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Manderley never changed. The Manderley of her past was still the Manderley of her present, as cold under Maxim’s rule as it was under her father’s. Beatrice’s feelings towards it were a complicated mix of apprehension and childish affection. Whilst still chilly, it was much more beautiful than it had ever been in her youth, well decorated and well planted in a way her father had never cared for. The old man would have let the place go to ruin in his grief, if he had not died as early as he did. Beatrice did not remember the beautiful, glamourous Manderley of her mother’s time. She barely remembered her mother, beyond a loving, quiet wraith that still occasionally touched her heart. Maxim was the eldest, so had known her more. Beatrice wondered if Maxim’s grief had inspired him to marry Rebecca, knowing she could restore the house to its former splendour, and she had, of course.
Beatrice had come to realise most of Maxim’s actions were rooted or excused in his grief.
She sat with her hands clasped tightly, listening to Giles drone on and the noise of the car engine. He was a steady, careful driver – slow actually, something that irritated her to no end. Beatrice didn’t see the point of hanging around for no reason when one could make a journey in half the time. He said that she was simply an impatient, dangerous driver. Beatrice thought any woman living with Giles would become unpatient.
Manderley always made her think of her youth, the early years – final memories of her mother, learning to ride, hating French lessons that she now wished she had focused on. Her teenage years – first loves, first mistakes, the beginning of the rift between herself and her brother. The last years of youth – meeting Giles, leaving, her father dying. Beatrice found it uncomfortable. She had an unwavering belief in the present, not so much the future – for her fortieth birthday had recently rattled her slightly, but the present was safe, and she felt as if she could control it. The present resided in her own house, not in Manderley. Perhaps that’s why going back to the place made her feel so nervous.
‘I heard he picked her up in the south of France,’ Giles said, pulling her from her thoughts.
‘Hm? Well,’ Beatrice could already see the beginning of judgement clouding Giles’ eyes. ‘I know she’s very young.’ She had begun to judge Maxim herself, even if she resented her husband doing the same. It was selfish of him to involve another woman in his grief. Beatrice had seen how haggard and drawn he had become and being around him for hours at a time was draining enough, let alone living with him. ‘We need to welcome her into the family, involve her. Maxim won’t if he had his own way, he’d keep her locked up and ignorant in Manderley.’
Giles made a hmph noise. ‘I don’t really know why we’re going to be honest. He did invite you, didn’t he?’ Beatrice said nothing. ‘Bea?’
‘Not as such.’
Giles laughed. ‘Alright, then I have no idea at all why we’re going.’
‘Because he’s my brother, Giles,’ Beatrice replied. ‘We might not get along, but he’s my brother.’
She left it at that, knowing that Giles would not understand. He understood a lot about her, more than anyone else did, but he could never understand the feeling of duty she felt towards Maxim, especially through his grief when he became thoroughly unpleasant to anyone apart from Frank. They shared blood, they were family. He was her big brother, her first friend. Through Maxim, Beatrice felt as if she still had her father, her mother, their grandfather – everyone that she had loved Maxim had loved too.
‘Perhaps your new sister-in-law will be gladder to see us.’
Giles turned into the drive.
‘You have to be nice,’ Beatrice said. ‘Remember how nervous you were, and how accommodating Maxim and Rebecca were?’ Of course, there wasn’t any stakes in that. Her marriage with Giles occurred long after the death of her father, and Rebecca and Maxim were aware of the reasons for the arrangement, despite how unsuited they seemed. Beatrice didn’t care for idle chatter, and felt no need to impress their social circles, unlike Giles who was so desperate to make a good impression. He had ended up doing the opposite, drinking too much to calm his nerves before spilling a glass down his new shirt. Luckily Rebecca had been there, and in her magical way spun attention away from him whilst he fled the scene.
‘Well, the less said about that the better.’
‘I quite agree,’ Beatrice murmured. Giles came to a slow halt outside the doors of Manderley, and at once they opened. They had visited frequently when Rebecca had been alive, but now Frith greeting them had become a novelty. He hadn’t changed, not ever, all through her memory Frith had been an old man. Beatrice thanked him as he took her coat.
She found Manderley unchanged, so startlingly similar that for once moment she thought that the stale smell of azaleas and perfume was Rebecca herself, ready to glide down the stairs and envelop her into a tight embrace. Beatrice faltered, unsure of what to do next. Rebecca had always been the first to say hello, then Maxim – but today there was no sign of Maxim or his new wife.
That was another thing, Beatrice found that she couldn’t remember the girl’s name. They’d heard it through a friend, a quite pretty, unusual name – one that she had no idea how to spell. Before she could ask Giles, Frith ushered them into the library. Maxim and his wife were not there either.
‘How peculiar. Rebecca always had us come to the morning room,’ Giles said, half to himself as he browsed the bookshelves. ‘I hope we’re not underdressed.’
Beatrice looked down at herself. She was wearing her best tweeds, and a pretty silk shirt with an embroidered collar. ‘I’m not, but that old jacket could do with a dry clean. There’s a mark on the back.’
Giles made a squawk and craned his neck to look at the back of his maroon jacket. ‘No there’s not! It’s just the pile of the velvet has gone awry.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Beatrice, looking at his genuinely annoyed expression, ‘have I put my foot in it?’
‘Yes. This is my favourite jacket. It’s new, actually. Well, it’s not old,’ Giles looked down at his jacket again, ‘is it marked?’
‘No, I’m teasing,’ Bea laughed. ‘You look lovely.’ She sunk down into an armchair, ‘I feel like a schoolgirl called to the headmaster’s office. I hope one of them hurries up.’
As if he had heard her, Maxim opened the library door.
Immediately, she was shocked by his appearance. After losing Rebecca, Maxim had turned into a shell of himself, an irritable, ashen-faced shell. His skin was now tanned from his honeymoon, and for the first time in months he was clean shaven. He had put on weight, his clothes seemed brand new. They hugged briefly; Beatrice patted his back.
‘Hello, old boy,’ she said, still not completely recovered from the changes in him. ‘You look well.’ Giles heartily expressed his agreement and shook hands with Maxim.
‘Your trip away was successful, I presume,’ Giles said. Maxim shrugged.
‘A nice change.’
Beatrice, who was used to his caginess, saw nothing untoward in how Maxim gave short answers to Giles’ following questions, mentioning as little detail about his trip as he could. She lit a cigarette, and instead thought about how odd it was that his new wife was still hiding away somewhere. That was the strange thing. She thought that a woman new to a house, where another woman had made her mark, would be desperate to prove herself as the rightful wife. But still, Beatrice didn’t know much about being a wife, in the conventional sense. She and Giles lived together, but their lives ran parallel, sometimes closer around family, further apart when they could help it. It was an arrangement that she was thankful for, as it gave her some freedom, but one she resented in a peculiar way.
‘Where is she?’ she asked, once Giles had stopped laughing at his own joke, ‘I would like to meet her.’
‘She was on her way down,’ Maxim said, ‘I’m sure she’ll only be a minute.’
Beatrice wondered if nerves had gotten the better of the new Mrs de Winter. She waited and listened, and at one moment she swore she heard a gentle knock at the door before it opened, almost inaudible underneath the sound of Maxim and Giles speaking.
‘There you are,’ said Maxim, ‘where have you been hiding? We were thinking of sending out a search party. Here is Beatrice, and this is Giles. Look out, you nearly trod on the dog.’ His wife narrowly avoided tripping over Jasper, who had made it a habit to sit by the door as a potential hazard. There was a lull, until nervously she introduced herself. Thankfully for Beatrice, she repeated her name.
‘Quite different from what I expected,’ Beatrice said before thinking, ‘how do you do?’
‘Hello,’ said Maxim’s wife. She wasn’t anything like Beatrice expected; nothing like Rebecca at all. Pretty in a plain, slightly uninteresting way, but with beautiful golden hair, worn cropped at her chin. There was an endearing nervousness about her, and Beatrice felt a strange maternal instinct to swoop her under her wing. Maxim could be insensitive when he wanted to be, and Beatrice wondered if his wife’s nervousness was due to something he had said. Had he lost his temper already? Maxim and Giles laughed at Beatrice’s comment, and nervously the girl joined in, her laughter slightly delayed as she looked to the door, as if hoping someone would come in and save her.
‘Sorry to invite ourselves like this,’ Beatrice said, ‘we knew you hadn’t been long back, but we were absolutely dying to meet you.’
‘Beatrice never listens to invitations. You invite her, and she’ll give an excuse. You don’t invite her, and here she is,’ Maxim said.
‘Now, now,’ Beatrice replied, not entirely sure if his remark was a joke or not. The conversation stilted. Maxim’s new wife jumped in shyly, with an account of their honeymoon that Beatrice listened to carefully, trying to piece together the story of Maxim’s sudden improvement in health. They had married in Monte Carlo, then travelled onto Italy, stopping in the South of France again on the way home. Maxim had little to add to his wife’s account, and instead sat listening quietly.
Beyond their shared memories, Beatrice had grown to realise that she had little in common with Maxim, no matter how hard she tried. There was something about her that seemed to rattle him, and there was something about him that set her on edge. They had never been friends, even after Rebecca’s death. Bea had liked Rebecca and wondered if grief would be the thing to bring them together at last. It was not.
There was a swift knock at the door, and Frith entered. Beatrice was glad to see him. Frith was perhaps the only part of her past she could stand.
‘Lunch is ready,’ he announced. They got to their feet, Maxim leaving first, then Giles, but Beatrice hung back and caught her new sister-in-law’s arm, lacing her own through it.
‘You must tell me if Maxim is unkind,’ she said, as lightly as she possibly could, not to betray her own nerves. ‘He doesn’t mean to, but he can have a terrible temper.’
‘I don’t think he’d lose his temper with me,’ Maxim’s wife replied. Beatrice smiled at her, her heart touched by the act of loyalty.
‘Yes, I suppose not. You don’t seem like the type,’ Beatrice replied. Had Rebecca been the type? She pondered this as they walked into the main hall. There had been rumours of unhappiness between Maxim and Rebecca, incredibly quiet rumours, for nobody dared to speak for fear of upsetting Rebecca. An odd look here, a comment there at previous Manderley Balls. The way Maxim watched Rebecca work the room with his lip curled. Beatrice had noticed it all and said nothing. If she was honest, she was surprised at Maxim’s reaction to the accident. She had not expected the level of grief and sickness caused by Rebecca’s death. It confused her.
They walked towards Manderley’s main staircase. Mrs Danvers walked down. She caught Beatrice’s eye and did not offer a smile. Beatrice did not either. It had been a long time since they had exchanged anything beyond a curt greeting.
‘Mrs Danvers,’ Beatrice called. Hello Danny.
‘Mrs Lacey.’
You should never have taken his name, you know that. You should never have given in, in the first place. Why had she given in? She remembered Danny’s black hair across the pillow, not grey then – the same Beatrice’s had been honeyed blonde and free from signs of age. She remembered the pitifully small sense of freedom she felt. I’m sick of living in this house Danny, I’m sick of being trapped and feeling like a child.
Mrs Danvers stopped, and Beatrice silently cursed her. She was years beyond feeling awkward, that feeling had well and truly died, but still something unsettled her about seeing the other woman. Perhaps it was the reminder, of one of the only times she had felt understood. She suddenly felt uncomfortable in her silk shirt and tweeds, better suited to shoot than to exchange social niceties with a woman she once cared for. Care. Care had never come into it, so she told herself. It was easier that way.
‘And I suppose I have you to congratulate on the floral arrangements,’ Beatrice said, nodding her head in direction of the vases, ‘you always had a good eye for flowers, Mrs Danvers.’
Mrs Danvers did not smile. For a second, she seemed to take Beatrice’s words as a challenge, suspecting that something lurked beyond that. Beatrice detested that. It was the reason she found Danny so bloody demanding in the end. It was impossible to figure her out and she thought she had everyone else perfectly sussed. Beatrice preferred a more direct partner. She loathed having to discover what women liked or didn’t like, in every aspect of the relationship. With Danny, she had always felt like she was solving a puzzle with missing pieces. Pieces that Danny hid herself.
Seeing her again always made Beatrice’s stomach knot. She smiled again, and finally Mrs Danvers relented, and offered a small smile in return before sweeping down the stairs.
As she did so, she brushed past Maxim’s new wife. Her fingers grazed against the girl’s wrist in a sickeningly suggestive way. It was so fleeting that for a moment Beatrice wondered if she herself had made it up, but it was the girl’s face that gave her away. She blushed an obscene scarlet at the mere brush of Mrs Danvers’ fingers, and her eyes immediately fell to the floor, her own hands twitching at her skirt. Beatrice turned and saw the girl look over her shoulder to watch Mrs Danvers walk away.
It was a subtle touch, so subtle that Maxim would never guess, that even Giles would not know. It was a touch that Beatrice knew well. A touch Danny had used on Rebecca first, then Beatrice, then God knows how many others. The meet me later touch, the you’re mine touch, the I’m still proud of myself touch. Beatrice barely noticed the dining table and the plate in front of her as she sat down. She barely noticed Maxim’s wife looking at her anxiously, terrified she had seen and would read something into it.
She had seen. And she knew.
Beatrice steered the conversation away from the marriage, or the house, anything where Rebecca or Mrs Danvers could lurk and jump out at her and ruin the atmosphere. She and Maxim discussed mutual friends, the gardens, horses, anything she could think of. She stuck to past stories of their childhood, pre Rebecca. Giles had not noticed her rather frantic attempt to lead the conversation, instead more concerned with his plate.
‘Same cook?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Maxim replied, ‘Mrs Danvers has the recipes, she sorts it all out.’
Beatrice felt like screaming in a very unladylike fashion. Instead, she smiled and tried her hardest to catch Giles’ eye. He did not notice.
‘Wonderful woman that Mrs Danvers,’ he said.
Nobody said anything. Maxim made an excuse to call Frith over. Beatrice looked up, and realised his new wife was staring at her. Beatrice met her eye and held her gaze until the girl blushed and looked away.
Perhaps Beatrice was mistaken, and the girl was not worried about detection at all. Loving a woman had strange effects on other women, it was a fact Beatrice had learned the hard way after hightailing it to the South of France for a woman she had only slept with twice previously. Perhaps the girl was jealous and noticed the slight tension between Beatrice and Mrs Danvers. Either way, Beatrice was filled with an intense, burning curiosity. She needed to know more.
When dinner ended, in her haste to get up from the table, the girl knocked over a glass of port, the liquid spreading into the white tablecloth like blood, splattering across onto her dress. Maxim sighed and swatted the girl away. He looked tired. Beatrice wondered if she was the reason for his sudden shift in mood. He was always so prickly, especially when he wanted his family gone.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Beatrice said kindly, ‘let me go get you a new frock.’
‘It’s fine, really,’ the girl replied, but Beatrice shook her head.
She left the three of them in the dining room, thankful for the escape from her brother and the memories of Danny that the girl was evoking. Manderley’s hall was silent, apart from the noise of her own footsteps the only noise on the stairs. She remembered making this journey many times as a young woman, leaving parties early for the solace of her bed and own company. Instead, Beatrice turned right at the top of the stairs, and headed for the East Wing. The West Wing had been Rebecca’s domain. There was no way Maxim’s new wife would sleep there.
As a guess, Beatrice chose to open the door to what had been the largest guest room. Inside, it was pretty, painted in a girlish light blue and white. She was not surprised when she opened the door to find Mrs Danvers standing by the dressing table. At the sound of the door opening, Mrs Danvers looked up with expectant surprise, but her face quickly fell. All pretence fell too.
‘What are you doing?’ she demanded, her fingers twisting in the fabric of her dress. It amazed Beatrice how little she had changed in the many years they had known each other. her hair was now streaked with grey, her face embroidered with fine lines, but she still had her elegant, hooked nose, her cheekbones were high and flushed with indignant anger at being discovered.
Beatrice snorted, ‘what are you doing, Danny? She’s barely been here a month. You’re being stupid.’ Beatrice leant against the closed door, her hands in her pockets. She hated the way her voice sounded slightly indignant, like a petulant child that refused to share.
She’d always hated sharing. As much as she had told herself that it was all lust, Beatrice hated sharing with Rebecca. She knew at the time that her relationship with Danny meant nothing compared to Rebecca, she knew it more after Rebecca died. From the glimpses of Manderley she had caught in those dreadful months, Beatrice had seen Danny wandering Manderley like a ghost, perhaps more grief-stricken than Maxim.
‘What exactly have you told her?’ Bea continued, when Mrs Danvers said nothing. Delicately, she reached out to straighten a set of hairbrushes.
‘About what?’
‘About Rebecca.’ At her name, Mrs Danvers shivered. ‘About us.’ She gave no reaction.
‘I haven’t told her anything, and I’m not going to,’ Mrs Danvers retorted. ‘Despite what you may think, I’m not stupid.’
They lapsed into silence again.
‘You need to be careful,’ Beatrice continued, ‘do you really think Maxim won’t notice a second time? Besides, I like her. I don’t want you breaking her heart.’
Mrs Danvers said nothing. A response would simply confirm Beatrice’s suspicions, and Bea knew Danny would never give her the satisfaction of knowing what exactly was going on. Beatrice crossed the room, heading for the wardrobe. It was full of pretty, plain clothes she would never wear herself, but that suited Maxim’s new wife perfectly. She picked out a light blue dress and matching cardigan.
‘She spilt wine,’ Beatrice said, as a way to fill the silence. Mrs Danvers did nothing but smile softly. Beatrice marvelled at this. She had not seen Danny smile so softly and so freely since since Rebecca, since she herself had laid tucked under the scratchy sheets in Danny’s small bed. It alarmed Beatrice greatly and caused a small stab of pain to shoot through her chest.
‘My God,’ she murmured, unable to put it into words. Did Danny care about this new girl, the way she had cared about Rebecca? It was a horrifying thought, not just because of the uncomfortable feelings it stirred within Beatrice, but in the way she could see the ending so clearly. She could see Danny, tossed out. Maxim full of rage. The girl with nothing.
Or at the bottom of the sea. Said a cruel voice in the back of her head, one that made her feel deeply ashamed. How could she even entertain such a thought?
Danny said nothing, but held her chin up in defiance, as if it was her right to wander in and fuck the lady of the house. Beatrice nearly snorted. Well, she’s been doing it long enough. Beatrice stared back at her. She clutched the dress tightly, before turning away. Danny didn’t speak until she had reached the door.
‘Why did you marry him?’ she asked suddenly.
Beatrice faltered. Danny had asked that many times, at first full of rage, then sadly, and now with such clarity and lack of feeling that for the first time Beatrice knew that there was no hope for them at all. This proved it, the girl proved it. She knew that there was no point in trying to lie and say Danny had meant nothing to her. Perhaps now she could grieve the relationship she could have had. Her marriage provided her the freedom of a married woman, but not the freedom of herself.
Beatrice steeled herself and straightened her back.
‘Because I was sick of creeping down the corridor at night,’ she grinned. ‘Giles doesn’t care how late I’m back.’
Danny laughed.
‘We had fun though, didn’t we Mrs Danvers?’ Beatrice said, ‘creeping about, having a little fun here and there. Now, I better take her this frock. She’s probably waiting outside.’
‘Yes, Mrs Lacey,’ Danny replied, ‘yes, we did.’