarring experience, akin to the discomfort we feel in dreams when we recognize yet cannot reconcile the oddities of our subconscious.

“Mr. Hartright?” she asked, her dark face lighting up with a smile that softened her features the moment she spoke. “We gave up hope of seeing you last night and went to bed as usual. Please accept my apologies for our apparent lack of attention, and let me introduce myself as one of your pupils. Shall we shake hands? I suppose we’ll have to do it sooner or later—so why not now?”

Her unusual words of welcome came in a clear, pleasant voice. She extended her hand—large but beautifully shaped—with the easy confidence of someone well-bred. We sat down together at the breakfast table as casually and warmly as if we had known each other for years, meeting at Limmeridge House to reminisce about old times.

“I hope you’re here with a good attitude, ready to make the best of things,” she continued. “You’ll have to start this morning by having breakfast with just me. My sister is in her room, nursing a classic headache, and her old governess, Mrs. Vesey, is taking care of her with some restorative tea. My uncle, Mr. Fairlie, never joins us for meals; he’s an invalid and prefers to keep to himself. So it’s just me in the house. Two young ladies were staying here, but they left yesterday in despair, and honestly, who could blame them? With Mr. Fairlie’s condition, we didn’t have any charming male company to lighten the mood, and as a result, we spent most of our time arguing—especially at dinner. How can you expect four women to dine together every day without squabbling? We’re such fools; we can’t entertain each other at the table. You see, I don’t think much of my own gender, Mr. Hartright—would you like tea or coffee?—and I doubt many women do, even if few admit it as openly as I do.

Goodness, you look puzzled. What’s on your mind? Are you trying to decide what to have for breakfast, or are you surprised by my casual way of speaking? If it’s the first, I suggest you steer clear of that cold ham next to you and wait for the omelette. If it’s the second, let me pour you some tea to calm your nerves, and I’ll do my best, as a woman, to keep my mouth shut—which isn’t easy, I must admit.”

She handed me my cup of tea, laughing lightly. Her effortless chatter and the way she interacted with a complete stranger were accompanied by a natural confidence that would have commanded respect from even the boldest man. It was impossible to remain formal or reserved around her, yet at the same time, I felt it was equally impossible to overstep any boundaries, even in thought. I sensed this instinctively, even as I caught her bright spirit and tried my best to respond in her open, lively manner.

"Yes, yes," she said, after I had shared the only explanation I could think of for my confused expression. "I get it. You're such a stranger in this house that my casual references to the people here must seem puzzling to you. It's only natural; I should have considered that sooner. But let me clear things up for you now.

Let’s start with me, so I can get that out of the way. My name is Marian Halcombe, and I’m probably as inaccurate as most women are when I say that Mr. Fairlie is my uncle and Miss Fairlie is my sister. My mother was married twice: first to Mr. Halcombe, my father, and then to Mr. Fairlie, who is my half-sister’s father.

Aside from the fact that we’re both orphans, we couldn’t be more different. My father was poor, while Miss Fairlie’s father was wealthy. I have nothing, and she has a fortune. I’m dark and plain, while she’s fair and beautiful. People think I’m grumpy and odd (which is fair enough), while they see her as sweet and charming (and that’s even more accurate). In short, she’s an angel, and I am—well, why don’t you try some of that marmalade, Mr. Hartright, and finish the sentence yourself, in the name of propriety?

As for Mr. Fairlie, I honestly can’t tell you much. He’ll likely summon you after breakfast, and you can observe him for yourself. But I can tell you a few things: he’s the younger brother of the late Mr. Fairlie, he’s single, and he’s Miss Fairlie’s guardian. I won’t live without her, and she can’t live without me, which is how I ended up at Limmeridge House. My sister and I genuinely care for each other, which you might find surprising given our circumstances, but it’s true.

So, you’ll need to please both of us, Mr. Hartright, or please neither of us. And what’s more, you’ll be stuck with just us for company. Mrs. Vesey is a lovely person with all the right virtues, but she doesn’t really count as a companion, and Mr. Fairlie is too much of an invalid to engage with anyone. I have no idea what’s wrong with him, and neither do the doctors, and he doesn’t know either. We all say it’s a nerve issue, but none of us really understand what that means.

Still, I suggest you indulge his little quirks when you meet him today. Admire his collection of coins, prints, and watercolor paintings, and you’ll win him over. Honestly, if you can be happy with a quiet country life, I don’t see why you wouldn’t thrive here. From breakfast until lunch, you’ll be occupied with Mr. Fairlie’s drawings. After lunch, Miss Fairlie and I will grab our sketchbooks and head out to misinterpret nature under your guidance. Just so you know, drawing is her favorite pastime, not mine. Women can’t draw—our minds are too scattered, and our eyes too unfocused. But since my sister enjoys it, I’ll waste paint and ruin paper for her sake, just like any woman in England would.

As for the evenings, I think we can keep you entertained. Miss Fairlie plays beautifully. As for me, I can’t tell one note from another, but I can challenge you at chess, backgammon, ecarte, and even billiards, despite the usual female limitations. What do you think of this plan? Can you adjust to our quiet, predictable life? Or do you secretly crave change and excitement in the routine of Limmeridge House?"

She had been speaking in her playful, teasing manner, with only the polite responses I offered in between. But when she mentioned the word "adventure," it jolted my thoughts back to my encounter with the woman in white. I felt compelled to explore the connection between that mysterious figure and the former mistress of Limmeridge House, as hinted by the stranger’s reference to Mrs. Fairlie.

"Even if I were the most restless person alive," I replied, "I wouldn’t be in danger of craving adventures anytime soon. The very night before I arrived here, I had an adventure that I assure you, Miss Halcombe, will keep me occupied for the entire time I’m in Cumberland, if not longer."

"You don’t say, Mr. Hartright! I’d love to hear about it."

"You have every right to know. The main character in my adventure was a complete stranger to me, and she might be to you as well. But she did mention the late Mrs. Fairlie with the utmost gratitude and respect."

"She mentioned my mother’s name? You have my full attention. Please, go on."

I immediately shared the details of my encounter with the woman in white, recounting everything just as it had happened. I even repeated her words about Mrs. Fairlie and Limmeridge House, verbatim.

Miss Halcombe's bright, determined eyes were fixed on mine as I spoke, her expression a mix of keen interest and surprise, but nothing more. It was clear she had no more insight into the mystery than I did.

“Are you absolutely certain those words were about my mother?” she asked.

“Absolutely,” I replied. “Whoever she is, the woman attended school in Limmeridge and was treated with special kindness by Mrs. Fairlie. Out of gratitude, she feels a genuine interest in the surviving members of the family. She knew that both Mrs. Fairlie and her husband had passed away, and she spoke of Miss Fairlie as if they had been childhood friends.”

“You mentioned that she claimed not to be from here?”

“Yes, she said she was from Hampshire.”

“And you couldn’t find out her name at all?”

“Not at all.”

“How strange. I think you were right to let the poor woman go; she didn’t do anything to suggest she shouldn’t have her freedom. But I wish you had been a bit more determined to learn her name. We really need to solve this mystery somehow. It’s best not to mention it to Mr. Fairlie or my sister just yet. I’m sure they know as little about her as I do. However, they’re both rather sensitive in their own ways, and you’d only upset one and alarm the other unnecessarily. As for me, I’m burning with curiosity and will dedicate all my energy to uncovering the truth from now on. When my mother came here after her second marriage, she established the village school just as it is now. But all the old teachers are either dead or have moved away, so I can’t expect any information from that direction. The only other option I can think of—”

At that moment, we were interrupted by a servant who came in with a message from Mr. Fairlie, saying he would like to see me as soon as I finished breakfast.

“Wait in the hall,” Miss Halcombe said, quickly responding for me. “Mr. Hartright will be out shortly. I was just about to say,” she continued, turning back to me, “that my sister and I have a large collection of my mother’s letters, addressed to both my father and hers. In the absence of any other means of gathering information, I’ll spend the morning going through my mother’s correspondence with Mr. Fairlie. He loved London and often spent time away from his country home, so she would write to him about how things were going at Limmeridge. Her letters are filled with references to the school she cared so much about, and I think it’s quite possible I’ll find something useful by the time we meet again. Luncheon is at two, Mr. Hartright. I’ll have the pleasure of introducing you to my sister by then, and we can spend the afternoon driving around the area to show you all our favorite spots. Until two o’clock, then, farewell.”

She gave me a lively nod, her charming grace and delightful familiarity shining through in everything she did and said, before disappearing through a door at the far end of the room. Once she left, I made my way to the hall, following the servant for the first time to meet Mr. Fairlie.