Midsummer at Eyre Hall: Book Three Eyre Hall Trilogy

by Luccia Gray

  He smiled and I noticed his eyes were such a light brown they were almost green. I felt a strange ripple in my tummy and took another step backwards. My heart started pounding in my chest. I realised I was afraid of him. My skirt was too long. If I tried to run away, he would easily catch me.

  “I’ll leave them here on the sand, so you can pick them up whenever you like.”

  “I think I should go.”

  “No! I mean, please don’t leave.”

  I wondered if it would be better to humour him than try to run away.

  “There’s a summer house at the end of the path.” He pointed towards Manderley. “There are some books and toys, and benches outside. Mrs. Benson could make us some tea. Come on!” He waved his hand.

  I had no chance of escape. I walked past the mountain of seashells I’d picked up and followed him.

  Cove Cottage was smaller than our cottage. There was a lovely garden outside with a wooden table and benches and it had pretty plastered stone walls. The windows were small and the ceilings were low, so it was dark inside. The furniture was dark, too. There was a small staircase leading to two bedrooms, one for Mrs. Benson, the lady who looked after the cottage, and one for Fritz, their footman.

  When we arrived, Mrs. Benson was sitting in a stiff rocking chair by the stone fireplace knitting a very long garment or scarf. The boy asked her to make us some tea, and she said she’d baked some fairy cakes. We sat outside on the benches on the porch in the front garden overlooking the sea while we had our tea.

  “Did you come to the beach on your own?”

  “I came with my mother. She told me to take a walk in the gardens while she spoke to Mr. de Winter, but I strolled down to the beach.”

  His face clouded over. “What’s the matter?”

  “Mr. de Winter is my father.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Max, like my father and my grandfather. It’s a family name. When I have a son, he’ll be called Max, too.”

  He looked sad and lonely. He turned and asked me my name.

  “Why is your mother here, Helen? Does she work for my father?”

  “No. My mother doesn’t work for anyone. She’s a writer and the best person in the world.”

  “I can’t imagine why such a nice person would want to spend time with my father.”

  “She isn’t spending time with him! She came to speak to him about the school. She teaches French there.”

  “Where’s your father?”

  “Dead.”

  “So, your mother’s a widow.” He shrugged his shoulders as if that explained it all.

  “My mother isn’t a widow. She’s married to Michael. He’s my stepfather.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “He’s the bravest and best person in the world.”

  “Lucky you. I hate my father.”

  He looked so sad. “Let’s walk back to the beach,” he said.

  “My father wasn’t very nice either. He didn’t love me, but Michael loves me.”

  “Is he rich? Where does he work?”

  “At the fishery. He works hard. We have enough money. Money isn’t everything, you know!”

  “If your mother’s pretty and Michael’s not rich, my father will try to steal her from your Michael. He always does that. He thinks everything’s his for the taking.”

  “No one will ever steal anything from Michael, especially not my mother. You don’t know how much she loves him, and he loves her even more.”

  He threw some pebbles into the sea. “You don’t know my father.”

  “What happened to your mother?”

  “She died. I can hardly remember her. My grandmother looked after me until she died too. Now it’s just my father and me. There’s no one else in the family, and we don’t even like each other. How sad is that?”

  He threw some more pebbles, which rippled in the shoreline. He looked more sad than angry. He had a regal face, like the Roman emperors I’d seen in pictures, with short curly hair, large, angular features, and a strong, square jaw.

  “I should go,” I said at last.

  “Please stay. I’m lonely, and I like … talking to you.”

  “Don’t you have any friends?”

  “No. Will you be my friend?”

  “I don’t know if I can be your friend. I’m a girl and you’re a boy. Girls don’t play with boys.”

  “You’re right, but that’s silly and unfair. Why shouldn’t we be friends? Can’t we have tea and talk and walk along the beach and read together?”

  “I suppose we could.”

  “Come back another day. Come back whenever you want to. Tomorrow? I haven’t shown you my books yet.”

  “I’ll ask my mother and Michael when I can come back.”

  He pulled my hand. “Come on. I’ll take you back to Manderley.”

  We walked back along the path. The ground was covered with thick tree roots hidden beneath the foliage. I tripped and he squeezed my hand. I suddenly felt heat pour to my face. Was I blushing? Was this what happened when Elizabeth Bennet met Mr. Darcy?

  “You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen, Helen. Will you be my friend?”

  “Will you be kind to me?”

  “Always. I’ll be like a knight in shining armour, ready to pick you up if you fall, cheer you up if you’re sad, help you if you have a problem. That’s what friends should do, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Will you cheer me up when I’m feeling discontented, Helen?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m often in a bad mood. Mrs. Benson says I’m melancholic because I miss my mother, but I hardly remember her. Can you miss someone you’ve forgotten, is that possible?”

  He looked like a lost puppy, and I suddenly felt sorry for him. I faced him and picked up his other hand.

  “You can’t have forgotten your mother. Close your eyes.” I waited until he had done so. “Now see her. Just smile, think of something nice and you’ll see her. When I was away at boarding school, that’s what I did.”

  He opened his eyes.

  “Well,” I asked, “Did you see her? What was she like?”

  He looked at me very seriously, pulled me closer, and whispered in my ear, “I only saw you, Helen, just you.” Then he hugged me and kissed my cheek.

  I pushed him away. “You see. That’s why we can’t be friends.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You spoiled it. I liked you, but now we can never be friends.”

  “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

  “Why did you kiss me?”

  “I don’t know. I wanted to see what it would be like to be close to someone, to you. I haven’t kissed anybody for a long time, and nobody ever kisses me.”

  “Not even your father?”

  “Especially not my father. I hate him.”

  “You mustn’t say that.”

  He pushed his hands into his pockets, bent his head towards his shoes, and kicked some soggy leaves.

  “Let’s get back to Manderley. Follow me.”

  I walked behind him in silence. When we reached the house, he turned to me.

  “Am I forgiven?”

  He looked so sad and apologetic that I nodded. He pushed open the door and held it for me to go inside.

  “Welcome to Manderley,” he said proudly.

  We could hear voices upstairs.

  “My father is talking to your mother.” He pointed upstairs. “They’re in my mother’s bedroom.”

  “I thought you said she died when you were born.”

  “Did I?”

  I nodded.

  “That was before I knew we would be best friends. She’s not dead. No one has ever used her bedroom since she left. It’s closed and draped. I can’t think why they’re in there. Let’s listen.”

  “How?”

  He pulled my hand. “Come with me, there’s a passage on the other side. We’ll hear everything they say.”

  I stoppe
d and twisted my hand away from his. “That’s eavesdropping.”

  “Don’t you trust your mother?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “I hope you’re right. Then you’ll find out what kind of a cuckoo my father is. He steals other men’s wives.”

  We rushed up the side stairs and tiptoed along the corridor. “In here,” he whispered, pulling my hand again. We stood by the wall, next to a large oak door. He pointed to his ear and then to the wall.

  “Look at these beautiful dresses!” said my mother.

  “Such a pity they are not being put to good use. Many were never worn.”

  I could hear the rustling of clothes, and then my mother’s voice again. “It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen such beautiful clothes.”

  More rustling.

  “Oh yes, they would look so wonderful on Annette.”

  “Annette?” asked Max’s father.

  “My previous husband’s niece. A beautiful young woman.”

  “I’m sure these dresses would fit you. Please feel free to take any you would like to wear, Mrs. Stewart. They are wasted in this old wardrobe.”

  “Me?” She laughed. “I don’t need beautiful dresses. Where would I wear them?”

  “You wore beautiful dresses once, I’m sure.”

  There was silence for a few minutes. Then I heard some footsteps. I wondered what my mother was doing. Finally, she spoke again.

  “I have worn many dresses, Mr. de Winter. I have worn handed-down pinafores, uniforms made of stuff, and expensive dresses brought from London.”

  “Why not wear them again, now?”

  “I don’t need them now, or want them. I have the dresses I need, thank you, Mr. de Winter.”

  “I didn’t wish to offend you, Mrs. Stewart.”

  “I have taken no offence.” Silence and footsteps again. “I don’t want expensive dresses any more. They brought me a great deal of heartache.”

  “Your first marriage was not happy, I gather?”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “I’m sorry I’ve upset you, please forgive me.”

  More silence. Max beckoned me to the floor. We knelt by the keyhole. He peeped first then signalled for me to do the same. My mother was standing by the window. I saw Max’s father standing behind her.

  “Are you unhappy now, Mrs. Stewart?”

  She turned to face him and Max mouthed, “I told you so.”

  I suddenly wanted to burst in and take my mother away from that horrible man. Then I heard him speak again.

  “Does Mr. Stewart make you unhappy?”

  “How dare you speak to me like that? Make no mistake Mr. de Winter, I love Michael more than words can explain, much more than you will ever understand. I love him to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach.”

  “And your daughter?”

  Max looked at me closely when his father asked the question. I closed my eyes and held my breath for the answer.

  “I love Helen dearly. Her wellbeing is my priority, but Michael is everything to me. Michael is my world. Nothing is possible without Michael.”

  I opened my eyes. Max was staring at me as if he wanted to look inside my head and see my thoughts. He wiped my tears with his fingers and I put my arms around him. I could feel his lips against my hair and his breath warm my neck. “I’ll love you much more than your mother does, more than anyone will.” Then his lips brushed mine, so gently it was like a soft breeze, but my whole body vibrated. I jumped when I heard Mr. de Winter speak.

  “I wish I were Michael to be loved with such intensity by someone like you.”

  “Be careful what you wish for Mr. de Winter. Love can be a heavy burden if it is not reciprocal.”

  I looked through the keyhole. They were very close, and then Mr. de Winter moved away.

  “Come, Mrs. Stewart, let me show you the library. I hope you will at least accept some of my books as a gift.”

  “Thank you. I will certainly accept one book as a loan for myself, but I will accept as many as you care to offer as a gift for the school.”

  “Excellent! You strike a hard bargain Mrs. Stewart.” They were both laughing as they walked out of the room.

  “Let’s go. Quickly,” said Max, pulling my hand again. We leapt down the stairs, flew out the side door to the garden and rushed round to the path leading to the cove.

  “They’ll be going down to the library. Let’s pretend we just came back.”

  We walked slowly up the path. Max stopped before we reached the front door. “I told you what my father would do.”

  “And I told you my mother wouldn’t fall in his trap.”

  “So we were both right, weren’t we?”

  I nodded and smiled.

  “We’re best friends now, aren’t we Helen?”

  I nodded again and wondered why my heart was thumping. We had stopped rushing, so I wasn’t tired, but I felt as if I had run a mile.

  When Max pushed the door open, my mother was standing in the hall with Mr. de Winter, who turned to his son as we came in.

  “Maximilian, I see you you’ve met Mrs. Stewart’s daughter.”

  “Yes, Father. We just had tea and cakes at the summer house.”

  My mother looked surprised. I rushed up, hugged her, and kissed her cheeks. “We met at the beach.”

  “Mr. de Winter, this is my daughter, Helen.”

  I stretched my hand and curtseyed. “Pleased to meet you Mr. de Winter.”

  He held my hand and looked straight into my eyes. I noticed they were exactly the same colour as Max’s, except the eyelids were heavier and the whites were bloodshot. I wondered if he wasn’t feeling well. “Charming,” he said, but he didn’t smile. I wondered if he meant it.

  “A truly beautiful child, a perfect duplicate of her mother.” Then he looked over my head at her and smiled. I didn’t like the way his eyes shone when he looked at her. Perhaps Max was right and he would still try to take her away from Michael. I shivered.

  “Are you cold, darling?” I turned and hugged my mother. “Where’s your cape, Helen?”

  “She left it at the summer house,” said Max. “It wasn’t cold when we were having tea. Shall I bring it up?”

  “Thank you, Maximilian,” said my mother. “But it’s late. We need to get home soon. Michael will be waiting.”

  I noticed that Mr. de Winter flinched when she said Michael’s name. I was beginning to dislike him a lot.

  “Fritz, bring Miss Helen a blanket for the carriage. We don’t want her to catch cold, do we?”

  “I could bring you your cape tomorrow,” said Max.

  Mr. de Winter looked at his son curiously. Max bowed his head and fidgeted with his hands.

  “After your morning classes, if Mr. Rushton is pleased with your progress. Now go to your room.”

  Max fled without looking back.

  “Boys are troublesome, Mrs. Stewart. You are lucky to have such an obedient little girl. I hope she stays that way.”

  I could understand why Max hated his father. I had just met him and I disliked him already. He pretended to be nice, but he was wicked, like my father, Mr. Mason and the archbishop.

  ***

  Part Three: Season of Light

  “I believe there is a theory that men and women emerge finer and stronger after suffering, and that to advance in this or any world we must endure ordeal by fire.”

  Rebecca, by Daphne du Maurier.

  Reflect upon your present blessings of which every man has many - not on your past misfortunes, of which all men have some.

  Scenes and Characters No. 10 Christmas Festivities by Charles Dickens

  Chapter XXI – Persuasion

  When I received the archbishop’s letter, I hoped I would return to Eyre Hall to find my mother had come to her senses at last, and that her disgusting servant was in prison or deported to the New Colonies.

  Instead, I encountered unbelievable havoc. My mother had escaped from the asylum, whe
re it would seem she had been most severely and unjustly treated. That undesirable servant had kidnapped her and taken her to Cornwall, where they were living in sin and as outlaws, against all our wishes.

  The Rochester Estate was in a state of ruin. The archbishop had no idea how to run it, and, quite frankly, neither did I. As far back as I could remember, it had always been my mother who ran the estate, with the help of Mr. Briggs and Mr. Cooper, or more recently, Mr. Smythe. She saw to everything efficiently, until her insanity took over.

  In an act of ostentatious extravagance, she built that unnecessary new wing, decided it was time to repair the roofs of all the tenants’ cottages, and refurbished Ferndean. Adele’s marriage settlement, which had been ridiculously high, was still being supplemented by a monthly allowance, and that other disloyal servant, who had married Mr. Greenwood’s son, was also receiving a monthly allowance. Naturally, my mother was selling part of my ancestors’ land to supplement our income. Mr. Smythe, whom I never trusted, had suggested that the estate was running a profit because the tenants were paying higher rents. He also tried to convince me that the land my mother had wanted to sell was not being used, so the sale would not generate any losses. I didn’t believe him, so I stopped the sale and decided to renegotiate the price with Mr. Jackson personally.

  I wished everything would be as it was before. I wanted my mother back, running the estate, any way she pleased. She could send Adele money if she liked, repair the tenants’ houses, pay for the upkeep of schools and the church, and I wouldn’t even mind if she took the little imp she says is her daughter under her wing, bought her clothes, and even found her a husband and settled her dowry. There was only one thing I wouldn’t put up with, that servant anywhere near my mother or Eyre Hall.

  I thought the worst had already happened, but events took another turn when Archbishop Templar summoned us to his deathbed, some nights ago, to confess that he was Annette’s father. He claimed that Bertha Mason was a devilish sorceress who had lured him to her bed, and begged for Annette’s forgiveness.

  She should have been pleased to know who her father was, at last, and the archbishop was better than a servant. I couldn’t understand why the archbishop’s confession had affected her so much. I tried to convince her to pardon a repentant, dying sinner, but she refused relentlessly, turning her wrath inexplicably towards me.