My Cousin Rachel by Daphne du Maurier

face was puffed and swollen on one side, as though with toothache, and she kept the fringe of her shawl to it to ease the pain.
    I pushed past her through the gate and repeated the words “Signor Ashley.” This time she started, as though for the first time she saw my features, and began to talk rapidly, with a sort of nervous agitation, gesturing with her hands towards the villa. Then she turned swiftly and called over her shoulder, to the lodge. A man, presumably her husband, appeared at the open door, a child on his shoulder. He silenced the dog and came towards me, questioning his wife. She continued her torrent of words to him, and I caught the words “Ashley,” and then “Inglese,” and now it was his turn to stand and stare at me. He looked a better type than the woman, cleaner, with honest eyes, and as he stared at me an expression of deep concern came upon his face and he murmured a few words to his wife, who withdrew with the child to the entrance of the lodge and stood watching us, her shawl still held to her swollen face.
    “I speak a little English, signore,” he said. “Can I help you?”
    “I have come to see Mr. Ashley,” I said. “Are he and Mrs. Ashley at the villa?”
    The concern on his face became greater. He swallowed nervously. “You are Mr. Ashley’s son, signore?” he said.
    “No,” I said impatiently, “his cousin. Are they at home?”
    He shook his head, distressed. “You have come from England then, signore, and have not heard the news? What can I say? It is very sad, I do not know what to say. Signor Ashley, he died three weeks ago. Very sudden. Very sad. As soon as he is buried, the contessa she shut up the villa, she went away. Nearly two weeks she has been gone. We do not know if she will come back again.”
    The dog began to bark again and he turned to quieten it.
    I felt all the color drain away from my face. I stood there, stunned. The man watched me, in sympathy, and said something to his wife, who dragged forward a stool, and he placed it beside me.
    “Sit, signore,” he said. “I am sorry. So very sorry.”
    I shook my head. I could not speak. There was nothing I could say. The man, distressed, spoke roughly to his wife to relieve his feelings. Then he turned again to me. “Signore,” he said, “if you would like to go to the villa I will open it for you. You can see where the signor Ashley died.” I did not care where I went or what I did. My mind was still too numbed to concentrate. He began to walk up the drive, drawing some keys from his pocket, and I walked beside him, my legs heavy suddenly, like lead. The woman and the child followed behind us.
    The cypress trees closed in upon us, and the shuttered villa, like a sepulcher, waited at the further end. As we drew closer I saw that it was large, with many windows, all of them blank and closed, and before the entrance the drive swept in a circle, for carriages to turn. Statues, on their pedestals, stood between the shrouded cypresses. The man opened the huge door with his key, and motioned me inside. The woman and the child came too, and the pair of them began to fling open the shutters, letting the daylight into the silent hall. They went before me, passing from room to room, opening the shutters as they did so, believing, in the goodness of their hearts, that by doing this they somehow eased my pain. The rooms all led into each other, large and sparse, with frescoed ceilings and stone floors, and the air was heavy with a medieval musty smell. In some of the rooms the walls were plain, in others tapestried, and in one, darker and more oppressive than the rest, there was a long refectory table flanked with carved monastic chairs, and great wrought iron candlesticks stood on either end.
    “The villa Sangalletti very beautiful, signore, very old,” said the man. “The signor Ashley, this is where he would sit, when the sun was too strong for him outside. This was his chair.”
    He pointed, almost with