bounder. I met him once, ages ago.'
'He came to Manderley yesterday to see Mrs Danvers,' I said.
'Really? Oh, well, perhaps he would…'
'Why?' I said.
'I rather think he was Rebecca's cousin,' she said.
I was very surprised. That man her relation? It was not my idea of the sort of cousin Rebecca would have. Jack Favell her cousin. 'Oh,' I said. 'Oh, I hadn't realised that.'
'He probably used to go to Manderley a lot,' said Beatrice. 'I don't know. I couldn't tell you. I was very seldom there.' Her manner was abrupt. It gave me the impression she did not want to pursue the subject.
'I did not take to him much,' I said.
'No,' said Beatrice. 'I don't blame you.'
I waited, but she did not say any more. I thought it wiser not to tell her how Favell had asked me to keep the visit a secret. It might lead to some complication. Besides, we were just coming to our destination. A pair of white gates and a smooth gravel drive.
'Don't forget the old lady is nearly blind,' said Beatrice, 'and she's not very bright these days. I telephoned to the nurse that we were coming, so everything will be all right.'
The house was large, red-bricked, and gabled. Late Victorian I supposed. Not an attractive house. I could tell in a glance it was the sort of house that was aggressively well-kept by a big staff. And all for one old lady who was nearly blind.
A trim parlour-maid opened the door.
'Good afternoon, Norah, how are you?' said Beatrice.
'Very well, thank you, Madam. I hope you are keeping well?'
'Oh, yes, we are all flourishing. How has the old lady been, Norah?'
'Rather mixed, Madam. She has one good day, and then a bad. She's not too bad in herself, you know. She will be pleased to see you I'm sure.' She glanced curiously at me.
'This is Mrs Maxim,' said Beatrice.
'Yes, Madam. How do you do,' said Norah.
We went through a narrow hall and a drawing-room crowded with furniture to a veranda facing a square clipped lawn. There were many bright geraniums in stone vases on the steps of the veranda. In the corner was a Bath chair. Beatrice's grandmother was sitting there, propped up with pillows and surrounded by shawls. When we came close to her I saw that she had a strong, rather uncanny, resemblance to Maxim. That was what Maxim would look like, if he was very old, if he was blind. The nurse by her side got up from her chair and put a mark in the book she was reading aloud. She smiled at Beatrice.
'How are you, Mrs Lacy?' she said.
Beatrice shook hands with her and introduced me. 'The old lady looks all right,' she said. 'I don't know how she does it, at eighty-six. Here we are, Gran,' she said, raising her voice, 'arrived safe and sound.'
The grandmother looked in our direction. 'Dear Bee,' she said, 'how sweet of you to come and visit me. We're so dull here, nothing for you to do.'
Beatrice leant over her and kissed her. 'I've brought Maxim's wife over to see you,' she said, 'she wanted to come and see you before, but she and Maxim have been so busy.'
Beatrice prodded me in the back. 'Kiss her,' she murmured. I too bent down and kissed her on the cheek.
The grandmother touched my face with her fingers. 'You nice thing,' she said, 'so good of you to come. I'm very pleased to see you, dear. You ought to have brought Maxim with you.'
'Maxim is in London,' I said, 'he's coming back tonight.'
'You might bring him next time,' she said. 'Sit down, dear, in this chair, where I can see you. And Bee, come the other side. How is dear Roger? He's a naughty boy, he doesn't come and see me.'
'He shall come during August,' shouted Beatrice; 'he's leaving Eton, you know, he's going up to Oxford.'
'Oh, dear, he'll be quite a young man, I shan't know him.'
'He's taller than Giles now,' said Beatrice.
She went on, telling her about Giles, and Roger, and the horses, and the dogs. The nurse brought out some knitting, and clicked her needles sharply. She turned to me, very bright, very cheerful.
'How are you liking Manderley, Mrs de Winter?'
'Very much, thank you,' I said.
'It's a beautiful spot, isn't it?' she said, the needles jabbing one another. 'Of course we don't get over there now, she's not up to it. I am sorry, I used to love our days at Manderley.'
'You must come over yourself some time,' I said.
'Thank you, I should love to. Mr de Winter is well, I suppose?'
'Yes, very well.'
'You spent your honeymoon in Italy, didn't you? We were so pleased with the picture postcard Mr de Winter sent.'
I wondered whether she used 'we' in the royal sense, or if she meant that Maxim's grandmother and herself were one.
'Did he send one? I can't remember.'
'Oh, yes, it was quite an excitement. We love anything like that. We keep a scrapbook you know, and paste anything to do with the family inside it. Anything pleasant, that is.'
'How nice,' I said.
I caught snatches of Beatrice's conversation on the other side. 'We had to put old Marksman down,' she was saying. 'You remember old Marksman? The best hunter I ever had.'
'Oh, dear, not old Marksman?' said her grandmother.
'Yes, poor old man. Got blind in both eyes, you know.'
'Poor Marksman,' echoed the old lady.
I thought perhaps it was not very tactful to talk about blindness, and I glanced at the nurse. She was still busy clicking her needles.
'Do you hunt, Mrs de Winter?' she said.
'No, I'm afraid I don't,' I said.
'Perhaps you will come to it. We are all very fond of hunting in this part of the world.'
'Yes.'
'Mrs de Winter is very keen on art,' said Beatrice to the nurse. 'I tell her there are heaps of spots in Manderley that would make very jolly pictures.'
'Oh rather,' agreed the nurse, pausing a moment from the fury of knitting. 'What a nice hobby. I had a friend who was a wonder with her pencil. We went to Provence together one Easter and she did such pretty sketches.'
'How nice,' I said.
'We're talking about sketching,' shouted Beatrice to her grandmother, 'you did not know we had an artist in the family, did you?'
'Who's an artist?' said the old lady. 'I don't know any.'
'Your new granddaughter,' said Beatrice: 'you ask her what I gave her for a wedding present.'
I smiled, waiting to be asked. The old lady turned her head in my direction. 'What's Bee talking about?' she said. 'I did not know you were an artist. We've never had any artists in the family.'
'Beatrice was joking,' I said: 'of course I'm not an artist really. I like drawing as a hobby. I've never had any lessons. Beatrice gave me some lovely books as a present.'
'Oh,' she said, rather bewildered. 'Beatrice gave you some books, did she? Rather like taking coals to Newcastle, wasn't it? There are so many books in the library at Manderley.' She laughed heartily. We all joined in her joke. I hoped the subject would be left at that, but Beatrice had to harp on it. 'You don't understand, Gran,' she said. 'They weren't ordinary books. They were volumes on art. Four of 'em.'
The nurse leant forward to add her tribute. 'Mrs Lacy is trying to explain that Mrs de Winter is very fond of sketching as a hobby. So she gave her four fine volumes all about painting as a wedding present.'
'What a funny thing to do,' said the grandmother. 'I don't think much of books for a wedding present. Nobody
