Far From Home

Last night, I dreamt I went to Manderley again. As it had so many times, the narrow drive threaded before me, tracing its way through white-armed beeches and squat oaks. Monstrous hydrangeas had towered about me, this time in bloom, their blue eyes widened in amazement at my presence, taunting me, finding me wanting. And why would they not? The last time that they had gazed at me, I had been a broken child, frightened at the memory of a dead woman, desperately seeking warmth, even love from the man who had killed her.

Maxim.

Although he was not with me now, I could feel him beside me as the car wended its way up the newly repaired drive. He would not have approved, had he been there in truth. I could see his cool stare as if he sat there, disapproving of the new gatekeeper's cottage and the widened drive beyond it;, clucking his tongue at every tree that had been removed, every bit of brush that had been pared away, as if pieces of his memory were being trimmed back from sight. My breath came in short gasps as the grey stone chimneys came into view, coldly jutting into the sky. In what seemed an instant--or an hour--the silvered walls of Manderley, still perfect in their symmetry emerged, freed from the masses of briars and thickets of greenery that had hidden them for so long. I thought back to Maxim's words the day he had shown me Happy Valley for the first time.

"The contrast is too sudden; it almost hurts."

He'd been speaking abo9ut the contrast between Happy Valley and the rocky cove beyond it, of course, but the same could be said about the shock, the near pain, of seeing Manderley again. After so many years, it was whole again. Save for some scaffolding still in place on the distant north face of the building, it was as I had seen it those many years ago.

No. It was similar. The ground floor remained the same, at least near enough to satisfy memory. The lawns, although spare of grass from years of neglect and later repair, still led to the terraces that sloped to distant gardens, as yet unplanted and waiting for someone's hand. There would be roses again. They would be thin perhaps next season, but in my mind's eye I could see them, abundant again, their scents enveloping the terraces until even the sea air was only hinted in the distance. Pots of fast-growing portulaca would provide color until they reached their ascendency, aided by cascading vines, wisteria and variegated ivy. But, for now, the terraces stood empty.

The wide stone steps leading to the house had been scrubbed for my arrival, all hints of moss and construction and smoke and years having been cleared away. No army of servants awaited me beyond the heavy door and mullioned windows. Frith, already old when I had arrived then, who had taken the rug and dressing-case from the awkward girl in the stockinette dress with the practiced ease of long servitude, was gone. Robert was gone. Clarice was gone.

Danvers.

Danvers was gone.

Of that, I had to reassure myself many times as I climbed those empty stairs. To the front of the building. If I had not done, I certainly would have turned and fled. Even as I put my foot on the first stone, I could feel her staring down at me, her gaze piercing through the narrowest gaps opened between the drapes, plotting her next manipulation. I involuntarily glanced upward, but the window was new and empty. She would be there no more.

The door was old, but the lock was new. I fumbled with the key several times before I could step inside, into the great stone hall. The door clicked shut behind me. I shuddered with the draft that came through the library doors, open wide as they had been that day, shivering under the eyes of the imagined portraits, still in storage, awaiting my return. Over everything there hung a hush, a stillness, as if Manderley held its breath, waiting to see what I would do next.

"Hallo?"

Frank's voice. Dear, familiar Frank who had provided my final, tenuous link to this place. Until now, he had merely been a voice at the other end of a phone, a signature at the bottom of a page of correspondence. If I turned to face him, as I knew I would have to do, I would not recognize him. He would be bald and fat. He would have a mustache that drooped on a face grown ruddy from too many Cornish winters spent outside. Too many years had passed for it to be otherwise. Heavy footsteps approached me, crossing the stone floor, accompanied by the tap of nails such as I had not heard for many years. A spaniel puppy sniffed indifferently at my shoe before returning to Frank's side.

"I knew that you were partial to them. It doesn't seem like Manderley without a spaniel."

I smiled. "He can come to stay when I do, if that's what you mean to say."

We stared at each other awkwardly, two strangers who, at one time, had shared a great secret that had never been revealed to the world. Frank had overseen the estate until the gates were locked the final time, as treasures that had not been destroyed by fire, water, or falling stone were catalogued and prepared for storage. He had hired the workers who sealed the building to intruders, who prevented further damage from coming to its remains. He had been the one to oversee the destruction of the cottage in the cove, who shut the passage to that shingle beach forever.

He had been the one who, upon Maxim's death, had contacted me to determine what I wanted done with the estate.

I couldn't sell it, of course. It was not mine to sell. If I were not to live there, it would revert to the ownership of some distaff relative who still possessed the name "De Winter." Maxim would have preferred to see every stone fall into the sea before seeing me return. He had never returned, not once, since the night that had shone with blood-red flames.

"She's gone now," he had said. "Let the dead rest."

Frank grasped my forearms in a welcoming gesture, pulled me in for a delicate kiss on one cheek. He had not grown fat, although the bottom-most button on his vest saw some strain. Although the image had blurred over time, he was still Frank.

"You look happy," he said with the same sincerity that I remembered, "well-kept. I was afraid that the last several months . . . "

"Thank you, Frank. Let's not talk about that now, shall we? Not here."

"No, you're right." He picked up the puppy and handed him to me. "I think he's related to the Manderley spaniels in some manner of removes and seconds or something. I saw him after I received your letter that you had arrived in London. He reminded me of Jasper."

I tousled the silken puppy ears. The puppy looked up at me with quizzical eyes, much as the previous spaniels that had lived here had looked at me upon my arrival. They had waited for her to return. For what did this one await?

"The entirety of the upper story had to be gutted, of course," Frank was saying, "but through architectural and photographic records we were able to reproduce it almost perfectly. Some of the furnishings were reproduced, as well. Your suite in the East Wing has been prepared for you, for any time that you wish to occupy it. I've also arranged for a small staff. I expect that you'll wish to hire most of them on your own?"

"I don't think so, Frank."

Even now, he knew better than I what would be required to run a home like Manderley, even though it was now spare, its industries quite diminished. It would need a more skillful hand than mine to return it to its former glory. A chill passed through me. Return? No. Never return.

"Someone walking on your grave?"

"What?"

"You shuddered."

"No, most likely just a chill. The Cornish coast is a bit different than that of the Greek islands. I understand that you've added central heating?"

"Yes, but you'll probably still like to have a fire in whatever room you choose to occupy in the mornings."

He gestured for me to lead the way, to walk through the building that I had walked so many times at night, alone in my dreams. We chatted of inconsequential things as he showed me about, pointing out the modern innovations that had been added, stressing the care that had been taken to avoid damaging the historical nature of the building. Yet, the sweeping stairs that led to the first floor seemed quite unchanged. I turned toward the East Wing at the passageway almost without thought. The West Wing was no longer forbidden to me. I no longer felt the malevolent spirit grasping for me as we passed. I still had no desire to find my way there. Not yet. I was not yet ready for the sea.

Frank sensed my hesitation.

"She's gone, you know. They both are."

"I know."

The puppy whimpered on the floor behind us. His ears were flattened against the sides of his head as he cowered to the floor.

"Poor thing," I said, picking him up. "Manderley overwhelmed me on my first day, too."

Frank and I both chuckled as we descended the staircase once again. I did not need to see my suite. I knew it would be as I needed it to be, airy, light, bright with new paint and draperies. I could feel the dread rising in me once more. It was best not to give it a foothold.

"You'll be staying in town, then?" Frank asked as we approached the door. He held it wide for me, allowing me to precede him through it.

"Yes, for a few days, until we get the kitchen and staff in working order. If it's all right with you, I'd like to go to your office now and sign the necessary papers to take occupancy."

Frank smiled and nodded his assent--a bit too quickly, I thought. I didn't seek the answer as to why. Instead, I returned the puppy to him, agreeing to follow him in my own car, into town. I looked up at Manderley again before turning my back on it once more. A freshening wind came about us as I closed my car door, as if Manderley breathed a sigh of relief at my departure.