Author: damariss PM
Yes, of course I love Maxim. Why would you think otherwise? Revolves mostly round the ending of the novel. The second Mrs De Winter reflects, and as usual, misses the point.Rated: Fiction K - English - Angst - Words: 709 - Reviews: 5 - Favs: 2 - Published: 08-26-07 - Status: Complete - id: 3748293
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
The De Winters property of Daphne Du Maurier
Written in my perception of the second Mrs De Winter's view
Look, he's bought me a bird. A canary, in it's beautiful gilded cage. So pretty. The bird sings for me, and it looks quite happy in there. Though I can't think of a name for it, I'm content just referring to it as 'the bird' or 'that bird.' I do love it of course, but simply can't think of a name.
Maxim doesn't have a name for it either. He just came home one day, to the little villa we were staying in at that time, and whipped off the red cloth covering it, laughing. He made me guess what it was. He looked rather put off when it chirped! Oh that was fun. Maxim just doesn't think it of it much than that it "pleases you, m'dear."
I do concede it is tiring moving here and there. One feels displaced. Though don't tell Maxim that, but I do think he feels the same way sometimes.
I spend most of my day going for walks, trying to amuse him. Because he's so sad, really. Manderley, he misses it so. He does get rather tired sometimes of all talk I do, I can see it in the crease round the eye and forehead, and the little lazy droop of the mouth. I'm sorry Maxim, I do tire you. He smiles, a little twist though you can see the pleasure in it. Oh no, darling, I'm just exhausted of thinking.
I loved Mandeley too. I miss it. Though now we try not to talk of anything remotely connected to it, like England or the prettiness of a flower that resembles something that grew in the gardens; a strain shows on his face. Oh Maxim. I admit it feels rather contrived that we talk of some things, and omit others though they are so painfully there. Someone said to me that we shouldn't hide things from the ones we love. Well there isn't much choice, is there.
Sometimes I wonder if I was different, stronger. There must have been something about Rebecca that Maxim admired. Her strength, will? I do have that dream occasionally, the one with me and Rebecca melded, together to form the perfect woman. Would we? I do wonder what it would have been like if I were Rebecca, or Rebecca was me. That would be something to be reckoned with.
Oh, there goes the canary! It's doing that thing again. It likes to peck at the bars, as if it wants to get out. What for? Yes, freedom is nice, but it is so safe and provided for here. I coo to it; it soon gets over these flights of fancies and returns to it's happy self.
And there's this quaint little feeling I get when I look at the sea. I stretch my hand out to the horizon, almost touching the redness of the reflected sun playing on the surface. What's beyond that? As if I'm the heroine of a pirate novel, no, as if I were flying. But it's just a feeling. Maxim would laugh and say that I am a dear thing to be thinking such thoughts.
Oh, that's Maxim calling. Dinner's ready. I do hope we get the seats on the terrace, so I can look out on the horizon. As I leave the suite I hear the canary singing.