Rebecca's Tale

by Sally Beauman

  The penny-pinchers at the council saw through this ruse. My employment was extended by two weeks, then terminated—and it has hit Mr. Bodinnick hard to be thwarted. His grievances against the council kept him going the whole way to Lanyon, but, once we were in the library, he confessed his more immediate worries. How was I now going to manage financially? He took off his spectacles, and began polishing them hard, always a sign of acute anxiety. Looking at me kindly and shortsightedly, he admitted that someone had told him I was thinking of buying the cottage I was currently renting.

  I wondered who this informant was. Marjorie Lane? The Briggs sisters? Colonel Julyan? The butcher, the baker, the chemist, the milkman? I stared gloomily out of the window at the rain-swept streets. The suspects included every member of the Kerrith local history society, all their cousins, aunts, grandmothers, and acquaintances. In other words, all those residents in a ten-mile radius possessed of those useful accoutrements—long noses, binoculars, and clairvoyance.

  Not only was I about to become a permanent resident, it seems, I was also thinking of “settling down,” a process that means only one thing in these parts. This prospect made Mr. Bodinnick even more anxious, since “settling down” involved responsibilities. He was sure I’d manage to provide for myself, but providing for “dependants” was a more serious matter, he said, working up a great shine on the spectacles. When I refused to be drawn he gave a sigh. I think he felt that he was painting too pessimistic a portrait of the married state, because he at once began singing its praises.

  He himself had never “settled down,” he said, but of course the condition had much to recommend it. Polishing hard, he dwelt on the domestic joys he himself had never experienced, the slippers by the fire, the dinner in the oven, the constant calming presence of a soul-mate…When Mr. Bodinnick diverted to the illustrious history of the Julyan family, I saw my bride’s face clear. I tried to hint that Ellie and I were just friends, but of course he didn’t believe me. I said nothing more; I lacked the energy and the inclination to disillusion him.

  In the end, I managed to assure him I’d survive financially, by reminding him of that useful “Aunt May” legacy. This isn’t a complete lie, and seemed to set his mind at rest. I was then spared further questions. Mr. Bodinnick had begun opening his mail, and amongst it was a letter from the Canadian solicitors acting on behalf of the second Mrs. de Winter. This successfully distracted him. Mr. Bodinnick was very pleased to receive it; he felt the letter was gracious: “Oh, dear me, yes. Very gracious. A charming gesture, Terence,” he said, and handed it across to me:

  Dear sir:

  We understand the cataloging of the de Winter estate papers is now complete. Our client, Mrs. de Winter, asks us to express her appreciation for this work, and trusts that these records will form a useful addition to your archive.

  Yours faithfully,

  The letter was signed by one of the partners in the Toronto firm that had handled this transaction from start to finish. The tone did not strike me as especially gracious. I filed it away with the other letters from these solicitors, all of which were similarly meager.

  At the very beginning of this search, I had written to Mrs. de Winter via this firm of legal guard dogs, to ask for her assistance. After a month’s delay I had received a two-line note from them: Mrs. de Winter, they informed me crisply, had nothing to communicate on this matter. They would be obliged if I did not write again. This reply hadn’t surprised me. I suspected that Maxim’s second wife might well know the truth about Rebecca’s death, but, since her late husband was almost certainly involved in that death, I hadn’t expected her to help me willingly. Perhaps I should have written again, I thought as I replaced the file. I hadn’t been able to bring myself to do so. The realization that I wasn’t unscrupulous enough for this kind of work depressed me further.

  I finished packing up my few belongings, and at Mr. Bodinnick’s request looked through some of the photographs he was assembling for his next exhibition. I listened to his tales about current smuggling activities, though I was preoccupied, and paid little attention until, warming to his theme, he confided that the most successful local smugglers at present were rumored to be that ex-Manderley footman, Robert Lane, and his wife, the former Nancy Manack, whose family had been active in the trade for generations.

  Had I noticed the Manack fishing boat? he asked. I couldn’t miss it; it was painted scarlet and turquoise, and its skipper was one of Nancy’s five brothers. People said that Customs and Excise was currently making life very hard for the Manacks. There had been a series of raids, and it was now difficult for them to find the deserted coves and storage places they needed…. Mr. Bodinnick gave a sigh. I think he regretted this interference with a time-honored local industry.

  It had occurred to me before that the boathouse at Manderley, even the ruins of the house itself, might have their uses in this regard—though those wishing to store cases of poisonous sherry or other contraband were unlikely to leave azalea garlands outside their improvised warehouses. I stored this information away for future reference, and before I left asked Mr. Bodinnick’s assistance on another matter. Could he help me discover the name of the present residents of a house in Marine Parade, Plymouth?

  Mr. Bodinnick loves problems of this kind, and he roused himself immediately. He started ferreting away among maps, gazetteers, and street directories. In the end, it took him just one telephone call to a colleague and old friend at the Plymouth archives to get an answer: The street no longer existed. Like much of the city, Marine Parade and the St. Agnes boarding house with it had been bombed into the ground by the Luftwaffe.

  I’D BEEN EXPECTING A NEGATIVE ANSWER OF SOME KIND. There had been, I suppose, an outside chance that Mrs. Danvers had retired to live in her parents’ former home, just as there had been an outside chance that she might have gone into hiding in Tite Street. My outside chances were getting me nowhere.

  It was still raining hard. I walked through the market square at Lanyon to the bus stop, cursing yet again my decision to leave my car in Cambridge. I consulted the timetable, an excellent work of fiction, in my experience. In theory, there was a bus to Kerrith due in twenty minutes time. This could well mean that it had already left twenty minutes earlier. The bus stop was opposite the coroner’s court where the inquest into Rebecca’s death had been held. I stood there with the rain dripping down my neck thinking my way through the reports I’d read of that inquest, in particular the part played in them by the second Mrs. de Winter.

  The proceedings had been straightforward until James Tabb had insisted on giving the evidence that Rebecca’s boat, Je Reviens, had been tampered with. It was shortly after that, when Maxim de Winter had been recalled to the stand, and the questioning was taking a difficult turn from his point of view, that his second wife had caused a well-timed diversion: She had fainted. It was the timing of that faint, so convenient for her husband, that made me think the second Mrs. de Winter might be complicit in her husband’s guilt. Had she been an accessory after the fact, or the shy innocent described to me by most Kerrith residents?

  Given the cold response from those Canadian solicitors, I was as unlikely to discover the truth about her as I was to discover the truth about Rebecca, I told myself. I stared along the street in the direction the bus might come; it was some while before I noticed that an elderly woman was waving to me. It proved to be Jocelyn Briggs, who had been driven into Lanyon by a friend to buy a hat, she said, and who—to judge from the number of parcels and bags she was carrying—had succumbed to a number of other temptations. “Oh, Mr. Gray,” she cried, “you’re getting soaked! Are you all right? You look dreadfully down in the mouth! What a miserable day! I was just going to have a cup of coffee; won’t you join me? Then we can give you a lift back to Kerrith.”

  I was about to refuse—then I discovered that the person providing the lift was James Tabb. I accepted immediately. Jocelyn led me along the street to a tea shop famous in the area, called the Blue Kett
le. I think I was the first man to set foot in it for several decades, and my arrival with Jocelyn Briggs on my arm caused a great buzz among the other women, all of a similar age to Jocelyn, who, seeing their interest, became very pink and fluttery.

  The front room was full, so we were shown to a quiet and secluded place in an annex at the back. We were seated at a table with a lace cloth, by a window with lace curtains; the china had pink rosebuds on it; in the background there was the constant lulling hum of quiet gossipy conversations. We were brought scones and homemade biscuits by an ancient waitress with a white cap and a white starched frilly apron—and it was in this unlikely setting, this temple of femininity, where I felt deeply foreign, an alien, that Jocelyn Briggs gave me the information that changed everything.

  I had never encountered either of the Briggs sisters alone before. I discovered that Jocelyn was much more inclined to talk when her sterner sister was not there to curb her. Of the two, she perhaps has the softer heart; I had always found her warm and sympathetic. Today, I noticed another quality in her, or perhaps responded to it because my spirits were low: She was motherly. With deft movements she poured out coffee, and plied me with scones and questions. Her gentle and faded blue eyes rested on my face. “Now tell me, my dear,” she said, “what’s worrying you? You look so sad and preoccupied; are you anxious about the Colonel, perhaps? Or dear Ellie? I’m sure dear Arthur will be fine—such willpower, you know. And Ellie tells us these tests are quite routine….”

  She hesitated, and I felt she was less than convinced by that explanation. “So sad,” she went on, in her vague gentle way. “Ellie has been a pillar of strength. She is spirited—she was quite a tearaway at one time, you know—but she is selfless. And her father can make things very hard for her—I expect you’ve seen that. He worries about her future, of course, and so do we. What will happen when dear Arthur dies? We have to be realistic; it will happen sooner or later, as it does for us all….”

  She gave a little sigh, and a shake of the head. “You see, if anything should happen to Arthur, what will poor Ellie do? That great house—she can’t possibly go on living there alone, even if she could afford to. So, The Pines will end up being sold, and they’ll build bungalows there, I expect. I said to Elinor, I hope, dear, that I never live to see it….” She paused, then patted my hand. “Still, let us hope that’s a long way in the future. Tell me about your visit to London—was that what was worrying you, perhaps? Wasn’t it successful?”

  I hesitated, and then for some reason—perhaps influenced by the gentleness of her sympathy, or my liking for her, or the strangely confidential, female nature of our surroundings—I told her. I spoke more openly than I had ever done about the nature of my search, the degree to which it had taken over my life, and the frustration I felt at being able to get thus far and no further. I didn’t tell her everything, but I conveyed more than I said, as I came to realize. Jocelyn listened intently, her eyes resting on my face, and never once interrupted me.

  When my stumbling, awkward explanation finally came to an end, she gave a sigh. “I understand,” she said. “Elinor and I always knew that this meant a great deal to you. It’s such a hard task, isn’t it, resurrecting the dead, trying to see them and comprehend them? Elinor and I have learned that with members of our own family—but then families do hide the truth about people, and do it very efficiently. They invent myths and legends, and one hears them as a child, and believes them, and then later in life…Still, never mind that now.”

  She looked away, and I wondered which member of her family she was considering. Resurrecting the dead—was that the task I was engaged upon?

  “You see, even if you were to find Mrs. Danvers,” she continued, “I’m not sure how much help she would be to you. It’s true, she might have kept some of dear Rebecca’s things. But she was always a strange woman, you know—I always said to Elinor that I found her vampiric. She never really had a life of her own; she drew all her energy from Rebecca. She never wanted to talk about anyone or anything else—and when she did talk about Rebecca, there was this peculiar excited quality, almost as if she were intoxicated. It was the only time she ever showed the least animation—but then Edith Danvers was odd even as a girl….”

  She left the sentence hanging. I stared at her; neither she nor her sister had ever given me the slightest indication that they had known Mrs. Danvers prior to her arrival at Manderley as Rebecca’s housekeeper. “As a girl?” I prompted.

  “Oh yes. She started in service with us. She worked for my mother, as one of the parlor maids, when Elinor and I were girls and we lived at St. Winnow’s….” She paused. “She stayed only a few months—Mama found her unsatisfactory, and the other staff didn’t take to her. Of course, she was young then, only fifteen or sixteen, not much older than Elinor—I think she came to us on trial. It was a favor on Mama’s part, really. She was fond of Edith Danvers’s mother.”

  “She knew her mother? Millicent Danvers?”

  “Oh, very well. Millicent was in service for years; she only took on that boardinghouse after she married, and she married comparatively late in life. Before that, she was senior nursemaid with my mother’s family. She looked after Mama as a child…. Mama was the eldest of the three Grenville sisters, if you recall. There was Evangeline, my mother; poor Virginia, who married Lionel de Winter, and died young; and the baby of the family, Isolda. They were regarded as beauties—they were famous in this neighborhood. There was a Sargent portrait of them, you know—it was nicknamed The Three Graces, and it used to hang at Manderley. Maxim loved it so, because it was the only portrait of his mother. Rebecca cherished it, too, I remember—but it was destroyed in the fire, alas….

  “So sad…” She gave a small shake of the head. “Anyway, Millicent brought the three sisters up, and my mother was devoted to her. They remained in touch after Millicent married and Mama always took an interest in her affairs. That’s why she agreed to take Edith on—but it wasn’t a success, as I say. She was very proud and sharp and difficult. Another cup of coffee, Mr. Gray? Won’t you have a biscuit? You’ve eaten nothing, and they’re so delicious.”

  She gave me an artless look. I did not think for a moment that these revelations were artless. “Miss Briggs,” I said, “why have you never told me this before?”

  “Well, you never asked about Mrs. Danvers,” she replied gently. “You never really explained the nature of your search—and Elinor and I don’t like to intrude. So, until today, I hadn’t understood exactly how much it mattered to you, or why it mattered, perhaps. Somehow I see things much more clearly now. It’s not a great help in any case. It doesn’t help you trace Mrs. Danvers….”

  She paused. “One thing I did want to add, though,” she continued. “If you should succeed in finding her, don’t take everything she says as gospel, will you? I may be wrong, but I never felt she understood Rebecca. To hear her talk, Rebecca was invincible—and rather cruel, I always thought, the kind of woman who would never let anyone or anything stand in her way. I’m not sure how true that was. Rebecca was intensely determined, of course, had the most extraordinary willpower, but I always thought that cost her dear. There were sadnesses in her life, I suspect. She never discussed them, ever. But you could sense they were there….”

  She raised her faded gentle eyes to hold my gaze. “In fact, I always wondered if she knew she was unable to bear children—or if that came as a terrible revelation to her at the end, when she saw that doctor in London….”

  I became very still. The information came to me from nowhere, and I was totally unprepared for it. I tried to disguise my reaction, but it’s hard to disguise intense shock. I stared at Jocelyn Briggs, and I saw sympathy flood her gaze.

  “Ah, you didn’t know—I thought so,” she said quietly. “I always imagined Arthur would have explained, but I see he didn’t. You see, poor Rebecca could never have had children. Nothing to do with the disease that was killing her. There was…well, there was some gynecological problem, a
malformation of the womb, I believe. So, even if she hadn’t contracted the cancer, even if she had lived, she could never have borne a child. She saw that London doctor twice, you know. There was a week’s interval between the appointments. At the first, tests were done and X rays taken. When she went back, seven days later, he told her she was mortally ill, and that she could never have conceived. We’ll never know now, I suppose, whether she already knew, or suspected it, poor woman.” She hesitated. “You should understand—there’s no question about this. If you ask him, I’m sure Arthur will show you the letters of confirmation that doctor wrote. I know I can be vague, but for once I’m not muddling the details. There’s no possibility of error, I’m afraid. Elinor and I have seen the doctor’s letters.”

  Her color had risen. I think it was very difficult for her to discuss this with a man, and she had to force herself to do so. There could be only one reason why she had chosen to speak out so frankly, and to do so now: She had seen through me. She knew I was adopted; today, I had dropped my guard; she had seen that poor edifice of hope and supposition that I had built up—and she had seen the necessity of dismantling it. It was done with the utmost tact and gentleness, and I was unable to hide the pain it caused me.

  I saw my own distress reflect in her face; I’m not sure what I did—the moment is a blur. I think I stood up and began on some apology. All I could focus on was the importance of escape. Jocelyn’s eyes filled with regret and anxiety.

  “Oh, Mr. Gray—Terence—please wait. Don’t go. Perhaps I shouldn’t have spoken. I just felt that I must make things clear, because I could see what you believed—oh, dear, what have I done? Elinor will be furious with me. You see, you do look like Rebecca, that’s what’s so strange. Other people may not see the resemblance, even Elinor can’t, but I remarked on it the first day I met you. Your eyes are very like hers, and…when I saw you at the bus stop today, and you looked so sad, the resemblance was very strong, terribly strong, but it can’t be…. I felt you should know that. It’s not possible.”