She forced the slippers over my hands, smiling all the while, watching my eyes. “You never would have thought she was so tall, would you?” she said, “these slippers would fit a tiny foot. She was so slim too. You would forget her height, until she stood beside you. She was every bit as tall as me. But lying there in bed she looked quite a slip of a thing, with her mass of dark hair, standing out from her face like a halo.”
She put the slippers back on the floor, and laid the dressing gown on the chair. “You’ve seen her brushes, haven’t you?” she said, taking me to the dressing table; “there they are, just as she used them, unwashed and untouched. I used to brush her hair for her every evening. ‘Come on, Danny, hair-drill,’ she would say, and I’d stand behind her by the stool here, and brush away for twenty minutes at a time. She only wore it short the last few years, you know. It came down below the waist, when she was first married. Mr. de Winter used to brush it for her then. I’ve come into this room time and time again and seen him, in his shirt sleeves, with the two brushes in his hand. ‘Harder, Max, harder,’ she would say, laughing up at him, and he would do as she told him. They would be dressing for dinner, you see, and the house filled with guests. ‘Here, I shall be late,’ he would say, throwing the brushes to me, and laughing back at her. He was always laughing and gay then.” She paused, her hand still resting on my arm.
“Everyone was angry with her when she cut her hair,” she said, “but she did not care. ‘It’s nothing to do with anyone but myself,’ she would say. And of course short hair was much easier for riding and sailing. She was painted on horseback, you know. A famous artist did it. The picture hung in the Academy. Did you ever see it?”
I shook my head. “No,” I said. “No.”
“I understood it was the picture of the year,” she went on, “but Mr. de Winter did not care for it, and would not have it at Manderley. I don’t think he considered it did her justice. You would like to see her clothes, wouldn’t you?” She did not wait for my answer. She led me to the little anteroom and opened the wardrobes, one by one.
“I keep her furs in here,” she said, “the moths have not got to them yet, and I doubt if they ever will. I’m too careful. Feel that sable wrap. That was a Christmas present from Mr. de Winter. She told me the cost once, but I’ve forgotten it now. This chinchilla she wore in the evenings mostly. Round her shoulders, very often, when the evenings were cold. This wardrobe here is full of her evening clothes. You opened it, didn’t you? The latch is not quite closed. I believe Mr. de Winter liked her to wear silver mostly. But of course she could wear anything, stand any color. She looked beautiful in this velvet. Put it against your face. It’s soft, isn’t it? You can feel it, can’t you? The scent is still fresh, isn’t it? You could almost imagine she had only just taken it off. I would always know when she had been before me in a room. There would be a little whiff of her scent in the room. These are her underclothes, in this drawer. This pink set here she had never worn. She was wearing slacks of course and a shirt when she died. They were torn from her body in the water though. There was nothing on the body when it was found, all those weeks afterwards.”
Her fingers tightened on my arm. She bent down to me, her skull’s face close, her dark eyes searching mine. “The rocks had battered her to bits, you know,” she whispered, “her beautiful face unrecognizable, and both arms gone. Mr. de Winter identified her. He went up to Edgecoombe to do it. He went quite alone. He was very ill at the time but he would go. No one could stop him. Not even Mr. Crawley.”
She paused, her eyes never leaving my face. “I shall always blame myself for the accident,” she said, “it was my fault for being out that evening. I had gone into Kerrith for the afternoon and stayed there late, as Mrs. de Winter was up in London and not expected back until much later. That’s why I did not hurry back. When I came in, about half past nine, I heard she had returned just before seven, had her dinner, and then went out again. Down to the beach of course. I felt worried then. It was blowing from the southwest. She would never have gone if I’d been in. She always listened to me. “I wouldn’t go out this evening, it’s not fit,” I should have said, and she would have answered me “All right, Danny, you old fusspot.” And we would have sat up here talking no doubt, she telling me all she had done in London, like she always did.”