Mrs De Winter Read Online Free

of the triviality of our little bits of news. As Beatrice simply never referred to them, I had no idea at all whether they arrived.
    ‘Please don’t look so worried. I know a stroke is a dreadful thing and it will have been so frustrating for her, she longs to be active, can’t bear to sit still, stay indoors. She won’t have changed.’ I saw the flicker of a smile flit across his mouth, knew that he was remembering. ‘But plenty of people have strokes, quite minor ones, and recover completely.’
    We were standing watching the empty, steely water that lay, ringed around by trees, and the gravelled path. I heard myself chattering pointlessly on, trying to reassure him. Not doing so. For of course it was not only of Beatrice that he was thinking. The letter, the postmark, Giles’s handwriting, the address at the top of the paper, all of it, as ever, dragged his mind back, obliged him to remember. I had wished to spare him all of it, but it would have been wrong, I knew, to hide the letters, even could I have done so successfully, it would have been a deceit and we had no deceits, or none that counted, and besides, I would not have had us pretend that he had no sister, no family anywhere but me.
    It was Beatrice who had handled all the affairs from the day we left, signed things, taken decisions, Beatrice and, for the first year or two, Frank Crawley. Maxim had not wanted to be told anything of that, anything at all. Well, I thought now, perhaps it had all been too great a strain on her, we
     
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    had taken her strength and good, open nature too much for granted. And then, there had been the war.
    ‘I have scarcely been a support to her.’
    ‘She has never expected it, she has never once said anything, you know that.’
    He turned to me then, his eyes desperate. ‘I am afraid.’
    ‘Maxim, of what? Beatrice will be fine, I know it, she …’
    ‘No. Whether she is or is not… not that.’
    Then … ?’
    ‘Something has changed, can’t you see? I am afraid of anything changing. I want every day to be as today was when we awoke. Things that are there are there, and if they do not change, I can pretend, I don’t have to think of any of it.’
    There was nothing to be said to him, no platitude that could help, I knew that. I stopped burbling uselessly about how good a recovery Beatrice was sure to make. I simply walked slowly beside him along the shore of the lake and then, after a mile or so, back again in the direction of our hotel. We stopped to look at some geese on the water. Fed a pair of sparrows some crumbs I found in the bottom of my pocket. We met hardly anyone. The holiday season was all but over. When we got back there would be the papers, and a little, precious time with them, before our single glass of vermouth, a punctual, simple lunch.
    All the way, in our silence, I thought of Beatrice. Poor Beatrice. But there was some movement already back in her side, the letter said, she knew Giles, had speech. We would telephone, wire flowers if it were possible, assuage our guilt that way.
     
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    Just for a moment, as we went up the hotel steps, I had a vision of her, clear as day, striding towards me over the lawn at Manderley, dogs barking around her feet joyously, her voice ringing out. Dear, good, loyal Beatrice, who had kept her thoughts to herself and never asked a question, had loved us and accepted what we had done absolutely. My eyes had welled with tears. But by now, she would be striding out again. I even began to plan out my letter that would tell her to slow down, take more care of herself. Give up hunting.
    Maxim turned as we went through the doors, and I saw from his face that he, too, had convinced himself, and so could relax the mask, turn back to our own, frail, comfortable existence with relief again.
     
    I am ashamed now, and it is a shame I shall always live with, that we became so happy, so light hearted that evening, turning our minds away from everything outside our own selves and