And Beatrice at our first meeting, looking me up and down, frank, direct,
'You're so very different from Rebecca.'
Frank, reserved, embarrassed when I spoke of her, hating those questions I had poured upon him, even as I had hated them myself, and then answering that final one as we came towards the house, his voice grave and quiet.
'Yes, she was the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.'
Rebecca, always Rebecca.
Wherever I walked in Manderley, wherever I sat, even in my thoughts and in my dreams, I met Rebecca.
I knew her figure now, the long slim legs, the small and narrow feet.
Her shoulders, broader than mine, the capable clever hands.
Hands that could steer a boat, could hold a horse.
Hands that arranged flowers, made the models of ships, and wrote 'Max from Rebecca' on the fly-leaf of a book.
I knew her face too, small and oval, the clear white skin, the cloud of dark hair.
I knew the scent she wore, I could guess her laughter and her smile.
If I heard it, even among a thousand others, I should recognise her voice. Rebecca, always Rebecca.
I should never be rid of Rebecca.
Perhaps I haunted her as she haunted me; she looked down on me from the gallery as Mrs Danvers had said, she sat beside me when I wrote my letters at her desk.
That mackintosh I wore, that handkerchief I used. They were hers.
Perhaps she knew and had seen me take them.
Jasper had been her dog, and he ran at my heels now.
The roses were hers and I cut them.
Did she resent me and fear me as I resented her?
Did she want Maxim alone in the house again?
I could fight the living but I could not fight the dead. If there was some woman in London that Maxim loved, someone he wrote to, visited, dined with, slept with, I could fight with her.
We would stand on common ground.
I should not be afraid.
Anger and jealousy were things that could be conquered.
One day the woman would grow old or tired or different, and Maxim would not love her any more.
But Rebecca would never grow old.
Rebecca would always be the same.
And her I could not fight.
She was too strong for me.
I got out of bed and pulled the curtains.
The sun streamed into the room.
The men had cleared the mess away from the rose-garden.
I wondered if people were talking about the ball in the way they do the day after a party.
'Did you think it quite up to their usual standard?'
'Oh, I think so.'
"The band dragged a bit, I thought.'
"The supper was damn good.'
'Fireworks weren't bad.'
'Bee Lacy is beginning to look old.'
'Who wouldn't in that get-up?'
'I thought he looked rather ill.'
'He always does.'
'What did you think of the bride?'
'Not much.
Rather dull.'
'I wonder if it's a success.'
'Yes, I wonder Then I noticed for the first time there was a note under my door.
I went and picked it up.
I recognised the square hand of Beatrice.