Authors: Sally Beauman
A drawing room, dearest: not
my
drawing room, not my lovely creation, but the place it used to be; the windows fastened shut, the light made wintry by these thick ugly barbarous curtains, all festooned and frogged and looped back with silky hangmen’s nooses. A miserable little heap of wood expiring in the fireplace; the paneling obscured by great dark mothy tapestries; abominable fat chairs in funereal colors set crabwise across the corners; a thousand little traps and fortifications, baby tables on stilted legs, stunted stools. Trying to find a passageway across that room was like negotiating no-man’s-land. One little flick with my preposterous skirt, and I could cause a catastrophe. What a crashing of china knickknackery then, what a tinkling of photograph frames as they fell to the floor. There were ancestral images on every available surface; I knew one of them had to be Lionel—ah, the pleasure in smashing
his
image!
And there, rising to her feet and approaching us, the grandmother, Maman’s interfering, arrogant old beast. I didn’t intent to look at my boots
then
—I raised my eyes and fixed her with my Medusa stare, I can tell you!
I’ll tell you another thing, dearest, and very curious it was: One look, and I
liked
her. At once. Maybe it’s those
chien mechant
tendencies of mine, but I think you can always sniff out an enemy or a friend straightaway. I always know immediately if someone’s to be trusted or
not—and I can’t say that old Mrs. de Winter was trustworthy exactly, but she had presence, she had vim, and she had nerve, too. This woman wasn’t afraid to be rude. She was not interested in Evangeline, I saw, and she dispatched her inside five minutes. A maid was summoned to escort her upstairs where, the old dragon said, her granddaughter, Beatrice, was resting with her new baby, and would be delighted to see her.
“Now,” said the old beast, turning to me the second the door closed. “Do you know why you’re here, child? You’re here because I wanted to meet you. Let me look at you.”
She inspected my face as closely as Evangeline had done earlier. “Well, well, well,” she said, gripping my chin hard. “A little fighter, I see. Good. Very good. I can’t stand women who like being trampled on, never could. Women are the stronger sex; if you don’t know that, learn it. I run things here—I expect you’ve heard that. If it weren’t for me, this place would have gone to wrack and ruin long ago. My son’s no use at all; a weakling, not a brain in his head. He’s dying—did your aunt Evangeline tell you?”
“No,” I said, though of course I was delighted to hear
this
news. I looked at her boldly. Tall, strongly built, handsome, arrogant blue eyes: a hungry old gorgon—give her half a chance and she’d eat you for breakfast. Sixty-ish? Seventy-ish? She’d been widowed young, Evangeline said, and I could believe it; this woman could wipe out a man in weeks. I squared up to her.
“Your son’s left my mother some money in his will,” I said. “So, if he’s dying, you should tell him to alter it. Maman doesn’t want his money. Neither do I. We wouldn’t touch it. We scorn it.”
“Do you indeed? Well, you don’t beat about the bush, do you? Isolda must have changed her tune! And how do you know about my son’s will, Miss?”
“I stole a letter and I read it.”
She threw back her head and laughed. “Very good indeed. Always be well informed, whatever it takes, that’s my motto. You’re small. How old are you?”
“I shall be fourteen in two days’ time.”
“I see.” She gave a frown and mused for a while, looking me up and down. I can see now, though I couldn’t then, that she was assessing whether or not I might be a Lionel by-blow. She may well have been
assessing something else, too, sizing me up for some future role—I wouldn’t put it past her.
I’m almost sure she decided I
wasn’t
the fruit of Lionel’s loins, because after an interval her face cleared. She reached across to one of those spindly unstable tables and picked up a photograph in a silver frame. She gave an odd gloating smile. “My son,” she said. “Tell me what you think of him.”
I didn’t think much of him, my darling, and I was hugely relieved to see Lionel was everything I’d imagined from his letters: a bloat, a peacock of a man. A self-satisfied smirk; pale wolf eyes; thinning fair curls; a luxuriant moustache; a paunch not concealed by a costly waistcoat. An adulterer to his fat fingertips. I blushed to the roots of my black Devlin hair; how could Maman have looked twice at him?
“I wouldn’t trust him as far as that door,” I said. “He looks villainous to me—though there’s no art ‘to find the mind’s construction in the face,’ obviously.”
“You think so?” She gave a frown. She was disconcerted, and she didn’t recognize the quotation. But, then, she didn’t look to me like a woman who read; she was a bit of a barbarian, probably.
“I don’t agree,” she said. “Not villainous. Weak, perhaps. Self-indulgent. A disappointment to me—but he’s my son, so I forgive him. Do the best I can by him. Clean up the messes he leaves behind—that’s what mothers are for, in my view. He’s my only child. Very demanding as a boy. I couldn’t refuse him anything….” An odd lost look came upon her face. She stared off into the middle distance for several minutes, until I began to think she’d forgotten me.
“So, tell me about yourself, Miss,” she said, rousing herself so suddenly she made me jump. “I can see your mother in your face. She’s there in the set of your lips. Isolda was always willful. A mind of her own. I liked that in her. Very different from Virginia. Lionel chose the wrong sister, in my opinion—but there, Isolda was so much younger; he overlooked her. Wait a few years till she’s grown up, I told him. But he wouldn’t listen. Virginia was so accommodating—never you be accommodating, Miss, it’s dying by inches. Who’s your father? I’ve heard tales! Take after him, do you?”
“My father’s Jack Sheridan Devlin,” I said, speaking very fast. “He’s Irish. He’s an adventurer. He swept my mother off her feet. They met on the Monday and married on the Tuesday, Maman says.
I have his hair and his eyes and his temper. But he’s dead. His ship went down off the Cape in South Africa. He’d gone there to make our fortune.”
“I see. I see.” She gave me such a queer look, my darling! To this day I don’t know what that look meant; she looked disconcerted again and thoughtful. Insofar as the old beast had a heart, it softened toward me a little, I thought, and I didn’t like that. I won’t be pitied!
She looked away toward the windows and the thin rays of sunshine that just penetrated those curtains; a snap of the fingers and she was brusque again. “That’s enough questions for one day. I’m glad to have met you, Miss. Give your mama my regards when you next see her.” She stared hard at my butterfly brooch. She said, “Who foisted that hat on you? It’s perfectly hideous.”
“Evangeline.”
“Well, take it off, child. Go outside and run around. Young people like to do that. Get some air into your lungs. You see those steps over there? Go that way, follow that path. My grandson, Maxim, went walking that way. He’s leaving for his regiment today. The house is at sixes and sevens. All the menservants are leaving. Go and introduce yourself to him. Follow that path and you’ll come to the sea. I expect you’d like to see the sea?”
“Yes. I would.”
“Then run along. Return in forty-five minutes. I wish to speak to Evangeline.”
I went out through the French windows she indicated. I crossed an ugly regimented section of garden, with scarlet-berried plants lined up like redcoat soldiers. I started to run. Down the steps and across the lawn. I yanked off that hideous hat, and I ran as fast as I could, sucking in great gulps of the salt air. I wished she’d never mentioned my father or my mother. I wished Lionel the betrayor would hurry up and die. If I ran fast enough, I knew there’d be no danger of tears, the wind would whip them away or disguise them.
Pell-mell, faster and faster. When I came to the top of the path that leads down here, I came to a shuddering halt. I scrunched that hat into a ball and threw it into the wind. The wind caught it up and spun it away, played with it, then drowned it in a rock pool.
When my vision cleared, I saw this bay for the first time in all its glory. The water was white lipped, aquamarine, and purple. The
light dazzled. The waves washed and withdrew, washed and withdrew, endlessly promising, endlessly cleansing. All the aches in my heart began to untwist and uncoil; I looked over my shoulder at the long panthery shape of Manderley, crouching by its woods; I looked back at the suck and flux of the tide, and I knew I’d come home. This place was mine. I spoke its language, and it answered me.
Could I make it mine? Could I wrest it from the de Winters’ hands? That would be true revenge for all the injustice dealt out to Maman: an excellent reward for her. But how on earth could
that
be achieved? I frowned, and I puzzled, and I considered my erstwhile successes and stratagems. Ever since Frank McKendrick had paid me that compliment on Marine Parade, clever deformed Richard III had been my favorite character and mentor. At that moment, a very Crookback mood came upon me. I thought to myself,
Can I do this, and cannot get a crown? Tut! Were it farther off, I’d pluck it down.
And at that very second, my darling—precisely then, so I knew those fixed stars had always intended it—a tall man came into view, wearing uniform. He’d been out of sight, in the shadows beyond the boathouse, but now he emerged into the dazzle of the sunlight. The son and heir, it had to be! There were two children with him, a tall shambling boy in poor clothes, and a tiny wizened girl holding up the corners of an apron that was weighted down with something; they were too far off for me to identify what she was carrying.
I think he was ordering them off the premises—it certainly looked that way. I could see him pointing toward the trees that come down close to the shore by the boathouse. The boy bowed his head and stared at the shingle and scuffed his feet; the shriveled little girl dropped the corners of her apron, and shells tumbled out. Then they clasped hands, and ran off into the trees, and the son and heir, head bent, hands behind his back, turned toward the cliffpath.
I watched him walk up. He wasn’t wearing his cap; I approved of his dark hair. I inspected the leather holster on his hip, his gleaming boots and the godlike glint of his buckles. The son and heir. The sun and air. I thought, Aha!
He didn’t see me until he reached the top of the path—he was preoccupied, I think, and none too pleased to discover he was being spied on. I introduced myself at once. I told him my name was Rebecca, and I’d come here with Lady Briggs. He introduced himself
in return, and briefly shook my hand, but he wasn’t remotely interested, he was scarcely listening. His mind was on something else, I’d interrupted some reverie, and I wondered what it was. Was he thinking about his father, dying of my curse in the tower room back there, or about going to a war that was supposed to be over by Christmas?
He seemed undecided what to do, walk on past and leave me, or stand and make remarks for a few regulation minutes. In the end, he compromised. He stood next to me, a few yards away, staring out to sea, frowning and saying nothing.
“Who were those children?” I asked, after an interval.
“What, the children on the beach? Their name’s Carminowe. Ben and Lucy Carminowe. Their mother’s one of our tenants. They don’t mean any harm, but they will hang around down there. My father doesn’t like them to trespass.”
“What about you?” I said. “Do you mind? It’s only a beach, after all.”
“True. But it’s our beach.” He shot me a quick glance. “This bay is private.”
“Do you just own the beach, or the sea as well? I don’t believe anyone can own the sea. That’s impious.”
“You may very well be right,” he said, with a sigh. He took out a cigarette, and lit it. “In fact, now I consider it, it’s ridiculous. Why not say we own the sky? Still, that’s the way things are. And always have been.”
He lapsed into silence again. I considered him. To him, I was just a dull plain girl in an ugly frock, some appendage of Evangeline’s, there this minute, gone the next. I was well-nigh invisible, which is always useful; invisibility meant I was able to inspect him at leisure. He had a fine-drawn sensitive face and good hands. I was fascinated by his revolver as much as anything.
“Is that loaded?” I asked, after a pause in which I’m sure he’d forgotten me.
“What?” I’d startled him. “My revolver? No. It isn’t.”
“May I look at it?”
“No, you may not. Weapons are dangerous. They’re not toys for little girls to play with.”
“I’ve never seen a gun before. I won’t touch it, I promise.”
I think he was half amused. He gave another sigh, and finally, in a
resigned way, unclipped the holster case, and took out the revolver. He showed me how it worked, and spun the bullet chambers for me. The sun caught its dull metal and it glinted. I gave it a covetous look. It was sleek and desirable.
“And when will you use it?” I asked. “Will you kill Germans with it?”
“I very much doubt that,” he said in a dry way. “As I understand it, I mount the ladder out of the trench ahead of my men, and lead them forward across no-man’s-land to the German position. We negotiate the barbed wire and the shell craters; they open up with machine guns, and I fire this. Unlike a machine gun, it has a short range. It has just six bullets. So it’s not the most even of contests. I expect to be dead within the year. Two of my closest schoolfriends are dead already. I’ve had four weeks’ training. I know nothing about fighting, anyway.”
“Do you think you’ll learn to kill?”
“No doubt. If I’m granted time enough.”
I wondered if I should tell him that although he was doomed like his father, he wouldn’t die—he couldn’t, I had plans for him. I decided he wouldn’t believe me if I said he’d survive because I intended it, so I remained silent. He put the gun away—and, of course, that was the very
same
revolver I caught Max oiling the other day in the gun room; imagine his cherishing it all this time! I never have discovered whether he killed any Germans with it. Max won’t discuss the war at all, and I never press him. So maybe he’s practiced at killing, and maybe he isn’t.