Rebecca's Tale (22 page)

“We certainly don’t want to dwell on
them
,” Elinor put in swiftly. “I can’t remember all the details, and Jocelyn can’t either. The person to ask is Arthur Julyan—he is
tremendously
good on all those old tales.”

Indeed he is, and in the early months of our acquaintance the Colonel had told me this racy story: The famous Raeburn portrait had been commissioned by Caroline de Winter’s brother Ralph, a celebrated rake. The white dress his then unmarried sister wore in it had been designed to disguise the scandalous alteration in her figure, for wicked Caroline—so the story went—had been generous with her favours to her brother from an early age. Latterly, she had been equally generous to a handsome young groom at the Manderley sta
bles. “How, sir, shall I paint your sister?” Raeburn is said to have asked. But as to the answer given him, tradition divides: “As the strumpet and whore she is, sir. So let her go down to the yard and be painted with the brood mares,” goes the first version. “As my dearest love and my damnation, sir,” goes the second, more provocative version.

A surprising choice of costume, then, on Rebecca’s part; it was typical of the Colonel, I noted, to have told me the ancient part of this story, but not its modern corollary. I looked at the Briggs sisters, interested to see how they would extricate themselves, since to have given these details at their table was unthinkable. Jocelyn was less willing to relinquish the story, I saw, than Elinor.

“In any case,” Elinor was saying, “those old tales are all twaddle.”

“Oh, Elinor, you know you don’t believe that,” Jocelyn said, in an obstinate way. “Beatrice
always
said that Caroline de Winter brought bad luck. And she was right. Rebecca wore that costume, and then she died, God rest her. And the
second
Mrs. de Winter chose the
very same costume
for the one and only fancy-dress ball she gave at Manderley. We didn’t attend that ball, did we, Elinor?”

“We did not. Others did—people who were more forgiving than we were.”

“But we heard all about it—Beatrice told us! Such a calamity! The dress was to be a surprise, apparently, so of course no one knew, and no one was able to warn Mrs. de Winter. When she came downstairs…well, for one terrible moment everyone thought she was Rebecca’s ghost. Maxim went as white as a sheet—Mrs. de Winter had to change and wear an ordinary frock. She was in floods of tears, Beatrice said. Maxim had been rather cruel about it, I understand, and, at one point, she was refusing to come downstairs at all.”

“That girl lacked spine,” Elinor put in. “Mousy hair, no dress sense, and no backbone.”

“And then look what happened! She chose that costume, and there was more disaster! Rebecca’s boat was discovered, and then there was the inquest, and then Manderley burned to the ground. It made us very uneasy. There was a disturbance in the spirit world and I could sense it. I felt someone was trying to
contact
us from the other side. I felt sure there was a
message
…. I wanted to consult my Ouija board, but Elinor wouldn’t let me.”

“Jocelyn had a Ouija board phase,” Elinor said, in a very firm tone. “She also had a Tarot card phase. Both phases are now over. It is very unwise to meddle with such things, as I’m sure you’ll agree, Rector.”

“I do agree,” said the rector. “Unwise—and dangerous.”

After that, Jocelyn was chastened, and Elinor changed the subject firmly. I had to wait until we had all returned to the sisters’ drawing room for the warm water that passes for coffee in Kerrith before I could raise the issue of Manderley again. This time, I was helped by the sisters, who had turned the conversation to the question of weddings—a topic of which they are exceedingly fond, and which they never discuss without numerous little nods and smiles in my direction.

The rector, to my relief, took the subject out of their hands, and began to discuss the baptisms, marriages, and funerals at which he had recently officiated. He was probably going to decide I was a monomaniac, but I didn’t care; I steered us toward one wedding in particular—the extremely mysterious wedding of Rebecca to Maxim de Winter. Had the sisters attended it, I asked. (I’d asked them this about ten times before, but somehow they’d always veered off the subject.)

“Oh, didn’t we explain?” said Jocelyn. “We missed the great event, didn’t we, Elinor? It wasn’t long after our dear Mama had died. We were in a sad state, with St. Winnow’s having to be sold, and there was that cook—do you remember her, dear? She
kept
giving warning. It was a very trying time…. So we decided to visit our cousins in Kenya. We went on safari, and we saw lions.”

“We stayed with those friends in Happy Valley!”

“We did. We were away four months, maybe five, I forget. So we missed all the excitements at Manderley! By the time we returned—and we called at once, of course—dear Maxim and Rebecca were already married. We told her all about our trip; that’s why she gave
her
valley its name. Happy Valley! So charming! How lovely she was—do you remember, Elinor?—that first day we met her. Some people found her disconcerting, but we never did, did we dear?”

“Disconcerting? Certainly not. It was just that she had this very direct way of speaking, and that was unusual then.”

A direct way of speaking? I sighed. I could have done with that there and then—but, as I’m beginning to learn from long conversations with elderly people, directness is rare. And it’s a mistake to press
too hard, or to show the least sign of impatience. Then they clam up completely.

The Briggs sisters were not alone in missing this famous wedding. Colonel Julyan had also missed it; he was still in Singapore on his last Army posting at the time. So far, although I’d tried all the obvious candidates, I hadn’t found a single person who had attended it. Nor—and this was odder still—could I trace any newspaper coverage of it, beyond its de facto announcement in
The Times
. And that puzzled me greatly, for it took place at a time when society weddings attracted crowds, full reports, and photographs.

I asked the Briggs (as I’ve asked others) whether, having missed the great event, they had ever seen any wedding photographs at Manderley. This put both sisters in a flurry: They had; they hadn’t; they thought they might; no, now they considered it, they probably didn’t—but Rebecca had described her dress with its twenty-foot train, so they felt as if they
had
seen it. I made one last-ditch attempt, though the rector was getting very restive. I asked if they could remember where the wedding had taken place. “Someone told me it wasn’t in London,” I said, and this was true. I could name umpteen places where the marriage
hadn’t
happened.

“Oh, no, definitely not London,” said Elinor. “If it had been there, our Wyckham cousins would have gone, wouldn’t they, Jocelyn? And they didn’t go, either, though they weren’t away, and dear Maxim would certainly have asked them. Let me think—it seems absurd not to know, but it was so long ago! Her people would have arranged it, of course—but were her parents alive?”

“Rebecca’s? I don’t think they were, dear.”

“It was in the winter, I feel sure of that, because I remember our dates in Kenya. So it was rather an odd time of year for a wedding. I always think a June bride is such a lovely idea…. February? March?”

“Abroad!” Jocelyn cried, making me jump. “I’m sure it was abroad, dear—Italy, perhaps? Somewhere remote and romantic…. Didn’t someone mention canals, Elinor? Venice?”

“No, no—they’re weren’t
married
in Venice, they went there on their honeymoon, I’m almost sure. They went to France first—did dear Rebecca have family in France? You know, I rather think she did. I’m sure I recall some chateau’s being mentioned. And I’m almost certain they went on to Monte Carlo, which Maxim took
against for some reason, and then Venice. I do remember Rebecca’s telling me about gondolas.”

“Ah, gondolas,” said Jocelyn with a sigh. “Do you know, I’ve
always
wanted to ride in a gondola. I’ve always wanted to go to Venice and I never have.”

“I understand it can be very unsanitary,” said Elinor in a final way. “You’re much better off here, dear.”

I could have tried one more time, I suppose. I could have asked about the “family in France,” but I’d missed my chance, and I could see the rector was chafing. I gave up. I fielded a few questions about Scotland, and when I glimpsed the glint of sectarianism in the rector’s eyes, so I knew that if I stayed I’d be grilled on Presbyterianism, I rose to leave.

Both sisters saw me out, and in their tiny hall, hemmed in by ancestral oils, they exchanged glances. Becoming a little pink, they told me I must be sure to call on them as soon as I returned from London. “We’re planning a dinner,” Jocelyn cried. “A
small
dinner,” corrected Elinor, “with dear Arthur, if he’s well enough. And Ellie, of course….” The sisters exchanged meaningful smiles.

“I shall look forward to it,” I said. “I’ll come and see you as soon as I get back. And I’ll bring you some chocolates from London.”

“Dear Mr. Gray! Chocolates! We wouldn’t hear of it!”

“Violet creams,” I said. “You have my word on it.”

Ellie had told me about their weakness for violet creams. Violet creams, along with malt whisky, drinkable sherry, coffee beans, and most of the other necessaries for a civilized life, are unobtainable in Kerrith. Both sisters blushed crimson. If I’d discovered they had a weakness for lacy camiknickers, they couldn’t have been more embarrassed.

F
ROM THE SISTERS’ HOUSE, WHICH, LIKE
C
OLONEL
Julyan’s, is on the eastern side of Kerrith, I set off to walk upriver. St. Winnow’s Nursing Home for the Elderly is about a mile beyond the town, on a beautiful bend of the Kerr, and close to the tiny fishing village of Pelynt.

It was a pleasant walk, the narrow road winding along the riverside. The fine weather had brought people down to the water; I was
passed by several yachts and skiffs, out practicing for the Kerrith regatta, a great event on the local calendar. I passed the dark narrow creek, accessible only at flood tide, which Ellie had described, the creek where Rebecca’s boat was taken, and her body finally identified. I came to a halt at the boat builders’ yard once owned by James Tabb, the man who had adapted Rebecca’s Breton boat for her.

It was Tabb who, giving evidence at her inquest, had revealed that Rebecca’s boat,
Je Reviens
, had been deliberately scuttled. It was he who had insisted on inspecting it, and he who found that the sea-cocks had been opened, and holes had been driven into its bottom boards. His evidence caused a sensation at the time, as the newspaper accounts make clear, but his honesty seems to have caused him problems afterward. In the atmosphere of gossip and rumor that attended the inquest, James Tabb lost custom—or so the Briggs sisters, great champions of his, have told me. He went bankrupt a few years later. His family had been boat builders here for four generations: Now, the yard was derelict.

Tabb is still refusing to speak to me, and looking up at the faded letters on the side of the building, J
AMES
T
ABB
& S
ON
, B
OAT
B
UILD-ERS
, I could understand why. The son named on the sign was killed during the D-day landings. James Tabb now runs a small garage on the outskirts of Kerrith, and ekes out a living as a mechanic. I could see that he might be embittered, that the subject of the de Winters, and Rebecca’s death, was not one that he’d discuss willingly.

Tabb’s former premises were fine, honest, foursquare buildings, impossible to date, but probably centuries old. I thought of the loving and highly skilled work that would once have kept men employed here—and I felt melancholy. I remembered that long, punning, coiling tail the young Rebecca had drawn on the final “e” of her “Tale.”

Twenty years after her death, her story was not over. Rebecca’s tale continued. A great house lay in ruins; her husband was dead—and died a broken man, or so people have told me. Her friend, Arthur Julyan, gave up his seat on the Bench, and endured years of vilification. Frith sits in a wheelchair, and mourns a lost world. And James Tabb, a man on the very periphery of Rebecca’s story, even he has been affected. He lost his yard and lost his livelihood—and, to me, that loss, after generations of skill and labor, weighed as heavily in the scales as the destruction of Manderley.

Standing there by that boatyard, I tried to tell myself that this story and its repercussions were almost done, that I was here just in time to see the tail end of them. Another few years and all those who knew Rebecca, all those whose lives had been altered or affected by her, would be gone.

But was that the case? I doubted it, even as I thought it. I could see its aftereffects in Ellie. Once her father had retreated to The Pines, cutting himself off from his malicious accusers in Kerrith, she was forced to share his isolation; they see few people now, apart from the Briggs sisters, so Ellie, a young, intelligent, pretty woman, is imprisoned by the events of twenty years ago every bit as much as her father is. She would no doubt deny that analysis fiercely, but I wondered sometimes if she longed to be rescued from the fortress her father constructed—and who might do the rescuing. And what about the second Mrs. de Winter, Maxim’s widow? She was still a comparatively young woman; I doubted she would feel that the story was over yet. She went to live in Canada after her husband’s death, but she must have taken the story with her; she was part of its continuation. Nor was I exempt myself. I never intended to be that involved—I meant to come to Kerrith for three months at most, find out what I wanted to find out, what I
needed
to find out, and then leave it behind me.

After six months, I was still here. And I was more deeply involved, more caught up in this, than ever. Sometimes I felt as if I had always been part of this story, hidden away in its recesses. And sometimes I felt I was willfully writing myself into it—and that idea disturbed me.