Rebecca's Tale

Rebecca's Tale

3.0 21
by Sally Beauman, Daphne Du Maurier, Daphne Du Maurier

View All Available Formats & Editions

For anyone who has ever dreamed of going to Manderly again...

Though Rebecca de Winter has been dead for 20 years, her memory still haunts those who loved her. Her old friend and ally, Colonel Julyan, was the local magistrate at the time of her death. He had the painful task of investigating its circumstances. And though the secrets he learned during the

See more details below


For anyone who has ever dreamed of going to Manderly again...

Though Rebecca de Winter has been dead for 20 years, her memory still haunts those who loved her. Her old friend and ally, Colonel Julyan, was the local magistrate at the time of her death. He had the painful task of investigating its circumstances. And though the secrets he learned during the inquiry have stayed with him, the burden of that knowledge is heavy, and there are things he has yet to find out.

Julyan enlists the help of his daughter, Ellie, and Tom Gray, a young scholar with a mysterious past of his own. With the discovery of Rebecca's diary, they each, for their own reasons, pursue the truth about the enigmatic woman's death, and try to piece together the mysterious story of her life.

Editorial Reviews

Detroit Free Press
If you've never read 'Rebecca, ' Beauman's book is still a cracking good read.
Emily Gordon
British novelist Sally Beauman, who takes Rebecca and writes beyond and beneath it, giving fuller voices to some characters and inventing new ones to provide varying perspectives.
Washington Post Book World
Publishers Weekly
Published more than 60 years ago, Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca still captivates, at least partly because of its insistent ambiguity: we never learn definitively whether Maxim de Winter murdered his stunning first wife, Rebecca, or why Maxim so hastily remarried a mousy younger woman, famously unnamed. Selected by the du Maurier estate, Beauman (Destiny) has written a "companion" to Rebecca that preserves, and even deepens, the earlier novel's crafty evasions. Set in 1951, two decades after Rebecca's death was ruled a suicide, Beauman's story opens with the same (now famous) sentence as the earlier book: "Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again." Elderly, ailing Colonel Arthur Julyan was magistrate in the district when the legendary de Winter mansion mysteriously burned to the ground. Julyan's last days are disturbed by the intrusive visits of Terence Gray, a Scottish academic who claims to be writing a book about Rebecca's death. Then both Julyan's sharp daughter Ellie and Gray, who has secrets of his own, become rattled when Rebecca's personal effects begin arriving at the Julyan home. One of the anonymously sent packages contains Rebecca's journal, written just before her death a possible Rosetta stone. Beauman expertly tells Rebecca's tale from four different perspectives Julyan's, Gray's, Ellie's and, most vividly, Rebecca's without settling which version is nearest the truth. Though a composite Rebecca emerges depressive, possibly schizophrenic, promiscuous, fearless and almost certainly "dangerous" Beauman merely hints at a biological cause, raising titillating, though fully plausible, possibilities. This lushly imagined sequel, which cleverly reproduces the cadences of duMaurier's prose, resurrects Manderley without sweeping away all the artful old cobwebs. Readers should pounce. Agent, Peter Matson. 15-city NPR campaign. (Oct. 2) Forecast: While Rebecca may not be familiar to younger readers (though the 1940 Hitchcock film starring Laurence Olivier is a classic), Beauman's seductive sequel should do well on its own and also prompt interest in the original, which is being reissued in mass market. Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.
Library Journal
In his third outing (after Irresistible and The Broken Hearts Club), New York police detective Conrad Voort has drinks with his old boyhood friend, Meechum Keef, who asks him to check into a group of people. He gives no explanation, nor does he tell Voort where the people are to be found. After some investigation, Voort finds that several of these people have died accidentally. Then Keef himself goes missing. The people on the list, he realizes, have all been involved in some antigovernment activities, but this is the only thread that binds them together. Because Voort comes from a wealthy, influential family, he is able to gain access to many Washington, DC, records, which provide important information leading to an explanation. Black, the pseudonym for a best-selling New York journalist, has created a complex plot equal to his previous page-turners. From next to nothing, the detectives compile a complete picture of the group on the list and those who are hunting them. Except for Voort's annoying tendency to go to bed with beautiful victims, Black writes nearly perfect thrillers. For all public libraries.Jo Ann Vicarel, Cleveland Heights-University Heights P.L., OH Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again . . . and again and again. Estate-authorized remake of the classic Daphne du Maurier suspense novel, unimaginatively told from several points of view, in exhausting detail. Let's see, there's Colonel Julyan, Rebecca's faithful friend, now 20 years older and much frailer but determined to tell his side of the story if his daughter Ellie would just stop coddling him. Old soldiers never die-and this one never shuts up, either. Beset by, um, dreams of Manderley, he eventually unburdens himself to Terence Gray, a historian seeking to find out more about the mysterious Rebecca while he comes to terms with the ghosts of his own past. Gray's a thoughtful, thorough chap with a knack for drawing out dotty spinsters and other odd folk. Jump back 20 years and Rebecca herself chimes in (rather melodramatically), answering most but not all of the questions raised by Julyan and Gray. Then practical-minded Ellie has her say, and the second Mrs. De Winter pops up at the very end. The story remains much the same: Rebecca, the beautiful, much-admired mistress of Manderley, is emotionally distant from her wealthy husband Max de Winter, who thinks she's having an affair, and suspects her dissolute cousin Jack Favell, among others. Then Rebecca disappears shortly after a clandestine visit to a London doctor. Was she pregnant? Was Max the father? Was she murdered? Her sailboat is dredged up a year or so later, with her corpse inside. Meantime, veteran romancer Beauman (Danger Zones, 1996, etc.) adds a Dickensian ensemble of minor characters from several generations, including orphans and actors and lovelorn ladies. A discreet attempt is made to spice things upwith hints of incest and similar goings-on, but the tone is off-and noticeably lacking the plangent melancholy of the original. More an endless explanation than a sequel.

Read More

Product Details

HarperCollins Publishers
Publication date:
Product dimensions:
4.18(w) x 6.75(h) x 1.05(d)

Read an Excerpt

Rebecca's Tale

Chapter One

Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again. These dreams are now recurring with a puzzling frequency, and I've come to dread them. All of the Manderley dreams are bloodcurdling and this one was the worst-no question at all.

I cried out Rebecca's name in my sleep, so loudly that it woke me. I sat bolt upright, staring at darkness, afraid to reach for the light switch in case that little hand again grasped mine. I heard the sound of bare feet running along' the corridor; I was still inside the dream, still reliving that appalling moment when the tiny coffin began to move. Where had I been taking it? Why was it so small?

The door opened, a thin beam of light fingered the walls, and a pale shape began to move quietly toward me. I made a cowardly moaning sound. Then I saw this phantom was wrapped up in a dressing gown and its hair was disheveled. I began to think it might be my daughter-but was she really there, or was I dreaming her, too? Once I was sure it was Ellie, the palpitations diminished and the dream slackened its hold. Ellie hid her fears by being practical. She fetched warm milk and aspirin; she lit the gas fire, plumped up my pillows, and attacked my wayward eiderdown. Half an hour later, when we were both calmer, my nightmare was blamed on willfulness-and my weakness for late-night snacks of bread and cheese.

This fictitious indigestion was meant to reassure me-and it provided a good excuse for all Ellie's anxious questions concerning pain. Did I have an ache in the heart region? (Yes, I did.) Any breathing difficulties? "No, I damn well don't," I growled. "It was just a nightmare,that's all. Stop fussing, Ellie, for heaven's sake, and stop flapping around . . . "

"Mousetrap!" said my lovely, agitated, unmarried daughter. "Why don't you listen, Daddy? If I've warned you once, I've warned you a thousand times . . . "

Well, indeed. I've never been good at heeding anyone's warnings, including my own.

I finally agreed that my feeling peckish at eleven P.M. had been to blame; I admitted that eating my whole week's ration of cheddar (an entire ounce!) in one go had been rash, and ill-advised. A silence ensued. My fears had by then receded; a familiar desolation was taking hold. Ellie was standing at the end of my bed, her hands gripping its brass foot rail. Her candid eyes rested on my face. It was past midnight. My daughter is blessed with innocence, but she is nobody's fool. She glanced at her watch. "It's Rebecca, isn't it?" she said, her tone gentle. "It's the anniversary of her death today-and that always affects you, Daddy. Why do we pretend?"

Because it's safer that way, I could have replied. It's twenty years since Rebecca died, so I've had two decades to learn the advantages of such pretences. That wasn't the answer I gave, however; in fact, I made no answer at all. Something perhaps the expression in Ellie's eyes, perhaps the absence of reproach or accusation in her tone, perhaps simply the fact that my thirty-one-year-old daughter still calls me "Daddy"-something at that point pierced my heart. I looked away, and the room blurred.

I listened to the sound of the sea, which, on calm nights when the noise of the wind doesn't drown it out, can be heard clearly in my bedroom. It was washing against the rocks in the inhospitable cove below my garden: high tide. "Open the window a little, Ellie," I said.

Ellie, who is subtle, did so without further comment or questions. She looked out across the moonlit bay toward the headland opposite, where Manderley lies. The great de Winter house, now in a state of ruination, is little more than a mile away as the crow flies. It seems remote when approached by land, for our country roads here are narrow and twisting, making many detours around the creeks and coves that cut into our coastline; but it is swiftly reached by boat. In my youth, I often sailed across there with Maxim de Winter in my dinghy. We used to moor in the bay below Manderley-the bay where, decades later, under mysterious circumstances, his young wife Rebecca would die.

I made a small sound in my throat, which Ellie pretended not to hear. She continued to look out across the water toward the Manderley headland, to the rocks that mark the point, to the woods that protect and shield the house from view. I thought she might speak then, but she didn't; she gave a small sigh, left the casement open a little as I'd requested, then turned away with a resigned air. She left the curtains half-drawn, settled me for sleep, and then with one last anxious and regretful glance left me alone with the past.

A thin bright band of moonlight bent into the room; on the air came a breath of salt and sea freshness: Rebecca rose up in my mind. I saw her again as I first saw her, when I was ignorant of the power she would come to exert on my life and my imagination (that I possess any imagination at all is something most people would deny). I watched her enter, then re-enter, then re-enter again that great mausoleum of a drawing room at Manderley-a room, indeed an entire house, that she would shortly transform. She entered at a run, bursting out of the bright sunlight, unaware anyone was waiting for her: a bride of three months; a young woman-in a white dress, with a tiny blue enamelled butterfly brooch pinned just above her heart.

I watched her down the corridor of years. Again and again, just as she did then, she came to a halt as I stepped out . . .

Rebecca's Tale. Copyright (c) by Sally Beauman . Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

Read More

Customer Reviews

Average Review:

Write a Review

and post it to your social network


Most Helpful Customer Reviews

See all customer reviews >