Awards for Tempesta di Amore

[Prologue] [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] [17] [18] [19] [20] [21] [22] [23] [24] [25] [26] [27]

Author: Holly (holly.hangingavarice@gmail.com)
Rating: NC-17 (Eventually—for sexual situations) Mostly Strong R.
Timeline: Britain, early-mid 20th century
Summary: AU. While vacationing in Monte Carlo, a young Buffy Summers meets the notorious William de Winter, withdrawn and desolate still from the loss of his wife. When her employer threatens to leave Europe and head back for America, William offers Buffy the choice of leaving or marrying him—a proposal she cannot refuse. With a husband she barely knows, the young bride arrives at an immense estate, only to be drawn into the life of the first Mrs. de Winter, the beautiful Drusilla, dead but never forgotten...the suite of her rooms never touched, her clothes ready to be worn, her servant—the sinister Mrs. Hart—still loyal. And as an eerie presentiment of evil tightens around her heart, Buffy begins her search through internal destabilization and a knowledge that haunts her with every wake: she can never be Drusilla.

Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. They are being used for entertainment purposes out of love and admiration, and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended. Furthermore, the skeleton of this story is accredited to the fantastic Daphne du Maurier.

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Author’s Note: Okay, yeah, so I started this fic nearly two years ago. I’ve put off actively working on it for so long because it intimidates me, and its survived solely by ghostgirl13's prompting. Therefore, I lovingly dedicate this story to her. She kept me on my toes, even when I didn’t want to be kept.

My semester is going to be hellacious, and now I’m officially writing four different stories – this and GoCR, plus two Ameeya WIPs that I haven’t posted anywhere yet. I hope to get a chapter of some fic done a week, and hopefully I’ll space myself out enough that it’ll mean just a week between updates for each fic. I rather doubt I’ll be able to stick to this, but that’s the plan for now. A chapter a week of whatever fics I’m actually posting at the time. One of Ameeya’s fics likely won’t be posted until it’s either well underway, or nearly complete…just because it’s long, dark, angsty, and involved. And I’m so psyched about it I can hardly contain myself.

For this fic, thanks to megan_peta, therealmccoy1, dusty273, ghostgirl13 and everyone else who’s helped me with this fic over the past couple years. I’m so sorry I can’t remember everyone. *facepalm* And I’ve since changed comps, so I don’t have your original revisions. Feel free to resend them to me.

Finally, thank you to vampkiss for making me this banner so long ago.

Here’s the prologue to Tempesta di Amore, my Spuffy-tribute to my favorite book of all time, Rebecca, by Daphne du Maurier. I only hope I can do it justice.

“Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again…”

Prologue

The man was going to jump.

She knew it; just as surely as she knew that it was Wednesday and the sun would rise in the morning. The man was going to jump. No one ever looked that long—that seriously—at the sea at the bottom of a cliff without thinking of becoming a part of it. He was going to jump. And the swelling rage of the waters below roared their welcome.

She screamed before she knew what she was doing. Called out at the top of her lungs and nearly startling him to the next life with her voice alone. Pale blue eyes took up a storm of frenzy, finding her with both annoyance and relief. She was still screaming, but she did not care. He had not jumped.

He had not jumped. And now they were caught in the middle. Captured in one moment together; looking at each other. She did not realize that she had stopped screaming until the dying sound of her voice was thrown back by an angry sea.

No, he had not jumped. Instead, he was looking at her as though she was the most foolish thing he had ever set eyes on, which she wagered was the truth. A steady moment passed between two unremarkable souls. The man at the edge of the cliff, she in her white frock, barely aware of her thundering heart.

Stupid, stupid girl.

“Right,” he said harshly. That was it. One word. Voice thick with something too large to identify. And then he backed away and turned from her, storming intently back to civilization. To the club that sat beyond the quaint wilderness. The place she was sure he was staying.

The place she was staying as well. For now. Until her employer tired of the scene and moved them some place different. Some place that was not here. Not this place.

She released the breath she had been holding when she was alone again.

Convicted. Relieved.

The man had not jumped. The cliff was proud but similarly sullen and empty. The waters below raging in anger over their loss.

Buffy was numb but oddly satisfied. And she turned to leave the cliff just as it was. Proud and alone.

The man had not jumped.

She had a picture of a great house—a mansion, really—captured in time on the face of a postcard. She didn’t know why she carried it everywhere; it was gorgeous, yes, but only a house. A place she would never see. Never know aside from the face on a postcard. She imagined it with wondrous character. A haunting beauty amidst its grace that promised great things should one let its secrets out.

It was one of the few things that she had openly asked Mrs. Harmony Kendall for on their tour of Europe. It had sung to her, whispered from the back corner of some forgotten shop. And granted, while adding a two-cent postcard to her expenses hardly put her employer at a disadvantage, she was still surprised that she had complied. Mrs. Kendall was not a friendly woman, by any definition. She was rather rude and brash, loud-mouthed and far from the place society would prefer to keep her. An elitist snob in a world that was already full of them. And unlike many others, Mrs. Kendall was not the sort of woman one would expect to be entitled to such a stature.

She was the benefactor of Buffy’s paycheck, however; unlike her employer, good manners kept the young girl’s tongue well inside her mouth. She brought Mrs. Kendall her tea every morning, played cards with her when she didn’t feel like venturing out, and read her the morning paper when she said her eyes were too sore to focus. She did everything she was asked to do with quiet poise and grace, or at least as much as a girl of nineteen could. There were times when she felt the world mocked her for her age, and purposefully thrust her into situations where her judgment was intentionally skewed, and she saw things the way a straggler would rather than a person with any sort of sense.

They had been at Monte Carlo for a week now, and Buffy loved it. Despite her duties to her employer, the hotel provided a false sense of freedom that their previous stops had lacked. She enjoyed tennis in the morning and read leisurely in her free time. There was also a swimming pool, and though Buffy had no suit and not the first idea on how to swim, she enjoyed watching the others when the afternoons began to cool. The sort of fascination a child has with a fish bowl, and wondering how it must feel to glide, even for a few seconds.

Most of all, she enjoyed watching the lives of others unfold in a twist of love and scandal that no book could provide. Meals with Mrs. Kendall always proved to be interesting, for it seemed the old woman knew absolutely everything about everyone around her. She explained the love triangle between Mr. and Mrs. Van Buren and the younger busboy that, according to Mrs. Kendall, “Only wants the old bat for her money.” She told tale of the elderly Mr. Scottsdale, and how he came to Monte Carlo every year during this season in search of a poor, heartbroken girl that he could marry and spend the rest of his lonely life with. Similarly, she went on to say that he had nearly been successful twice, only to lose his chance at love when the young ladies discovered his fortune was already willed and divided between his three sons, and nothing anyone could say would tempt him to change that.

It was a Thursday morning that Buffy’s happy little routine was shaken, and she remembered that because the previous day had been Wednesday, and she had seen him on the cliff prior to Mrs. Kendall’s take of midweek communion. The face was familiar, though she didn’t know if she merely knew him from the eerie way he had longingly studied the angry sea, or if she had seen him in the dining room every morning. He seemed out of place as he walked inside. He was alone, which did not surprise her.

His eyes found hers almost immediately, which did.

“My dear,” Mrs. Kendall said in her fat old way, “do you know who that is? That is William de Winter. They say he can’t get over the death of his wife.”

It was strange how much knowledge one could gain from one simple sentence. Buffy felt something rush through her veins, but she did not know what. It was unlike any feeling she had ever endured. An emotion to match his haunted eyes. A feeling. One out of a thousand, and she had it. The reason he had wanted to become one with the sea. It made sense now.

“He owns a great estate, you know,” Mrs. Kendall continued, merrily ignoring the fact that Buffy was not in her circle, and had no way of knowing such things. “The one on your picture. That postcard you wanted me to buy.”

“He owns Manderley?”

“Oh yes. That’s what he calls it. Manderley. What a proud name, don’t you think? I’d imagine he came here to get away from it. His wife died just last year. Horrible tragedy, that was.” And then, to Buffy’s utter horror, Mrs. Kendall raised her voice and waved the poor man over. “Oh, William!”

The man had not looked away from her. His eyes remained trained and focused. The last thing Buffy needed was a report on her horribly embarrassing display the day before. What a fool he must think her. After all, she had never lost anyone close to her. Perhaps death was the more pleasant alternative. Perhaps he hated her for stopping him.

The only thing that made Mrs. Kendall’s display more appalling was the fact that Mr. de Winter seemed prone to listen to her. With a tight, forced smile, he began walking in their direction. His eyes never left Buffy’s face.

“William,” Mrs. Kendall gushed. “I’m not sure if you remember me. I’m Harmony Kendall. I was a dear fan of your late wife. We met after a ball, remember? Mrs. de Winter invited your guests to town for a nightcap, as she thought remaining at Manderley would be uncomfortable after such a party. I did not get to go to the actual ball, of course, but Drusilla was kind enough to make an introduction between us. I don’t suppose you remember.”

Buffy stared at Mrs. Kendall in horror before drawing her eyes away to gauge Mr. de Winter’s reaction. His mouth was drawn, tight and unpleasant. That haunted look in his eyes more prominent than the day before when he had sought death.

“On the contrary, I remember quite well,” he replied, cold but disturbingly polite. “There have been many balls.”

“Oh, yes! Some of the very best balls, I believe. She was quite a show woman, your wife. Terrible thing about her passing. I felt simply dreadful. I swear, it shocked the country!” She took an exaggerated sip of her tea. “I have always wanted to see Manderley, if I may be frank. The photographs that I have seen are positively delightful. Like some sort of fantasy world. I wonder how it is that you can leave it at all.”

There was a curious sort of hostility to him. Hostility masking a pain that had not yet mended; had not the time to mend. His silence was deafening.

“Of course, you Englishmen are quite proud of your manors.”

“Yes,” Mr. de Winter agreed grimly, eyes narrowing at her through his detachment, composed but more troubled than ever. Perhaps Mrs. Kendall lacked experience in reading a person’s eyes, but Buffy knew enough to know when a conversation was bothering someone. Imagine dragging the poor man over to the table to do nothing more than speak of his late wife. The very same that he reportedly could not get over, and had come all the way to Monte Carlo to put behind him. How he remained polite, Buffy would never know. Only that he glanced to the ground once, shaken, and shook his head. “I don’t want to keep you from your tea.”

“Oh no!” Mrs. Kendall practically plowed Buffy over as she noisily shifted the seats to accommodate room for him. “I insist you join us, Mr. de Winter. You simply must tell us about Manderley. Who is running the house now, with you gone and Mrs. de Winter dead? I’d hate to think of the estate falling into a state of disrepair as a result of this mess. What a waste.”

Mr. de Winter’s eyes turned cold at that. Cold but troubled, and Buffy couldn’t blame him. She tried to convey her apologies, silent but heartfelt; he did not spare her a look. From where he had watched her from across the room to now, being unable to look at her at all. Yes, it was expected. She didn’t suppose he would ever look at her again.

“Manderley will survive just as well without balls,” he informed Mrs. Kendall. “Or constant supervision. I assure you, my staff is very much accustomed to the extents I take in preserving the house. Though your concern is noted, and touching in its endeavor.” Buffy bit the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning at that. His voice was drenched in hurt sarcasm, biting with the full extent of what her employer deserved. However, he nodded brusquely and took the proffered seat, much to Mrs. Kendall’s astonishment.

Flustered, Mrs. Kendall’s lapse did not last as long as it could have. She cleared her throat and nodded, resituating appropriately. “And how have you found Monte Carlo?”

“I have only just arrived,” he replied, pouring himself some coffee. “The people seem friendly enough.”

There was a point at the end of that statement. A very fine point that Mrs. Kendall missed completely.

Buffy didn’t.

“And you?” he asked kindly in turn, seemingly directed at Mrs. Kendall, though his eyes had once more settled on Buffy’s flaming face. “How do you find Monte Carlo?”

“Oh, lovely!”

Mr. de Winter nodded dismissively, his gaze not abandoning Buffy. “And you?”

Her throat ran dry at that. She was sure he would find her out, now. That hint of girlish inexperience that the wealthy could spot miles off. However, before she could reply, Mrs. Kendall released a long, haughty laugh and waved her hand frivolously. “Young girls never know if they’re truly enjoying anything, as I’m sure you know,” she said. “She’s spoiled, you see. Quite terribly.”

“Is that so?” His tone was deeply cynical, and Buffy felt she was at the pun of a hurtful joke. Then, softer, he turned to her again and said gently, “I haven’t decided if I like it, either.”

“Haven’t you?” Mrs. Kendall interrupted.

“No. I left in a hurry and have only just arrived, as I said.”

“You mean you haven’t been here before?”

Mr. de Winter withdrew again, that ghostly, detached look overwhelming him once more. His body quivering slightly with the weight of emotion that Buffy could not imagine. Once again, she knew immediately where his thoughts had gone, and who with. It wasn’t difficult to see. Buffy might have been a naïve girl, but she was intelligent enough to recognize when one was deep in mourning. And if Mrs. de Winter’s death was not even a full year in the past, the wealth of loss he had endured had to be intolerable.

“I was here once,” he replied after a moment. “About ten years ago.”

He said it as though it was highly significant. Ten years. What could have happened ten years ago to bring him to Monte Carlo? A birthday, perhaps. An anniversary. Or a wedding. His wedding to the late Mrs. de Winter. Drusilla, as Mrs. Kendall called her.

Another thing that her ruthless employer failed to recognize.

“Well, I am certainly glad you decided to return,” Mrs. Kendall said. “Would you care to join us for lunch tomorrow?”

“I don’t believe so, thank you. I intend to drive to Sospel tomorrow, and don’t know when I’ll be back.” He would not elaborate, and Buffy was glad. It was nice to meet someone who did not bow to Mrs. Kendall’s every whim. Mr. de Winter saw everything just as it was, and appeared cruelly humored by the entire matter.

“I do hope you have found your room to be agreeable,” the old woman continued. “I suppose you have enough money to rent out the best of them. Did they have a valet unpack for you? Wonderful thing…valets.”

“I do not require a valet.”

“They did not assign one to you?”

Mr. de Winter grinned wryly. “I think myself capable enough to tend to my matters without asking for the aid of others.”

“Ah, a self-reliant man. Well, if you need anything, I’m sure Buffy would be glad to help.” At that, Mrs. Kendall turned rather roughly to Buffy. “You are to make yourself available to Mr. de Winter if he requires any assistance.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” he objected.

“Nonsense. I insist.”

“I appreciate the thought, Mrs. Kendall,” Mr. de Winter said, standing slowly. “But I do tend to adhere to my family motto. ‘He who travels fastest travels alone.’ Perhaps you have not heard of it.” A cold sort of pause. “I must be going now.” He turned to Buffy shortly and nodded. “It was nice seeing you again.”

Very purposefully, he did not say whether it was nice to see Mrs. Kendall again. Nor did he give her the opportunity to extend the same compliments. Rather, he turned and was off the next instant, moving quickly through the dining room. Leaving the old woman flustered and embarrassed, and Buffy’s face flaming from the intentional attention he had given her as opposed to the calm coolness with which he had regarded her employer.

“Well,” Mrs. Kendall said, drawing her tea to her mouth. “That was rather rash, don’t you think?”

Buffy licked her lips and nodded, though there was no way she could disagree with her more. It amazed her that Mr. de Winter could keep his head as well as he had while under such shameless questioning.

“Men can be that way,” the older woman reasoned. “Though, and don’t think me forward, dear, but your attempts to master the conversation while he was with us did not go unnoticed. Men hate that sort of thing, you know.”

She bit her lip and said nothing. There was nothing to say.

“Oh, don’t look so glum. I’m sure he just brushed it off as something highly trivial. After all, young girls are hardly of any consequence to men of his age.” She chuckled as though she had said something highly amusing and batted a flippant hand. “Well, I suppose you’ll want the afternoon off, won’t you?”

“I—”

“That’s perfectly all right, dear. Off with you. I promised you yesterday, didn’t I? No one will ever say I don’t live up to my promises.” Mrs. Kendall fished out her cigarettes. “Go on. Be back by three for tea.”

Buffy nodded absently, not fool enough to object to random bouts of kindness from her employer. She wiped her mouth on her napkin and stood, leaving the dining room through the same door that Mr. de Winter had exited. She didn’t particularly know where she wanted to go, but even an hour of freedom was more than she had thought to be allowed, with or without Mrs. Kendall’s promise.

Her mind went back to Mr. de Winter almost reluctantly as she set down a woodland path just outside the hotel. There was something about a man suffering so much that touched her heart. Not in the way people would typically express their sorrow; not an obligatory but sincere, “Oh, I’m so sorry,” before moving on to the next thing. She had seen grief before. Her years were not great, but she felt she had grieved sufficiently. Two parents in the ground, leaving her to the employment of Mrs. Kendall. She supposed she should be grateful, and she was in many ways. There was a certain kindness demanded in people who took in orphans and offered them work.

What Mr. de Winter was feeling was beyond grief. She knew that simply by looking at him. The haunted look in his eyes left her feeling as though a part of her had been ripped away. She couldn’t imagine what it was like; loving someone for so long only to have them die when you were still young. She didn’t know Mr. de Winter’s age, of course, and she couldn’t imagine why she ever would. Only that he couldn’t be too old or too young. The young never loved like that, at least not the men her age that she had met over her traveling companionship with Mrs. Kendall. Men her age were flashy and constantly attempting to show off. They knew nothing of the sort of love that could wound a person as Mrs. de Winter’s death had her husband.

All of that simply by looking at him. It made her soul weep.

Buffy released a long sigh and shook her head against the wind, smiling gently at a squirrel as it scurried across the path in front of her. She wondered if there was a niche or a comfortable place to sit. If there was, a secret place of sorts that she could claim for herself during Mrs. Kendall’s stay, she could seek refuge out here with a book or some of her sketches. She didn’t suppose her clumsy hands could do the peaceful serenity justice, but she wanted something with which to remember this place, even if it ended up on a loose scrap of paper.

Another deep breath clamored for freedom, touching the air with soft grace that twisted into a gasp when she realized she was not alone. Right ahead of her, hidden slightly by the turn of the path and growth around it stood Mr. de Winter, a natural statue made around unnatural surroundings, and focused on something buried in the woods. She didn’t know if he heard her or simply sensed he was no longer alone, for he broke his golden stillness and turned until his eyes were on her face, a quaint surprise about him at seeing her again. She felt treasonous for being there, suddenly. For interrupting whatever peace he had been searching for by her own awkward clumsiness.

“I-I…” Buffy shook her head, shuddering. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…I’m sorry.”

Before he could respond, she turned to hurry off, practically bolting down the pathway. Ignoring the shouted request that she should stop. Leaving behind the place she had discovered with the knowledge that one could not discover a place that was owned by a lodge.

She had not meant to interrupt. It had simply happened.

Like she had simply run into him the day before. What he must think of her, given the past twenty-four hours. Shouting at him on the ledge. Her awkward behavior today at tea, and now this. Interrupting a private moment. Interrupting his remembering his wife.

Private moments like that could be broken so easily.

What he must think of her now.

If he thought of her at all.

It was a half hour past sundown when the note came. Mrs. Kendall was playing cards with a couple she had somehow befriended that afternoon, leaving Buffy by herself in the bedroom. The boy delivering the note appeared to be all of twelve years old, shiny faced and expectant. The note itself had her name written elegantly across the envelope in an unfamiliar penmanship. The message it carried was brief and bloodless, but it made her heart stop nonetheless.

Forgive me. I was very rude this afternoon.

There was no name on the note. No beginning or signature. However, her name was on the envelope. It was very obviously meant for her.

“Is there a reply, ma’am?” the boy asked.

“No. No reply, thank you.” Buffy licked her lips and tipped him appropriately, taking the note back into the secluded sanctuary of her bedroom. There she read it again, half expecting her name to have disappeared or the message to have changed. But no, it was the same. Still to her, not to Mrs. Kendall.

Forgive me. I was very rude this afternoon.

Mr. de Winter had written her.

For whatever reason, it seemed a better affair if she kept this to herself. Mrs. Kendall would not be pleased if she found out.

A secret between her and Mr. de Winter.

That thought, for whatever reason, was rather pleasing.

Although sudden, there was strangely no surprise when Mrs. Kendall reported that she had taken ill the next morning. While the woman very much thought it unfair that she should be sick while vacationing, there was some deranged sort of satisfaction at being at the center of attention by the full of one’s staff. Not that Mrs. Kendall needed to look if attention was what she sought; it was simply nice to have an excuse to order the hotel’s staff around aside for the call of vanity.

Buffy was certainly not in the same league with the maids and personnel that Mrs. Kendall had fluttering around her. She was a hired traveling companion and had little to do with her employer’s health. She was dismissed from her duties for the day in a matter that was overly dramatic but no less valid, and set out immediately to enjoy herself. There was so much of Monte Carlo that she wanted to see—explore for herself—and Mrs. Kendall’s illness at such time came as the granted wish to a forbidden prayer.

To ease her conscience of any wrongdoing, she called up a doctor before taking her leave. He confirmed that she was not dying but similarly in no condition to go out, and Buffy could have sworn Mrs. Kendall found the news of her not dying to be at some inconvenience. The thought of dragging out the even closer attention of the hotel’s staff was appealing if one ignored the unpleasant mortality issue tagged at the end of such affairs.

She was slightly surprised to see Mr. de Winter in the dining room, eating by himself in some secluded corner. She had thought he was going to Sospel, but quickly concluded that he was likely eating early so he might leave before he ran into her and Mrs. Kendall. And in that, Buffy did not blame him. If she had been put through such a charade that her employer had put on the day before, she would be doing everything to avoid her as well.

Instead, Buffy took a seat at one of the only vacant tables left and smiled as one of the servers across the room eyed her and began in her direction. She felt relaxed and independent for the first time in a long time—the sort of sensation that was notably artificial in nature, but no less appreciated. She knew it wouldn’t last. She could not afford for it to last, and would not know what to do with herself if she was suddenly permitted complete sovereignty. She was a girl on the verge of turning twenty in a world that was much older than she, if not in age then certainly in knowledge.

Almost against her will, she stole a glance at Mr. de Winter and felt her heart leap. He was studying her closely, most curiously. As though trying to figure her out or place her in a long line of memory.

That she should be of any interest to this man was disconcerting enough and that vague sense of self began to wane. She was out of her element, bare and uncomfortable. But at the same time, behind the haunted, stricken look in his eyes was kindness and sincerity. Still, she didn’t like being at the focus of anyone’s attention, least of all strangers that had seen her associating with a woman that was unspeakably rude and of no relation aside from the opposing ends of a paycheck.

She ordered lunch and released a long breath of relief when she was left to herself once more. She sat in silence for a few seconds, inspecting a spot at the corner of her snowy napkin and thinking of how Mrs. Kendall would raise such a fuss if anything of hers came up blemished. The vacant seat across from her was a breath of fresh air, and she made a silent toast once more to her temporary liberation. No matter that she felt certain those with companions today were watching her curiously, wondering what a girl her age was doing dining alone in Monte Carlo. Wondering where her family was; if she had family. Wondering if perhaps she was the young wife of a much older man, and had opted to leave him to his own devices and dine by herself.

There were always angles. She felt certain of that. It was the one absolute in a world of endless questions.

Her small hand trembled under the weight of the scrutiny she felt certain everyone was paying her, and she watched with a dismayed gasp as the glass wavered and tumbled, running long streaks of ice water down the tablecloth. It was not as loud as it sounded to her horrified ears, and her eyes turned automatically downward, scrambling to stem the spill with her spotted napkin.

The server that had taken her order was suddenly attentive and at her side. “Is everything quite all right?”

“Oh yes. I’m so sorry.”

“Nothing to worry about at all.”

She was sure that wasn’t true. Everyone was still staring at her. She was a wandering girl who did not belong in such places. “I am such a clumsy—”

“Excuse me.”

That calm, familiar voice both completed her embarrassment and inspired her with relief. Her skin was hot and her heart was thundering, and Mr. de Winter was there to see it all.

“Mr. de Winter?” the server asked, forgetting Buffy completely in the presence of influential money. “Is there something wrong?”

“No. Ms. Summers will be dining with me.”

Her eyes went wide. “What?”

“Unless there are any objections?” At that, he raised a coy brow, his blue eyes twinkling for the first time. And she knew then that she was lost. No matter her objection, there was something about a man that looked so boyish, so free, that made her acutely aware of herself but in a way that was almost as natural as it was disarming.

“I-it’s not necessary, Mr. de Winter—”

“Of course not. That’s why I insist.”

“The tablecloth will dry—”

“I am sure it will, but it does not require your supervision.” Mr. de Winter extended his hand and waited patiently until she took it, her skin tingling at the warmth of his touch. “There, now. That wasn’t too hard, was it?”

“Mr. de Winter, I am very grateful, but I do not wish to be an inconvenience.”

“Good. Because I bloody hate being put at one. You’re no inconvenience whatsoever, though I do find this conversation to be entirely inconvenient as we could both be at my table, enjoying one another’s company rather than standing beside a damp tablecloth.” The warmth in his eyes did not dwindle, but his countenance became more serious and he abruptly tugged her to her feet. “We do not have to speak, if you like. But I would very much like your company.”

There was no good way to refuse the offer when dressed up so nicely. She agreed awkwardly and felt a strange rush of adrenaline as Mr. de Winter led her to his table, never once releasing her hand.

“What happened to your friend?” he asked once she was settled across from him. “Did she decide she didn’t like Monte Carlo as much as she was boasting yesterday?”

“Oh, no. She was taken ill.”

He frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“The doctor says it’s nothing serious. She should be well within a few days.”

“All will be well with the world then, I suppose?” he retorted, taking a long drink of whatever it was he was drinking. “How do you know each other? I would assume some relation, but for the way she treated you yesterday—”

“She is my employer, Mr. de Winter.”

“Employer.” He repeated the word so that it was not a question, rather a statement of fact, and raised one cool brow to tag along with it. “How interesting. What is it that you do for Mrs. Kendall?”

“I am her companion while she travels.”

“That’s all?”

“That is all she has asked of me,” Buffy agreed with a nod, taking a self-conscious sip of her water, thankful when her clumsy hands did not fail her again. “I travel with her.”

“How well does she pay?”

“Ninety pounds a year.” The amount was great to one who had no wealth, but Buffy wagered money was something that Mr. de Winter never had to worry about. She felt rather foolish, naming the sum as though it was something to be proud of. Something to aspire to. Something that wasn’t nothing at all when she was sitting with a man who could likely own the world if he wanted.

However, if Mr. de Winter was astonished or thought ill of her for her lack of prosperity, he did not say so, or even allow the slightest hint of emotion to creep into his eyes. He remained as he ever was: quiet and kind, nodding once to confirm he had heard her. “I did not think companionship of that nature,” he said carefully, smiling a smile she didn’t quite understand, but felt prone to share nonetheless, “was something one offered for a price.”

“When one has no family, one’s prospects are considerably limited.”

“Very true.” A pause. “You have no family?”

“None.”

The smile on his lips tugged with amusement. “I don’t suppose you’re the product of an immaculate conception. What happened?” Another pause at that; the smile dissolved into a self-aimed frown, and he shot her a worried look. “Stop me if I’m being too brash.”

“Not at all,” Buffy assured him, settling comfortably against her seat. She was feeling surer of herself, though the reason for his seeking her out for companionship was still somewhat beyond her. Perhaps it was as Mrs. Kendall had suggested the day before, though the thought of the woman was not one she wanted surfacing now. “My parents died,” she continued. “I haven’t anyone.”

“Aside from Mrs. Kendall.”

“Yes, aside from her.”

“And I’m sure she’s more company than a person could want to have.” A strange look crossed his eyes, and he took another taste of whatever it was that he was drinking. “You got my note, I hope, apologizing for my behavior yesterday?”

“Yes. Mr. de Winter—”

“I had hoped so. I was unforgivably rude.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” he argued, the smile returning. “I did not mean to take my temper out on you, Ms. Summers. You have an unfortunate relation, and I hope you don’t mind my saying so.”

She didn’t mind. She agreed. Mrs. Kendall was appallingly tasteless at times, and the woman either didn’t notice her own behavior or didn’t care. Either way, what had been said yesterday was nearly unforgivable. The fact that Mr. de Winter wanted anything to do with her at all was as astounding as it was a relief. The offense had not spread, despite its leave to do so, and he had invited her to lunch with him when he had absolutely no reason to grant her even a passing glance.

“I cannot afford to be picky,” she countered, “despite however much I might agree with you. My options are not boundless.”

“You handle yourself well,” Mr. de Winter replied ambiguously, not responding fully one way or another.

“Thank you.”

He arched a brow. “You don’t agree?”

“I think you are very kind for saying so.”

“But you don’t think I am being sincere.”

She had no answer, her eyes turning to the tablecloth. To her napkin that had no spot. Her hands folded promptly in her lap. Sitting there under his scrutiny, feeling awkward and misplaced.

She finally glanced up when she heard him sigh, his attention turning to the lunch that was suddenly placed in front of them. “There is much life ahead of you,” he said. “You will find there are many people who don’t handle themselves at all. Others who do so poorly. And you discover almost immediately how to distinguish the various sorts of people from others. Believe me, Ms. Summers, when you place yourself at a table beside Mrs. Kendall, the line between you is so prominent a blind man could see it.”

Buffy felt her body go very still with the weight of unspoken responsibility, and she met his gaze slowly. “Thank you,” she said again when there was nothing else to say, swallowing hard.

Mr. de Winter’s smile returned and he took a bite of broiled chicken. “Why do you suppose I attracted Mrs. Kendall’s attention?” he asked, deftly switching the topic.

“She does it with everyone she considers important,” she replied honestly. “She meant no offense.”

“But she considers me important?” He appeared amused by the insinuation. “I suppose I ought to be flattered. Any idea why?”

Buffy hesitated. “I think because of Manderley,” she said a second later, and instantly regretted the words. The easy look behind Mr. de Winter’s eyes faded, as though someone had extinguished his flame, and she was suddenly exploring forbidden territory. She didn’t know whether or not it was appropriate to withdraw her observation or apologize for being so brash, but could not help but feel that it would only make what she said worse. Instead, she opted to allow the uncomfortable air to pass, sipping at her water. Listening to the bustle of people around them.

When he spoke again, it nearly startled her out of her skin.

“You left me rather abruptly yesterday.”

She thought of the look in his eyes the day before when she stumbled over him on the woodland path. That worried sheen to coincide with his puzzlement as to her presence there, and likely anger buried somewhere deep that even he had not yet acknowledged.

“I thought I was interrupting you.”

He arched a teasing brow. “I was standing in the middle of nothing,” he countered. “Hardly anything to interrupt.”

“You looked—”

“Frightening you away was my last intention.”

Buffy licked her lips. “I only thought—”

“It’s all right.” He smiled. “Would you indulge me after we’re finished?”

“Indulge you?”

“Take a drive with me.”

Her eyes went wide. “A drive? I thought you were going to Sospel.”

“I think I would rather take a drive.” He took another bite of his chicken, grinning. “What I have to do in Sospel is nothing more than some personal affairs. None that really require immediate attention.”

“But if—”

“That’s a polite way of saying I don’t want to go. Give me a reason not to?”

At that, she could do nothing but smile at his insistence. There was a boyish charm about him that wore classically in his experienced eyes. That sort of knowledge that only age could bring, polished with just enough youth to make her feel completely comfortable with him when she was otherwise clunky and discomfited. An extension of that false sense of security that independence bought. The same that would dissolve just as easily when she was placed back in her element.

“If you’re sure it would not be an inconvenience…” she said.

“I believe I have already told you what I think of inconveniences,” he replied. “You are not an inconvenience, Ms. Summers, no matter what your employer might have you believe. And I would not be so persistent if I thought you were. I find you pleasant and your company more than agreeable.”

“I am not—”

He held up a hand. “If you’re about to make some objection about me or some diluted observation on your perception of your own character, I would prefer you not. You have succeeded in bringing me out of myself. Taking me away from the person I was just yesterday.”

“I don’t understand.”

A grim smile drew across his lips, and his eyes distanced in that way that she was already beginning to dread. That look of remembrance, the stirring of a memory he was trying to forget. The life he had come to Monte Carlo to put behind him. “No. I don’t suppose you would.”

They didn’t speak again until they left the hotel. An awkward distance between them, Buffy feeling little more than a hired hand in an extent of her duties, though for someone she liked a great deal more than Mrs. Kendall. Despite how Mr. de Winter tried to guise his intent, she simply could not see why he would select her to accompany him when there were many women present in want of a companion who ran in his circle.

“Has your opinion of Monte Carlo improved since yesterday?” he asked when they were in the car. “Or was that another part of Mrs. Kendall’s exaggeration?”

“I find Monte Carlo pleasant,” she replied honestly.

“More so than yesterday?”

This seemed important to him.

She smiled. “I am enjoying myself much more today.”

It was not a lie; it was a dangerous truth. She didn’t want to enjoy the day because it would end, and the dreary reality of her life would return. Mr. de Winter was one of the nicest men she had ever met, and that in itself was a terrible folly. She was a young girl, easily impressionable, and his attentions even since that first day on the bluff were doing much to make her head spin in confusion.

Mr. de Winter was lonely. His wife was dead. He needed companionship.

As long as her heart didn’t decide to get foolish, Buffy supposed there was no danger in giving him what he craved.

She stole a glance in his direction and felt an unfamiliar sensation swell in her chest. Perhaps it was too late to ask her heart to refrain from involvement. The man was a dashing bit of mystery. The sort of man she wanted to get to know better. She thought again of all the women he could have chosen to share himself with. The sort that would admittedly be after him for his money while similarly providing what he needed. A passing as he recovered from the one woman in his life that could not be replaced by all the agreeable company in the world.

“How long have you been employed by Mrs. Kendall?” Mr. de Winter asked once they were a comfortable distance from the hotel.

“It hasn’t been long,” Buffy replied. “Really, I lose track of the months.”

“Just months?”

“I prefer to count by months when in bad company. It makes the time go quicker.”

His rich laughter startled her and brought upon an odd sense of accomplishment, but he said nothing more. Just settled in his own sense of superior amusement that was as natural as it was appealing, and she turned her attention back to the flourishing scenery around her.

To think, she was out here with Mr. de Winter, providing something he needed much more than Mrs. Kendall did. Granting some form of comfort when there was nothing else. Aside from her brief mention of Manderley, he seemed years away from the man he had been just two days ago. The man that overlooked the bluff with cold, lost eyes. Stormed, tormented by the loss of someone he had thought to spend his life with. Buffy was with him now, helping in a way that was still beyond her. Helping him when she would otherwise be playing tennis or sketching some poor depiction of nature’s various anomalies.

He tossed her a meaningless glance that warmed her heart for everything that was dangerous in the world of a young girl. When she first met him, she would have guessed his age to be upwards of forty. Now he looked barely ten years of that. As though a large weight had been lifted, and he could begin to live once more.

That thought fed poison to the tranquility surrounding them. The car came to a sudden halt, the casualness about the air drowning just as quickly, a storm settling in his previously clear eyes. Buffy watched him for a long troubled minute, then turned her attention to the road that stretched ahead of them. She did not see what he saw. Saw nothing aside the woods that cushioned the street and the hint of wildlife that curled around the pavement. There was nothing.

“Mr. de Winter?”

He did not respond. She studied him a moment longer before realizing that he wasn’t looking at the street itself, rather a small brush to the side. Something barely noticeable to anyone who was not searching for it. It had the outward show of being manmade for the purpose of appearing natural. Some quaint bit of forestry she could imagine being used for a number of things, though why he should be so troubled by it…

It was then that she remembered that he had been to Monte Carlo once before. With Mrs. de Winter. The wife he had lost. The woman who should be with him now. The one he was using her to forget.

Buffy drew a steady breath and placed a cautious hand on his arm. “Mr. de Winter?”

She didn’t know if it was the touch or the sound of his name that jarred him back to her. Perhaps it was the combination. The dual jolts of remembrance that he was not alone, and that it was not his wife that sat next to him. No, she imagined herself a great disappointment when he glanced back to her. Drew himself back to the place he had been at just a second before. Back to the girl that was not Mrs. de Winter. Back to a wide-eyed, awkward girl of such a lesser status.

A girl of no money. No family. No connections. Nothing whatsoever. A girl that he would forget just as easily when she was gone. A girl whose name would perhaps cross his mind once every twenty years. He would wonder about her absently, she imagined, when he thought of her at all. Wonder where she was. Try to remember her name. Wonder if she had married and had children. And then, as all passing things, all thought of her would abandon him again until something brought her memory back to him. That was the way it would be. The way things would always be between them.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. de Winter said, his tone distant. He ignited the engine and the car was moving again within a few easy seconds, much faster than before.

Buffy licked her lips self-consciously and settled back. She edged her feet back under her seat until they brushed against something nestled beneath the cushion. Curious, and looking for anything to distract her from the haunted look in the man’s eyes, she leaned forward and felt around until she had a good grasp on the object. Good enough to dislodge it with a tug.

Mr. de Winter tossed her a brief glance. “Find something?”

“A book.”

“Ah,” he mused, nodding. “Poetry anthology.”

“Poetry?”

“Yes. Are you a fan?”

“I don’t read much poetry.”

He looked at her, his eyes twinkling once more. “You’re free to take it, if you like.”

“Take it?”

“Sure. There are some poems in there every young woman should read.”

That perplexed her for a few seconds until she hazarded a guess at his meaning and flushed with the implication. Either way, she thanked him and settled the anthology on her lap, her gaze returning to the scenery before her.

It wouldn’t be until later that she understood why he kept it with him at all times. The inside was inscribed in graceful penmanship: Spike—from Drusilla. The level of trust he placed in her to hand over something so priceless humbled her girlish sentiment. And she noted to take special care of the book until it was safely back in his hands.

Honor was one of two emotions the message inspired, and the second troubled her greatly. There were many things in the world she didn’t understand. The jealousy the note spurred was one of them. Mr. de Winter was kind to her, but that was as far as it went. She was a passing whimsy. He would forget her as easily as he had met her. And life would return.

Buffy would never forget him, though. That much she knew.

These few days with him would remain with her for the rest of her life.

She simply had yet to understand why.

 

It was the third morning following Mrs. Kendall’s sickness that Buffy realized she was falling in love. For the first time in her young life, she was falling in love. It started as a fear; a knowledge that love like hers could never be rekindled. A sickening realization that these few days with Mr. de Winter would be the only ones she would have. The sensation inspired an odd combination of anxiousness and regret with every wake. It was another day to spend in his company, and another day closer to leaving him forever. To becoming that shadowed, nameless memory that he would associate with her in years to come.

Perhaps it would have been easier had he not treated her with more kindness than anyone ever had. It wasn’t that she felt older with him; rather, the full weight of their difference in age seemed the most prominent when they were together. She learned through one of their longer discussions that he had about ten years on her, which was surprising because he pulled off a variety of different ages. There were some days when he looked like a schoolboy; other days when a memory struck him in just a way to bring the full of his age into his eyes.

Buffy found herself slipping into a frighteningly comfortable pattern. She was no longer surprised when she saw him waiting for her at breakfast. They had dined together at every chance since he had taken her on that initial drive. He joked with her, teased her, warmed her with his laughter, taught her things about life without seeming to realize it. And yet, despite his seemingly casual candor with her, there was never a time that she was far from the memory of his first wife. Never a time when his ghosts left him behind. Inevitably, she would say something without thinking and find herself overwhelmed with a growingly familiar sense of inferiority.

Knowing when he looked at her, he wished another pair of eyes would look back.

Wishing that she was someone else. That she wasn’t just the filler for the woman he had lost.

She was resigned, though. Mr. de Winter would never love her the way she loved him and that was simply the way it was. She would go on as would he. She would go on and carry these few days with her. Cherish what small joy she had found, however agonized it was with the realization of its mortality.

It was mid-afternoon and she was enjoying the calm warmth of the day in one of the wooded areas she had discovered earlier in the week. The grass around her was soft, slightly damp from the recent rainstorm. She had her notebook and her sketch pencils with her, though the page was blank. Her talents were amateur; she had no delusions of greatness. It was a passing whim. Something to fill her days when there was nothing else.

Today, though, her thoughts were elsewhere. She couldn’t focus. Couldn’t find that natural anomaly to immortalize in her sketchbook. Her insides were overwhelmed with conflicting feelings, thoughts of Mr. de Winter and the future haunting her for the life they would never have. Schoolgirl wiles and wishes that tortured most adolescent minds. She knew that her feelings were no greater than any other girl’s, and that they would pass just as easily.

She also knew that most girls likely received the same doting amount of attention from their unrequited loves, and they, like her, wanted to perceive it as something more. Something that was there when in fact there was nothing.

There was just nothing.

Buffy released a wistful sigh and turned her eyes once more to the blank sheet staring up at her. Her thoughts were locked away somewhere, what little talent she had captured in a torrent of apprehension. She knew she could not escape the day without seeing Mr. de Winter, which overwhelmed her for the knowledge that every second spent was another second lost. Being with him was unexplainable. Painful. She was too young to carry such a burden of emotion. To feel the things that were surging through her veins. The sensation welling inside that was so deep, so painful that it could only be love.

Love. It was unthinkable. It was wonderful. She had read a book once on love. Some forgotten novel picked up and left behind a year or two ago. She had such little time to herself, and Mrs. Kendall didn’t advocate reading as pastime. Men, she said, had very little esteem for a woman who thought the printed word was more important for the spoken one. Men liked women who were athletic when need be and obedient at all other intervals. Men did not like women like her. Women who were in that awkward stage between adolescence and adulthood. Women who were little girls trying to fit in larger shoes.

She mindlessly began sketching an oddly shaped leaf, Mr. de Winter’s face flooding her vision. The book she’d read had not described the swelling feeling clamoring her heart. The way she felt she couldn’t breathe if she stopped to think of it. The thought of seeing him again filled her with both the most unimaginable bliss and the worst pain of foreboding. It was difficult knowing that it was ending. Every second that passed brought her association with him closer to its finish.

She wondered if other young women who were unfortunate enough to fall in love with older men, men who could never love them back, knew enough to realize that every second was precious. Every second moved them closer to parting. And she would spend years cherishing these few days, and he would spend years living a life without giving her much thought at all.

That thought surfaced with disturbing regularity. She was sitting by herself in the middle of a secluded wood, outlining the veins of the awkward leaf into her sketchbook. It was nice here. Away from the hotel. Away from Mrs. Kendall. Sitting by herself, listening to nature unfold around her. As though she was miles away from the ordinary—whatever ordinary a girl like her could hope to find.

“Ms. Summers.” A familiar warm baritone touched the air, startling her from her reverie. “What a pleasant surprise.”

A gasp clawed at Buffy’s throat and she immediately leapt to her feet, her sketchbook tumbling to the grass as her hands instinctively began wiping dirt and greenery from her summer frock. “Mr. de Winter,” she said, heart racing. She felt for an instant that she was back at school and the instructor had caught her daydreaming during a lecture. How unfortunate that Mr. de Winter should wander upon her while her mind entertained sad thoughts of the lonely future without him. “I’m so sorry, I—”

There was an odd twist of amusement and perplexity behind his friendly, however burdened eyes. “Sorry?” he mused. “Yes, I suppose that is appropriate. After all, you were rather rudely sitting there, minding your own business before I happened upon you. An apology is definitely in order.”

She didn’t hear the tease in his voice. Her face flamed. “Oh, yes. I’m—”

Mr. de Winter chuckled disarmingly and held up a hand. “Please,” he said, “I didn’t mean to startle you. The weather isn’t so hot today, so I thought I’d go for a walk. I had thought to ask you to come with me, but you weren’t in the dining room or with the tennis instructor; I supposed you were busy with Mrs. Kendall and didn’t want to risk offense by asking for your company instead of hers.”

“She’s sick,” Buffy countered weakly.

“Still?”

He spoke it as though he didn’t already know it was the truth. As though they hadn’t spent the days together, driving and discussing little nothings that meant a world of something to her. Naturally, Buffy couldn’t expect a word she said to mean anything to him, but the thought hurt just the same.

Were Mrs. de Winter alive, she would entertain her husband in a number of ways, and he wouldn’t feel so charitable. He likely wouldn’t have given her a second glance.

“Yes. The doctor won’t let her out of her room.”

“How tragic,” he replied, though his tone betrayed a strain of apathy that was too strong to miss. “Well, now that I have found where you’ve been hiding, do you suppose I could talk you into accompanying me?”

“I haven’t been hiding.”

He arched a cool brow. “No?”

“I was drawing.”

“Ah yes. The infamous artist.” Her face flamed even more. He’d pestered her for two days for a glance at her work. She was too ashamed to show him any; her work was not to be seen. Unimpressive scribbles by her equally unimpressive hand. She didn’t want him to know that the length of her mediocrity traced all the way to the most mundane of pastimes. “Perhaps you’ll let me see your work today.”

“It’s not good,” she said quickly, bending over to collect her abandoned sketchbook, hastily drawing the cover over the images that flawed the formerly white parchment. “Just a hobby.”

“An artist rarely likes her own work, Ms. Summers. If they do, they’re either insipid or have mastered overusing some obscure technique to the point of redundancy. Besides, you’re so young.” He smiled almost hollowly. “Years await you to perfect your talent.”

Then, without warning, he snatched the book from her and opened it to the page she had been working on. The deformed leaf with the half-completed veins, surrounded almost absently in shrubbery that was blurred with smudge marks. Tattered and ugly. Nothing fitting for a man of Mr. de Winter’s taste. Her work was just a way to pass the time. She had no delusions of greatness, be it in artwork or any other of life’s venues.

Her eyes fell to the ground and settled on an anthill. A rather small, unimposing anthill with swarms of small insects venturing into a forest of grass blades. They were building it, she realized. A small colony constructing their home in the midst of this small forest. It wasn’t remarkable, she knew. There were thousands of anthills just like it—thousands more that were grandiose and others that were even less noticeable than the one at her feet.

Only there was only one of these. Only one of this particular anthill. There could only be one of anything, be it an insect or a person. Or a moment like the one she was trapped in. The memories building around these few days, fragmented into a series of moments. Moments captured atop cliffs when she thought she was saving a person from death. Moments captured while spilling a glass of water onto a spotted napkin. Moments composed of seconds. There would never be another moment like this one. Another moment where she studied an anthill with the hope of distracting herself from the reality of Mr. de Winter. Mr. de Winter standing before her now, studying her sketchbook as though it was something important. Treating her as though she was more than just an ordinary girl in an ordinary dress. As though these few days meant more to him than they did. More than they possibly could.

“You drew this?” he asked softly, snapping her back to herself.

“Yes.”

He was silent for a long minute. He closed the sketchbook and handed it back to her, his eyes never leaving her face.

“They’re just scribbles,” she said.

“They’re very good.”

Buffy frowned. Why did he insist on teasing her? “They are not, but I—”

“Don’t argue with me, Ms. Summers. I know good work when I see it. If they weren’t any good, I would tell you. You’ll find I’m not the type to stroke your ego to spare your feelings. I say things just as they are.” He paused a second as though waiting a response, but she had none to offer. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. Kinder. That warm sincerity she was beginning to cherish kindling his eyes. “Your drawings are very good. You have more talent at such an age than many find in an entire career. Don’t give this up, all right?”

The words were not harsh but they seemed it. Suddenly, she felt small. Small like the ants crawling at her feet. The ants that swarmed around their pedestrian creation and were somehow prouder of their accomplishments than she could ever be of hers. She envied them for a long minute. Life for them seemed so simple.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. de Winter said a second later, surprising her. “I shouldn’t have…I just hate seeing talent go to waste. There are so many people in this world that have none. You have it, Buffy. You really have it.”

She was so startled by his use of her given name that she nearly tripped, which would have destroyed the anthill that had suddenly become the basis of comparison for her own universe.

He sensed the change the minute that she did, and his eyes met hers with quiet severity. “Forgive me, Ms. Summers,” he continued somberly. As though the role of her name off his tongue was something dangerous and unspeakable. As though he had crossed some invisible threshold and committed a great sin against the dead. She immediately lamented the reassertion of formality. Her name on his tongue had the taste of honey. Something cherished. Something savored. It had not sounded like her name at all, rather something elegant and mysterious. Not the name of a girl with calloused hands of a would-be artist. A girl standing before him in her summer dress, her skin marred with dirt.

“Forgive you?”

He nodded. “My mouth has a way with running away from me. Obviously, what you do with your sketches is up to you. I just…you’re too good to not do something with it.” He released a deep breath, a note of resignation rolling off his shoulders. “I haven’t offended you to such a point that you would decline to join me, have I?”

The words didn’t register at first; Buffy’s eyes were fixed on the notebook in his grasp. Then slowly, the weight of his gaze on her holding her down until there was nothing to do but answer its call. “Join you?”

“Yes. I believe that I mentioned I was going to walk the path and back again.” He smiled softly and tucked the sketchbook under his arm. “Since I arrived here, I’ve fallen into a bad habit of lapsing on my exercise.”

She couldn’t imagine Mr. de Winter needing exercise, but found herself incapable of anything but compliance. With a tender nod, she curled a hand around his proffered arm, and they set about the trail side by side. Tacit. Their arms touching, her fingers rubbing the material of his jacket. She felt the warmth burning through his body. The very real presence of him beside her. This was as close as she would get.

As close as anyone could get to a man that had lost what he had lost.

“You said you go on walks often?”

Did that brave voice belong to her? Her heart was thundering.

Mr. de Winter drew in a long breath, his body language suddenly rigid. She felt, without any warning, that she had crossed an invisible line. “Yes,” he replied after a long minute. “Often. At Manderley.”

Manderley. That place of grand statute that kept secrets and memories hidden behind doorless rooms that had neither entrance nor exit. Manderley that harbored so much more than just furniture and grandeur. Manderley that had been his home with his wife. With his lost beloved.

His home with Drusilla.

And being the foolish child she was, Buffy couldn’t keep her mouth from imploring on its inquisitive venue. With as much as she understood Mr. de Winter’s need for privacy, her curiosity about Drusilla was in its first steps of a long road to discovery. The same notion, however, recognized and understood that trespassing on the man’s memories when she knew so little about him or what horrors resided in his past.

Despite being hopelessly in love with him.

“I’d imagine,” she said cautiously, “the grounds at Manderley to be quite—”

“They’re lovely,” he said shortly. Cut off from her. Warmth did not touch his voice. There was nothing but the note of finality that warned her clearly to desist her questions. This was something he was not ready to discuss.

Something that reminded him of home.

“The forest is lovely,” Buffy commented, feeling idle and imprudent. She needed very badly to swipe the path clean of the damage she had done. “I don’t suppose there is a place where you can feel more secluded.”

“Oh?” he replied, his voice non-committal. Unattached.

Buffy nodded. “I know it’s not so,” she said. “The hotel is so close. The roads. The city. Life just beyond the trees. But…” A long sigh escaped her lips. “It’s so simple to forget. Life here seems just here. No other world beyond the forest.”

A wry grin pressed to his mouth. “Our own little Garden of Eden, love?”

She frowned, her heart fluttering. His voice had seemed different just then. Rougher. Less proper. Like a man struggling through layers of skin, guarded by the eyes that watched her now.

Love?

“The Garden of Eden was paradise,” she replied.

“Yes,” Mr. de Winter agreed. His voice was again masked with poise. That isolated elegance that teetered so close to her heart. “Wouldn’t it be nice, though? A garden here where none could bother us. Where the world that you mentioned didn’t exist. I think I would like that very much.”

What he meant was, he would like to escape the knowledge of his hurt. The tattered scrapings of a slowly mending heart that only a full break could heal. That thin veil between reality and nonreality. Mr. de Winter needed to forget. And she could not forget that for one second. Could not mistake the warmth in his demeanor for anything but a longing for what he had lost.

“Mr. de Winter,” Buffy said suddenly, feeling an unexpected rush of bravado. “I do appreciate your…you’ve been so kind to me. Ever since that first day, you have shown me nothing but compassion, bearing in mind the societal barriers between us. I just hope you don’t…there is no need to be charitable simply because—”

A cold draft settled over them as the dreaded word escaped her lips. Mr. de Winter drew in a sharp, angry breath. “Charitable?”

The word was not spoken so much as barked.

Buffy froze. “Mr. de Winter—”

“You think I’m out here walking with you to be charitable?” He seized her arm, her sketchbook clamoring carelessly to the forest floor. “You think I spend my time with you just to reach out to those I think are beneath me? That you’re some sort of…what, hobby?”

“I don’t know. I—”

“You don’t know? Well, isn’t that rich.” His azure eyes flamed dangerously. “You’re the only reason I’m still here, Ms. Summers. The only reason I haven’t left Monte Carlo. I’ve been dead for months. I was dead, do you understand? I was dead, and now I’m not. You changed that. You make me feel something I haven’t felt since—” He cut off abruptly, his gaze widening with the realization of what treacherous words were about to cross his lips. Something heavy fell within him; something she could see simply for the hold he had her in. His fingers digging into her forearm, not quite enough to hurt, but she knew well that moving was not an option.

It wasn’t possible. She knew it wasn’t possible. Whatever he said now remained beyond his actual meaning. Beyond the full truth. It didn’t change the deadness of his demeanor even when he seemed relaxed. The dull softness around a spirit she saw once as being vibrant. Full of more life in a year than she would know what to do with in a thousand.

“Do you understand?” he rasped, shaking her once. He was angry. He was more than angry; he was enraged. And it frightened her. “Do you?”

She didn’t. She couldn’t, especially if he was not being honest with her. But this random bout of fury inspired fear that was stronger than her integrity, and she felt herself nodding before her voice could interfere.

He had a probe in her mind, she was certain. He could see everything she wasn’t saying. “I don’t believe you. But it’s a start.” He released her just as quickly, spinning on his heel and striding intently back for the hotel. “And stop this ‘Mr. de Winter’ nonsense.”

Buffy clamored awkwardly, gathering her sketchbook and running after him. “What?”

“It’s William, Buffy. That’s what you call me.” The world stopped turning. His heavy paces subsided the instant the words left his mouth, and he halted to look back at her. “Are we understood?”

Yes. Yes, they were quite understood.

There were certain things they would never talk about. Certain things about him that she would never know.

Another day was slowly melting away. Another day before she left him forever.

And until then, she was to call him William.

Buffy was quite sure she had never felt such a wealth of absolute despair as she did the morning that Mrs. Kendall informed her that their time in Monte Carlo was over. The small, happy reality she had been entertaining for days had collapsed as she had so feared it would. That emptiness that she had been dreading consumed her thoroughly, leaving the bland days of her meaningless future even more barren than even her imagination could portray.

It was the end of the world. She knew it had to be.

Parting from one’s love could be nothing less than the end of the world.

“Why?” she heard herself demanding, shocked at her own brazenness but unable to help herself. What girl could, when her heart was breaking? She had just been told that Mrs. Kendall was taking her away from the man she loved, and she would never see him again.

“Why?” Mrs. Kendall repeated, her thick brows arching. “Goodness, girl, it doesn’t matter why. We’re leaving, and that’s all there is to it.”

Not all, Buffy thought, her insides ripping apart. Not all.

“There is no sense standing there so idly,” the old woman continued, this time with a harsher scold in her tone. “We must be off immediately. My eldest is getting married, and she absolutely can’t be without me. And, as you know, I tire so of Monte Carlo. The air is no longer agreeable.” She sighed heavily. “You’ll have an hour to pack your things.”

Buffy balked, and again her tongue interfered with her better senses. “An hour? Only an hour?”

Mrs. Kendall frowned. “Do you have a problem, Buffy?”

She glanced up sharply, her heart in her throat. “A problem?” she echoed. “Oh. No, Mrs. Kendall. There is no problem.”

No. There was no problem. No problem at all.

No problem aside from her breaking heart.

“Good,” Mrs. Kendall replied promptly, nodding. “I expect you to be ready within an hour. I’ll have one of the staff pack up your belongings.”

Buffy thought of the book that William had given her, and shook her head before thinking. “No. Allow me.”

“Whatever for?”

She swallowed hard at that. Mrs. Kendall would never believe that Buffy owned anything of value; anything that she would want hidden from eyes that were not her own. And while she suspected that anyone that happened to stumble across her book would do little more than blink at it disinterestedly, the idea alone felt like an invasion of privacy.

William had given her that book. William had given her something precious. Something sacred.

Something that Drusilla had touched.

“Please, Mrs. Kendall,” Buffy said softly. “I will not take long. I would simply prefer to pack my own belongings.”

But first—before she horded her life away—she needed to see William. She needed to look at him one more time. She needed to memorize every contour of his handsome face, so she would have something to take with her and remember as she grew older. Her first love—her only love. She needed to see William before she went away. Before she never saw him again.

Buffy made quick work of packing; she didn’t have much, after all, and other than William’s book, she didn’t care too deeply for any of her things to be cautious and methodical. As a paid companion, her wardrobe rarely strayed from the same, boring frock that William had first seen her in.

When he’d stood at the edge of a cliff, and she’d been so worried that he was going to jump.

She completed packing with more than enough time to spare. Mrs. Kendall was off, bickering with the management about the bill for their room, and likely would not return for the better part of an hour. While her employer liked the pretense that she was on a strict timetable—that she was at the demand of every high ranking member of society—the truth was far less forgiving. If Buffy waited in her room, as was expected, she might well find herself waiting for hours.

There was more than enough time to see William. More than enough time to say goodbye. Thus, collecting the book that he had placed in her care—the book from his beloved Drusilla—Buffy drew in a deep breath and left her room. She crossed the threshold from the place where she belonged and entered the long stretch of corridor that separated their worlds.

Her legs were lead. Drusilla’s book was pressed to her chest. She felt her heart thundering against the leather-bound surface. Her skin was foreign. She was not the girl he had met. No, William had changed her. Knowing William had changed her. He had awakened something within her that she was too young to understand.

The word love was terrifying, but it did not change how she felt. She knew she was in love, just as she knew she had to say goodbye. Just as she knew that she would never see him again.

Just as she knew she would leave her heart in Monte Carlo.

Buffy pursed her lips and paused awkwardly outside his room. He had given her the number yesterday—or was it the day before?—likely thinking that she would never have use of it. It was a courtesy. A way of sharing something with her, given everything of herself that she had shared with him. She was about to invade his space—William’s space. Space where she was not welcome. Space where he lived with Drusilla’s memory.

But she had to return the book. She had to return the book, and she had to say goodbye.

She would never forgive herself if she did not say goodbye.

It was that thought that filled her with enough courage to raise her fist to the door and knock. She was certain that her heart would leap through her chest with as hard as it was pounding. The seconds that filled the empty silence were the longest of her life.

There was movement on the other side of the door. Footsteps. She pictured him swearing under his breath for the intrusion. She pictured the look that would undoubtedly storm his eyes when he opened the door—the calm restrained sort of irritation. He would wonder why the foolish child he’d spent the past few days entertaining was presuming so much as to stand at his threshold, open-faced and expectant.

Buffy was almost surprised when the door finally opened. In such a small amount of time, she had imagined this moment over and over, thus it felt that she was watching a waking illusion. The impact of his blue eyes crashing with hers knocked the wind out of her chest. If she lived a thousand years, she would never forget the raw power he commanded with a simple glance. Their gazes clashed, and the floor beneath her feet vanished.

“Buffy,” he said, blinking. The surprised note in his voice was enough to send her crashing back to earth. He hadn’t expected her. Of course he hadn’t expected her. She was very much intruding on his private time. “Is something wrong?”

“I came to return your book.”

Confusion flashed across his face, his gaze dropping to the package she had bundled against her breast. “My book,” he repeated, the light in his eyes dimming. “I see. Have you tired of it so soon? Certainly you haven’t had time to—”

“No. No, I’m so sorry. I…” She drew in a sharp breath. “Mrs. Kendall and I are leaving, you see. She has decided that…” Buffy shivered and forced her eyes away from his. If she looked at him as she spoke, if she watched his face, the dam would break and she would dissolve into a mess of foolish, girlish tears. “The air in Monte Carlo no longer agrees with her. We are to leave this very morning. I have to return your book now. I have to…say goodbye.”

There was nothing for a very long minute.

“Goodbye—”

“Come inside, Buffy.” He stepped aside and held the door open. “Join me for breakfast. I know it’s rather scandalous, but I don’t suppose the staff will talk much if I provide adequate compensation. Or perhaps that will make them talk more.” A dangerous grin flirted with his lips. “When you get to be my age, you no longer care about such matters. Come inside and eat with me.”

Buffy slowly raised her head, her incredulous eyes swallowing him whole. Had he not heard what she’d just confessed? Had he not heard her say that she was leaving?

“Mr. de Winter, I—”

“I absolutely insist. And I believe I told you to stop that Mr. de Winter nonsense.” He held out his hand when she did not move, and like every time when she touched his skin, warmth flooded her veins. “Come inside and dine with me.”

Every logical nerve in her brain protested, even as her body turned soft and pliant under his kind, gentle touch. Buffy shook her head, but did little to stop him from leading her over the threshold. “Mrs. Kendall—” she began, but he cut her protest short with a quick, disinterested wave.

“Mrs. Kendall wouldn’t be so foolish to leave Monte Carlo without realizing that you aren’t with her, would she?”

Buffy bit her lip, and William laughed.

“Eat with me, love,” he said softly once his chuckles subsided. “And we will fix this.”

Fix this? There wasn’t anything to fix. Nevertheless, she didn’t have it within her to further her protest. Against her better judgment, she found herself following him into the forbidden area of his personal space. She realized belatedly that he was in a state of scandalous undress—the sort of undress she’d only seen in the opposite sex when Mrs. Kendall took her to places that provided a pool. He wasn’t entirely nude waist-up, but for the way his dress-shirt hung loosely off his shoulders, unbuttoned, he might as well have been.

A glance at that forbidden flesh, now that her mind was wandering out of its haze, made her cheeks hot. William lived in this room. The walls had seen him in much less.

“I have toast,” he announced, leading her to the veranda. “And coffee.”

“Oh.”

It was the only thing she could say. Her mind was still spinning.

“Not as nice as the dining room, but I hadn’t anticipated seeing you until later this afternoon.”

But he wasn’t supposed to see her that afternoon. By that afternoon, she would be gone. And by the next day, he wouldn’t remember her at all. The thought was enough to stir the commonsense that he’d banished so effortlessly, and some smidgeon of self-respect began to struggle. “Mr. de Winter, I really should be going. I only came to return your book and thank you for—”

“The book is yours, Buffy. Certainly you’re not unfamiliar with the concept of gift-giving.”

Her mind flashed to the inscription. Spike—from Drusilla. That book did not belong to her. Drusilla had given it to him. She had given it to William, whom she called Spike, for whatever reason. It was private. It was personal. It wasn’t something that one simply gave away. “I couldn’t possibly—”

“I absolutely insist.” William pulled out the chair for her and waited patiently until she obliged. Just as quickly, he assumed the seat across from her and settled his napkin into his lap. “Toast?”

In spite of herself, Buffy offered a numb nod.

“Coffee?”

Again, she nodded.

“Cream or sugar?”

“Cream, please.” She inhaled sharply and shifted in her seat. “Mister—” He arched a brow and her entire body rattled. “I mean, William…William, I really must be going. I only came to thank you for being so kind to me, and to tell you goodbye. I really shouldn’t keep Mrs. Kendall waiting. She—”

“Mrs. Kendall sprang this on you rather abruptly, I gather.”

Buffy nodded quickly. “Oh, yes. I had no idea she had even given thought to leaving Monte Carlo until an hour ago.”

“An hour,” William repeated.

“Yes.”

“And it took you an hour to come and see me.”

The way he spoke made the whole of her shrivel. At once, she felt all of ten years old; that she was being reprimanded by someone that demanded her obedience and loyalty. Only that wasn’t right. That wasn’t right at all. Mrs. Kendall was the one that paid her for her companionship. Mrs. Kendall was the one that kept her clothed, fed, and employed. Mrs. Kendall was the one she belonged with. And Mrs. Kendall thought she was in her room, and would be intensely angry when she returned and found that she had wandered off.

“I—uhh, William.” Her cheeks warmed as his name rolled off her lips. It was so improper, so unbidden. And somehow knowing that she was behaving as she shouldn’t made her enjoy it all the more. No matter how vehemently William insisted that she forgo formalities, she knew that she should adhere to society’s laws of class and division. But she didn’t. Instead, she did as he asked and addressed him by his Christian moniker, and it made her feel strangely complete. “William,” she said again. The taste of his name in her mouth would never dull. “I…I hardly know…I only knew that I had to return the book.” Only that wasn’t quite right, and she knew that he knew it for the intense way his eyes drilled into hers. “I knew…I only knew that I had to see you again and say goodbye.”

There was a short, meaningful pause. “Hmmm. Yes.” William nodded and indulged in an unhurried sip of his coffee. “I would have been most cross if you had simply wandered off without saying goodbye.”

Buffy couldn’t tell if he was teasing her or not. She felt that he was. “I’m sorry, I just—”

“Do you enjoy working for Mrs. Kendall?”

He knew the answer to that. They had discussed it at length several days ago. How much she disliked her job; how knowing that her girlhood dreams and wishes—even acknowledging how silly and frivolous as they had been—would never see fruition had encased her in sorrow. How she spent time daydreaming of what she would do as she blossomed further into adulthood, knowing all the while that her class would never elevate.

“No, Mr. de…William. No, I do not. However, I am in her care and she is the one—”

“You are paid to be her companion.”

“Yes.”

“Your duties are to care for her. To be with her in the place of actual friends or acquaintances.” The way he spoke told her plainly that he expected no answer. He was merely reciting things that he already knew to be fact. “But that is not genuine companionship, is it? She uses you to feel better about herself. She is so damnably afraid of being alone that she is not above dipping into her pocketbook to find a girl to follow her around and pretend to be someone of importance to her.”

The words were true enough, but that did not stop them from hurting. Buffy forced bit back a flinch. “I don’t understand.”

“Up until I met Mrs. Kendall, I’ll admit that I did not fully understand, either.”

“Why do you say such things?”

William smiled dryly and sipped again at his coffee. “Because, love, as irritating as it is, there are certain ways that Mrs. Kendall and I are not so different.”

That wasn’t true. That was the furthest thing from the truth. William and Mrs. Kendall were as different as day and night. Mrs. Kendall was all light—too bright, at times, for Buffy to look at without wishing for a shadow to wrap herself in. Mrs. Kendall was abrasive and brash. She was the last sort of woman that Buffy ever wished to know, or associate with.

William was darkness. He was in the shadows. He was mysterious. He was everything.

He was the man she loved.

“Oh, but you are,” Buffy insisted. “You are different.”

“In most ways, yes. Not in this.”

She frowned and shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“Mrs. Kendall is lonely. She seeks companionship.” He shrugged one shoulder lazily and offered her a small, almost apologetic smile. “We are not so different, see. It is simply misfortunate…or, as I see it, very fortunate that you were the girl she selected to accompany her.” He paused and his smile widened. “I offer you a choice, Buffy.”

“A choice.”

“Yes. If you like, you may leave with Mrs. Kendall. Return to her side and rely on the charity of her pocketbook until she tires of you. Or…” William raised the cerulean mug to his perfect lips again, his mouth tugging into an even wider, however mystifying grin. “You may come home with me.”

Her heart leapt into her throat. There was no way that she hadn’t heard him wrong. Her fears had transformed suddenly into a delusion. She didn’t want to leave him, thus her mind was trying to fool her. William didn’t want her. Not as a companion. Not as a woman. Not as anything. And any second, the dream-world she had entered would vanish and she would find herself back inside reality. William would smile and touch her hand, say that he would always remember her, even if he never would. And then she would go downstairs and meet Mrs. Kendall’s disapproving glare. She would apologize and accept whatever reprimands that her employer leveled at her, and then she would move on. She would leave Monte Carlo and her heart behind.

“I’m sorry,” Buffy said, shaking her head. “I…I couldn’t have heard you properly. I don’t—”

“It’s very simple,” William replied, though his voice was in no way condescending. Rather, he was nodding gently and soothing her nerves with soft, reassuring smiles. “You may go with Mrs. Kendall, or you may come with me. You may come with me to Manderley.”

“Mr. de Winter—”

“William.”

She flushed. “William, I really must…you can’t require my services. Mrs. Kendall needs a paid companion because she has…really, no one likes her very much. But you…people like you. You don’t need to resort to—”

The sudden impact of his rich laugh shook her to the bone. It made the walls quiver. And once again, she felt very young and very foolish.

“William?”

“You adorable little fool,” he drawled, shaking his head. “I’m not asking you to be my paid companion. Buffy, I’m asking you to marry me.”

There was a grandfather-clock in William’s room unlike any clock that Buffy had ever seen. Not that she made a habit of studying clocks, but she found this particular model fascinating, if not a pleasant distraction from the loud thundering in her chest. It was intricately hand-carved and touched with whitewash finish. There were worn areas around corners where it had been bumped or neglected, but one would only notice its faults if determined to find them. The long sides were aligned with carvings of flowers, and at the head were two childlike angels that met on either side of a rose bush. The decoration was just lovely. She wished for a blind second that she had her sketchbook with her, so that she could at least attempt to document its beauty for her memory.

Perhaps the reason she’d noticed the clock was due to its ticking being perfectly in tune with the stormy palpitations of her frantic, disbelieving heart. She kept waiting for the words to vanish—for something to happen that would tell her definitively that she’d heard wrong. That William had not asked what she’d heard him ask.

“It was made in Italy,” William said pleasantly, nodding to the clock.

“It’s lovely,” Buffy agreed. There wasn’t an inch of her that wasn’t numb.

“You have a special interest in clocks?”

Had he forgotten that he’d asked her to marry him? Had she truly heard him wrong? She chilled then and shivered, her eyes falling to her coffee. She didn’t like coffee all that much. It was very much an American drink, and she’d never truly understood the appeal. Mrs. Kendall possessed a vehement dislike of coffee. She would be absolutely horrified when she learned that Buffy had shared coffee with William that morning.

“I don’t, no.”

“You don’t know?” he replied, arching a brow. “Or no, you don’t.”

“Mister—”

“By the grace of God, Buffy, if you call me Mr. de Winter one more time, I’m going to take a switch to you.” His eyes were set with amusement, which served both to ease and hurt in the same beat. Was he making fun of her? He hadn’t yet—not in the time she’d known him. And he’d been rather affronted at every assumption that she’d voiced in that vein. “Besides…you shouldn’t speak so formally with the man you’re going to marry.”

There were those words again. Her eyes went wide.

Marry William de Winter.

“William,” she forced out, catching herself before she slipped into formalities again, blushing furiously. “It’s not necessary to propose marriage if you’re in need of…whatever work there is that I can do for you.”

“I’m quite aware of that.”

“Then you understand how imprudent it would be to—”

William waved a hand dismissively, sipping at his coffee. Then, as though he’d crept inside her mind, he frowned and set the cup on the table. “I don’t suppose I’ll ever understand why the Yanks are so enamored with that drink,” he observed, shaking his head. “As for prudence, Ms. Summers, am I to understand that you’re concerned about my reputation?”

“I’m not in your world, William.” It was important that he understood that. That he grasped just how far apart they truly were. He had elegance and mystery about him. Even sitting, as he was, immodestly attired, he still exuded the presence of one of great fortune and importance. Whereas Buffy, in her blandly simple gray dress, represented everything that men like William de Winter typically scoffed at. Men like William de Winter did not propose marriage. Not to paid companions. “I don’t…”

“My world?” he repeated, arching one cool brow with interest. “And what, daresay, is my world?”

Buffy frowned, her heart leaping into her throat. The last thing she’d wanted was to anger him. But certainly, a man as intelligent and worldly as Mr. William de Winter couldn’t be blind to the reality of their situation. She was merely a girl. A child, really. Perhaps they were only separated by a decade; it might as well have been a millennia. William was everything she wasn’t. He was wealthy, educated, and devilishly handsome. He’d already lived. He’d lived and loved, and the love of his life had died. He might be fond of her, but there was little more besides that to snag his interest.

Unless she’d misjudged him. Buffy blinked dumbly, her eyes settling on her half-sipped coffee. Was it possible that she’d misjudged him?

Was it possible that he loved her as desperately as she loved him?

No. Impossible. It was a romantic’s notion. An idle fantasy.

As was the hope that he’d ever ask her to marry him.

“Buffy, it is rude to remain silent when one has asked you a question,” William said, his voice tempered. “Would you like a piece of toast?”

“Yes, please.”

He obliged her in his gentlemanly fashion, sliding a single plate doctored with a tanned slice of bread to her side of the table. “What did you mean when you said you are not in my world?” he asked.

“Exactly that. I’m not in your world. The women in your world wear black silk.” Because they could afford it. Because they thought it made them appealing. Mrs. Kendall, for example, was a woman in William’s world. And she’d shown nothing but raw, naked interest in him since they arrived at Monte Carlo. Even though Mrs. Kendall had several years to the advantage on William, she remained a prime example of the sort of woman that William would want. Someone of stature and importance. Someone of wealth and class. Someone who wasn’t so poor that she had to rely on the borrowed kindness of a woman who, at the end of the day, didn’t care for her at all. “The women in your world wear black silk,” she repeated after a moment’s silence. “And I have nothing.”

William’s eyes darkened. “I would not have you in black silk,” he replied, a raw edge to his voice. “I would not have you in any way other than how you are right now.”

She doubted that was true. If he could, William would move the heavens and the earth to have her as Drusilla was. To replace her plain likeness with the winning smile of his late wife. She did not blame him, nor did she feel sorry for herself. It was simply a truth. A piece of silver knowledge that kept her grounded. That reminded her who she was.

And more importantly, who she was not.

“If you do not come to Manderley with me,” William said softly when she did not reply. “What will you do?”

Buffy was silent for a long minute. The words come to Manderley with me sent shivers down her spine. He spoke as though it was actually an option. Something he wanted. Something genuine.

Again, she wondered if it was possible that he loved her, after all. Ridiculous as it was.

“I will go with Mrs. Kendall.”

“And when Mrs. Kendall tires of you?”

There was harshness in his voice that she didn’t care for, but it was a fair enough question. Certainly, Mrs. Kendall wouldn’t spend the rest of her days carting her around as though there was actually any familial obligation between them. No, some morning, Buffy would awake and find—very much as she had today—that the world she knew was changing again. That everything she’d known was no longer reliable.

“There will be other Mrs. Kendalls,” she replied.

And that was it. The story of her life. Buffy Summers, orphaned, poor, and passed from one employer to the other. Given wages to act the part of a companion so that the wealthy didn’t have to be so lonely.

“I want you to marry me, Buffy. I don’t know how to make this clearer for you.” William sighed and wiped his mouth with his cloth napkin, rising dutifully to his feet. “We can be married swiftly. Very quickly. Here in Monte Carlo. And I will take you to Florence for our honeymoon. All the fine dining and shopping that a young woman could ask for.”

The idea was, at last, beginning to sink in. This was real. This was a real possibility. William de Winter was actually asking her to marry him. “Quickly?”

“Yes. Here. We can have the magistrate do it for us.”

“No church?” Buffy replied, her throat dry and her head light. “No choir? No flowers? No music?”

The look on William’s face was grim. “No. No, I had one of those weddings before.”

She inhaled sharply but didn’t reply. If she was to seriously consider the proposal, the last thing she needed was to be reminded, yet again, of Drusilla. There were enough reminders of her as it was. Every time she met William’s eyes, she found herself drowning in a helpless sea of loss and heartache. If she was going to be his wife, she needed to establish her own footing.

And yet, the idea was simply too overwhelming to grasp. William wanted to marry her, and he wanted it done in a courtroom. Gone were her girlish fantasies of white veils and rose petals. Of smiling faces and music composed by the gods themselves. She’d known for a long time, of course, that she would never be the sort of woman to earn such a celebration, but the desire remained nonetheless.

“I’m not asking you properly,” William said a second later, his eyes going wide as though reading her thoughts. “You want white lace and music. I suppose I should have taken you to some remote hillside, dropped to one knee, and then made love to you in a rose garden. I’m sorry, love, but this is all I can do in the time allotted.”

Buffy’s cheeks reddened. “William—”

He smiled and reclaimed his seat. “Good girl.”

“You really want to marry me?”

For a fleeting instant, she thought he was going to reprimand her for making him repeat it. Or worse, he was going to laugh at her and let her know, in no uncertain terms, what a fool she was and what a good game he’d made of it. But William did neither. Instead, he offered a solemn nod and said, “I do,” while taking a healthy bite out of his toast.

“You want me to be Mrs. de Winter?”

The implication alone just sounded foreign and wrong. She wasn’t Mrs. de Winter. She could never be Mrs. de Winter. Mrs. de Winter was dead.

But William did not contradict her. He nodded again. “I do.”

“Oh.”

“Buffy?”

“Marry you.”

William arched one of his perfect brows again and cocked his head. “Are you accepting my proposal, or simply restating what we’ve been discussing for the past twenty minutes?”

Accept.

If she did not accept, she would never see him again. And this was more than seeing him again. This was her deepest desire, her deepest yearning, come to life. William de Winter wanted her to be his wife.

He made a sound of mild amusement, which jarred her again from her musings. “I admit, love, I hadn’t expected you to make such hard work out of my proposal. I’d rather thought you were in love with me.”

Buffy’s heart thundered. “Oh, but I am!” The words were out before she could stop them. “I do love you, William. Very much.”

She waited for him to return her sentiments. After all, he’d been the one to mention love. That had to mean something, didn’t it? William would not toss love into the conversation without feeling it. He simply wasn’t that sort of man. Any second now, he would leap to his feet, profess how much she meant to him, and seal their betrothal with a kiss that would rewrite the history on kisses.

But he did none of those things. Instead, he smiled a half-smile and nodded again. “And you will marry me.”

It wasn’t a question. He already knew the answer. “Yes.”

A small smile broke across William’s handsome face. “Thank you,” he said, and it struck her as immeasurably odd that he would be thanking her for anything. However, before she could muse on the notion that he owed her gratitude when he was the one marrying her, he spoke again. “Don’t worry with Mrs. Kendall. After breakfast, I will dress and we will go speak with her together. You don’t need to be in the room, if you wish. I will take care of everything.”

Buffy worried a lip between her teeth, the image of Mrs. Kendall’s astonished, betrayed face floating upward. She suddenly felt ill. “I would much prefer that,” she agreed readily. “Yes, please.”

It occurred to her only seconds after she agreed that he deal with Mrs. Kendall that she was in no way performing the role of a woman who was about to be married. There was no loyalty to keep her tied to Mrs. Kendall. There was nothing at all. Why she should fear speaking with her employer was beyond her.

However, if William thought ill of her for so readily accepting his method of escape, he didn’t say a word. Instead, he merely smiled and rose slowly to his feet. “Well, then,” he said softly, and there was an air of tenderness in his eyes that she had never seen before. Perhaps she was imagining it. Perhaps. “If you’ll wait for a second, love, I’ll make myself presentable. Then we’ll face the old crone together.”

Together. She and William were going to be together.

She was going to be Mrs. de Winter.

She was going to live at Manderley.

And any second, she was certain she was going to wake up.

*~*~*

Just as he promised, William handled the awkward situation with Mrs. Kendall. What he said, Buffy did not know. She remained in the waiting room, her hands splayed neatly over the volume of poetry that William had given her just days before. She heard muffled conversation, but no raised voices. Mrs. Kendall didn’t yell or throw things, or do any of the dramatic things that she had envisioned on the seemingly endless trek from William’s quarters to hers.

Nothing happened at all. Nothing. A few minutes later, William emerged from Mrs. Kendall’s room and his eyes immediately found hers. There was nothing calming about the way he looked at her. Rather than the smile she expected and the warmth that she craved, he merely nodded at the door and said, “It’s taken care of. Mrs. Kendall would like a few words with you.”

Buffy’s heart leapt into her throat. “She would?”

William smiled gently at hearing the tension in her voice, and a part of her relaxed. A very small part. “It’s fine, love,” he said. “Mrs. Kendall has no claim on you. She is not blood, nor is she truly a friend. If anything, she’s a little bitter that you’re the one leaving with me…a right she clearly believes is hers alone.”

She offered a weak smile at that. “I will see her, then.”

“Should I have a maid pack your things for you?”

Buffy flustered. Just a little while ago, she had made such a fuss about someone else touching her things. It was quite uncharacteristic of her. After all, Mrs. Kendall had carted her around the country for a little over a year now, and not once had she cared at all about whether or not her belongings were packed by her hands or someone else’s. She knew, logically, that she had only insisted to such a point to stall for time. She’d needed to see William before she left. And now she was leaving with William, because they were getting married.

Because she was going to be Mrs. de Winter.

How odd that Mrs. Kendall’s last impression of her would be their quarrel over how to pack her things.

“I packed earlier,” Buffy replied, rising to her feet and placing the book aside. “But you might have her rearrange some things for me. I…I sort of threw everything in my suitcase in my hurry to see you. I’m sure it’s a mess.”

William’s smile grew, and before she knew what was happening, he had moved forward and brushed a tender kiss across her brow. It wasn’t the sort of kiss she expected a husband would give her, but the feel of his lips against her skin made her shiver with a rush of unanticipated happiness. “Deep breaths,” he whispered. “All will be well.”

Then he was gone. The strong comfort he offered moved aside and she was left facing an open doorway. Inside, on a long sofa, was Mrs. Kendall, and she looked ready to strangle anything that moved.

It did not surprise her, but Buffy felt a rush of trepidation nonetheless.

“Well, well, well,” Mrs. Kendall drawled, lighting a cigarette. She leaned carelessly against the pillows at the arm of the chaise. The look in her eyes was almost threatening. “It appears that I’ve underestimated you.”

Buffy wet her lips and did not reply.

“Game, set, match to you, huh, honey?”

“Mrs. Kendall—”

The old woman frowned and waved dismissively. “I’m not going to be difficult. I’m not going to scream and cry unfair, though now I know where you snuck off to while I was ill, right?” An unkind smile crossed her lips. “I do wish you luck, Buffy, though I fear you’re making a horrible mistake.”

Logically, Buffy knew that Mrs. Kendall was speaking out of jealous disappointment, but the words couldn’t help but strike the intended barb with skilled perfection. There was a sense of horrible apprehension surrounding the events that had unfolded over the past hour. While she very much wanted to marry William, she knew that she was leaving a world where she was comfortable. Where she knew exactly where she belonged. Having been orphaned at such a young age hadn’t privileged Buffy in having too many close relations, but she knew what to expect from Mrs. Kendall. She didn’t know what to expect from William, or Manderley. All she knew was that she loved him.

And that was all that mattered. She loved him.

“He likes you,” Mrs. Kendall continued, tapping her cigarette so that flecks of dust scattered along the carpet. “No doubt about that. And why wouldn’t he? He is a man, after all. And you’re a young, pretty thing. A nice little distraction from Drusilla. Did I ever tell you how she died?” She puffed on her cigarette again and shook her head. “She drowned, you see. She drowned in the bay at Manderley.”

Buffy frowned, her stomach rolling. “Stop it,” she said shortly.

If anything, her antagonistic response only egged Mrs. Kendall on. “They found her body several months later, washed along the shore miles from where her boat reportedly capsized. Poor William had to identify her. And from what I’ve heard, her body was battered and broken, and thoroughly naked.”

Bile rose in her throat. Buffy waved a hand and shook her head, a desperate, pleading note striking her voice. “Please.”

“Do you think he’s in love with you?” Mrs. Kendall studied her for a minute before cooing her sympathy and tilting her head. “Oh, Buffy. How naïve you are. It has only been a few months since the poor fellow had to identify the remains of his beloved Drusilla. He’s lonely, dear, and nothing more. He doesn’t want to return to Manderley alone. Why do you think he’s spent so much time here? Why do you think he balks every time Manderley is mentioned?”

Because Drusilla was dead. Buffy worried a lip between her teeth. Because he didn’t want to go home to a hollow house and an empty bed. Because she was nothing like Drusilla, thus there was no concern for an emotional entanglement. Drusilla, undoubtedly, had been the sort of woman to wear black lace. She’d been everything that Buffy was not. Brazen, glamorous, confident, beautiful, and a thousand other things.

“Do you really think you’re up to running Manderley?” Mrs. Kendall asked. “You’re just a child.”

“I appreciate your concern.”

“And that darkness. Certainly, with all the time you’ve spent with him, you’ve seen the darkness in his eyes. How will you feel when you have that darkness in your bed?”

“Mrs. Kendall!” The thought of what would happen in bed with William de Winter was enough to make her melt into the floorboards. “Please!”

“I simply feel it is my obligation to tell you that you are making a terrible mistake, Buffy.”

Mistake.

Mrs. Kendall nodded, as though needing to punctuate her point. “A mistake that you will bitterly regret.”

Buffy just sat there and stared.

But I’m going to be Mrs. de Winter.

And that was what this was about. In the end, that was exactly what this was about. Buffy Summers, plain and awkward, was marrying the infamously wealthy Mr. William de Winter, and every woman in the country was going to hate her for it.

But she was the one marrying William. She was the one that he’d asked. She was the one.

And maybe he didn’t love her now. Maybe he never would. But she loved him enough for both of them, and that would be enough. She had nothing else. Nothing but love for William, and soon, a ring on her finger.

Her love for him would be enough.

It had to be.

A/N: I have been advised to warn my readers that this chapter is angst-heavy. Having said that, I assume most of my readers know my feelings on Spuffy by now, hopefully enough to trust me.

Tempesta di Amore won an award at Love’s Last Glimpse for Best Fantasy. Thank you SO MUCH to whoever nominated me. I’ve never, ever written a fantasy before…so this…well, it stunned the hell out of me. Thank you guys so much!

Chapter Six

Once, when she was very young, Buffy shared a bed with a girl that might have been her cousin. It was in that hazy period following the death of her father—the death that had rendered her an orphan—while the house that had been theirs was overrun with people who claimed that they were family. People she’d never met before; people she hadn’t seen since the disbursement of what little wealth her family had possessed. In the rush of those cold, lonely days, Buffy had shared a bed at least once. She hadn’t liked it. The girl had shoved at her, kicked at her, and hogged the blankets.

It was an isolated memory. It was something she hadn’t bothered remembering until now.

She was in bed, naked, with a man. She was in bed, naked, with William de Winter.

And it was all right, because she was his wife. She was Mrs. Elizabeth de Winter. She wore a wedding band on her finger.

It was all right because she was the one who loved him.

Buffy honestly didn’t know what she thought would happen when she lost her virginity. Truth be told, she hadn’t given the wedding night much consideration until the wedding itself was over. Until the magistrate pronounced her the wife of William de Winter, and the ceremony came to an end.

No one had ever told her about lovemaking, and Buffy honestly didn’t know when she’d learned the mechanics. It was before she’d met Mrs. Kendall; perhaps in a book she shouldn’t have looked in, or during a conversation with a girl she’d known at the agency. Or perhaps every young woman eventually reached the point where they simply knew how to make love. It was intrinsic. After all, no one had been there to explain it to Eve; she’d figured it out all on her own.

She felt different. Changed. She felt that their marriage bed had truly transformed her from awkward, meek Elizabeth ‘Buffy’ Summers into Mrs. Elizabeth ‘Buffy’ de Winter, and perhaps that was hoping too much. Any second, she expected her eyes would open for real and she would find herself in a room that wasn’t hers, with a man who didn’t know her.

The past few days had been a stressful, surreal blur. And now she was in uncharted waters. Whatever shell of a life that she’d known before had been completely eradicated.

How did I ever come to be here?

William’s back was to her. She was no longer encased in his warmth. No, his warmth had slipped away, leaving her cold and divided on her side of the bed. She wanted to touch him but didn’t know if she should—if he would react adversely to feeling her hands on him uninvited.

She was his wife, though. Wives touched their husbands.

The ache between her thighs was foreign, and Buffy had yet to decide if she liked it. The intrusion of him into her body had both ached and split her apart with bliss beyond bliss. She’d never thought it possible to be so connected to someone—even when she’d haphazardly fantasized what lovemaking might feel like. It was always something detached and distant—something that would always happen to other people, and never to her.

Buffy didn’t know what she’d thought would happen. Perhaps she’d daydreamed that William would open up to her as he never had in Monte Carlo. Perhaps she’d hoped that he would fall to his knees and swear his undying love for her. Perhaps she’d imagined replacing Drusilla as the woman who owned his heart. All aspirations were foolish; Buffy knew this now. But she had him. She shared his bed now—no one else.

A slice of cold stabbed at her, and she clutched the comforter tighter against her chest. At least, she hoped no one else. It wasn’t an uncommon practice for men and even women to keep lovers, as Mrs. Kendall had warned her. Buffy’s stomach twisted and she shivered hard. No, William wouldn’t betray her. He wasn’t the sort of man to break a vow. And even so, if it was his intention to be unfaithful, why bother marrying her in the first place? He was a widower, and society had a way of turning a blind eye and keeping gossip behind closed doors, rather than out in the open. Mrs. Kendall had taught her that there was no family of wealth or importance that did not come without its share of scandal.

Icy fingers of dread were slowly closing around her heart.

She’d leapt into this so quickly and with such enthusiasm. And yet, despite her love for William, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was alone.

Everything had been so…pleasant. Not romantic. Not passionate. Just pleasant. They’d gotten married in an ordinary courtroom. She’d worn an unremarkable dress and held an unremarkable bouquet of equally unremarkable flowers. The kiss that William had brushed across her lips had singed her nerves with heat, but it was far from the sort of kisses that she saw on movie-picture shows, or read about in books. Beyond the warmth of his mouth against hers—and the sparks that had blazed across her skin—it was nothing but a kiss. A simple kiss. A kiss that Buffy was sure meant more to her than it ever could to him.

He’d treated her to whatever she liked. He bought her clothes, jewelry, hats—anything that she commented on, or admired for any length of time. He showered her with gifts, and while her girlish heart had been delighted, there was a part of her that couldn’t shake the feeling that she was just a child playing dress-up. That William was buying her whatever she wanted, dressing her in clothes that quite obviously could never whollybelong to her—in some grand effort to make her more than she was.

He’d treated her to better dining than she’d hoped to enjoy. They had eaten, and then he took her to an opera. The distance between them didn’t improve, but Buffy forced her thoughts away. After all, she was the woman on his arm. She was the one sitting beside him at Il ritorno d'Ulisse in patria.She was the one with him—distance be damned.

Buffy had never considered music a living thing. She loved listening to it, and had very much enjoyed the piano lessons she’d had as a child. However, until tonight, until she’d sat in that opera house, she’d never known that music could live.

William had handed her a handkerchief when she wasn’t looking. Her eyes had fallen to the royal embroidery in the corner. Purple, elegantly hand stitched letters. WdW.

William de Winter.

“I’m glad you enjoyed the opera,” he told her later.

“Enjoyed?” she replied, her voice still thick with tears, her eyes damp with awe. “I’ve never heard anything so lovely in my whole life.”

William had chuckled at that and made some comment about how young she was and how she would constantly be discovering things that she’d never heard or seen or experienced in her whole life.Furthermore, if she allowed herself to be surprised each time, she’d die young of a heart-attack.

“Do not laugh at me for my age,” she retorted, indignant.

He’d lifted her hand to his mouth, caressing the back with his lips. “My dear,” he replied, his voice both heavy and light at the same time in a way that boggled her young mind. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

It wasn’t until they’d arrived at their room that night that Buffy had remembered what was supposed to happen between men and women on their wedding night. William hadn’t acted like a man who wanted to make love all day, though fairly, she didn’t know what a man who wanted to make love acted like. And he was old enough to have experienced pleasures of the flesh time and time again. She didn’t doubt that each time he’d made love with Drusilla that the earth, to him, at least, had moved. That every time he’d touched his beloved wife, he’d inspired the heavens to sing.

Thus, engaging in carnal relations with his new, inexperienced wife likely meant little to him. But it was the first time that Buffy would ever be touched by a man, and it meant the world to her.

She’d sat, awkward and horribly self-aware, on the bed as William moved around their grandiose hotel room. He went about disrobing as though she wasn’t there. As though he had no wife at all. As though his life hadn’t changed. If he sensed her displacement or nervousness, he didn’t comment, or even react. It wasn’t until his fingers touched the first button of his dress-shirt that he turned his gaze to her.

What she saw in the ocean of his eyes was frightening and endless.

“This is new for you, isn’t it?” he asked, perplexing her with his bluntness.

Buffy blinked. “Yes,” she replied slowly, her heart in her throat. “I…forgive me, I have never…”

A small smile graced his lips. “Sweetling, your innocence requires no forgiveness.”

It was impossible for Buffy to tell if he was laughing at her. His tone bewildered her entirely. It wasn’t a heartfelt confession. He hadn’t dropped to his knees and bathed her skin in kisses. He hadn’t asked that she remove her dress. He hadn’t done anything.

“You really are pretty,” he said then, surprising her even more. But even then, his voice lacked the passion she craved.

Flowers were pretty.Landscapes were pretty.And while Buffy had never truly aspired to be anything more than plain, she’d always dreamed that the man she’d marry—whether in truth or in her fantasies—would find her utterly beautiful.

William thought she was pretty.It was better than nothing.

“Do you not want to do this?” he asked the next second, making her eyes go wide.

“What?”

“If you don’t want to…I don’t want to make you do anything that you don’t wish to do.” Unceremoniously, he dropped to his knees before her so that her eyes had nowhere to hide. He took her hands in his, caressing her knuckles with his soft lips in a way that made her insides flutter. “This has all happened so fast. Your life has changed so fast. Don’t think that I don’t know that. When you come to my bed, I want your mind with me.”

The words escaped her lips before she could help them, and the flinch that rolled down her spine would remain with her for the rest of her days. “I want to please you.”

William’s mouth tugged a grin that he didn’t allow to spread to his face. “You please me, love,” he replied, surprising her the next second when he brushed a kiss across her chin. “You have done more for me than you can ever know. And I know this has been overwhelming for you.”

Overwhelming was an understatement.

“Are you having regrets?” Buffy asked. “Do you wish that you hadn’t married me?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

For whatever reason, that wasn’t the answer she’d expected. Then again, they had only been married for a few hours. Perhaps it was too soon for regrets.

“Are you having regrets?” William replied in kind, his brows hitting his hairline. “Your life has changed far more than mine has.”

“If I were not with you, I would be with Mrs. Kendall.”

He chuckled, drumming his long fingers against her collarbone. An unfamiliar emotion crossed his face, and his eyes dropped, appraising her in a way that she’d never been appraised. Buffy shifted and inhaled deeply, feeling at once entirely self-conscious.

“Buffy, look at me.”

She hadn’t realized that she was staring at the hemline of her dress until he issued the request. “William?”

A small smile flitted across his lips. “Good girl.”

“What?”

“You called me William.”

Her cheeks burned. “Well…we’re married now,” she said, her voice cracking as though she expected him to refute a fact. As though she expected him to tell her that, no, of course they weren’t married. The entire day had been an elaborate hoax, and shame on her for falling for a girlish dream so readily. So willingly.She was such a laugh. Such a little amusement, and while he would never dream of truly marrying her, he did hope to keep her around just for the sake of entertainment.

Of course, such fears were preposterous, but that knowledge didn’t make them any less present.

William just smiled. “We are married,” he said softly. “Buffy, if you don’t want—”

“I do.”

She was grateful when he didn’t make things worse for her by forcing her to elaborate. “You’re sure?”

Buffy swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes.”

His hands dropped to her shoulders. “You’re trembling,” he said, but it wasn’t an admonition. “It will hurt the first time.”

“It will?” The idea of pain set her body aflame with an entirely different sort of anxiety. Romance novels had certainly never mentioned pain. Nor had Mrs. Kendall. Then again, Buffy reflected with an inner snicker, the old woman likely couldn’t remember a time before she’d lost her virginity. “How badly?”

William sighed and cast a hand through his chocolate-brown locks. “I’m not sure, love,” he replied honestly, if not repentantly. “Men don’t…it doesn’t hurt for us the first time.”

Her nose wrinkled. “Well, that hardly seems fair.”

“Fair or not, that’s the way it is.”

“You don’t know how badly it will hurt?”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry. All I can offer is…I will be gentle with you. I’ll go as slowly as you like. If it hurts too much, tell me, and we’ll stop.”

Something in his eyes told her that stopping would be easier said than done, but that could have been in her imagination. But even then, the idea that she could make a man like William de Winter fight for control, even if he never lost it, did little to scare her away from her decision. Not making love tonight wouldn’t make it hurt any less. And, more importantly, even with as terrified as she was, the larger part of her wanted it. She wanted him. She wanted to know what lovemaking felt like, and at that instant, she forgot that she had the rest of her life to explore this new, forbidden world of sensuality. To explore William. At that instant, the world might as well have ended with sunrise.

When William was assured of her decision, he pressed a small, nearly chaste kiss against her lips. He continued disrobing methodically, though he stopped in consideration before he removed what Buffy could only assume was the male version of underwear. Still, with as scandalized as she’d felt the morning that she’d burst in on him to announce that Mrs. Kendall was leaving, little could compare to how she felt now. She kept on edge, expecting him to send her from the room and leave him to his privacy. But he did no such thing. Instead, when he was almost nude, he knelt before her again, and carefully began to finger the buttons and clasps of her own attire.

The feel of male hands undressing her for the first time was something she would, assuredly, never forget. And when the last stitch of clothing fell away, when the chilly air around them touched her naked skin, when she felt his eyes roaming over her imperfect body, her legs at last wobbled and she collapsed against the bed before her strength could abandon her completely. Her left arm shot lengthwise across her breasts, her other hand quickly covering the forbidden area between her legs. William just watched, licking his lips, and, without saying a word, stripped away his last piece of clothing.

Buffy closed her eyes and turned away, red-faced. This was simply too surreal.

Still, he said nothing.

Oh God.What if he was disgusted with her? What if she was behaving so poorly that he rethought the entire marriage? But then, how exactly was she supposed to act? What was she supposed to do? Should she ask him questions? Should she ask him what to do?

“Buffy.” The mattress dipped as he sat beside her, a warm hand circling the wrist that guarded her breasts. “Buffy?”

His tone was so soft. So calm. So gentle. It covered her like a blanket, and she felt swallowed in warmth.

“Buffy, love, please look at me.”

Her eyes opened simply by the will of his voice. She refused to look to his most private area. Simply knowing that he was sitting naked on the bed while she was also naked on the bed was enough to make her melt through the mattress. However, once their gazes clashed, she found herself relaxing. There was no condemnation or disappointment in his eyes, only concerned understanding.

“Don’t hide from me,” he said softly, coaxing her arm away from her breasts. “There’s nothing to hide from here. It’s only me. It’s you and me, Buffy. No one else.”

Almost a year ago, Mrs. Kendall had scowled and tossed a novel entitled Gone with the Wind into the nearest trash-bin, muttering something about vulgar Yanks and their politics, alongside several other statements that she hadn’t understood. However, the novel had been making noise ever since its release, and Buffy knew that British actress Vivien Leigh had recently upset Americans by winning the role of the novel’s protagonist for its cinematic portrayal. Thus, she had diligently fished the novel from the trash-bin and, within a week, had it completely devoured. And while much of it had gone over her head, the passion between Rhett and Scarlett could not be denied. It was that passion that had sustained and fueled her most private thoughts. It was that passion that she craved.

William was only half-right. There was pain, but surprisingly, not much. Perhaps she was too nervous to feel pain. All she knew was that somehow, she was under him, gasping and clawing at his back like a heathen. She felt split in half, but united at the same time. His invasion of her body was wonderful. He remained within her, still, for the longest time, his face buried in the crook of her neck, his ragged breaths crashing against her skin. For a second, Buffy thought he was trembling, but quickly realized that she was shaking too hard to determine whether or not he was shaken at all.

He asked her if she was all right, and she said she was. He asked her if he felt good, and she said he did.

But he never looked her in the eyes. Not once. Not for one second while he was inside her did he look her in the eyes. His body rocked against hers, his fingers played against her skin, and he manipulated her over the edge of an inner explosion that no novel could have ever prepared her for. But he did so with his face buried in her throat, his words muffled unless he wanted her to hear something.

He didn’t look at her. And when the sky came back and the room around them returned, Buffy found herself tucked into his side with her head on his chest. William didn’t say anything. She felt him breathing hard. Felt the raw intimacy of his naked skin beneath her fingertips. She heard his heart pounding, and swelled with warmth when his lips brushed her forehead. And then she closed her eyes and fell asleep.

Only now she was awake. She was awake and she was no longer in William’s arms. They were both on their sides, facing away from each other. Buffy didn’t know if she had simply moved in her sleep. After all, she had only shared a bed once before. No one had ever been in the position to tell her if she moved excessively when she slept. But for some reason, she didn’t think so.

William had put distance between them. He was on his side, dreaming.

He was dreaming of the one he couldn’t have. He was dreaming of Drusilla.

Of this she was certain, for every few seconds, a moan split his lips, and he would whimper her name.

The years had taught her little about human touch. She remembered her father’s arms around her, and how he would affectionately ruffle her hair with his large hands and call her his little Buffy. Buffy was such an unbecoming moniker for a girl, but it was what her father had called her, and she never wanted to be known by any other name. She recalled the way Mrs. Kendall had first looked at her when they were introduced; the way the old woman had repeated her name as though it was a disease, rather than something given to her with love and affection. And ever since that day, Buffy had learned to live in a world that did not traffic in the realm of human kindness. Touch was forfeit. Everything was forfeit.

Until last night. Until William de Winter marked her as his with his body, even if he could never give her his heart.

A hand was on her. A male hand. It roamed up her back and down her arm, paused to play idly with her hair, then slid down her side until his warm fingers settled on her hip. He was touching her. After so many years starved for human contact, William was touching her. His hand was on her naked skin.

Perhaps he was imagining that she was Drusilla.

“Buffy?”

At once, her heart was pounding. “William?”

There was nothing for a long minute, then his arm draped entirely around her middle, pulling her back against a sturdy male chest. Every nerve in her body exploded, and she found in seconds that she was shaking uncontrollably. She’d never felt anything like this. Not once. Not even last night, when he’d slipped inside her body. When he’d shown her how beautiful the stars were up close.

Until he’d whimpered Drusilla’s name in his sleep, and sent her crashing back to earth.

William hooked his chin over her shoulder and inhaled deeply. “Are you sore at all?”

Her cheeks rouged. The tenderness between her thighs was foreign, but it wasn’t bad. “A little,” she replied. “Only a little.”

“I didn’t hurt you last night?”

Buffy swallowed hard. He had, but the ache wasn’t physical, and it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t his fault that he missed his wife. It wasn’t his fault that he dreamed of her, and that he spoke to her in his sleep. And yet, even knowing that, it didn’t stop the hurt. Nothing could stop the hurt. She felt cold and exposed—a large wound in her chest open for anyone to see.

“It hurt a little at first,” she whispered when she became aware that she’d been quiet too long. “But I think…I think it was more…nerves than anything.”

He ran a hand down her arm. “Are you still nervous?”

“Yes.”

“You’re trembling.”

“Because I’m nervous,” she agreed, her eyes falling closed as she silently admonished herself. What an absolutely inane thing to say. Of course he was intelligent enough to deduce that she was trembling due to nerves. “Was it…”

She broke off again, feeling foolish and more than a little flustered. Mrs. Kendall had once laughed richly about how virgins are always so disappointing in bed due to their inexperience. Men, she’d said, were selfish creatures by nature and worked only to heighten their own pleasure. Virginal men had no concept of giving, therefore bedding them was a wasted effort. If they were considerate, or at least reasonably intelligent, they’d learn to satisfy their bedmates to ensure that they didn’t have to come home alone. However, from her lewd conversations with assorted male companions, Mrs. Kendall had deduced that women were worse. They were so timid and frigid and didn’t know how to respond, so they would lie like boards and do nothing to help themselves reach what Mrs. Kendall had called fruition.

Had she moved at all last night? Buffy honestly couldn’t remember. She was certain that she was worthless as a lover, but the knowledge did nothing to alleviate the pain that she was again going to fall short to Drusilla. She imagined that Drusilla was a wonderful lover that never left her husband unsatisfied.

William’s lips brushed against her shoulder, shaking her back to the present. “You’re warm,” he murmured. “I’ve been without warmth for so long.”

The world around her stopped, and for a second, she felt a spark of anticipation. Of hope. But William released her the next second and rolled away from her, leaving her cold and detached. Her skin ached for his where he had touched her. The place where his arm had been draped over her waist jerked in the sharp sting of rejection.

Warmth. She gave him warmth.

Not enough.

She didn’t give him enough warmth to fill the void. If she did, he wouldn’t turn away from her. He wouldn’t whimper for Drusilla in his sleep.

“What would you like for breakfast, love?” William asked. “We can have anything you like.”

Buffy remained where she’d been, on her side, her back to him. She listened as he moved about the room, her heart pounding furiously. Soon, the honeymoon would come to an end, and then she would have to step into the role of Mrs. de Winter. She would go to Manderley.

She couldn’t shake the feeling that it was temporary. That she was going to Manderley for a little while, but that her life would resume as it had been once the failed fairytale was over.

A few minutes later, William was on the bed again, draping a now-clothed arm across her stomach. The stiff material of his dress-shirt didn’t make her shiver as his bare skin had, but Buffy couldn’t help but draw in an excited breath. If nothing else, she loved him with all she was. She loved him, and she was the one sharing his bed.

She just wished she knew how to kick Drusilla’s memory out altogether.

“Buffy, love? Are you feeling all right?”

No, she wasn’t, but that was hardly his fault. He couldn’t be blamed because she was less than perfect.

“I’m fine,” she said, turning to glance at him over her shoulder, forcing a smile to her face. “Just tired.”

William’s eyes softened. “Do you want to sleep a little while longer?” he asked gently, rubbing her back. “Or, perhaps, I could draw you a hot bath.”

That sounded heavenly. “I would like that.”

“Yeah?” He kissed her brow, and again, her heart swelled with hope. “Anything you want, sweet. I’ll draw a bath for you, and when you’re ready, we can order breakfast. What would you like?”

Perhaps her life would be filled with this. Little bits of affection, given through small touches and gentle, unexpected kisses. It wasn’t what she wanted, but it would be enough. In time, she would learn to convince herself that it was better than love. Better than anything he could give her. After all, she loved him with everything she had, and as long as she was in his life, whatever he gave her would be enough.

“I don’t know. Whatever you order will be fine.”

William frowned, not satisfied. “What would you like, Buffy?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“You say that now, but if I guess, you’ll be stuck with whatever I order.” His fingers played idly with her hair. “All those mornings in Monte Carlo, and you never ate anything but toast and eggs. There must be something that I can treat you to.” He paused. “Would you like pancakes? Crêpes?”

Buffy wondered if he felt like pampering her because they were now husband and wife in name and body. He had made love to her the night before, and now everything was different. Everything had changed.

“Crêpes?” she asked.

“Have you ever had one?”

“No.”

He smiled gently. “I’ll send in the order.”

“And run the bath?” She felt foolish the second the words crossed her lips. As though she needed someone to wait on her hand and foot. She was perfectly capable of running her own bath. However, the idea of William doing it for her struck her as romantic, and she wanted as much romance as he would give her.

Even if it was something small. Even if it was a bath.

He didn’t object. Instead, a smile crossed his face, and he graced her with a nod. “Of course. And run the bath.” He began to turn, paused, and turned back to her. “Would you like a robe, love?”

At once, Buffy became painfully aware that she was still naked beneath the sheets, and the blush in her cheeks deepened. “Yes, please.”

Another instance of utter foolishness. Again, William said nothing. He did not reprimand her as he had the night before. He did not say that she shouldn’t hide from him. Rather, he nodded again and made his way to the wardrobe.

One day, perhaps, she would be the sort of woman that could toss modesty aside. But that wasn’t who she was now, and if she was entirely honest with herself, she doubted she would ever be. She and William might have shared intimacy beyond intimacy, and she might love him with all her heart, but there were times when she was painfully aware that they were, in many ways, still strangers. And though he had seen her without clothing the night before—though he had touched her where no man ever had, where no other man would—she wasn’t the sort of girl who could throw off a blanket and walk across a room naked. Not even with her husband. She was a creature made of self-awareness, one not comfortable with her own body. Becoming comfortable with nakedness with someone else was going to take time.

And William, wordlessly, seemed to understand that.

He understood her.

That wasn’t love, but it was more than she’d ever had.

And she would treasure whatever he had to give.

She remembered looking at photos of Stonehenge and feeling so small, so thoroughly insignificant at the awing knowledge that something so great existed somewhere in the world. That somewhere out there, outside the world of photos and reports, existed something so meaningful. The same feeling had encompassed her when she’d stumbled across a snapshot of the Pyramids of Giza in some forgotten textbook. It always shook her that the pictures were mere representation of something that actually existed. Somewhere in the world stood actual pyramids, reaching for the heavens themselves. Similarly, Stonehenge stood somewhere in England. It stood, and perhaps someday she would see how it looked outside the world of photos and textbooks. Perhaps.

Manderley, in that respect, had been the same. When she’d acquired the postcard that had attempted to capture Manderley’s grandeur, she’d never imagined seeing it. In her wildest fantasies, she’d never envisioned a time when she would be stepping outside a car, holding William’s hand, dwarfed in the shadow of such regality.

“Do you like it?” he’d whispered as the car turned up the drive. As her first view of Manderley came to life. “It’s yours, you know. Everything is yours.”

Buffy felt her heart was weak. Manderley was without question the greatest house she’d ever seen. He lived in a realized model of Mr. Darcy’s Pemberley. It wasn’t a house at all. It was a castle. A great, looming castle that rose from the earth through columns of trees. Immediately, her hand itched with the need to sketch. Manderley. This was Manderley.

Two great wings branched to either side of what she assumed was the main hall. The steps that led to the entrance seemed enormous, and startlingly aged. As though the home itself had been built around them.

“I’m sure Mrs. Hart will be happy to give you the tour,” William said, grinning at her.

Knowing that Manderley was her home now didn’t make drawing her eyes away from its majesty any easier. Buffy nodded numbly, barely hearing the words. “Mrs. Hart?”

“My housekeeper.” Then he grew silent and clenched his jaw. “Bugger.”

“What?”

“She’s orchestrated something, that devil. I told her you wouldn’t want this.”

It was only then that Buffy realized that a group of strangers had congregated uniformly on Manderley’s steps. Had they been there the entire time? She didn’t know. Manderley itself had been her prime focus. And now there was a staff full of people. People whose station had been her own just a little while ago. Just a week ago.

Anxiety seized her heart. These people, these house servants, were people who had known Drusilla. People who were accustomed to Drusilla. People who had never dreamed that William would return with a new wife. A new Mrs. de Winter. A Mrs. de Winter that could never hope to fill Drusilla’s shoes.

“William,” Buffy gasped, reaching for his hand. “What is this?”

“I’m sorry, love. I told her.”

“Told her?”

“Mrs. Hart. I told her not to do this.” A long, resigned sigh rolled off his shoulders. “I swear, the woman makes it difficult to remember who’s serving whom.”

“I can’t face these people, William.” Panic was a frightening sensation. Her bones stiffened. Her gut pierced with cold. Her joints locked and her heart thundered. “Please. I can’t do this. I’m not ready to do this. Please.”

William raised her hand to his lips and brushed a kiss across her white knuckles. “It will be all right.”

She shook her head rapidly. “No.”

“Buffy—”

“I can’t…I’m not…this isn’t me.” The words sounded ridiculous, but she had nothing else to say. Similarly, they had the added benefit of being true. It wasn’t her. None of this was her. Not the car. Not the dress. Not the hat on her head, or the bag at her side. Not the suitcases of expensive clothes that William had happily bought her on their honeymoon. She was a child in a grown-up’s dress. She wasn’t a woman of class or value. She wasn’t the sort of woman that could run a household.

Why was he asking this of her? He knew what she was. She was a paid companion. It was all she knew. It was all she’d ever been.

His fingers slid under her chin, tilting her head up until their eyes locked.

“Buffy, do this for me?”

A trembling breath rushed past her lips. “It’s not me.”

“I know, love. But if you start off your life here by allowing yourself to be frightened by the staff…” He broke off, his brow furrowing. “Let’s just leave it at this…you can dismiss anyone. Anyone you want gone will be gone.”

That sort of power was truly terrifying.

“Come on,” he said kindly, encouragingly. “It’s yours. Everything is yours.”

Those words didn’t register.

A soft smile crossed his lips. “They’re only curious. And they’ll want to impress you.”

“Impress me?”

“Of course.” He spoke as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Why would they not want to impress you? Their continued employment at Manderley rests in your hands.”

The idea of firing anyone was simply beyond her imagination. They were going to compare her to Drusilla. They were going to look at her and see how plain she was. How thoroughly unremarkable. How young and imprudent. Perhaps they would regard her as Mrs. Kendall had. Perhaps they would say what a great mistake she’d made, trying to take the place of a woman greater than her. Greater than any woman William could have brought home. This wasn’t her staff: it was Drusilla’s. It was all Drusilla’s.

Every inch of the property belonged to Drusilla. Buffy was a fool to think otherwise.

Buffy didn’t remember ever leaving the car. William’s hand was around hers, leading her further into Manderley’s shadow. A sea of blank, unsmiling faces surrounded her. People in matching, black and white outfits. People looking at her. Judging her. Thinking how brazen she was for being here. How presumptuous. How thoughtless that she could even consider marrying a man like William de Winter. She, a girl of no money or importance, stood at the side of, formerly, the most eligible bachelor in the country. She had managed to win a ring on her finger. She was the new Mrs. de Winter.

These people didn’t believe it anymore than she did. She was a wanderer in a strange land. She stood where she didn’t belong.

It was a pair of cold, unblinking eyes that drew her attention from the semi-circle. The woman stood in the middle—an elderly, stone façade of prestige and self-importance. She was undeniably the most frightening creature that Buffy had ever seen. Sharp cheekbones emphasized the harsh contours of her face, making her eyes look larger than they were. She was thin, her frame near skeletal, her hair pulled back in a tight bun. Every detail of her countenance was incontrovertibly intentional. There wasn’t a flaw to be had, and the effect was nearly inhuman.

This was the sort of woman that would make Lucifer cower.

“Mrs. Hart,” William said, his pleasant voice shaking Buffy back to herself. She relaxed minutely at the reminder that he was with her—that she wasn’t alone—and took some measure of solace in his presence. “I believe I told you that all this wasn’t necessary.”

“Apologies, Mr. de Winter,” the woman replied, her cold eyes never wavering from her employer, her tone betraying no such regret. “I merely thought it best that the staff become acquainted with Mrs. de Winter immediately.”

The corners of William’s mouth drew into a tight smile. “Perhaps this is a good example, then,” he said, turning to Buffy. “You needn’t lift a finger. Mrs. Hart takes care of everything. She runs the house like a well-oiled machine.” He glanced up again. “I’m sure you two will make fast friends.”

Mrs. Hart nodded stoically. “Yes, Mr. de Winter.”

A shiver raced down Buffy’s back, but before she could stop herself, she found her feet carrying her forward and her hand falling from William’s reassuring grasp and reaching out in salutation. Where the sudden rush of courage had originated, she did not know. Only, for whatever reason, she sensed that her life would be much easier if she could rely on Mrs. Hart for friendship. The shrewd coldness in her eyes was, perhaps, imagined. Buffy’s nerves were running far too high to trust every vibration that rang through her body.

“Mrs. Hart,” she said, cursing her trembling voice. “I am Bu—my name is Elizabeth.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptivity, and she cast a condescending glance to the proffered hand. “You are the lady of the house,” she said, and though it wasn’t blatant, the derision in Mrs. Hart’s tone couldn’t have been imagined. “It is not proper to engage in such greetings with servants.”

“Oh.” Buffy’s arm fell heavily to her side once again. “Of course.”

“Mrs. Hart can show you around, if you like,” William offered. “I’ll have the mail to sort through.”

“Mail?”

“One of the less-pleasant side-effects of a lengthy absence. We’ll eat together tonight, of course.” He kissed her cheek, but it was quick, and left her feeling colder than ever. Then, to Mrs. Hart, he said, “You’ll show her around.”

It wasn’t a question, but somehow it sounded like one.

“Yes, Mr. de Winter.”

And just like that, he was gone. William was gone from her side. He was gone. And Buffy was left standing in the shadow of Manderley. In the shadow of something so much greater than she could ever be.

“Whenever you’re ready, Mrs. de Winter.”

Mrs. de Winter.

The title was a formality, nothing more.

She was using someone else’s name, living in someone else’s house, sleeping in someone else’s bed with someone else’s husband, and surrounded by strangers.

In all her life, Buffy had never felt so alone.

The walls whispered behind her with every step. The portraits that hung in the corridors seemed to watch her, cruel eyes trailing her careless, awkward poise as she followed Mrs. Hart deeper into the labyrinth of Manderley. These were portraits of William’s people. A thousand different people who shared the name de Winter. People who may or may not still be living. People who would recoil in horror if they saw the girl that had just married into their family.

Buffy tried hard to imagine herself as a portrait, but her unremarkable face and dull blonde hair could never emulate the royalty that hung on Manderley’s walls.

She found herself wondering if Drusilla had been immortalized in a portrait—perhaps painted on the veranda—holding flowers in one hand and a hat in the other. The acres of trees and the seaside setting would bring gentility, and Drusilla herself would look, in a word, glamorous. Her eyes would flare with life. Her smile would brighten the heavens.

“I will give you the broader tour later,” Mrs. Hart said, her voice chilling. The floorboards creaked with every step, as though moaning in agreement. Not even they thought she belonged. “However, I doubt that you will need more than a basic sense of direction. The Morning Room, for example, is where Mrs. de Winter always answered her mail and staffed out daily orders. I trust that you will find it most comfortable for your affairs.”

Buffy’s heart thundered and she swallowed hard, forcing a discomfited nod. “I don’t have any correspondents, Mrs. Hart,” she replied, hating the sound of her voice. She was far too mousy to belong in a place of such grandeur. “I’m sure that William told you that my parents have passed on.”

If possible, Mrs. Hart’s stone façade grew even icier. “Mr. de Winter is my employer,” she replied, her tone bordering on indignant. “He does not relate to me matters that are none of my concern.”

A sharp breath pierced through her body. “Oh,” she replied. “Oh, of course.” She went silent for a minute, her mind racing, her heart thundering louder than her obnoxiously clumsy footsteps. The walls resumed their silent appraisal of her childish misplacement. The portraits talked amongst themselves, whispering how very different she was from the woman that had come before her. Every creak in the hallway mocked her graceless weight.

Mrs. Hart led her quietly, and silence was enough to condemn.

Speaking with the woman was bad, but not speaking was even worse. Not speaking led her mind to an endless web of drawn conclusions.

William had said that she and Mrs. Hart would be friends. It was what William wanted. And for his sake, she was willing to try.

“Mrs. Hart?” Buffy asked before her throat could betray her. “What is it that William—that Mr. de Winter does during the day? This…this is new to me, you see. All of this is new to me. I might require…some guidance for a little while.”

She hoped against hope that her appeal wasn’t as pathetic as it sounded against her ears.

“Mr. de Winter is a writer,” Mrs. Hart replied, her voice a perfect, frozen cadence of repetition. “Occasionally, he leaves Manderley for various parts of Europe to engage in research.”

Buffy blinked in surprise. She had no idea that William was a writer.

“What does he write?”

There was a pause. Mrs. Hart hesitated just a hair of a second, and in that instant, Buffy felt the world of denunciation crush against her young shoulders. The old woman was undoubtedly thinking that William’s new wife was something of a joke, or at best, an idealistic fool. What sort of girl, Mrs. Hart might muse, would enter into marriage without even asking her intended what sort of work he did? Perhaps Buffy should have asked him in Monte Carlo. At the time, things like that hadn’t seemed to matter. Nothing had mattered. Her time with him had been finite. Not once—not until that last morning—had he given her cause to believe otherwise.

She couldn’t have predicted that she would be walking the whispering halls of Manderley in two short weeks. She couldn’t have predicted that her fairytale would come to life. She couldn’t have predicted the hole in her heart, either. Marrying William and having William were two very different things. And the further she went, the deeper she walked into the maze, the colder she became.

“Mr. de Winter writes poetry,” Mrs. Hart said at last, her words crisp. “He writes under Will Winter, which perhaps explains why you haven’t heard of him.”

Why she hadn’t heard of William. Why she hadn’t heard of her own husband.

“It was Mrs. de Winter who encouraged him to publish,” Mrs. Hart continued. The flippancy of her tone made Buffy wonder if she knew how her words could twist and hurt. “He stopped writing after she died.”

Buffy thought of the poetry book that she had discovered in his car, the poetry book that he had given her. He’d told her that there were poems in that book that every young woman should read. Was it possible that his own work graced the book’s pages? She hadn’t read but a few poems—short, haunted works that left her heart aching. What sort of poetry would William write now?

Drusilla must have been his muse.

“Of course,” Mrs. Hart went on knowingly, her wicked eyes narrowing, “writing poetry is not a substantial method of maintaining one’s income.”

In fact, Buffy knew no such thing. She’d always imagined writing in any form to be terribly romantic. After all, Margaret Mitchell had written Gone with the Wind. Jane Austen had penned Pride and Prejudice. Shakespeare had been inspiring writers for centuries. Buffy’s education hadn’t expanded to the lives of the writers in question, but she was certain that those who created beauty couldn’t be made to suffer forever. Not forever.

“Mr. de Winter earned his money through the de Winter’s family business.”

Buffy wet her lips. “Family business?”

Mrs. Hart nodded stoically, and continued without elaborating. “Ten years ago, Mr. de Winter sold the family enterprise to Mr. Harris, his brother-in-law, but serves still as the silent partner.”

“Oh.”

Buffy didn’t know that William had a sister. Was she the only sibling? What of cousins? Parents? Had Drusilla had any children?

Was William a father?

The thought made her insides flush cold. Not because she thought he was—in fact, she was rather certain that he wasn’t. However, the immediate answer wasn’t forthcoming. She couldn’t say that she knew for sure.

An inner breeze chilled her bones.

She didn’t know him at all.

“And…Mrs. Hart, what is it that I am to do?” she asked, fighting back a frown. They had finally come to the end of the corridor and the old woman’s hands were wrapped around twin handles that belonged to a dual set of doors. “This life…everything is so new to me.”

There was no reply. Instead, she opened the doors and stepped across the threshold. “This is the room that Mr. de Winter selected.” Some people spoke words; Mrs. Hart hissed them. “He wished for the loveliest view over the rose garden.”

Buffy forced a nod, tagged with a strained smile. “You cannot hear the ocean,” she observed.

“No, madam. This is the east wing. We are standing in the furthest room from the bay.”

“You mean…this isn’t the room that William shared with Mrs. de Winter?”

There was nothing for a long minute. Mrs. Hart grew still, her inhuman eyes blinking once, narrowing as she met Buffy’s inquiring gaze. Then the air thinned and the room grew dark. Cold whispered against her skin, causing gooseflesh to spread along her arms. She felt layers peeling away. Felt the old woman’s invisible hands stripping her vulnerable and bare. Mrs. Hart just looked at her, and without saying a word, Buffy knew that she saw her as she was. She saw her as William must. She saw her as Manderley must.

A child in a fairytale-dream, and nothing more. Happily ever after didn’t happen twice. Buffy was nothing more than the coda. A way to spend out the rest of a sad man’s life with companionship. She didn’t belong here.

She didn’t belong anywhere.

“No, madam,” Mrs. Hart replied at last, her crooked lips twitching as though she struggled to fight off a satisfied grin. “Mister and Mrs. de Winter occupied the west wing, where the ocean’s sound is deafening. These quarters are rather small in comparison, but perhaps better suited for a woman of your standing.”

Buffy reeled as though slapped, her throat running dry. The only thing she could think to say was, “Oh…yes. Perhaps.”

Nothing more. There was nothing more.

“In the morning, I will call you with the day’s menu,” Mrs. Hart announced, halfway turning so that she was poised to exit the room in a flash. “The call will come to the Morning Room. If you prefer to take it elsewhere, just inform one of the servants, and they will relay the message to me.”

“Oh no, I do not wish to break your routine,” she replied hurriedly, her heart racing and her voice cracking as she struggled with words. “Really, Mrs. Hart, I don’t believe that I’ll be changing anything at all. William said that you run the house splendidly, and I trust his judgment.”

There was nothing at that. Nothing. Not a smile. Not a nod of gratitude. Not even a blink. The floor beneath Buffy’s feet suddenly felt weightless. She wondered if she was choking on air. How could she be saying all the wrong things when she’d barely said anything at all? Her need to please was insurmountable. She very much wanted Mrs. Hart to like her. To extract something from Mrs. Hart that resembled human emotion. To be accepted in whatever small form available to her. To be accepted in whatever fashion that Mrs. Hart saw fit.

After a long minute, Mrs. Hart inclined her head. “Very well, madam,” she said quietly. “I will have Giles bring up your things at once.”

“Giles?”

“Mr. de Winter’s butler.”

Buffy nodded. “Oh.”

Had she known of Giles? William had told her so many things about Manderley, but for the life of her, she could barely recall her own name at the moment. Perhaps he had told her everything while she’d been daydreaming. Daydreaming what life at Manderley would be like.

“If there is anything else that you require, Mrs. de Winter, simply ring me on the telephone.”

“Telephone?”

Mrs. Hart’s beady eyes narrowed, and Buffy nearly sank to the floor in humiliation. However, instead of deliberately misinterpreting her question, the woman merely nodded and continued. “Yes. All the telephones in the home, save the one in Mr. de Winter’s private study, are interconnected. Manderley is too grand an estate to summon a maid simply by ringing a bell.”

She swallowed hard. “Of course.”

“There is no number to memorize. Pick up any line, and you will receive me. From there, I will staff out your orders.”

Her orders. Her orders. As though she would ever give an order. Her voice shook whenever she tried to speak. She was playing the mistress of a house far too grand for her. She was sleeping next to another woman’s husband. She had stolen another woman’s name.

The thought was dizzying.

Mrs. Hart, of course, knew this, thus there was no reason to voice it. And when the old woman had retreated into the labyrinth again, when Buffy found that she was alone, she allowed herself to break.

She wouldn’t sob, but she would cry.

Alone in the only bedroom that William felt she was good enough to occupy.

On a bed that she didn’t know.

In a house composed of strangers.

When evening came and she saw William again, it felt as though they had been parted for years. Her first impulse was to bury herself in his arms and have a good cry, but her afternoon had been occupied wiping away her tears, and she didn’t want him to know that she was distressed. She didn’t want him to know that she was breaking after only a day.

Buffy hadn’t known what to expect. She hadn’t even the first inkling. She supposed, in some foolish fashion, that she’d thought her days would be spent at William’s side. That things would always be as they’d been at Monte Carlo, only without the shadow of Mrs. Kendall lurking down every otherwise sun-lit valley. Perhaps she thought that their time together would be filled with intelligent conversation about books, life, religion, politics—subjects that ensnared Buffy’s fascination. Things she’d never had the opportunity to study. Things that she would understand better with William’s guidance. Ideas that he would help her shape, philosophies he would guide her through. He would nurture her desire for knowledge. He would open her eyes and let her mind take flight. Then when the sky grew dark, they would retreat to their bedroom and make love until dawn.

That was the fantasy. The one she’d known not to trust the second that this part of her fairytale became real. The second that she’d realized his proposal was not a joke. That he was serious. That he truly wished for her to be Mrs. de Winter.

“Did you have a nice afternoon, love?” William asked, flashing a tired smile. “What do you think of Manderley?”

Haunting.

But she didn’t say that. Instead, she replied, “Lovely.”

“Would you like a glass of wine?”

She nodded. She liked wine. At least, she liked the wine that William had thus far introduced her to; drinking, like so many things, was a new part of life. Mrs. Kendall had once allowed her to sip a tiny bit of alcohol from a large goblet, and she’d found the flavor so disagreeable that her first impulse, when William had asked, was to shake her head vehemently.

Then she’d stopped and realized that she was no longer a paid companion, and society expected different things from her now. As it was, she found the wine that William had provided more than agreeable; it left her to privately conclude that wine was another in a long list of subjects where Mrs. Kendall lacked refinement.

“It is a little disorienting at first,” William mused softly, his eyes flickering in the candlelight. It was all a little intoxicating. Buffy now lived in a world where her meals would be served on a candlelit table. “And I’m sorry that I couldn’t spend more of the day with you. My sister phoned and announced that she and her husband will be visiting tomorrow. And, as you will soon learn, once Anya begins talking, it’s bloody hard to shut her up.”

Buffy didn’t know what to say. She thought about saying nothing, but decided against it. In the end, the only thing she could manage was a small, “Anya is an unusual name.”

He grinned wryly. “She’s an unusual woman. I find it suits her.”

“You find your sister unusual?”

“Trust me, love, you will too. But she means well.” He paused, wiping his mouth with his snow-white cloth napkin. Like the one back at Monte Carlo. The one with a spot in the corner. “She means well,” he repeated. “Just…keep that in mind if she says something abrasive.”

“Is Anya usually abrasive?”

William chuckled. “But well-intentioned,” he agreed. “Do your best to remember that in the extremely likely occasion that she says something…odd.”

“Is her husband the same man that you sold the family industry to?”

There was an abrupt silence. He paused and arched a brow, and Buffy felt foolish enough to duck under the table.

“Yes,” he replied after a long minute. “Sorry, love, you caught me off guard. Were you hitting Mrs. Hart up for information all afternoon?”

Her cheeks burned. “I had some questions, yes.”

“I’d wonder about you if you didn’t. What else did she tell you?” William paused again, tilting his head curiously. “Nothing too inflammatory, I hope. You’re redder than our rose garden.”

Our. The word sent shivers down her spine. But which our did he refer to? Did he mean her, or the woman that used to live in the west wing?

“I just…I don’t know, William.” She dropped her gaze to her plate and swallowed hard. “This is just…everything is so new.”

His eyes softened. “I know.”

“She said that you’re a poet. And that…that the first Mrs. de Winter encouraged you to publish.”

The words, once they left her lips, formed into a storm cloud and quickly rose to the ceiling. She could barely believe herself. She could barely believe that she’d dared to mention Drusilla. William, as she knew, never spoke her name. Never spoke of her at all. And here she was, his new bride, their first night at home, making his face drain of all color. Making the light in his eyes recede into the dull gray that haunted her nightmares. She watched his Adams-apple move when he swallowed. She felt certain that he could hear her heart thundering. And despite the screaming in her head, Buffy eventually found that looking at him was too difficult, thus she cast her eyes to the table again.

She remembered how he’d looked on the ledge. Staring into the ocean beneath his feet. How angry the waves had been that he hadn’t jumped.

Finally, after an eternity had ticked by, William cleared his throat. She glanced up just as his eyes landed in his lap. And she found herself swallowing apologies, biting back a fresh surge of tears. She wanted to leap up and rush to his side and beg forgiveness. Implore that he forget her carelessness and tell her that all would be well. Just never to mention, never to even hint at Drusilla’s ghostly presence again.

“I’ll have to show you some of my poems,” he said at last, his voice slightly strained. “No one has ever been able to convince me that they’re anything but drivel, but if you wish to see them—”

“I do,” she said fervently, biting back another frown. It would be painful to read love poems dedicated to Drusilla, but she was eager for any information about her—about them, about their marriage—poisonous as it was to her happiness. William wouldn’t talk about her, perhaps, but he could not keep her from reading his thoughts before Drusilla was taken from him.

A smile ghosted across William’s lips. “And you will have to share all of your artwork with me,” he replied. “All of it. Even the sketches you did of me and thought I didn’t know about.”

Her face flamed again.

“I think, perhaps, we’ll save dissecting my work for after my sister’s visit. You might need a laugh after she and Xander head back to town.”

Buffy paused, her brow furrowing. Certainly he wasn’t suggesting that she would laugh at his poetry. “William—”

“My colleague, Wesley, will be here tomorrow, as well. Coincidence, but perhaps it’s best that you meet them all at once. They’ll likely be the people you see the most.”

“Coincidence?”

“I’d already arranged his visit before Anya phoned me this afternoon. Wesley is my property manager, and the closest thing to a friend that I’ve had in as many years.” William took a long sip of wine. “He’s eager to make your acquaintance. Everyone is.”

Eager to make her acquaintance.

Eager to compare her to Drusilla.

Tomorrow she would meet William’s family and his closest friend. Tomorrow she truly had to be Mrs. de Winter.

She just didn’t know how.

That night, William kissed her softly, and the world around her, for all its harsh beauty, fell away. There was no Manderley, with its whispering halls and portraits with disapproving eyes. There was no Mrs. Hart sucking at her soul through every glance. There was no Drusilla; no phantom screaming at her from afar. There was only William, and his hands undoing her dress. His hands wandering across her body, caressing her skin with the illusion of feeling. With the illusion of something beyond fondness and affection. Something she could dream was real.

They made love in their bed. Their bed in the east wing. Their bed in her new home. Their bed in Manderley.

And as he had every night of their honeymoon, in his sleep, he whimpered for Drusilla, and the dream shattered. It came in short spats. Sometimes he would gasp, “No,” and nothing else. Sometimes he would stretch against the mattress. Sometimes he would reach for something—or someone. Sometimes he would just moan.

But every night, Drusilla’s name lived on his lips.

And now that they lived in Drusilla’s house, Buffy felt her presence as she never had.

A/N: LOOK! An update! I figured, as I wait for two of my betas to get my It Came Upon The Midnight Clear chapter back to me, I might as well make good on my promise. Here’s more Tempesta…over a month since my last update. The good news is, rereading this has my muse revv’d so I can dive into it after It Came Upon The Midnight Clear is good and over.

Just a note…the dog in the book Rebecca was named Jasper. The dog in this story is named Jasper as well…only he’s a daschund instead of whatever he was in the book. I named him for my father’s dog…the one we put to sleep. For whatever reason, it was important that I make that distinction.

Chapter Nine

It was early. So early that the sun had yet to rise, but the house was alive. The house, it seemed, never slept.

Buffy crept into the Morning Room like a criminal, her sketchpad tucked firmly under her arm. Waking in William’s arms hadn’t quelled any of her fears. Rather, the instant she remembered she was to meet his sister and friend, she’d found herself woozy with trepidation. Buffy had no idea how much time she had before they arrived. She had no idea how long they would stay. William had mentioned that Anya spoke in great length on the phone, thus Buffy could only assume that the woman liked to talk.

What would she want to talk about? William? Their marriage? Drusilla?

No. No, Drusilla was definitely off-limits. No one in the manor spoke her name. No one, that is, except Mrs. Hart. Chances were Anya would spend the entire afternoon talking about Buffy, and the wonder it was that she’d managed to snag William away from more proper women. Women of higher class and social standing. Women more suited for William. Women deserving of Manderley.

Or perhaps Anya wouldn’t find her interesting at all. She would smile and nod pleasantly, but otherwise remain disengaged.

Buffy didn’t know. All she knew right now, was that William had kissed her brow before leaving their bed-chamber that morning and she likely would not see him again until his sister arrived. There was no housework to do, because it was imprudent for the lady of Manderley to lift a finger when there was a staff full of maids to do the job for her. Maids and servants and all things foreign to her. Just a short while ago, she had shared their station. She had been what they were now, only she hadn’t enjoyed the luxury of living in a grand estate. Mrs. Kendall had dragged her everywhere but a place to call home.

Not that Manderley was home. Manderley whispered behind her with every unwelcome step she dared to take down its grand halls, reminding her how very much she didn’t belong.

The Morning Room, like every other inch of the manor, felt like a painting come to life. There was a grandiose desk centered between two bay windows, each adorned with exquisite drapery that pooled from ceiling to floor. The walls were aligned with anthologies—everything from dictionaries to various translations of the Bible. The desk was mahogany and, unsurprisingly, looked positively regal—just like everything else in the immaculately decorated room. Carefully situated atop the wood finish was a stack of letters, accompanied with stationary and the most elegant looking pen that Buffy had ever seen.

Mrs. Hart had undoubtedly set it out for her, as she’d mentioned that the former Mrs. de Winter answered her correspondents in the Morning Room. But Buffy had no correspondents. She had no one to write to, and no one who would be writing to her.

The letters weren’t for her, then. They were for the new Mrs. de Winter. They were for the woman she had yet to become—the title that had been handed to her overnight.

It was just as well. Buffy didn’t want to disrupt the ghostlike serenity of the Morning Room by rustling papers and fumbling with mail that wasn’t really for her. Nothing in the room was hers. Everything was pristine. Everything had a place. Everything was just as it had been, undoubtedly, when the room belonged to Drusilla.

Buffy shivered, clutching her sketchpad to her breast.

It’s still Drusilla’s.

There was no need for the voice that kept reminding her. She lived under no delusions of belonging. And yet, the voice persisted. She could not hide from it.

She stayed in the Morning Room long after the sun rose. She sat inelegantly at Drusilla’s mahogany desk, sketching mindlessly. She drew whatever came to mind. She drew until the underside of her arm was marred with pencil rubbings, and perhaps had she been less absorbed in what she was doing, she would have been mortified to sit at such a grand desk, dirty as she was. But she couldn’t stop drawing. A thousand times, she outlined William’s face. A thousand times, she drew the ocean in his eyes. A thousand times, while sketching his lips, she thought of the way that he’d looked at her the day they met.

Not the day with Mrs. Kendall; the day on the bluff. Perhaps William would think they truly met when Mrs. Kendall had ushered him over. He would be wrong. Though no words were shared between them on the bluff—no true words, other than her erratic screaming to prevent him from jumping into the stormy sea—she’d seen him then. The image of himself that he’d given her could not be forfeit for anything.

A broken, haunted man.

How little more she knew of him now.

Around ten that morning, the telephone on the desk shrilled to life, slicing through the deafening silence that was slowly becoming comfortable. Buffy froze and glanced up in a panic, her large eyes swallowing the phone as her pencil tumbled from her fingertips. Who would think to call her here?

They’re not calling for you.

She answered on the fifth ring, when it became evident that staring at the phone wouldn’t do anything to discourage the caller.

“Yes?” she answered timidly.

“Mrs. de Winter,” a voice answered.

“Oh no,” she replied hurriedly, her heart pounding so hard that she was sure her chest would break. “There must be some mistake. Mrs. de Winter has been dead for nearly a year.”

The silence that answered her was long and meaningful. Long enough for Buffy to realize her mistake.

Mrs. de Winter is dead.

“It’s Mrs. Hart,” came the cool reply. Icy, as if she knew the effect her tone had on Buffy. Haughty, as though she had just won a battle. “Mr. de Winter thought you might want to know that Mister and Mrs. Harris will arrive within the hour.”

Buffy felt like seeping through the cracks in the floor. “Yes,” she said, her voice small. “Yes, of course. Thank you.”

Mrs. Hart didn’t say anything in acknowledgement—she merely went on to recite the day’s menu, and hung up when she met no objection.

Buffy was careful to leave the Morning Room just as she had found it. Not a book out of place. Not a flower wilted. Not a stain on the desk. The warm glow of sunlight made the room look even larger, but provided no more warmth than the cold dark that it had chased away.

The floorboards creaked with her every step. She was sure the maids could hear her coming from miles away, though, as William had told her the previous night, an ideal staff was never seen. Thus the looks and the jeers and everything else remained imagined but real. She knew it was happening. She could feel it happening.

And she’d only been here a day.

Buffy dressed quickly and didn’t allow herself much time to wonder about her wardrobe. Panicked as she was at how William’s sister would see her, she knew that rifling through her belongings wasn’t about to help matters. Nothing looked right on her. Not the dresses she’d worn in Monte Carlo, and not what William had bought her on their all-too-brief honeymoon. Thus she selected something modest and simple. Something that would pass for accommodating, but never assume to be glamorous.

It was just as well. She wasn’t about to pretend that she was someone she wasn’t, especially when it was already so blatantly obvious.

She truly hadn’t had the first idea of what to expect of William’s sister. She hadn’t even given any thought to what the woman might look like, or how old she might be. However, she was still somehow surprised when she obtained her first view of Anya Harris. They were in the foyer. All of them: William, his sister, and the two men—and the woman’s voice carried through every inch of Manderley.

It was impossible to tell if she was younger than William or not. William so often looked older than he was. And from first glance, Anya hardly appeared to be a day over twenty-five.

“Oh, Buffy,” William said, jarring slightly when he noticed her on the staircase. “There you are, love. I was beginning to wonder if I ought to send a search party.”

“I keep telling you this place is too large,” Anya agreed rapidly, her large eyes trailing to the ceiling. “A wonder anyone gets anywhere at all.” She paused then and met Buffy’s eyes, a warm smile brightening her face. “And you,” she said, taking a step forward, “must be the little spitfire that snatched my brother up.”

Buffy blinked. “Spitfire?”

“Oh, well, you know what I mean.” Anya grabbed her arm eagerly and dragged her across the floor until she was staring into chocolate brown eyes that belonged to a face she’d never seen. “This is Alexander,” she said, gesturing in the manner of a salesman. “My husband.”

“It’s Xander,” the man replied, taking Buffy’s hand before she could offer it. “Just Xander.”

“Oh.” She swallowed hard. “Hello.”

“And it’s Buffy, is it?” Anya asked, arching a brow. “I’m sorry; I’m afraid my louse of a brother has told me very little about you, aside from your name, of course, and that you met in Monte Carlo. I kept trying to pry information from him last night, but he insisted that I come up and meet you myself.”

Buffy glanced to William, who smiled softly. There was a look in his eyes that she hadn’t seen before. “She has a rather liberal definition of the word ‘insist,’” he replied. “I mentioned we were home, and she announced that she would be stopping by today to size you up.”

Anya rolled her eyes, tightening her grip on Buffy’s arm. “Oh, pish, Will,” she retorted. “You know damn well that you phoned me just to get me up here.”

“Yes, yes. You saw through my clever ruse. Now, if you would kindly stop manhandling my wife, I’d like to introduce her to Wesley.”

Buffy froze again, but she didn’t have time to mull over his choice of words. Logically, she knew that she was his wife. It just sounded odd to her ears—hearing that she was anyone’s wife, let alone William’s.

But she was William’s wife. She was. Title and all.

Wesley, whom had remained courteously silent through the awkward familial introductions, smiled at her warmly when their eyes locked. He had kind eyes.

“Is it Buffy?” he asked, taking her hand. “Or Elizabeth?”

“Buffy,” she replied.

“I thought ‘Buffy’ might be something that only Will gets to call you.”

“Oh. No.” She shook her head and met William’s eyes again, relaxing when he grinned. It was so rare to see a grin on his face that it took a second to recover. She loved the way his eyes brightened. In that second, he was more alive than he had been in the entirety of their acquaintance. “No,” she said again. “I’ve been Buffy all my life.”

“I’m Wesley Wyndam Pryce, William’s estate manager.” The way he spoke made her aware that he was saying it for her behalf—a courtesy for someone meeting so many people at once. He knew that she knew who he was. He was giving her time to adjust simply by stating the obvious. “It is lovely to meet you, Buffy.”

She couldn’t imagine that was true, but it was nice to hear, all the same.

“Thank you,” she replied, her voice sounding small to her ears. “I…ummm…”

Buffy moaned inwardly as everything around her froze. Why was it that she didn’t have the good sense to keep her mouth shut when she wasn’t sure what to say? She was in the company of strangers; people who had known the woman she was replacing. The woman that, only a year ago, stood where she was standing.

She imagined Drusilla greeting her guests with nothing short of eloquence and grace. What a disappointment Buffy had to be, in that respect. They were perhaps wondering what, if anything, William saw in her. What bade him to select her, of all women, to be his wife. What a sad replacement she was. Nothing at all like Drusilla.

Anya’s voice sliced through her musings, and in seconds, Buffy found herself being tugged by the arm again. “Gentlemen, please,” the woman said, shooing William and Wesley aside and leading her intently toward the parlor. “Give the poor girl some room. What are we having for lunch, Will? I’m famished.”

“I imagine we’ll have whatever Mrs. Hart put on the day’s menu,” William replied, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Unless Buffy had it changed.”

Tell Mrs. Hart to change the menu? In her own house?

“I didn’t,” Buffy replied anxiously, as though needing to clear her name of slander. “I haven’t even glanced over the menus today.”

“Oh, you poor dear.” Anya sighed. “You really need to get a handle on that woman.”

“What?”

There was a brief silence as Anya considered her, but she shook her head dismissively before she could say anything else. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk when the men start gabbing about business,” she explained, throwing in an eye-roll for good measure. “Not that I mind business. William’s much better at managing the finances—and the more money Xander makes, the more he is free to spoil me shamelessly.”

“And Lord knows I don’t do that enough,” her husband’s amused voice chimed in behind.

“We must remember that Anya is a special case,” William added. “What is suitable for others is, by her standards, sloppy and thoughtless.”

Buffy barely recognized his voice—he sounded lighter than he had in weeks. He sounded lighter than he had in the entirety of their relationship. Was it his family that brought this out? She wished she knew. She never wanted to spoil this moment for him—to shut out the light and bring back the darkness.

The previous day, Buffy had wandered rather aimlessly through the labyrinth of Manderley, stumbling in and out of rooms clumsily and making a general spectacle of herself. She hadn’t found William’s office, but she had found the parlor. And it looked no less grand now than it had yesterday. Like the Morning Room, the windows were dressed with curtains that dragged the length of the wall—so much that surplus fabric pooled elegantly at the floor. There was a desk and a vase with two blood-red roses, and a small table for tea and socializing. In the middle of the room, situated atop the most exquisite carpet that Buffy had ever seen, were two settees and a gentleman’s chair. The walls were adorned with paintings that were so powerful it made her self-actualization all the more potent. Each portrayed a different scene from Biblical narrative, but somehow, even though these were stories she knew by heart, Buffy couldn’t quite remember church ever moving her so deeply.

At the far end of the room—the end that faced the front of Manderley—was a quaint bay window. A place that would be ideal to sit while drawing, though she couldn’t imagine feeling comfortable sketching in this room. In this room of artistry beyond her comprehension.

“Are we eating in here, Will?” Anya asked, tugging Buffy toward the tea table without waiting for a response. “This room is so much friendlier than the Taj Mahal that you call a dining room. Here at least, I won’t panic if I spill crumbs on the carpet.”

“I wasn’t aware that it weighed on your conscience one way or another.”

“Please. Mrs. Hart always makes me feel like I’m one bite away from the gallows.”

“She has that effect on people,” Wesley agreed. “But she does seem to keep this place in order.”

William didn’t say anything to that, but he was at Buffy’s side the next second, gently prying her loose from his sister’s grip. “Honestly, Anya,” he admonished softly, “you’re going to scar her for life if you don’t stop dragging her all over the bloody house.”

Anya rolled her eyes again. “I escorted her from the foyer to the parlor. That hardly constitutes the whole bloody house.” She snickered playfully and met Buffy’s gaze. “Men. They exaggerate everything.”

Xander’s voice assumed a warning note. “Ahn—”

“And I mean everything.”

“Anya!”

Buffy might have been naïve, but she was also no longer of a virginal mind, thus it didn’t take much to guess what the woman was hinting at. Her skin reddened and she determinately refused to look anyone in the eye, lest she betray her unease.

William’s warm voice tickled her ear, nearly startling her out of her skin for his nearness. “I suppose I didn’t give you adequate warning,” he mused, pulling out a chair for her. “Are you all right, love?”

She nodded breathlessly and plopped into the proffered seat. “Oh. Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”

“Back off, Will. You’re suffocating the poor girl.”

William cocked a brow and burned his sister with a glare. “Anya, do you remember when I asked you to please try to be civilized company?”

“Sure she does,” Wesley chimed in cheerily, assuming the seat next to Buffy with a broad, amused grin. “Just as she remembers promptly discarding any such request.”

William chuckled appreciatively and quickly slid into the chair on Buffy’s other side before Anya could box her in. Then he turned and nodded to a man standing at a door that Buffy hadn’t noticed. It blended into the wall with the aid of the paintings that decorated either side. “Giles,” he said. “Could you please tell Cook that we will be dining in here?”

Giles. That was the man that Mrs. Hart had said was William’s butler. Buffy strained to see him, but he disappeared into the next room before she could catch a glance.

“Where’s Jasper?” Anya asked loudly.

“Wandering around here, undoubtedly,” William replied. “I haven’t seen him since we arrived.”

Buffy swallowed hard, frowning. “Jasper?”

“The dog,” Anya replied.

Had William mentioned a dog? She didn’t remember.

He met her eyes. “Our daschund,” he explained gently. “Long-haired fellow. Friendliest animal you’ve ever come across. And after four years, he still tends to get a tad turned around.”

“Oh.”

She didn’t know if she’d ever grow accustomed to thinking of anything in Manderley as hers. She was sitting in a room that was hers. The paintings on the walls were hers. The table. The carpet. The books. Everything in Manderley was now shared between them.

Only it wasn’t. Not really. The air whispered and the floors moaned, and she knew with every breath that she was an unwelcome foreigner to Manderley and everything it encompassed. Everything and everyone.

Everyone except William. William her husband. William, the man that moaned his dead wife’s name at night but could laugh with his family the next day. William, who rarely smiled for her.

“I’d imagine Jasper’s having trouble adjusting,” Anya observed, but did not elaborate. There was no need to.

That statement was met with the threat of an uncomfortable silence. Buffy knew why without requiring direction. The dog would have trouble adjusting, of course, because the wing that had been lived in while Drusilla was alive was now closed. Drusilla’s dog was having trouble adjusting because his mistress was no longer around to pet and coddle him. Jasper couldn’t understand why Drusilla was gone. He was, after all, only a dog.

The threat of silence was interrupted when Giles, now in plain view, reentered the room with a tea-tray. Buffy thanked him when he provided her serving, which seemed to both startle and please him. He was gone in a blink. Silent. The floors did not creak beneath his feet as they did hers.

Had she broken protocol by acknowledging that he was in the room? She glanced to William for a verdict, but he offered nothing but an encouraging smile which only furthered her confusion.

“You’re fine, love,” he whispered, taking her hand in his under the table, and caressing the back with his thumb. “Giles doesn’t mind being addressed.”

Her skin sparked to life where he touched her, and Buffy had nothing to return but an abrupt nod.

Wesley cleared his throat, effectively silencing her discomfort. “You met William at Monte Carlo?” he asked. It was another thing said to steer her toward something she knew. He was providing familiar ground, just as he had earlier, when he reiterated his name and job title. He was providing her with something that required very little.

Buffy liked Wesley already.

“Yes,” she replied, exhaling slowly. “Monte Carlo.”

“How did you like Monte Carlo?” Xander asked, sipping at his tea. “Anya and I were there right after we were married.”

“I wasn’t too impressed,” Anya added, as though giving her consent to admit the same.

Of course, Anya had been married when she visited Monte Carlo. Buffy had met the man she loved in Monte Carlo. There was the difference. Without Monte Carlo, she never would be here. She wouldn’t be at William’s side, with her hand in his. With his thumb gently caressing her skin. Without Monte Carlo, she would still be with Mrs. Kendall.

“I liked it quite a bit, actually,” Buffy replied, swallowing hard. “Though my experience with such places is rather limited. I have never been to a resort like that…as a vacationer.”

“Oh, right,” Anya replied with interest. “William mentioned that you were the traveling companion of some horrid woman.”

“I can’t imagine anyone being less than horrid if they have to hire out friends,” Wesley observed, shooting Buffy a look of pure compassion that shook her to the bone. “But it’s an honest living.”

“And anyone with resolve enough to tolerate the incessant blabbering of Harmony Kendall is some sort of woman,” William said, grinning almost proudly. “God, that woman was a blathering lunatic.”

“William abhors socialites,” Wesley murmured. “Absolutely abhors them.”

Buffy nodded as though she understood, but didn’t say anything.

“Have you written anything, Will?” Anya asked, stirring her tea lazily with a long spoon. “It’s been ages since you’ve shown me anything new.”

“No,” he replied, his tone clipped. The message was clear: his writing was not up for discussion.

Buffy swallowed hard and sipped at her tea. Of course he hadn’t written anything new. His muse was dead, and she had been for nearly a year.

“And what do you do for fun?” Anya continued, turning her eyes once more to Buffy and ignoring her brother’s discomfort as though it was nothing at all. “Do you have any hobbies? I, for one, love horseback riding. Do you ride at all?”

She smiled apologetically. “No. I’m afraid I don’t.”

“We simply must see about getting you on a horse.”

“Anya,” William chimed warningly.

“Oh get off it, Will. The girl has to have a hobby.”

“She does; just not yours. She’s an artist.” He paused as though searching for words. “A rather gifted one at that.”

Buffy’s eyes went wide. “William,” she admonished, her heart in her throat. “No.”

“Well, you are, love. Surely, you don’t expect me to lie to my family.”

Wesley chuckled. “It seems you two share the same modesty,” he observed. “Will likes to think that his poetry is rubbish.”

William smirked, and the look was so foreign that Buffy had to clamp down on her chair before she toppled out in astonishment. “There is a great amount of difference between opinion and fact, Wes,” he replied.

“Apples and oranges, I say.”

“Well,” Anya interjected, “there is plenty to do here. Plenty aside from sitting inside, I mean. There are so many walking paths. You simply must explore the walking paths, Buffy. On a good day, you can hear the sea from any inch of the property.”

“I would like to see the bay,” Buffy admitted. “Is the water suitable for swimming?”

The words crashed the second that they escaped her lips, and suddenly the air around her was taut and thick. Every nerve in her body was on fire, burning wildly around her fear-frozen heart. And just like that, she was made painfully aware of everything. The sudden stillness of William’s thumb on her skin—worse, somehow, than if he’d released her hand completely. It was as though he stopped living in that moment. Just as Anya’s eyes widened with horror and Xander became enamored with the tablecloth. Only Wesley could meet her eyes, and there she saw sympathy. Sympathy and understanding, and it only served to make her feel sicker than she already did.

It was much like the silence that had poisoned her supper with William the night before, only so much worse.

Swim in the bay.

Swim in the bay where Drusilla had drowned.

She’d destroyed their afternoon without blinking. Without thinking. In an instant, everything was ruined.

Oh William.

Though silence didn’t last forever, it certainly felt like it. But eventually, Anya cleared her throat and flashed an all-too-bright smile, asking loudly, “Shall we see about getting something to eat?”

Buffy nodded, but her heart wasn’t in it. Her appetite had abandoned her.

And though her eyes remained on William, he did not look back.

*~*~*

She didn’t feel any better after lunch, despite Anya’s rather whimsical attempts to raise her spirits. Her mind remained with William. Her hand tingled from where it had rested in his for so long. And though she could see him across the lawn, discussing something with Xander and Wesley, she felt as though she hadn’t touched him in years.

“You really ought to reconsider horseback-riding,” Anya remarked. “You have an athletic build—or you would, with a little help.”

“I don’t know the first thing about horses,” Buffy replied absently.

“Well, no one does at first. That’s why I’m here.” Anya placed a hand on her shoulder. “It can get rather isolating out here. William travels to town often to attend conferences, and he helps out with the business more than Xander would like me to know.”

Buffy nodded. “Oh. I see…”

“Textiles.”

“What?”

“That’s the business. Textiles. Nothing glamorous.” The woman shrugged with a small smile. “I’m sorry; you just looked lost there for a second. We have a tendency to brush over the fine print in my family. My point is that you need an activity that gets you out of the house—even if your outing extends only to the grounds.”

“Thank you. I will keep that in mind.”

There was a slight pause. Anya exhaled deeply and kicked at a patch of earth. “If you don’t mind my saying so,” she began slowly, “I take it that you and Mrs. Hart aren’t on good terms.”

The woman’s name sent a shiver down her spine. “You do?”

Anya snickered appreciatively. “Quite a character, isn’t she? I wouldn’t let her bother you too much. As long as you’re not afraid to stand up to her, there shouldn’t be much trouble. You just need to let her know who is serving whom.” She paused again. “I only say it because of the way you looked when William asked if you had changed the menu.”

She blinked in surprise. “How I looked?”

“Terrified. The woman’s harmless, really, but if you let her get under your skin…” Anya sighed. “You see, Buffy, she simply adored Drusilla.”

It nearly startled her out of her skin to hear the name given life. Not William’s first wife; not the first Mrs. de Winter. Anya had said her name.

The ground seemed to rumble beneath her feet. And if she listened very carefully, she could almost hear Manderley’s shadow sighing happily just to have the name of its old mistress in the air once more.

“Oh,” Buffy said numbly. Her eyes again went to William. A small dog was at his feet, now. A gorgeous red-haired dachshund with hair that touched the grass. That had to be Jasper.

Jasper.

Drusilla’s dog.

“I think you’ll be good for him,” Anya said, breaking her reverie. “For William.”

The words sounded empty, but she appreciated them nonetheless.

“Thank you.”

The woman nodded, continuing, “I do have to say, though, that you surprised me. I didn’t know what to expect from you, but you still managed to surprise me.”

Buffy blinked. “Did I?”

“Oh yes. You’re not at all what I thought you’d be. Not at all the sort of woman that William…” Anya frowned, sighing and shaking her head. “That’s not what I mean. I mean that…well, you’re different.” She paused. “You’re nothing like Drusilla.”

Manderley’s shadow hummed in pleasure as Buffy drowned in cold.

She didn’t know how to reply, so she didn’t say anything at all.

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