Rebecca's Tale by Sally Beauman
I knew there was no point in raising these issues with the woman next to me; it would have been cruel to do so. I could sense that Mrs. de Winter was less serene than she seemed, and less convinced of what she had told me than she appeared. Her control was tenuous. I noticed that she began to quicken her pace as we approached the gates; she passed through them without a backward look, and, once we were in the car again, she reverted to the question of the notebooks.
“I know when my husband found those notebooks, Miss Julyan,” she said, as we continued down the road, the estate walls and the woods to the left of us. “It was after the fire at Manderley, the last night we were ever here, the night before we left for Europe. Maxim wanted to go for a walk on his own to say his last farewells to the place—and I know he went down to the bay. He was away hours. When he came back, I saw the sand on his shoes, and I knew where he’d been. He was so silent and white-faced—I knew something was terribly wrong, but I told myself it was because we were leaving Manderley. I see now, he must have gone into that boathouse, and found Rebecca’s notebooks. All her belongings were there—it was untouched, that boathouse cottage, just as Manderley was. I never understood that; it was as if Rebecca had just gone out for an hour or so, and would return at any minute. You’d have thought Maxim would have had that boathouse cleared—Rebecca had been dead for over a year, after all.”
She risked a sidelong glance at me; her hands had begun to twist nervously in her lap again. “Why do you think he kept those notebooks, Miss Julyan? Oh, why did he keep them? And that eternity ring of hers—it was on her finger when they brought up her body—did you know that? They found that ring and her wedding ring. It was the rings they identified her by. Why did Maxim keep the eternity ring, and not the one he’d given her?”
I hesitated. I thought of Rebecca’s comment that, from the first moment Maxim had seen Jack Devlin’s eternity ring on her finger, his ambition had been to replace it with his own. Presumably Rebecca’s wedding ring had been interred with her, so Maxim’s ambition had been achieved in the end. It seemed kinder not to say this to his widow. “I can’t answer that,” I replied. “Your husband was the only person who could. No one else can say what it meant to him.”
“It wouldn’t have meant anything,” she said, with sudden force. “None of it could have mattered to Maxim. I told you, he never loved her, he hated Rebecca. Once he found out what she was really like, he could scarcely bear to be anywhere near her after that. If you’d known Maxim, you’d understand—he was very protective to women. He expected a woman to be…well, all the obvious things. Gentle. Pure. Innocent.” She reddened.
“There are different kinds of purity, perhaps,” I said, as mildly as I could. “I find Rebecca pure, judging from her notebooks. She is what she is—and it’s unadulterated.”
“I can’t think what you mean,” she replied in an obstinate tone. “I don’t believe half of what she writes there, anyway. I told you, I’ve decided: She’s to be pitied if anything—she can’t be blamed for her upbringing. But she had no sense of proportion. She writes in such a silly exaggerated way…. Saying she gave Maxim the gift of tumult—I was so upset when I read that. But I see now how absurd it was. Maxim hated that kind of unrest. He liked peace and quiet and regular routines…. If you’d turn left here, Miss Julyan, the hotel’s just along on the right.”
I turned where she indicated, and began negotiating a high-banked narrow lane that led us down toward the water. I could see its blue glint ahead of us; the hotel Mrs. de Winter had selected was set up above the sea; it was a small, modest, traditional place, much favored by elderly visitors.
“I’m staying here under my maiden name,” she said, as we drew into the car park. “I prefer to be anonymous. Maxim and I always kept ourselves to ourselves. There’s really no point in getting to know people, is there, if you’re going to be moving on shortly? And besides, people are so inquisitive.”
She hesitated. “I miss my husband so much, Miss Julyan. I only ever had one ambition in my life: to make Maxim happy, and I know I did that. I know it in my heart. Maxim and I were rarely apart, you know, he became utterly dependent on me—but, of course, I don’t have him to talk to anymore. So sometimes I feel lonely. That’s why I like small hotels like this one.”
She turned to me, her face brightening. “It reminds me of all the lovely little places we stayed in France. Sometimes, in the evening, I sit here on the terrace, and I imagine Maxim’s beside me. I tell him little stories about the other guests, and he pretends to be bored, and gives me gruff answers just the way he used to do—but I know he’s there with me in spirit, and he’s not bored at all, he’s just teasing me. He’s happy, terribly happy, just as we always were.”
As she had done earlier, she swung around suddenly, as if she had heard a sound inaudible to me. She stared out to sea. “Did you hear that?” she said in a nervous way. “I thought someone called to me.”
I told her I’d heard nothing, but she looked unconvinced. “I expect it was gulls,” she said quickly. “Yes, I expect that’s what it was. Some seabird. They can sound quite eerie, can’t they? Well, I must be going. I have a long journey tomorrow, and, when I’m back in Canada, I’ve resolved: I’m going to put all this behind me once and for all. I’m going to make a new start, go out more, make an effort to meet people. I may even get a job—I don’t need to work, of course, Maxim saw to that, but I’d like to be useful. I thought, something with a charity perhaps. They always need helpers, don’t they?”
That relentless brightness had returned to her face, but her eyes had a lost look, and I could hear the panic in her voice. I pitied her then, and I think she saw that, for she colored, fumbled for her bag and gloves, and opened the car door, ready to escape. She gave me a shy glance.
“This was so kind of you.” She clasped my hand. “It was good of you to listen to me as you did. I was glad to see your father again. I hope I did the right thing…. I hope I didn’t tire him out…. Goodness, it’s past seven. How time flies! I must go. Thank you again. Good-bye, Miss Julyan.”
I watched her walk up to her hotel, an ordinary unremarkable middle-aged woman. She nodded to some of the other guests, elderly couples returning from walks; on the terrace, I saw her pause, her gray dress merging with the pearl of the evening sky; she was looking toward the sea. I turned to follow the direction of her gaze; when I looked back, she had vanished.
I released the brake, swung the car round in a tight circle, and accelerated back up the hill. I wound down the window, letting the sea air flood the car, and I drove fast. I wanted to leave Mrs. de Winter behind as swiftly as I could—and I think I know why: I’d suddenly seen the possibility that I could turn into her. It was one of the options that could lie ahead of me after all; I’d hoped for love, like most people, but, if this was what wifeliness meant, I wanted to escape it as fast as possible.
When her sole ambition had been to make her husband happy, had she foreseen the long days of her widowhood? Did the gift of his love compensate for his being a murderer? If this was where love led a woman, I feared it. I no longer wanted to listen to the second wife, it was the first wife’s voice I needed now—and I knew it was waiting for me back at The Pines, inside the covers of that last black notebook. Rebecca was about to tell me the truth about her father and her husband. She was going to translate the braille of her marriage.
When I reached The Pines, I left the car in the yard, and went straight to my father’s study. He and Rose were sitting there, deep in conversation. Rose looked concerned and anxious; my father’s face was pale and drawn. Without a word, my father handed me the black notebook. I weighed it in my hand. Even before I opened it, I could feel that this little coffin book differed from the previous two. It was lighter.
I undid the ties on its spine, and opened the black covers. On the first page, which had been torn in half, was the date, April 12, on which Rebecca died; under the date, in Rebecca’s hand, the writing visibly under stress, was the
Below that, the fragments of a first sentence were just visible; I could see the broken arches of individual letters, but the tear had been made in such a way as to make the words unreadable. The rest of that page, and a whole further section of the book had been removed. All the remaining pages were blank. Rebecca’s final entry, her last communication, had been addressed to her husband, and someone had destroyed it. No last message; no last words. In the end, Rebecca had been silenced.
“Who did this?” I was shocked and angry, my hands unsteady. “Maxim?”
“Possibly.” My father sighed. “Or Mrs. de Winter, though she denied it.”
“Rebecca herself could have done it. You certainly can’t rule that out. But I know which of the three candidates I favor,” said Rose. “Very foolish: Silence always speaks volumes,” she added.
THIRTY
THAT NIGHT, MY FATHER—TO MY RELIEF—SLEPT soundly, though I did not. In the morning, I took him breakfast in bed, but found him already up. I’d been expecting questions about Mrs. de Winter—there had been remarkably few the previous night—but my father’s new capacity to dismiss the immediate past had already reasserted itself; these last weeks he’d made himself learn the art of forgetfulness. He had focussed his mind on the lunch that would take place that day, and the arrival of Tom Galbraith and his friend Nicholas Osmond. Preparations were already under way. Several of my father’s suits lay on the bed, he was holding a fistful of ties, and staring beakily at his wardrobe.
“Have to look presentable. Best bib and tucker. Francis Latimer’s joining us—did I mention that, Ellie? Thought he might liven things up a bit. Now—I need a woman’s eye. Which suit, Ellie—this one or that one?”
Francis’s presence had certainly not been mentioned, as my father well knew; both the suits he was proposing were of heavy tweed. It was nine o’clock in the morning, the sky was cloudless; the temperature was in the seventies, and rising. I tried to guide my father toward one of the lightweight suits that dated from his Singapore days, but he was having none of it—and I knew why: He hates people to notice how thin and frail he’s become, and the tweeds disguise that. I gave in, and he finally selected a bristling greenish tweed with a clashing regimental tie.
“Just the ticket,” he said, holding them up. “Looking forward to this, Ellie. What time are those two whippersnappers arriving?”
“Twelve-ish, Daddy.”
“Ish? Ish? In my day, people were punctual, made a point of it. Still, better get a move on. I must see to the drinks, have a rummage about in the cellar…. Can’t seem to find that bargain sherry of mine. I know there are a couple of bottles left, and I can’t damn well find them anywhere.”
I hurried downstairs. I hid the bottles of bargain sherry in an even more effective place, then Rose and I moved the lunch table into the shade of the monkey puzzle. “Tweeds,” I said. “The green tweed at that….” I placed a jug of flowers on the white tablecloth; the air felt full of expectation, the sea sang, and the future beckoned. “Oh, Rose,” I said, “what a glorious day.”
“How pretty you look,” she said. “I hope your father’s not going to be difficult. When I serve the mussels, don’t say a word—that Mr. Galbraith of yours promised to bring me some garlic.”
TOM GALBRAITH WAS A MAN OF HIS WORD. HE ARRIVED with his friend, in his friend’s exotic car, at five minutes past twelve exactly. They’d come off the ferry from St. Malo early that morning, and they came bearing the fruits of France, all of them unobtainable in Kerrith. There were bottles of champagne and some glorious young wine; there were bunches of pink grapes, baskets of black cherries, a plaited string of rosy garlic, bundles of pungent thyme, marjoram and rosemary, a bag of black coffee beans, and, in an exquisite box tied with ribbons, a collection of tiny handmade biscuits shaped like palm leaves. Rose fell on these delights as they were unpacked from a hamper in our kitchen; I stared in wonderment, first at this luxury, then at Tom Galbraith and his companion.
Two weeks in Brittany had transformed Tom, who was sunburned, smiling, more at ease than I’d ever seen him. And his friend? I could only stare: I had been expecting a dry scholar, a sad widower. Nicholas Osmond was a golden young man, probably the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, or am ever likely to see. He had golden hair and golden skin; his eyes were the clearest sapphire; when he stood still—which he rarely did—he had the poise, perfection, and gravity of an angel in an Italian Renaissance painting. He didn’t belong in a kitchen, by a range that broke down every other week; he belonged under a fresco blue sky, handing a lily to the Virgin Mary.
Even Rose was rocked; when she was introduced and shook hands, she was visibly stunned, and had to divert quickly to the joys of that hamper, and the cunning way it had been packed, with containers for ice, and straw, and wax papers. “May we open the champagne, Dr. Julyan?” Osmond said to her, lighting the room with his smile. “It’s just about cool enough, I think—one of the stewards on the boat gave us fresh ice this morning. And we must celebrate—I’ve heard so much about you all…. What a marvelous house! What a glorious day! Miss Julyan—that’s no good, I can’t call you that—may I call you Ellie? Ellie, where’s your father? How is he? I’m longing to meet him. Tom’s told me so much about Colonel Julyan, I feel I know him already.”
I knew where my father was; he was skulking in his study. I persuaded him as far as the French windows. “Good to see you again, Galbraith,” he said, shaking hands with Tom—and then he was introduced to the angel. I saw him resist: I saw the cold blue stare that was bestowed on the golden hair, which curled unashamedly, and touched Osmond’s collar. I saw the cold blue glare fixed on Osmond’s open-necked shirt and lack of tie; both my father and his suit bristled.
Osmond, joyfully unaware of this, clasped his hand. “I’m glad to meet you at last, sir. Tom’s told me so much about you,” he began—and then he spied Barker. “Oh, what a magnificent dog,” he said. “I love dogs like that. A Newfoundland cross, sir? I had one as a boy—they’re always highly intelligent—we went everywhere together. It’s Barker, isn’t it? No, don’t get up, old boy.”
Barker, who is always aloof with strangers, was rising arthritically to his feet. Osmond crossed to him and held out his hand. Barker sniffed it, looked up at him, sniffed again, and licked him. This, at first meeting, was unheard of. Osmond sank to his knees and cradled Barker’s malodorous head. I looked at my father. The blue glare was vanishing away; a glint of amusement had come into his eyes, and he was smiling broadly. The angel, I told myself, had conquered.
IT WAS A WONDERFUL LUNCH. WHEN I LOOK BACK ON IT now, I can recall few of the actual details, and I certainly can’t recall any signs that might have indicated to me then how much my life was to alter afterward.
Before we sat down, Tom drew me to one side; taking my hand, and with no sign of his usual constraint he told me that he’d finally decided what he must do with Rebecca’s eternity ring—he’d decided where it belonged. Would I come to Manderley with him and his friend that afternoon? He needed to talk to me. “It’s so good to see you again, Ellie,” he said, putting an arm around my shoulders. “We have so much to catch up on.”
Indeed we did, and the prospect of this visit was enough to color the meal that preceded it. I don’t recall how long that lunch lasted; a couple of hours, I suppose, but they seem to be held in a golden haze that is timeless.
I can see my father seated at one end of the table, with Rose on his right hand, and Nicholas Osmond to his left; I can see myself, seated at the other end, between Tom and Francis Latimer, who arrived late from some emergency at the hospital. I can recall the food—Rose is a very good cook—so I remember the iced soup, and the fish mousse, the salmon-trout fresh from the sea that morning, and the mussels, which my father ate without complaint, seeming not to notice that they’d been adulterated with garlic. I can remember the strawberries, and the palm-leaf biscuits, and the strong wonderful coffee we drank. I can remember the wine, whi
It was at that lunch, I think, that I understood the gift of charm. For years, when people had spoken to me of Rebecca, they had emphasized her charm—and I, too, could remember it. But I’d forgotten how truly powerful a force it can be, and how rare it is, until I encountered it that day again in the person of Nicholas Osmond. When people speak of “charm” they can mean something synthetic, a mere manipulative technique; true charm, I think, is a gift from the gods, it is never conscious and is always natural. It comes welling up from a person, and its effects, akin to magic, are irresistible.
Nicholas Osmond did not set out to charm, any more than Rebecca did. From both of them emanated a pure joie de vivre that affected everyone. Watching him that day—and it was difficult not to watch him, just as it had been difficult to drag your eyes away from her—the details of a day altered. The ordinary became extraordinary, the light that shone on us all was crystalline. I had the sensation, which I cannot explain, that Rebecca watched over us.
I can’t remember now what we talked about—Brittany, certainly; Cambridge, I think; cabbages and kings, probably. Even watchful Francis Latimer fell under the spell—I know I learned more about him at that lunch than I had in weeks of previous visits. He had seemed ready to dislike Tom Galbraith when they were introduced—maybe he’d heard gossip in Kerrith about Tom, or my father may have made some comment about him; but, during the meal this hostility vanished, though I noticed he watched both Tom and his friend very closely. Francis’s presence, as always, put my father in a good humor. He forgot to be testy, and told tales of Singapore that I hadn’t heard in decades. He ate his small portions of food with enjoyment, and none of his usual complaints about “fancy cooking.” “Not for me, Galbraith,” he said, when Tom attempted to refill his wineglass. “Under doctor’s orders, you know. I’d risk a second, but he’s down there at the other end of the table, blast it, keeping his eye on me.”