Chapter Text
I was not sure how we had made it from the courthouse back to Manderley. Beatrice must have driven us, although standing in the entrance hall now she hardly looked as if she could remember how to turn the key in the ignition. Her face was white and composed, her frown lines set so deep I wondered if they would ever disappear. She looked so different now. Half an hour ago she had been full of fire, wrapping her arms around me and dragging me bodily from the courtroom as I screamed Maxim’s name. Outside of the courtroom she had turned me to face her, eyes burning with a blaze I had never seen there before.
“I promised him,” she snarled, still holding onto my shoulders. “I promised him that you would not watch your husband die. Just as I will not watch him die. It is over. I am taking you back to Manderley and we will wait for the call there. There is nothing more you can do, do you hear me?” I had slackened in her arms then. There was nothing more we could do. Maxim had been found guilty. Maxim was guilty. Maxim was going to die.
The moment the ornate front door closed behind us, Frith came to meet us. I had never seen him look older than he did now. He held himself perfectly upright as always, but his face, so painfully neutral at times, was betraying him.
“Is it true, madam?” he asked. His hands were clasped in front of him, and I wondered if he was trying to keep them from shaking. Dear old Frith. I’d never had strong feelings towards him either way. He was Maxim’s man through and through, but even that was as it should be. Dear old Frith. Maxim’s man. My thoughts were running in circles. “Madam?” The concern in his voice seemed to break Beatrice’s reverie.
“It’s true, Frith.” Her voice was like ice. “The sentence will be carried out this afternoon.”
I had not stopped watching Frith and I saw the pain cross over his face when she said it. If I had so much as blinked, I would have missed it. His mask was already back in place. His back perfectly straight. His hands unshaking. Poor old Frith.
“How do you wish to proceed?” He was addressing Beatrice now. “The fire in library has been lit in case you wish to wait there.”
“No.” I had found my voice again. They both turned to face me. “Mrs Lacy and I will wait by the telephone. It will not be long now and I would not wish to miss Mr Crawley’s call.”
“Very well, madam.” There was a questioning note in his voice that I had never heard there when Maxim was giving him orders. It irritated me. No, it infuriated me. It was like something inside me was fighting to break out, to be heard and obeyed. Soon there would be no Mr de Winter to give orders. There would only be me.
“That will be all, Frith”, I said sharply. His eyes widened very slightly, but not subtly enough to escape me. I turned away from him and linked my arm through Beatrice’s, leading her over to the telephone on its delicate table. Out of the corner of my eyes I saw Frith retreating down the servant’s passage. Beatrice was trembling.
“You should sit, Bee,” I told her, pointing to the chair next to the telephone. She shook her head. I did not press her. We stood in front of the telephone, side by side, and in my mind, I heard us described the way the servants would, years from now when they were re-telling the story of Maxim’s crime to a new generation of silly, giggling parlour maids. Standing by the telephone, they were, all silent and grave. Tall Mrs Lacy in her trousers and sensible shoes, and young Mrs de Winter in her pale skirt and heels. How timid she still was then, more like a child than a proper lady. She was an orphan, you know. No friends or family and not a penny to her name. It was dreadful, such a young woman and already widowed. And just think of the scandal. The first Mrs de Winter murdered by her own husband. Yes, what a dreadful story it was. Maybe it would be a footman telling the story. Or Robert, once he was old enough to be a butler somewhere. The young maids would clutch each other, revelling in each detail, while protesting that they had heard enough, that they should be getting back to work. Maybe Mrs Danvers would still be alive. Maybe she would swoop into the kitchen in her usual way, scolding the maids for neglecting their work, making Robert blush with shame even though he was no longer her inferior.
The door to the library was ajar and I could hear the grandfather clock in there, moving at its usual pace, ticking away the final minutes of Maxim’s life. A chill ran through me, raising the hair on my arms and neck. The hall was cold as always. I should have sent Clarice to fetch me a cardigan, should have run up to my room to get it myself even, but I dared not move. Any minute now, the phone could ring. Any minute now it could all be over. I felt Beatrice next to me. Our arms were still linked, my hand resting on her left hand, her right hand placed gently on top of mine, holding me steady. Her breathing was slow and her face was rigid. I knew she would fight to stay composed until the very end. It was what she knew how do to. It was how her kind of people dealt with life. Her kind of people. I had no people. Once Maxim was dead, there would be no one left to call mine.
The phone rang, shrill and abrupt, cutting through the silence of the hall like a fanfare. I had thought I would want to be the one to answer it, but I could not move. I could only stare at it, vibrating slightly on its stand. Beatrice shifted next to me, waiting for me to step forward, to take charge. I was frozen in place. Two more rings went unanswered, then Beatrice stepped up, gently releasing my arm so that it dropped at my side. I saw her take a deep breath as she picked up the receiver.
“Crawley, this is Beatrice.” She always called him Crawley, like a man would. I heard the faint sound of Frank speaking on her other end. Beatrice crouched over the little table, one hand gripping it so hard the skin over her knuckles looked as if it might tear. Frank was still talking, but she cut across him. “Just tell me, Crawley. There’s no use hiding behind vague descriptions. Tell it to me straight.”
I tried to make out Frank’s voice, even though I knew it was impossible. All I heard was the clipped cadence of whatever he said next. It was all I needed to hear. It was over now. Maxim was dead. There was a crash as the receiver dropped from Beatrice’s hand. Beatrice clutched the table with both hands. Her body was rigid, bent over the table, she had turned into a statue. I heard Frank’s muffled voice from the receiver, making noises of concern. Then there was something else, a strange humming sound from within my own head. I knew my breath was coming in short gasps, but I did not feel it. I was a ghost, I had no body, no voice. I was dimly aware of my feet, the way they tottered backwards in my impractical shoes, the heels I’d worn to make myself taller on this day of all days. Just barely, I noticed that my ankles were rolling to one side, followed by my knees. Still there was that humming sound, then a high-pitched ringing, and underneath all of it, my own shallow breathing. A voice was shouting from the other end of the room. I heard my name, Beatrice’s name, but Beatrice was not moving.
There was the slightest bit of pain when my knees hit the stone floor. I knew I needed to break my fall, that I would hit my head, but I had become completely limp. I felt nothing, not even surprise, when someone’s arms shot out to catch me, cradling me to their chest. I heard the rustle of skirts when they shifted, wrapping their arms more securely around me. It was all very strange. My eyes had fallen shut, succumbing to the queer, floating feeling that had taken hold of me, but I could hear their voices, Frith and someone else, shouting at each other, at Beatrice, and then, close to my ear, a whisper, more softly than I had ever heard her speak before: “It’s alright now, Mrs de Winter. I’m here now, don’t you worry.” And again, as she held me closer to her chest. “Don’t you worry now, Madam. You are safe. He will never hurt you again.”