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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Summers meets the notorious William de Winter, withdrawn and desolate still from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.
----------
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.