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The wind was thrashing the house the night she died, the sea moaning its low, mournful note. I'd always hated the sea; I couldn't bear the sound, nor how changeable it was. Rebecca and I both grew up in an unimportant town which was as far from the sea on every side as it was possible to be in England, so I'd never had to think about it overmuch. Holidays had been spent in London, or Paris or Milan when money allowed, never by the sea, for by the sea there was nothing to do and no one to see. When she married and moved to Manderley, where the sea was as much of a constant presence as her new husband - and just as unwelcome, in my eyes - I tolerated its proximity, for her. I would have done anything for her, I'd known that almost all my life.
I was in my room when the maid came and told me that Rebecca wished me to attend her. "Missis 'as come home early and wants to see you," she said, and I snappishly reminded her to show some respect and say 'Mrs de Winter', not 'missis', although Rebecca had grown to loathe the de Winter name over the years. I'd been in town, as always on my afternoon off, but returned home early when the weather drew in. There is no fun to be had walking from shop to shop with water leaking into one's shoes. I only ever went to please Rebecca, for she wouldn't hear of me staying at Manderley during my one afternoon of leisure per month, but I never enjoyed it. How could I, when I was wasting time which could have been spent with her?
Normally it was almost impossible to tear Rebecca away from London, so when I'd packed her and her suitcase off that morning, I'd expected not to see her for several days, as was her custom. I certainly hadn't expected her home the same day. The forecast had been for rain there too, and perhaps she hadn't been in the mood for it. Or perhaps she had been due to meet an acquaintance and they had fallen ill unexpectedly. I would know soon enough. Fortunately I always made up her room every night, even when she was away, so it was ready for her that evening.
The maid, in her panic at being called upon by the lady of the house, had not asked where Rebecca would be, but I knew. I knew her habits almost better than my own. I tidied my hair and went to her room immediately, wishing that I had bought a gift for her. It was my custom whenever I went into town, but having not expected her home, I had, for once, not bought anything. Rebecca always seemed pleased enough, but I knew she wouldn't care if there was no gift, for she had money enough to buy anything she wanted, whenever she wanted.
She was smoking when I entered, which she ordinarily never did in her room, because the scent got into the curtains and other fabrics and was impossible to get out. I guessed it had been a difficult journey, for she looked pale and tired, dark shadows beneath her eyes and her beautiful hair hanging limply. Hardly a surprise - the drive up to London was exhausting, and to return the same day was more than even Mr de Winter usually attempted. She offered me a half smile, and I realised in that moment how long it was since I'd seen her smile, really smile.
"Danny," she said, holding her arms out, and I went to her, surprised, embracing her gratefully. She had been so affectionate when she was younger, and I quite missed it now that she was married. In my arms, she felt as she ever had, a rare comfort, but it was over far too quickly. The moment she pulled back, she picked up her cigarette again. Her momentary lapse into softness was forgotten; she was changeable as the sea, just like always. "Danny," she said again, her voice altogether different, hard somehow, as though she was fighting to hide unwanted emotions. "I have something to tell you and you won't like it."
I had always been guilty of giving in to wildly-churning, disastrous thoughts of Rebecca. It is natural, surely, when one loves a person, to fear losing them? Over the years I had imagined countless unpleasant and horrible situations, living them out in my head every time she took off for London or to meet another man. Often I sat rigid with fear until I heard the phone call to say she had arrived safely, or the sound of her car sweeping up outside the house. But somehow, despite all of those black thoughts, the imagined pain and suffering hadn’t come. I had almost allowed myself to believe that it never would. So I hardly need explain the way my heart clenched painfully at those words.
How stupid I had been, I thought, not to cherish every second with her. I had appreciated them, of course, but never cherished them as I could have. I had squandered days, weeks, years even, and now I would have no more. As much as it cut me to the bone, it made sense. I knew from the moment she was engaged that one day she would tire of Mr de Winter, of pretending to be the perfect, dutiful wife, and run away with one of her unsuitable men. Mr Jack, perhaps. And of course he disliked me, saw me as a rival for Rebecca's affections, so he wouldn't allow her to bring me along when she escaped.
I looked upon her, that beloved face, and even then, when I thought she was about to leave me, I still wanted to protect her from pain. "I know, my love. I know," I said, trying to pre-empt what she was going to say. She would not have to spell out that she was going to run away, I would not make her. And besides, I thought I would crumple like a flower cut at the stem if she told me the truth. As long as she didn't voice the words, I could pretend it wasn't real. Just another morbid fancy.
"Darling Danny," she murmured, abandoning her cigarette and lighting another one immediately. She'd had the forethought to open the window so the room was not entirely filled with cigarette smoke, but it meant the sound of the crashing sea spilled in, which set me on edge. "I considered not telling you, but I couldn't bear it in the end. When the maid said you'd returned from town early, I knew it was meant to be - I had to see you, no matter how painful it was." Her hand trembled, and ash fell from the end of her cigarette onto her trousers, a smear of grey on the pristine white. How she managed to keep them so clean in the smoke and dust and dirt of London, I never knew.
I didn't like the way she was talking, the insinuation that she would leave without telling me the truth or saying goodbye. I felt a tightness in my chest which made it hard to breathe, and the endless stream of cigarette smoke did nothing to help. She looked so calm sitting there, as though she wasn’t about to turn my life inside out with her words, but I knew her well enough to see that it was all an act. She sought to deceive me as she would deceive her husband or her sister-in-law or any casual acquaintance. Already she was pulling away from me, putting up walls. I wished with sudden viciousness that if she was going to leave me, she would hurry up and say it, so I could retreat to the safety of my room and weep in peace. And yet I knew that if I could put that moment off, I would, for as long as possible.
On and on crashed the sea against the cliffs. Another cigarette was discarded, a further one lit. Somewhere in the house a grandfather clock chimed, followed a minute later by a cuckoo clock, and I thought to myself that I would have to have them synchronised. A normal, everyday thought, not the thought of someone whose life was about to be torn apart.
Rebecca took a deep breath, unmistakably strengthening herself for something. I watched her, really watched her, in a way I hadn't done for some time. I suppose I was just so used to her always being there that I hadn’t felt the need to look too hard, to commit every freckle, every strand of hair, to memory, foolishly assuming she'd be there forever. Beneath her blouse she was thin as a rake, and though I'd thought before that it was the latest fashion to be extremely slender, suddenly I wasn't so sure. "I shall give it to you straight, Danny, so there is no doubt," she said. "You should sit down."
Dutifully, I did so, and was secretly glad for it, for my legs felt unsteady as a newborn animal's. How many times we’d sat together in these same chairs in her dressing room, her telling me about her day. She always told me things she told to no one else, or so she led me to believe. As I looked at her expectantly I realised that she did not just look tired from the long journey. She looked queer, unwell. I'd heard once that some women, when they are with child, grow thin from sickness and exhaustion, rather than fat. I wondered whether that was what she was about to tell me.
A child at Manderley! I could not imagine it. A fat-cheeked, sticky-fingered, inquisitive little stranger. It might grab the expensive ornaments from the morning room and try to suck on them, or vomit on one of Rebecca’s beautiful evening gowns. Still, we would raise it together and I had no doubt we would both fall in love with the child eventually. After all, it would be a part of Rebecca, so how could I not? Surely that was what she was going to say. She thought I would be angry with her for being careless, when she always swore she would never let any man make her into a mother, but it didn't matter. If there was to be a child, we would take care of it, she and I, just us and-
She cut my thoughts off with sharp, hard words I could barely make sense of. "I'm dying, Danny," she said, looking me straight in the eye so I saw the truth there, "the doctor said it’s a matter of months, if that."
So blunt, so matter of fact. Just like the Rebecca I had always known, and always loved. Of course that's how she would have wanted the doctor to tell her, too. She'd have looked him in the eye, steely and unafraid, and said, "if I'm going to die, doctor, just tell me. No flannelling. It won't change the outcome, and it wastes my time and yours." What a shock she must have been to a man expecting some fragile, weeping maiden.
But no, she was strong and unbreakable, and I was the one weeping. I hadn’t noticed myself start, but then how could I not, when my beloved Rebecca had given me such news? I tried for a moment to tell myself that this must be another of my morbid delusions, but the illusion shattered instantly. It was real, and no amount of imagination could change that. She looked as though she might come to me and embrace me, but she didn't, whether to spare me or herself the pain, I wasn't sure.
How could I have gone about my day so completely unaware that something terrible was on the horizon? I loved Rebecca so much that surely I should have been able to sense it? It was almost impossible to believe. The idea that one day - one day soon, by her account - I would wake up to a world without her in it. Never again would I be able to brush her hair, or hear her laugh echoing down the corridor. There would be no more carelessly-discarded clothes to pick up from the floor, no more whispered confidences late at night. A part of my heart would be ripped away and I wouldn't be able to do anything to defend myself.
Each time I found out that Rebecca was safe, the pain and fear receded, sleeping peacefully until the next time it surged forth, and each time it surprised me anew with its intensity. So the pain which rose up in me at her words, when I understood that all my darkest fears were being realised, was almost intolerable; no amount of imagined disasters could have prepared me for it.
I wrapped my arms around myself, fearing that in a few moments I would need to hold myself together, lest I break forever. The understanding of our finite time together weighed so heavily on my chest that I felt short of breath. How could I fit a lifetime of moments into just a few short months? How could I ever show Rebecca how much she meant to me in the little time we had left?
I must have spoken out loud - although I was not conscious of it - for she shook her head, her lips set in a thin line. “You must listen, Danny. There is more, and we do not have long." I wondered how there could possibly be anything worse than what she'd already said, or how she expected me to focus enough to listen. But my natural instinct was to obey her, so listen I did. "I am going down to the cottage tonight, and if anyone asks, you must say you haven’t seen me," she said, with inexplicable calmness, "that is important, Danny.”
It was obvious she had a plan of some kind, but I could not guess what, or why. All I could do was trust that she would reveal her intentions to me eventually. “Of course, Rebecca," I said quietly. "You know I would do anything for you. But what about the maid who saw you?”
Rebecca rubbed her head as though she had a headache, and no wonder, for she had already smoked more cigarettes than she usually did in a day. That had to be it, for I could not bear the idea that the sickness was something in her brain, something which would slowly - or quickly, the doctor must have said - destroy what made her the Rebecca I knew and loved. “I'm sure you'll figure something out,” she snapped, “that is what I pay you for, after all. Give her her notice, bribe her, hell, even threaten her family if you want. I don’t much care. But she is the weak link.”
Though I was not by nature an emotional kind of person, something Rebecca very much valued in me, I was close to weeping again, for I could not understand why she was speaking in riddles at such a time. What did it matter if she went to the cottage? Why must I say I hadn't seen her? I wished she would leave me alone with my grief if she did not intend to show any sympathy towards me.
But she must have seen my expression, for her face softened. "Poor Danny, I'm being a perfect brute to you, aren't I?" she murmured. Normally when faced with such questions I would lie to save her feelings, but I couldn't bring myself to, and her expression hardened when I did not deny that she was being cruel. "Well Danny, the worst is yet to come, so you'll have to be brave now," she said, as condescending and heartless as I’d ever heard her. My heart, or what was left of it at least, battered and bruised and scarred after so many years, withered yet more.
She stood up, beginning to pace back and forth. I'd never seen her so uncomposed, and I suddenly realised how selfish I was being. Of course she had the right to act in any way she wanted, I could not demand that she expressed her grief in a certain way. I reached out and brushed my hand against hers, so lightly that she could ignore it if she chose to, but she turned to me and offered the slightest, most tremulous smile. It almost tore me in two, for beneath the taut exterior, I could see beneath to where she was a frightened child once more. And that child had always used anger and cruelty to hide her true feelings.
"You know that I have always feared becoming ill, Danny. I cannot imagine anything worse than being weak and pathetic and dependent on someone, and I have no tolerance whatsoever when it comes to pain." I tried to speak, but she held out a hand to cut me off. This was her soliloquy and I must listen and bear witness, no more. "I will not stand by and let this damned cancer take everything from me. No. I won't. I won't!"
Oh, Rebecca, I thought, oh love, no. The memory of watching her beautiful and vibrant mother's excruciating decline and eventual death from cancer was something neither of us would ever forget. Rebecca had been old enough to see everything and young enough to understand none of it, and it had scarred her deeply. I knew then, with the absolute certainty born of knowing a person intimately for many years, of knowing their decisions both good and bad, what she was going to tell me next. And there was no escape from it. My heart began to race so hard it was almost painful.
When I felt I could remove my hand from my mouth without breaking into a flood of hysterical weeping, I asked, "when?" My voice was raw, I barely recognised it as my own. She smiled ever so slightly, clearly pleased that I was seemingly willing to accept what she was planning, and it felt wrong to accept her gratitude for something like that. I needed her with me so badly that I felt I could barely breathe when I was alone, and yet how could I say that I loved her while at the same time expecting her to stay alive, suffering, for my benefit?
And would I be able to watch her slip away? Could I bear to see her weeping in pain, or under such a great dose of morphine that she was barely conscious? I had nursed her mother but surely I was too close to Rebecca for that? I would feel each pain as if it was my own suffering, weep each tear as if my own heart was breaking. At least this way, she was taking away the agony of my having to make a choice, although I knew in a few days or weeks I would wish she hadn’t.
"Soon," she said quietly, and then, with her back turned to me, "tonight." I did cry, then. Hot, silent tears which burned my cheeks as they fell, for I had known that would be her answer. Her will was, and always had been, unmatchable, unstoppable; once she decided upon a course of action, she would follow it through, no matter what, and I knew nothing would delay her now. “But Danny,” she said, urgency threaded through her words, “Danny, you must listen. I have a plan. I cannot fight it, but I can drag others down to hell with me when I go.”
I made a small sound which might have been a sob, or a noise of approval, but it didn’t matter, for it was lost beneath the sound of Rebecca’s footsteps as she continued to pace. Of course my Rebecca intended to go out in a blaze of glory, not cowering like a lamb at the slaughter. I did not know what else to do, so I waited until she turned back, caught her eye, and asked, “tell me? Please, love?”
Ought I to have done that? Perhaps not. But I’d learned long ago that there was no give and take in our relationship. If I wanted to make the most of my final time with her, I would have to prompt her to talk, and then listen. It was just the way things were, and I was used to it. She never thought of something as mundane as asking me how I was feeling, or how I'd spent my day. And since all of her thoughts seemed to be focussed on whatever would happen at the cottage, those were the thoughts I would have to listen to. I tried not to consider the fact that the story would end with the death of the one I loved most in all of the world.
After another minute of pacing back and forth, she stopped, bit her lip thoughtfully, then collapsed theatrically down into a chair, as though the weight of her thoughts was too much to bear. And it was, I supposed, for how does one cope with the sure and certain knowledge that they will die in only a few short hours? But Rebecca would not be making plans, oh no, not my lady, not beyond whatever scheme she was concocting now. She would go, and we - I - would be left with the consequences, just as it had always been.
"I'm going to get Max to kill me," she said, so matter-of-factly that for a moment I was sure I'd misheard. She brushed back her hair from her face, and met my gaze steadily. "I'm going to get Max to kill me," she said again, testing the words on her tongue. "Of course, he doesn't know it yet. I think he's wanted to for some time, but he would never do it if he knew that I wanted him to. If he knew I was dying, he'd refuse and keep me alive just to make me suffer more."
I couldn't deny that that was true, but I couldn't focus on the idea of Rebecca, alive and suffering, if I wanted to keep my composure. Yet neither could I think of her dead, a huge, gaping hole at the centre of my world where she belonged. To my surprise, she leaned forward and took my hand in hers, and I wondered whether there was something else, some other horror waiting in the wings for me.
"Now you understand, Danny, why no one can know that we've spoken? I'm determined that Max will hang for this, but if anyone has the slightest suspicion that it was planned, everything will fall apart." She clasped my hand tighter. "Luckily, Danny, I'm still as crafty as you've ever known me to be. I have a backup plan, too, in case Max somehow manages to ruin this as he ruins everything else. Sometimes I'm shocked at my own cleverness!"
She'd gone from serious to gleeful in a matter of seconds, her moods swinging so sharply that I felt dizzy. Perhaps it was in her brain, the cancer, making her behave oddly. I wondered what else she might have said and done as the sickness took hold, things which she would never have ordinarily done. The way she had snapped at me recently, the way she had taken to departing for London without so much as a goodbye…
A frown; I knew I'd displeased her somehow. It etched itself into the lines on her forehead and around her eyes, lines I hadn't noticed before, the lines of an ageing woman. Was she truly that? Did she live in my mind and my eyes as eternally the carefree young woman she'd been when we first lived together, even as the real Rebecca suffered and aged? If she did, I swore that I would do anything to protect that image of her, for it would soon be all I had.
"Are you listening Danny? If you don't care then I shall go away without saying goodbye," she pouted, and though there was no real threat - after all, as a child she had been fond of threatening to throw herself from the roof at the slightest upset or inconvenience - I felt my heart shatter, and the pain must have shown on my face. "Come now, Danny. You know I wouldn't do that," she said, with a tenderness that anyone but me would have mistaken for being real. "But you must listen. Are you listening?"
I nodded, swallowing hard. Was it possible for one's emotions to freeze like a lake in the depths of winter? I felt numb, as though there was nothing else I could offer but dumb acquiescence and resignation.
If Rebecca noticed, she didn't comment. "Good," she said, although I could not find anything 'good' about our present situation. "I've tricked Jack into coming down to Manderley too," she confided in a gleeful half-whisper, "and I have timed it perfectly so that he will see Max kill me. He won't be able to wriggle out of it if there are witnesses! Frith, that senile old codger, would do anything Max asked, including persuading the staff to lie in his defence, but Jack can't be forced or manipulated or bought. He'll tell the truth, especially if Max suffers as a result. Tell me I'm brilliant, Danny!"
God, how I wanted to. It was clever, and it offered her both an escape and the ultimate revenge, but I was sure it couldn't possibly work. She was desperate, that much was clear; she'd forced together pieces of a jigsaw which did not match, and she was too caught up in grief to realise how easily the whole thing could fall apart.
There were so many things which could go wrong, but I was sure the fatal error was to trust that Mr Jack couldn't be bought. I hadn't known him quite as long as she had, but it had been more than long enough to know that it was entirely misguided faith. Though he despised Mr de Winter as another rival for Rebecca's affections, if he was offered a choice between doing the right thing and a slice of the extensive de Winter fortune in bribery money, I knew which he would pick, in a heartbeat. He would see endless rows of whiskey sodas in his mind's eye, perhaps a flashy car or an expensive watch, and any small amount of conscience he possessed would fall away.
I didn't want to be the one to bring her down, and yet how could I let her go forward with a plan which wouldn't work? "Rebecca," I began, hardly knowing the words to use, "I'm not sure if-"
And then she did something completely unexpected - she leaned forward and kissed my cheek warmly, the way she used to when she was young. If the intention was to distract me, it worked admirably, as I'm sure she knew it would. And I realised then what should have been clear to me from the start - Rebecca didn't care. She wanted to take Mr de Winter down with her, as any neglected and unhappy wife might, and she'd constructed an elaborate fantasy around that idea. But it was no more than a comfort and a distraction. All she truly cared about was escaping, however she could.
I had no doubt that she knew exactly what to say to Mr de Winter to enrage him enough to kill her. No matter what it took, she would not leave the cottage alive - her iron will was enough to ensure that. And I? I was to sit alone in my room, anxiously counting down the minutes until someone came to tell me that Rebecca was dead. I could be reading a book as she was shot, or darning stockings as she was strangled. I would not know the exact moment she died, although I was sure I would feel it. It would be a breathtakingly sharp physical pain, as the greater part of my life, my only love, was ripped away from me.
Rebecca took my hand, pressing something into it. A small bottle of pills. I looked at the label - sleeping pills, strong enough to take down not just an ox, but an entire herd. "Please Danny," she murmured, "please? I can't do it knowing that you're up here thinking of me." She met my eyes, and I could see how close she was to falling apart. I could give her this. I would give her this; I would ease her passage from this world by doing what she wanted of me, just as I always had.
My hands were cold, as though I was frozen with shock that this was happening, that in just a few short hours, my life had changed beyond recognition, and would continue to do so over the course of the evening. I hadn't noticed how much I was shaking, either. Before I could open my mouth to ask the question which burned in my chest, Rebecca answered, her tone gentler than I'd ever heard it, "I'll stay with you until you fall asleep, Danny."
What could I do but agree?
It was the strangest reversal of our roles. After I'd taken the sleeping pills, I undressed in the bathroom, and slipped into my nightdress. It was long and old-fashioned, a comfortable, worn cotton, unlike Rebecca's, which were all short and satiny-soft and edged with lace.
Rather than encouraging me into bed, she led me to the chair at my dressing table. It was nothing, some second- or third-hand set I'd found when Rebecca and I first lived together, with barely any money and the fervent desire to live the life we'd always dreamed of. Compared to Rebecca's dressing table and the fine Venetian mirror which sat atop it, mine was an insult to Manderley.
The brushes too - cheap, and replaced only when necessary - were not made to be held in hands as elegant as hers. But she said nothing, only unfastened my hair and let it fall down my back, beginning to brush it slowly, with a care and tenderness she never showed her own, beautiful, hair. It was so long since anyone had touched me gently, comfortingly, that I began to feel tired. My eyes drifted closed, my body betraying me, and I fought desperately to stay awake. I was all too aware that those were my last moments with Rebecca and I wanted to remember them, to commit everything to memory - every look, touch, sound - but it was getting harder.
Rebecca's mother had not gone quietly. She had moaned and wept and writhed and suffered until the very last, and I could not bear the thought of my Rebecca that way. If she was denied her escape tonight, she would find it tomorrow, or the next day, or the next, but one thing was for sure - she would not sit around waiting for the pain to become unbearable. I knew her well enough to be sure of that.
Her arms came around me, tightly, holding me as close as I'd longed to be held for so long. Dark hair tumbled down to mix with mine, almost indistinguishable; we could have been sisters, in another life. I let out a soft breath, and the next moment, her lips found mine, kissing me softly but meaningfully, the gentle taste of salt creeping in, for someone was crying, and I didn't know whether it was her or me.
I wanted to say something, to tell her that I had lived my life only for her since we met, but I couldn't find the words. And she didn't need them, not where she was going, into darkness and stillness and nothingness. It was I who would be left behind, who would need soft words from her to comfort myself with in the deepest, emptiest part of the night, when fear grew claws and teeth and ripped at my heart. But she would never give them, so I did not ask.
I wanted her to kiss me again, just once more, I told myself, and then I would surrender to sleep. But her hand was on my cheek, and I heard her say, as though from a great distance, "come on, Danny, to bed with you. You fell asleep right here at your dressing table!"
My footsteps were unsteady, and Rebecca wrapped an arm around me, holding me close to her, so close I could smell her perfume, overlaid with the scent of dusty London air, and all of the cigarettes she'd smoked earlier. I felt queer, caught between wakefulness and sleep, my body not quite under my own control. Or perhaps I had crossed over somehow, existing for those final few minutes in some strange place between life and death. Without Rebecca my life would cease to have any meaning, so it was just as well to surrender as quickly as possible. A part of me was sure that it wouldn't be long before I followed her, anyway.
The moment my head touched the pillow, my eyes closed involuntarily, and I felt Rebecca begin to stroke my hair soothingly. My thoughts were unfocussed and hazy, a jumble of unconnected memories of Rebecca. The time she broke her arm falling off a horse as a child, but shed not a single tear. The radiant smile at her engagement party, and its false twin at her wedding. The way she used to call herself Rebecca Danvers to confuse people. The innumerable times she'd come home after a long day and sat up talking to me about everything she'd done.
But the memories refused to clarify into anything I could voice, so I let them play out in my head, Rebecca still stroking my hair. And so my final moments with her were filled not with tears, but with the soft comfort of memories. It wasn't until later that I realised just how much of a gift she'd given me by doing that.
I didn't hear her leave the room, nor did I feel her go. She'd chosen the sleeping pills wisely. I imagined her begging the doctor for something strong to help her sleep, all the while knowing that not a single pill would pass her lips.
The curtains were closed, so I had no idea what time it was when I awoke. My head was fuzzy and clouded after the unnatural sleep, and it took me more than a few seconds to remember what had happened. When I did, the pain hit me so strongly that I gasped, my breath snatched away by the realisation that I was taking my first tentative steps into a world without Rebecca. I felt weak as a newborn animal once again, my legs trembling. But I couldn't allow anyone to see me that way. Someone would come up sooner or later to break the news about Rebecca, and I would have to act perfectly normally until they told me, not let them find me a curled-up, shivering wreck. I would not fail Rebecca, not with the last thing she'd asked of me.
I gave my face a cursory wash and pulled my hair back into its usual style, dressed in my normal black dress, and tried to build myself up to having the air of a woman tired but satisfied after an afternoon spent shopping. That had been my poor excuse for entertainment with Rebecca gone. How little I'd had to worry about as I wandered aimlessly in and out of shops, picking up handbags I'd never use and hats I'd never wear. How little I'd understood the turn my life was about to take. Loss gripped my heart once again, but I took it by the scruff of the neck and shook it, the way I'd done to Mr Jack when he was younger and I'd caught him trying to sneak into Rebecca's bedroom. You can have me soon, I told it, you may take me and keep me if you like, but first I must keep the promise I made to my lady.
After a moment's indecision, I settled on heading towards the kitchen. I had certainly missed dinner, but I could make a cup of tea and take a few slices of bread and butter back up with me. My cheeks were burning and yet I was shivering; it would be easy to say that I'd caught a slight chill from being out in the rain, and had retired to bed for the evening, thus explaining my absence at dinner.
Had it been an ordinary day, I would have opened Rebecca's door on the way past and checked that all was well, even though she was in London, so it did not look suspicious that I did it then. But I did not linger, I could not. Not if I was to keep the loss, that gnashing, clawing beast in my chest, at bay. So I closed the door softly, and headed further along the corridor. When I reached the head of the stairs, my footsteps little more than a whisper, I realised that the lights were dimmed, and the whole place seemed almost funereal. Had they found Rebecca? Was it in respect to her? I found I could not bear to go down.
When I turned, I saw there was a sliver of light showing beneath the dressing-room door, and as I watched, a shadow moved through it, back and forth, back and forth. It was not Rebecca, I was sure of that; she had made up her mind to die that night, and she would have done so, come hell or high water. Even if she had needed to grab Mr de Winter's wrist and force him to hold a revolver to her head, she would have done it.
No, unless the police had come already and were searching Mr de Winter's rooms, or unless Mr Jack had seamlessly moved himself in as master of the house once Mr de Winter was taken away, I knew something had gone wrong. I knocked on the door before I could stop myself, and he called out immediately, "who is it, what do you want?"
What was I thinking? Hadn't Rebecca told me to act as though I didn't know she'd come home? The memories of her words were floating away from me like mist, ungraspable; I blamed the sleeping pills. I'd made a choice, and perhaps it was the wrong one, but it was too late to pull back. "I'm worried about Rebecca," I said to him, through the door, "one of the maids said she arrived home earlier, but she isn't in her bed, and it's blowing fiercely out there."
There was silence for a minute, then footsteps. When he opened the door, his face was ashen. My poor, dear, clever, hopeful Rebecca. I knew it instantly - her plan had failed. He had killed her and there were no witnesses. There would be no police, no grand showdown with Mr Jack. My lady had her wish, but not the revenge she'd so longed for. The beast inside my chest roared, and it took all of my strength not to roar too, at him for killing my lady, at Mr Jack for being so damned unreliable, at cancer for creeping up silently on the only one I loved. But once again, I mastered myself.
"She's spending the night down at the cottage, I expect," he said, his voice calm and even. How could he be so, after murdering his wife? He was every bit as cold and unfeeling as Rebecca had been, I realised; they had been perfect for one another, really, although perhaps that similarity was what drove them apart. "I should go to bed if I were you. She won't come back here to sleep if it goes on like this."
He was right, of course. The walk up from the cove was treacherous during the day when it was raining, with so many leaves to slip on, and in the dark and driving rain, it would be impossible. Had she still been alive, she would have locked the cottage windows, pressed an old sheet up against the bottom of the door to prevent the draught and the water creeping in, thrown whatever she could find on the fire, and curled up beneath her blankets to wait out the storm.
But she was not there, she was dead. Where? Had he left her there in the cottage, so in the morning someone could come across her body and claim self-murder? Had he hastily buried her somewhere on the estate, or dragged her body up to the cliffs and dropped her into the sea? The sea, oh god, how I hated the sea. I felt nauseous at the very idea, and I swallowed hard, said goodnight, and walked away as fast as I could. I have no doubt he was as happy for me to leave as I was to leave him.
Back in my room, I paced. Back and forth, back and forth, just as Mr de Winter was undoubtedly doing in his own room. He knew the truth, and I knew the truth, but he did not know that I knew the truth. All of her life, Rebecca had looked to me to deal with her troubles, but this time, I needed her help, and I could not have it. After a minute or two of rising panic, I decided - perhaps foolishly - that I needed to be close to her. I left my room, moved silently as a mouse down the corridor, and slipped into her room.
When Rebecca was young, she had a brief obsession with spies, and all but tore apart her bedroom looking for suitable places to hide important things. In particular, she had discovered that she could pry off the back of her mirror and hide slips of paper between the wood and the glass. It was a habit she never quite grew out of, and so I headed not to the dressing table, with its grand Venetian mirror, but the small mirror propped on the mantelpiece over the fire, hoping upon hope I would find something.
The wood was loose, as though it had been recently removed, and my heart jumped. After a moment of exertion, in which I was painfully aware that any noise would be heard by Mr de Winter next door, a thin sheet of paper slipped out into my hands.
Dearest Danny,
I am not a fool, I know it's unlikely this plan of mine will work. But I have to have hope, for there is nothing else left.
And now I must ask you now to do something unfair, something you may hate me for.
Please, stay at Manderley, for as long as you can. Stay, because I truly believe that one day, the truth about what Max did to me will be discovered, and since I cannot be there to see his downfall, I want you to be instead.
I know that I cannot make you do it, and I should not ask at all, but you've known me for long enough to know that I am an entirely selfish creature!
Take heart, dearest Danny. I am gone, and I did not suffer. I remember enough about mother's death to know I could not have put you through that again.
Burn this now, and perhaps wherever I am, I shall see the smoke rising like a signal.
Your Rebecca
If I had thought for a moment that her hold over me would end with her death, I was wrong. I read and reread the words, 'stay at Manderley', until I could see the ghost of them when I closed my eyes. I knew that I could not go against her wishes, no matter how much it hurt me to live out my days in the place where we had lived together, but was no longer filled with the sight and sound and scent of her. I refolded the paper, and then folded it again, and again, and then slipped it into the bodice of my dress, close to my heart. There was no fire in her room, so I would need to burn it in mine, and I could not risk anyone seeing me with it.
As I turned to leave, something called to me, something I could not explain, and I turned back. There was a curious vibration in the air, although the rational part of me knew that it was simply a result of the storm. I went to her bed, for the pillow was slightly askew, and I straightened it carefully. Again, I sensed it; there was something more to find than just the slight disorder on her bed. It was not in plain sight, so I looked to the small bedside table, sliding open the drawer, and I was weeping before I even realised it. There was the photograph - the only known photograph - of myself and Rebecca together.
Some months ago, I had asked her about it, and she brushed off the question with a casualness which suggested to me that she had lost it and didn't particularly care to look for it. Had it truly been here, beside her bed, all the time? How had I not sensed it when I put her to bed every night, how had I not felt the pull of the happy moment captured there?
It was a warm summer's day not long after she married, the kind of day which had Rebecca in the highest of spirits, and she had persuaded me to take a picnic on the lawn with her. Major and Mrs Lacy had arrived unexpectedly, but even that had not dampened her spirits, and I was so infected by her joy that I allowed myself to be cajoled into staying outside too. Major Lacy was showing off his new camera, thinking himself a fine gentleman of the world, and Rebecca had begged him to take a photograph of both of us. I was rigid, but at the last moment, Rebecca swept off her floppy sunhat and perched it on my head, and we both began to laugh at the same time, knowing how incongruous it would look with my black dress.
As a result, our faces were slightly blurred in the photograph, but it did not matter to me. I would carry the image of Rebecca's face, the sound of her laugh, in my heart for the rest of my life. I picked up the photograph and closed the drawer quickly, for the sense of being close to something important had dissipated. The light in the dressing-room was off, but I crept back to my room as silently as I could regardless.
I burned the letter just as Rebecca had asked me, thinking of the melancholy poetry of her thought that she would see a smoke signal and know that I was okay. The photograph I placed in the drawer beside my bed, for the grief was still far too raw to have it on display where I might glance at it unawares and open myself up to the pain flooding back instantly.
I hadn't noticed earlier that she had left the bottle of sleeping pills by my bed, but I was grateful that she had. I swallowed two with a glass of water, and lay down, hoping that sleep would come quickly. I did not let down my hair, nor change out of my dress, for I could not bear to feel my own irreverent touch, when Rebecca's gentleness was still so fresh in my mind. The dizzy confusion of slipping into an unnatural sleep came upon me again, quickly this time, and I succumbed quietly as a lamb. There was no Rebecca to keep myself awake for.
When morning broke, the world had the usual exhausted, washed-out look of the aftermath of a storm. I felt the same, muddled and oddly tired despite sleeping so deeply. I dressed and put on my coat, and went down to the cove, drawn there by a force I could not resist. There were a few fallen trees in the woods, as is to be expected after a storm, and the beach was littered with driftwood and seaweed which had washed up. I felt suddenly unprepared for what I might see - if Mr de Winter had left her body there in the cottage so he could claim suicide, I did not want that to be the way I remembered her.
I wanted, needed, to turn back, but I couldn't. My feet moved forwards, and I had no choice but to follow them. I never really had a choice when it came to Rebecca. Steeling myself, the beast in my chest awake and snarling, ready to drown me in grief, I looked in through the cottage window. Everything looked clean and ordered, and there was enough light to tell there was nothing the size and shape of a slender woman lying on the floor. Then what? Where?
I took a step back, and looked around. The boat was gone.