Mrs De Winter by Susan Hill Page A

hurt. I did not take his brisk words as a rejection. I think perhaps I was relieved. And besides, the change was not total, there was much that was the same. We spent a day together quietly in the house — for apart from pacing a few times round the garden, day and evening, he had not gone out, would not go. It had turned wet and very windy, with scudding, grey clouds and a mist that came down quite close to the house, so that we could not see even as far as the horses in the paddock.
    We read beside the fire and played bezique and piquet, and did the crossword in the newspaper, and the dogs slouched between us on the hearthrug, and at lunch, and dinner, Giles sat, and was virtually silent, sunken into himself, his eyes red, with heavy stains and pouches beneath them. He looked unkempt, dishevelled, broken and crumbling to pieces, and oblivious to the fact, and I did not know what to do or to say, I only tried to be kind, to pour his tea or smile at him the few times he caught my eye. I think he was grateful, in his pathetic child-like way, but
     
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    then he went back to be alone in his study for hour after hour.
    There was not even Roger to lighten the atmosphere, he had gone away to see friends, and I was relieved of the distress of looking at him and the guilt my feelings caused me.
    For that day, we seemed to be suspended in time, in some sort of waiting room, between places. We did not belong in this house, it was vaguely familiar and yet strange, and bleak to us. We felt less comfortable than we might have done in a hotel. Maxim spoke very little, and for much of the day seemed abstracted, brooding, though he was glad, I think, when I tried to divert him, when tea came, or I suggested another game of piquet. Yet I had also a strange sense that to some extent he was merely going along with it to indulge me, keep me happy. I felt myself reverting again to my old, inferior, child-like role.
    The day passed slowly. The rain blew onto the window panes, the mist did not lift. It was early dark.
    Tou will have to amuse yourself for half a day, but you want to do that, don’t you?’
    Yes. My heart pounded suddenly as I drew the curtains that night. I had a secret, it made me catch my breath as I thought of it. I could amuse myself for half a day. I knew what I would do, but I turned on my side, away from Maxim, and could not let him see me, it felt such a betrayal, the worst kind of deceit and infidelity.
     
    The mist had gone, and there were skeins of cloud, in a clear, pale sky, blown by the breeze. It was almost like
     
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    spring, except that the ground was thick with leaves that had been blown off the trees the previous day and lay in heaps about the garden and the drive.
    The lawyer would be here by eleven, a taxi was booked to fetch him from the station.
    I looked across the breakfast table. Giles was not down. Maxim looked formal, in a suit and stiff shirt, distant from me.
    The white wreath floated, pale, insubstantial, between us.
    Who? How? When? Why? What did they want of us?
    I heard my own voice speaking quite easily. I said, ‘I wonder if Giles would let me take the car? I think it’s market day at Hemmock. I’d rather like to go.’
    I had learned to drive almost as soon as we had gone abroad, though we had not owned a car, only hired one here and there, when we felt like taking a trip for a few miles to see some church or monastery or special view we had read of. Maxim seemed to like me to drive him, it had been part of the change in him, although he would never have dreamed of suggesting it in the old life. I had done it gladly, enjoying it, and enjoying even more the feeling it gave me of being different, the one who guided and was responsible. Driving a car seemed such a grown up thing to do, I had made Maxim smile, when I had once said so.
    Now, he scarcely glanced up from the paper. ‘Why not? He has to be here, he isn’t going to need it. You’ll enjoy the market.’
    So that was all right,