Rebecca

'Frith, could you move that book-stand from the table in the window, and I will put the lilac there?'

'Mrs de Winter always had the alabaster vase on the table behind the sofa, Madam.'

'Oh, well…' I hesitated, the vase in my hands, Frith's face impassive. He would obey me of course if I said I preferred to put the vase on the smaller table by the window. He would move the book-stand at once.

'All right,' I said, 'perhaps it would look better on the larger table.' And the alabaster vase stood, as it had always done, on the table behind the sofa…

Beatrice remembered her promise of a wedding present. A large parcel arrived one morning, almost too large for Robert to carry. I was sitting in the morning-room, having just read the menu for the day. I have always had a childish love of parcels. I snipped the string excitedly, and tore off the dark brown paper. It looked like books. I was right. It was books. Four big volumes. A History of Painting. And a sheet of note-paper in the first volume saying 'I hope this is the sort of thing you like,' and signed 'Love from Beatrice.' I could see her going into the shop in Wigmore Street and buying them. Looking about her in her abrupt, rather masculine way. 'I want a set of books for someone who is keen on Art,' she would say, and the attendant would answer, 'Yes, Madam, will you come this way.' She would finger the volumes a little suspiciously. 'Yes, that's about the price. It's for a wedding present. I want them to look good. Are these all about Art?'

'Yes, this is the standard work on the subject,' the assistant would say. And then Beatrice must have written her note, and paid her cheque, and given the address 'Mrs de Winter, Manderley.'

It was nice of Beatrice. There was something rather sincere and pathetic about her going off to a shop in London and buying me these books because she knew I was fond of painting. She imagined me, I expect, sitting down on a wet day and looking solemnly at the illustrations, and perhaps getting a sheet of drawing-paper and a paint-box and copying one of the pictures. Dear Beatrice. I had a sudden, stupid desire to cry. I gathered up the heavy volumes and looked round the morning-room for somewhere to put them. They were out of place in that fragile delicate room. Never mind, it was my room now, after all. I arranged them in a row on the top of the desk. They swayed dangerously, leaning one against the other. I stood back a bit, to watch the effect. Perhaps I moved too quickly, and it disturbed them. At any rate the foremost one fell, and the others slid after him. They upset a little china cupid who had hitherto stood alone on the desk except for the candlesticks. He fell to the ground, hitting the waste-paper basket as he did so, and broke into fragments. I glanced hurriedly at the door, like a guilty child. I knelt on the floor and swept up the pieces into my hand. I found an envelope to put them in. I hid the envelope at the back of one of the drawers in the desk. Then I took the books off to the library and found room for them on the shelves.

Maxim laughed when I showed them to him with pride.

'Dear old Bee,' he said, 'you must have had a success with her. She never opens a book if she can help it.'

'Did she say anything about — well — what she thought of me?' I asked.

'The day she came to lunch? No, I don't think so.'

'I thought she might have written or something.'

'Beatrice and I don't correspond unless there's a major event in the family. Writing letters is a waste of time,' said Maxim.

I supposed I was not a major event. Yet if I had been Beatrice, and had a brother, and the brother married, surely one would have said something, expressed an opinion, written two words? Unless of course one had taken a dislike to the wife, or thought her unsuitable. Then of course it would be different. Still, Beatrice had taken the trouble to go up to London and to buy the books for me. She would not have done that if she disliked me.

It was the following day I remember, when Frith, who had brought in the coffee after lunch to the library, waited a moment, hovering behind Maxim, and said, 'Could I speak to you, sir?' Maxim glanced up from his paper.

'Yes, Frith, what is it?' he said, rather surprised. Frith wore a stiff solemn expression, his lips pursed. I thought at once his wife had died.

'It's about Robert, sir. There has been a slight unpleasantness between him and Mrs Danvers. Robert is very upset.'

'Oh, Lord,' said Maxim, making a face at me. I bent down to fondle Jasper, my unfailing habit in moments of embarrassment.

'Yes, sir. It appears Mrs Danvers has accused Robert of secreting a valuable ornament from the morning-room. It is Robert's business to bring in the fresh flowers to the morning-room and place the vases. Mrs Danvers went in this morning after the flowers had been done, and noticed one of the ornaments was missing. It was there yesterday, she said. She accused Robert of either taking the ornament or breaking it and concealing the breakage. Robert denied both accusations most emphatically, and came to me nearly in tears, sir. You may have noticed he was not himself at lunch.'

'I wondered why he handed me the cutlets without giving me a plate,' murmured Maxim. 'I did not know Robert was so sensitive. Well, I suppose someone else did it. One of the maids.'

'No, sir. Mrs Danvers went into the room before the girl had done the room. Nobody had been there since Madam yesterday, and Robert first thing with the flowers. It makes it very unpleasant for Robert and myself, sir.'

'Yes, of course it does. Well you had better ask Mrs Danvers to come here and we'll get to the bottom of it. What ornament was it, anyway?'

'The china cupid, sir, that stands on the writing-table.'

'Oh! Oh, Lord. That's one of our treasures, isn't it? It will have to be found. Get hold of Mrs Danvers at once.'

'Very good, sir.'

Frith left the room and we were alone again. 'What a confounded nuisance,' said Maxim; 'that cupid is worth a hell of a lot. How I loathe servants' rows too. I wonder why they come to me about it. That's your job, sweetheart.'

I looked up from Jasper, my face red as fire. 'Darling,' I said, 'I meant to tell you before, but — but I forgot. The fact is I broke that cupid when I was in the morning-room yesterday.'

'You broke it? Well, why the devil didn't you say so when Frith was here?'

'I don't know. I didn't like to. I was afraid he would think me a fool.'

'He'll think you much more of a fool now. You'll have to explain to him and Mrs Danvers.'

'Oh, no, please, Maxim, you tell them. Let me go upstairs.'

'Don't be a little idiot. Anyone would think you were afraid of them.'

'I am afraid of them. At least, not afraid, but The door opened, and Frith ushered Mrs Danvers into the room. I looked nervously at Maxim. He shrugged his shoulders, half amused, half angry.

'It's all a mistake, Mrs Danvers. Apparently Mrs de Winter broke the cupid herself and forgot to say anything,' said Maxim.

They all looked at me. It was like being a child again. I was still aware of my guilty flush. 'I'm so sorry,' I said, watching Mrs Danvers, 'I never thought Robert would get into trouble.'

'Is it possible to repair the ornament, Madam?' said Mrs Danvers. She did not seem to be surprised that I was the culprit. She looked at me with her white skull's face and her dark eyes. I felt she had known it was me all along and had accused Robert to see if I would have the courage to confess.

'I'm afraid not,' I said, 'it's smashed in little pieces.'

'What did you do with the pieces?' said Maxim.

It was like being a prisoner, giving evidence. How paltry and mean my actions sounded, even to myself. 'I put them all into an envelope,' I said.

'Well, what did you do with the envelope?' said Maxim, lighting a cigarette, his tone a mixture of amusement and exasperation.

'I put it at the back of one of the drawers in the writing-desk,' I said.