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]

The path that led to the bay forked once it reached the trees, splitting into a Robert Frost poem come to life. William waited for her at the head as she said her goodbyes to Anya. She was keenly aware of his eyes on her, just as she was aware of the way her stomach tied in knots. How tiny shivers spread across her skin. She knew that her self-awareness was wasted, as William’s opinion of her stood little chance of swaying from where it stood. He knew her to be foolish and clumsy—that when she said things, it was often without thought. Her mentioning the bay at lunch stood as a shining example of her lack of forethought. Something said out of ignorance and not spite. William knew that. He had to know that.

Still, Buffy thought it best not to mention it at all. She’d rather William forget it completely. The lightness in his eyes, while not entirely dulled now with his family’s departure, was fragile at best. She loved seeing him like this. She wanted so much to know what it would take to keep that look in his eyes forever.

“She liked you,” William said, nodding at the gravel road where Anya and Xander’s car had disappeared. “They all liked you.”

Buffy’s insides warmed with cautious hope. “Did they?”

“Oh yes. Anya will most assuredly be here every week, gabbing your ear off about things you couldn’t possibly care less about.”

He smiled and reached for her hand. As always, her skin sparked when their fingers entwined. When their palms pressed together. And again, she remarked inwardly how silly she was. How her heart could flutter like a schoolgirl when she was his wife. When much more than his hands had touched her body. When she knew what it felt like to take him inside. And yet, the blush on her cheeks refused to fade. It seemed she’d be stuck with her girlish nerves for the rest of her life.

“I don’t mind,” Buffy replied, determined to keep him talking. She’d been so dreadfully lonely since they’d arrived at Manderley. Having William at her side as he steered her toward one of the woodland paths made her think of Monte Carlo. “Anya is charming.”

William chuckled appreciatively and squeezed her hand. “That’s one way to put it,” he observed, stepping aside as the dog, Jasper, bounded merrily in front of them. Then he paused, captured her gaze with his and said, “She really did like you.”

She nodded, though her mind couldn’t help but wander to what Anya had said before they parted ways. How different Buffy was; how Buffy wasn’t what she would have expected. How Buffy was nothing like Drusilla.

“Did she?” Buffy asked self-consciously, wetting her lips. Her eyes fell to Jasper, whose red coat shimmered with gold under the afternoon sun. “Anything in particular?”

“Are you fishing for compliments, love?”

It was hard not to blush under his grin. He so very rarely grinned at her. “I am curious,” she replied, her lips tugging upward. “Nothing more.”

William chuckled again, brushing a spontaneous kiss across her temple. Buffy’s hold on his hand tightened with shock and she begged her legs to sustain her. If this was the result of a familial visit, she’d have Anya over as often as possible.

“She told me little that she didn’t tell you, I’d imagine,” he said, whistling casually at Jasper as the dog trundled down the trail that veered to the left. He jerked his head to indicate the opposing path. “Anya rarely forms an opinion that she doesn’t share with the world at large.”

“I’m still curious.”

“Of course you are, love.” He paused and frowned, whistling harder at Jasper, who, after staring at his master for a few seconds in bewilderment, had continued down the wrong path. William continued talking, though, as if nothing had interrupted him. “She thinks you’re clever, if not a little quiet. She thinks you have ambition that you’re probably not aware of. Oh, and she thinks you’re old fashioned…which she finds delightful and refreshing.”

“Old fashioned?” she echoed with a frown.

“Era of Jane Austen, that sort of thing. Anya isn’t accustomed to people who weren’t brought up as we were.” He squeezed her hand reassuringly. “It’s amazing, really, that you turned out as lovely as you did, what with people like Mrs. Kendall setting those crucial examples for you. My God, I’d never have lifted my head from my books had I been in your shoes. You show remarkable strength and integrity.”

The wave of astonishment that crashed over her was potent enough to knock her off her toes, but she didn’t have time to dwell on what he’d said. The second the words left his lips, William’s attention was once again drawn to their dog, who evidently hadn’t understood his master’s direction.

“Jasper!” William called. “This way.”

The dog’s hesitation was palpable, but not as much as the meaning behind it. And as they set down the trail, Buffy found herself slammed with the burden of inadequacy all over again. She was certain, by the dog’s mannerisms, that William and Drusilla had never walked this path. No, of course not. He would not take his second wife where he had taken his first.

A theory that William confirmed the next second by saying, “I haven’t had the chance to come to the Happy Valley as often as I would have liked.”

“The Happy Valley?”

“It’s a small clearing where I come to clear my thoughts,” he replied. “I used to come here at least once a day….even when life was at its busiest.”

“But you haven’t been in a while?”

William sobered, drawing in a sharp breath. “Not in a year, at least,” he replied softly. “I used to come here to write. To draw inspiration. To…” A pause. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat. “To write.”

That haunted tone she hated so much had crept into his voice without warning, and she found herself drenched in cold. The implication made her bones sting. He hadn’t been here since Drusilla died. Since his inspiration left him. There hadn’t been a need to come to a place of tranquility and peace since his life was robbed of it.

Jasper trotted ahead of them with a notable lack of confidence, turning every few yards to make sure they were still behind. And despite the fact the dog very clearly did not belong to her, she found herself easily won over by his warm eyes and cheerful bounce. He was a happy animal; wondrously oblivious to the tension that dripped from every corner of the de Winter property. She envied his easy unawareness. If only she could enjoy the grounds as Jasper did; if only she could ignore the shadows that touched her heart. The whispers that chased her down every corridor. The whispers that trailed her even now—trailed her as she and her husband walked the path to the Happy Valley.

She could not escape the whispers, no matter where she ran.

A gasp crushed her chest when the canopy of trees finally cleared into a small valley. The place was absolutely mesmerizing. Sunlight poured through spider-webbed branches, spilling across the forest floor like warm lemonade. Painted leaves papered the ground, sprinkling greenery with rays of color that had to have been blessed by God Himself. Ethereal light bathed her skin through the breaks in the natural canopy. In all her life, she’d never seen anything so beautiful.

She didn’t realize how wide she was smiling until she turned and met William’s eyes, a bolt of electricity rippling through her system so fast that she nearly forgot to breathe.

And she stood corrected. While breathtaking, the Happy Valley couldn’t hope to compete with William.

“Do you like it?” he asked softly, his tone strangely heightened. As though more than just her approval rode on her reply.

“It’s glorious.”

“You think so?”

Buffy nodded, dragging her eyes from his self-consciously. “Oh yes,” she whispered in near reverence. “It’s perfect.”

“I thought you’d like it.” William smiled gently, his thumb stroking the back of her hand with such subtlety that, for a second, she could imagine they lived in an uncomplicated world. A world where there were no obstacles or unseen barriers. A place where there was no distance between them at all; that all problems were nothing more than delusional fabrications.

“I believe that Manderley is more than the manor,” he continued a few minutes later. “The land itself and everything on it. This place we’re at…the Happy Valley…this is Manderley, as well.”

She nodded again. His voice was an aphrodisiac.

“I just needed to establish that so when I told you that this spot, right here, is my favorite corner of Manderley, you wouldn’t look at me like I just fell off my nutter.”

She smiled in spite of herself, glancing down before her cheeks reddened again. He would catch her blush either way so there was really little sense in hiding; she supposed it was self-preservation above all else. The idea that he would allow her into a place he treasured—his favorite corner of Manderley—warmed her heart. And it made the ground she stood on seem all the more sacred. All the more holy.

“I thought you might like to come here to draw,” William suggested.

“You did?”

“Only if you like, of course. I just know that my best ideas come to me when I’m here. There’s something…” He paused and shrugged. “It was just an idea.”

“Oh, no. I’d love to. I can’t…I can’t imagine a better place to sketch.” A brilliant, genuine smile stretched her lips, warmth tickling her insides. “Thank you.”

Perhaps today had changed things. She didn’t know, and she wasn’t about to gamble that her concerns—her worries and her jealousy over a woman whose home was now a tomb—were now issues of the past. But there was a sense of peace that came with standing in the Happy Valley she could not deny. William had brought her to a haven. Perhaps he had not taken her where he would have taken Drusilla, but he’d still given her more than she believed she deserved.

Just in this. In one simple gesture. William had this sanctuary, and he’d let her in.

“Wesley liked you quite a bit,” he said, breaking her line of thought abruptly.

Buffy blinked. “Did he?”

“Yes. Wesley’s good opinion is hard to come by, and once lost is lost forever.”

“Couldn’t be too hard to come by if he’s formed an agreeable opinion of me,” she countered. “I barely spoke to him.”

“People communicate without words. I think your eyes speak for you, even if you bid them to remain silent.” He released her hand with an encouraging squeeze. “I might have him check on you if I ever have business that draws me to town. You wouldn’t mind, would you?”

The idea that she would ever be left alone at Manderley with only the harsh, condemnatory eyes of Mrs. Hart following her with every step she took left her cold and shaken. Still, she wasn’t sure how wild she was about the idea of having a virtual stranger assigned to be her keeper. At some point, she knew she was going to have to step outside the proffered protection of the few kindhearted people around her.

However, the thought was enough to make her stomach churn. Alone in an unfamiliar place with an overbearing woman who wanted nothing more than to pick her apart. And while she didn’t know Wesley, she trusted William. William hadn’t led her astray thus far—even when it came to Mrs. Hart. He’d told her that she was a shrewd, able maid, and she was. Mrs. Hart’s personal feelings for Buffy had yet to interfere with her dedication to her work. If William had faith in his friend, then she wouldn’t contest.

“I wouldn’t mind,” Buffy replied. “Though I don’t want to be a bother.”

“No bother at all.”

“No bother to come and check on a friend’s new wife because she doesn’t know her way around the house?” She sighed and shook her head, her eyes falling on Jasper, who was rolling joyously in a pile of golden leaves. “I feel so…”

“I know, love. It’ll pass.”

The calm assurance in his voice offset the ringing in her head. She parted her lips to reply when Jasper suddenly rolled to his feet with a cheery yip and took off into the woods. The move was so spontaneous that it took a few seconds for Buffy to register in which direction he’d darted. Toward the other path—the path he was more familiar with.

The path walked with Drusilla.

“Oh!” Buffy inhaled sharply. “Jasper!”

William stiffened. “He’ll be fine,” he said. “We should head back.”

But Buffy wasn’t listening. Without realizing it, her feet were leading her to the grove of trees that separated the Happy Valley from the opposing trail. The curiosity that burned her heart was getting the upper-hand on her caution, and before she could stop herself, she’d disappeared in an awning of branches.

“I’ll get him,” she called over her shoulder.

“Buffy, come back.”

She was too busy following the sound of paws rustling through leaves and snapping twigs to hear the edge in his voice. “It’ll only take a minute,” she replied.

“Let him go! He’ll find his own way home.” A pause. “Buffy! Come back!”

Navigating over stones, between trees, and over large, fallen branches took fancy footwork, but somehow Buffy managed, even while wearing impractical shoes. The further she went, however, the further away Jasper’s barks sounded. And in a matter of seconds, Buffy’s head was swimming in the hum of the bay as waves crashed against the shoreline.

While Mrs. Hart had been very correct in her assertion that the bay couldn’t be heard from the east wing of Manderley, Buffy had, over the past two days, become increasingly aware of the crash of wild water somewhere in the distance. It had become so familiar to her so quickly that, even as she and William had walked to the Happy Valley, she hadn’t noticed the vibrations grow louder. None of it had registered.

The second her eyes landed on the bay, she was deafened by the crash of the waves. By the roll of the clouds against the horizon. The swish of the sand as water washed along the coast. The scene was breathtaking, but somehow callous. So unlike the quiet seclusion of the Happy Valley—this was open and lonely. No matter how far she looked, nothing was there to look back. Even the stretch of land that encompassed the water before spilling into the ocean looked empty.

The beach itself was equally vacant. There was a boathouse to her far left that looked, if possible, more haunted than Manderley. It had not been touched in months.

Buffy shivered hard and crossed her arms. She did not like it here.

“Jasper!”

The dog rolled in a sand bank with freedom she envied. He barked cheerily when he saw her and bounced again to his feet, shaking sand off his coat. And from the enthusiasm in his run when be bounded to her, one would assume Jasper had not seen her in hours. Buffy crouched to her knees and ran her fingers through Jasper’s now slightly-clumpy red fur. She couldn’t help but grin when the dog’s warm tongue lapped eagerly at her open palm.

“You are certainly the friendliest dog I’ve ever met,” she murmured fondly. “But that doesn’t mean you can run off whenever you like. We best be getting back.”

And the sooner the better. The significance of William’s failure to follow her to the bay wasn’t wasted on her, and the more she focused on the dog, the less attention she could give her self-consciousness. She’d done something William hadn’t wanted—she’d come to the place where Drusilla disappeared. There was no doubting that. The unlived-in boathouse. His willingness to let Jasper vanish in order to avoid stepping foot on the beach. It all added up to one undeniable conclusion.

Her curiosity had spoiled everything. The peace of their afternoon. The trust in his gift—in sharing his sanctuary. But Buffy didn’t want to think about it. The thought was too disturbing, and she wanted to hold onto the warmth inside her as long as possible, even if she was chasing dreams rather than reality.

“Come on, Jasper,” she said again. “Come on.”

And then a sound reached her ears that wasn’t the howl of the sea or the bark of a dog. A voice. A man’s voice.

A voice that was not William.

“She don’t come here no more.”

Buffy gasped and bound to her feet, jerking around so fast she nearly lost her balance. The man behind her was unlike any man she’d ever seen. His eyes were lost. His clothing was tattered and worn. A lopsided hat adorned his head, and his hands were garnished in a pair of ratty, aged gloves. His face was young but his eyes were old, and she found herself inexplicably frozen with fear.

“I’m sorry?” she asked, stunned.

Jasper barked his support.

The man swayed slightly from side to side, looking from the boathouse to the bay and to her again. He didn’t maintain eye-contact for long.

“She don’t come here. The dark lady.” He paused and glanced up cautiously; a child on the edge of a sharp reprimand. “Are you gonna send me to the asylum?”

Buffy frowned, her fear slowly shrinking. “What?”

“Please don’t send me to the asylum. I ain’t done nothin’.”

“I…” She licked her lips, positively bewildered. She needed to get back to William. Now. “I…I ought to be going.”

“She don’t come here.”

“Jasper.” Buffy patted her hip and the dog, as though reading her mind, fell in line at her side. “We’re leaving now.”

“I don’t want to go to the asylum.”

There was nothing to say to that, so she said nothing. She started back for the woods from where she’d emerged, a wondrously oblivious dog at her side. She was almost surprised when she saw William waiting for her, pacing furiously between a row of trees. He turned the second he heard her approach, and she knew immediately the warmth she’d wanted so hard to hold onto was gone.

Instead, her insides were doused in cold. In a storm of torment and conflict. He stared at her for empty seconds as though he’d never seen her before.

“Why?” he demanded sharply, his tone cold and distant. William had never spoken to her like that before—he’d never spoken to her with anything stricter than the nature of a disapproving schoolmaster. He was shaking hard, nervous hands running through his hair as he ostensibly fought for control. “Why? I asked you not to go, Buffy. For God’s sakes—”

“I was just—”

“You were just…I told you that Jasper could find his way home!”

Jasper barked at the sound of his name.

“I went because the bay doesn’t frighten me, William,” Buffy replied, her eyes widening the instant the words left her lips. And by the look in his, she knew she’d crossed a line. A very severe, drastic line. Beyond the one at lunch. Beyond the hints that danced around the reality of Drusilla’s death. In that horrible instant, he looked thoroughly gutted. As though she had betrayed him.

“The bay doesn’t…” William tore away from her before she could breathe, Jasper trailing after him happily. “You wouldn’t dare,” he continued, storming furiously in the direction of the manor. “Not if you had my memories.”

“But I don’t,” Buffy cried as her legs took off after him. “Can’t you see that?”

“Buffy—”

“Please! Just tell me what to do.” There must have been a note in her voice that reached him, for the next second, he’d frozen in place. And she continued on, unable to stop. Something within her had split, and she couldn’t prevent the wall from breaking. “I don’t know what to do, William. My God, I’ve never felt so lost in my life. I can’t talk to you—”

He whirled around the next second. He couldn’t have appeared more startled if she’d struck his cheek. “Yes you can,” he protested. “Of course you can.”

“No, I can’t. Whatever I say or do…it’s wrong, you see? And if I don’t speak, it’s still wrong. And I can’t talk to you because…” She swallowed hard, doing her best to ignore the shrill in her ears. If she didn’t do this now, she’d never again have the courage to meet his eyes. “Because I don’t have your memories. I don’t know what’s going to bring that look into your eyes.”

“What look?” William asked softly.

“The look in your eyes now. The way…you go somewhere I can’t follow. And there’s nothing I can do or say to make it better.” She threw her arms up in frustration. “And even if there was, I wouldn’t know what to say. I don’t understand why you married me.”

“Buffy, I—”

“I’m young. I’m foolish. I’m naïve. I’m so far from you, William.”

“Stop.”

“No, I—”

“Stop!”

She didn’t know when he’d come so close; all she knew was that his hands had closed around her upper arms and his mouth was on hers in a hard, almost demanding kiss. The contact was so sudden that she didn’t realize what had happened until he’d released her. Until his arms were around her small body, his fingers woven through her hair as her cheek found his shoulder. It all happened so fast. Everything. One second, they were arguing, and the next she was in his arms.

“I’m sorry, love,” William murmured, trembling. He was trembling. The knowledge shook her completely, and all around her, sound drowned away.

They remained locked together for long minutes. In the archway that led to the Happy Valley as Jasper hunted grasshoppers and sniffed the trails of forest wildlife. Just two people—two people anywhere. Two people in each other’s arms.

“I never should have brought you here,” he said softly, a long, resigned sigh rolling off his shoulders. He brushed a kiss across her brow. “God, I wish I’d never come back.”

He didn’t clarify if he spoke of the Happy Valley or Manderley, and Buffy didn’t ask because she feared the answer. Instead, her body tightened with anxiety, and she shook her head until the scenery around her meshed into a blur of motion.

“Don’t say that,” she begged. “Please.”

“We should have never come…”

“We’ll make it work. I love you.” Blindly, she pressed her lips to his, but pulled away before he could react. She couldn’t stand the sting of rejection. Not now. She was determined to deny him the chance. “I love you so much. We’ll make it work.”

William said nothing. His arms tightened around her, but he said nothing.

Buffy had never known a louder silence.

There were many aspects of married life Buffy hadn’t known to anticipate. Things she was half convinced Mrs. Kendall had attempted to warn her about. The distance William placed between them was only the beginning; after a while, the lonely halls became familiar. The whispers from the staff faded to a low hum, always nipping at her heels but eventually colliding with the wall she carefully constructed around her withering heart.

She cherished whatever time she had with William, even if it left her emotionally and physically drained. In such a short while, they had fallen into an easy routine. Buffy would wake up an hour or so before William and wander around Manderley until the sun kissed the morning sky. Mrs. Hart would phone the Morning Room and confirm the day’s meals, disregarding Buffy’s numerous assurances that she trusted her to make the meal selection without approval. Around nine, she and William would eat together and discuss meaningless things like the weather. William would smile at her and she would remember how his body felt against hers at night. How she wished so much that he would look her in the eyes just once as he moved inside her. How his whimpers for Drusilla inevitably kept her awake until the first signs of morning stretched across the English plains.

After breakfast, Buffy would pad around the halls of Manderley, convinced the hallways moved while she slept. On sunny days, she would take her sketchbook to the Happy Valley and lose herself for hours amid nature’s quiet seclusion. It was the only place on the property where she did not feel Drusilla’s touch. Where she didn’t feel Drusilla’s ghost following her around every corner. Where she could breathe without choking on Drusilla’s perfume and smile without feeling like she was purposefully fooling herself.

The Happy Valley was indeed a happy place. It was a place William had brought her, and only her. Drusilla’s ghost could not reach her there.

The routine was neither good nor bad; it simply was. Every day brought the same highs and lows. The same emotional peaks and unavoidable falls. And while she no longer felt the walls of Manderley were suffocating her, the eyes tracing her every step never forfeited their quest. She passed the disapproving frowns of William’s parents daily on the way to breakfast. His grandparents’ portrait hung near the main gallery, judging her hair and criticizing her attire and wondering why their heir had decided on such an unimpressive replacement for the beloved Drusilla. There wasn’t a corner of the manor that smiled upon her, and while the reality of her situation was chilling, Buffy was slowly growing accustomed to habit.

She wondered sometimes whatever happened to Mrs. Kendall. If the old woman thought of her at all anymore and how she would react were she to see Buffy now. Were she to see her prediction come to life. And yet, despite the nature of her life at Manderley, Buffy couldn’t summon enough regret to wish herself away from William’s side. She’d entered the marriage knowing his heart belonged to his first wife—knowing her love would have to be enough for both of them. And while she might live day to day hoping to see something more than fondness in his smile and kindness in his eyes, loving him and being near him was better than the alternative. Having even a small part of him was better than not having him at all.

Since their first walk to the Happy Valley, William had made an obvious effort to open himself to her, but there was always something holding him back. His attempts warmed her heart even if she struggled to collect her thoughts. He never spoke of what had happened—of the cottage along the beach or the memories which made the place so horrific for him. She had thought, perhaps, following what had happened that he might finally speak of Drusilla, and in so, take the last step necessary in finalizing her burial. It never happened. Occasionally, Buffy would catch William staring into nothing, his face ashen and his eyes haunted. Sometimes he stared at her as well, but always averted his gaze when her eyes met his.

Buffy would give him anything he wanted if only he would speak with her. Beyond the books in the library or the weather or the current political climate; she wanted him to speak with her. She wanted it so much.

But she was too damnably terrified of disrupting the calm that had since settled between them.

There were times when she asked him things just to hear his voice. The day following their first walk to the Happy Valley, she mentioned the man she’d seen at the bay. The man with torn gloves and a mind that wasn’t fully present. William had nodded, answering, “That was Ben.”

“Ben?”

“He lives nearby, but he’s as daft as a child.”

“He frightened me.”

William had reached across the settee and taken her hand, warming her world with a small, reassuring smile. A smile carefully structured to offset the tease in his words. “Teaches you to run off, doesn’t it?”

She’d flushed brightly, and he’d chuckled, thereafter assuring her Ben was harmless. He hadn’t any family or acquaintances—no one to care for him—and therefore William didn’t mind allowing him to wander around his stretch of property at the bay. Ben enjoyed collecting seashells, and William felt it inhuman to deny someone of Ben’s mental state such an elementary pleasure only for the sake of pride. The earth, as he put it, either belonged to everyone or no one at all. He advised her to avoid the bay, though, if Ben made her uneasy.

He didn’t meet her eyes when he spoke those words, and she knew why. His desire to keep her away from the bay had nothing to do with Ben and everything to do with the memories he wanted to banish.

She’d decided to keep everything else to herself, because she couldn’t make promises she knew she’d break. The bay was a source of infinite curiosity and eventually her will to avoid the forbidden shoreline would snap.

Similarly, she kept Ben’s concerns about the dark lady and the asylum to herself. No good could come of it, and she couldn’t face another crippling argument.

Buffy had lived at Manderley for a full month before she began receiving calls from friends of William and Drusilla’s—friends who were eager to meet the second Mrs. de Winter. William assured her it was natural curiosity and promised the visits would be light, as well as a good way to meet people outside of the home. She didn’t find it a comfort at all, but supposed that much to be her problem. The doors of Manderley opened and people came. People looked in on her. People sized her up. People wondered about how she and William had met, and told stories of the parties once held in the downstairs galleries.

People looked at her and arrived at the same conclusion—one they didn’t keep to themselves. And while there were expected differences in words and delivery, the overall theme remained unchanged.

You are not what we expected. You are so different from Drusilla.

There was, however, a notable upside to meeting with hordes of strangers who knew everything about Manderley and the de Winters, even if it meant subjecting herself to harsh judgment. Where William was mum on Drusilla, his acquaintances spoke about her without end. Drusilla was a favorite in the community. Drusilla was a famous beauty, admired for her allure and wit. Drusilla had been the spark in William’s eyes and the smile on his face, and they looked forward to seeing the William they remembered return to Manderley rather than the shell of a man in his stead. The William living here now, they said, wasn’t the William they’d known these last few years. The William living here now was a ghost.

The real William, they feared, had died with Drusilla. But they always added a sentiment hinting at their immense faith that Buffy would be able to restore both Manderley and William to their former grandeur.

Their mouths said that, at least. Their eyes told a different story.

Every meeting cut her unseen wounds a little deeper. Every meeting left her gutted and emotionally numb.

One day, after visiting for two hours with Darla Manners—a blizzard of a human being and friend of Drusilla’s—Buffy found her inner screaming could no longer be contained merely to the mocking halls of the manor. Once the horrid woman had been shown out, she collected her art supplies and practically jogged to the Happy Valley. To her special sanctuary—the place which never failed to cleanse her tired soul.

The canopy of trees kept her sheltered from the bleak terrain surrounding her. Buffy’s tired legs finally broke into a run when the trees parted, and she collapsed to her knees on the forest floor, tearing her sketchpad open. Her frantic hand fumbled through her spilled pencils and quickly began outlining a familiar face. By the time she was finished drawing him, she was blinded by tears and his image was marred with her labor of sorrow.

The Happy Valley was a haven, if only to have a place where no one heard her weep.

It took a while to collect herself, but ultimately Buffy wiped her eyes along the sleeve of her arm, gathered her supplies, and rose dutifully to her feet. If she remained absent too long, William would worry. And he would know where first to look for her. She didn’t want him to see her crying.

She was too lost in her thoughts on the way back to notice a man waving at her, and it took several calls of her name before his voice broke through her barrier and she glanced up and met Wesley’s friendly eyes.

“Buffy,” he said amiably, a warm smile brightening his face. “I was certain that was you.”

An inexplicable sense of calm washed over her and a sigh rolled off her shoulders. “Yes. I’m sorry. I was just…thinking.”

“Quite seriously, from the looks of it,” Wesley agreed. He inclined his head toward the Happy Valley. “Am I interrupting a walk?”

“No. I was just returning.”

“William loves that path. He’s never in as good a mood as he is on days when he’s allowed time enough to steal away.” He paused and sighed as though considering something significant before turning to face the manor once more with an obligatorily offer of his arm. “Will you allow me the privilege of walking you to the house?”

Buffy hesitated for a beat, then smiled and took his arm. She hadn’t had the opportunity to speak with Wesley since the luncheon with Anya and Xander, and had unknowingly anticipated a chance to converse with him alone. There was a kindness about him which couldn’t be denied. It was infectious, and she found she liked him immensely without knowing him at all.

“I must admit, I’m dreadfully curious,” Wesley mused, his voice dragging and his eyes demonstrating a search for words. An enigmatic minute passed before he continued. “Did William take you down that path, or did you stumble across it on your own?”

“William took me down the path,” Buffy replied. “The day you and I met, actually. We walked after you and the others left, and he took me there.”

A small smile tickled the man’s lips. “I was hoping as much. I’ve never known William to share that place with anyone.”

Buffy’s breath hitched and her heart leapt into her throat. “Anyone?” she repeated. She’d known Drusilla hadn’t accompanied him on his walks to the Happy Valley, but she’d never dreamed it was because no one else was welcome. As it was, she had trouble envisioning Drusilla as the sort of woman to adhere to such a demand, even if it came from her loving husband.

“Not in as many years, no. I thought, though…I thought when I met you that you might find yourself with an exclusive invitation.” He paused. “There’s something about you that seems to command that sort of peace. At least the sort of peace he seems to require whenever he makes his retreat. It’s good for him—given all that has occurred.” There was another long beat of silence, the air around them chirping with emerging nighttime critters as the sun began the slow dip under the horizon. “How are you finding life at Manderley?”

There were so many ways she knew she should answer the question, and none of them were factual. “Pleasant,” she said, ignoring the lingering scent of her tears which seemed to thicken with the weight of her lie. “The past few days have been…interesting.”

“William mentioned something of a never-ending parade of acquaintances.”

“Yes. Many people have visited.” Buffy bit her lip, her mind inevitably drawn back to the meeting which had sent her fleeing to the Happy Valley. And then, without warning, her defenses dropped and the ground around her melted into nothing. She realized she had a golden opportunity; a chance to talk with someone about William who would keep her confidence. She didn’t know how she knew; she just did. There was something about Wesley that commanded integrity. He would not repeat what she asked or what was said.

And unlike the aforementioned never-ending parade of acquaintances, he was not a friend of Drusilla’s. He would not gossip. He was here because he was William’s friend. He was someone William trusted, and for that reason, Buffy trusted him as well.

“The day we walked—the day William took me to the Happy Valley—I chased Jasper through the woods until coming across the adjoining path.”

The flicker of uncertainty in Wesley’s eyes was nearly indiscernible, but present nonetheless. “Oh?”

“There was a boathouse.”

“Yes. The boathouse and all the property along the coastline there is a part of Manderley.”

“William was…he says he never goes there anymore.”

The sudden turn of the conversation had Wesley notably uncomfortable, and while she didn’t wish to upset him, even mentioning something so seemingly taboo had her blood racing with adrenalin and her nerves tingling. She couldn’t stop now if she wished it. She’d peeked inside Pandora’s Box and there was no way to close it again.

“I wouldn’t imagine he has much reason to visit the boathouse,” Wesley agreed tentatively.

“Why?”

“William doesn’t have a taste for sailing.”

The implication in his words couldn’t be ignored. “The boathouse was Drusilla’s.”

As it always did, the ground beneath her feet seemed to coo with pleasure at the sound of its late mistress’s name. The tear-scented air around her head hummed as small shivers raced up her arms and down her spine. It was in the open again—her name. Drusilla. And it couldn’t be taken back.

“Yes. The boathouse was Drusilla’s. She spent a lot of time there…I believe. She loved the water.” Wesley cleared his throat. “Buffy, if I may—”

“I’m sorry.”

“Pardon?”

Her nerves blazed with courage and her blood rushed with intent. She couldn’t be deflected or ignored—not now. Drusilla was Manderley’s favorite topic, but she was always denied the right to know about her. To know anything about the woman whose house she lived in. There was nothing he could say to defer her line of thinking. Not when he’d given her a crumb.

“There are things I must know,” she said bravely, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I can’t mention her at all to William, do you see? He closes off from me—from everyone—whenever her name is mentioned. Do you remember that day at lunch? I…I was so foolish and hasty and I said something I oughtn’t, but he closed himself off so quickly and I don’t know how to…if I knew more about Drusilla, I think I could—”

“Buffy—”

“—accept that he will never love me as he loves her.”

The silence filling the air between them was the longest in Buffy’s life. Longer than the silence that had followed William’s proposal of marriage. Longer than the silence that had haunted her the night they first made love before the night cracked and he started whimpering for his first wife in his sleep. Wesley’s legs froze solid to the ground, his arm tightening around hers, his eyes demanding an audience. And when he saw she was serious, the sadness that followed all but broke the rest of her heart.

He knew that she knew, and he pitied her.

“My God,” he gasped. “You mustn’t say such things.”

Buffy bit back a flinch and released a long, tempered sigh. “This is something I’ve known since I married him. Please Wesley…he never speaks of her, and I can’t ask anyone else. William trusts you…do I presume too much in believing I can trust you as well?”

“No, of course not. But you mustn’t…you haven’t discussed any of this with William?” He exhaled deeply when she shook her head, the whole of him thoroughly upset. “He would hate to hear you speak of yourself like this.”

“I don’t want to upset him.” She didn’t want to upset Wesley, either, and hated putting him in such a position. However, bottling her emotions was going to send her into an early grave. She couldn’t remain silent and hope her worries would fade away; time had already proven that line of thinking erroneous. “But you don’t know what it’s like. All I hear day in and out—if not from Mrs. Hart then certainly from Drusilla’s acquaintances—is what a brilliant success she was. How beautiful and intelligent and charming. And I can’t help but wonder…” Her chest tightened under a heavy weight, but she didn’t continue. There was nothing more to say; anything else would only further Wesley’s discomfort. That was one thing she didn’t want.

A long, uncomfortable silence settled between them. “She was beautiful and captivating,” the man ultimately conceded. “There were times, looking in her eyes, you would swear you were…there was something about her. She could always draw you in…no matter how hard you resisted.”

Buffy swallowed hard and nodded, doing her level best to ignore the cold encompassing her heart. She supposed getting what one asked for was always bittersweet.

“She loved entertaining. The parties she used to throw here…” Wesley sighed and gazed wistfully into the cold face of Manderley’s exterior. “And when she wasn’t planning an extravagant event, she would entertain for her close friends at the boathouse. What she liked to call moonlight picnics, or something or other.” He blinked hard and shook his head, meeting her eyes again almost sheepishly. “I never attended the picnics. Drusilla was never…”

The last thing she wanted to do was goad him, but Buffy was literally quivering with trepidation. With a dangerous combination of excitement and dread—she was finally being allowed a glimpse on the inside. A glimpse into the mysterious world where Drusilla still walked the halls of Manderley, shadowing every stretch of sunshine with her memory. It was more than Buffy had ever been allowed—perhaps more than she ever would be allowed again. She could not back down.

For a brief second, the past was not taboo. Wesley was talking. And no matter how it pained her, she needed to hear it. She needed to hear everything.

“She sounds quite glamorous.”

“Glamour isn’t everything, Buffy,” came the sharp reply. “I sincerely believe that compassion, sincerity, and humility are worth more to a man than all the beauty in the world.”

A small smile graced her lips. The idea was romantic and lovely, but she placed little stock behind it. Beauty was a universal concept; beauty was something people spent lifetimes chasing. Beauty was something tangible—something a man could touch. And a man of William’s taste undoubtedly had a fine appreciation for beauty. For intrigue. For intelligence. For wit. Compassion, sincerity, humility…these were not words of lovers.

“As it is, Drusilla’s love of excitement was what killed her,” Wesley said a beat later. “She simply disappeared one night. We didn’t know what had happened, of course…William didn’t say a word through the ordeal. It was two months before her body was discovered along the coast. William was gone for three days to identify her. When he came back…he wasn’t the same.”

Buffy nodded slowly, the arm cradling her sketchpad suddenly crippled with weight. It was a terrifying realization—one she’d danced around since meeting William in Monte Carlo. The knowledge she was married to someone who didn’t exist anymore, at least not in the way his friends remembered him, had her questioning every facet of herself. She’d fallen in love with a William crushed by his past; a William who would never have glanced at her had their paths crossed two years prior. A William wrestling with the heavy consequences of what he had lost and what he had mistakenly thought he could replace.

She had no idea why he’d married her. Why he’d brought her here. She remembered telling him as much the day he introduced her to the Happy Valley. Her heart had been brave then, but it wasn’t now. If she was truly brave, she wouldn’t force Wesley to admissions he didn’t wish to make. But the idea of confronting William—of watching what little light lived in his eyes die entirely—was insufferable.

“I wish so much that he would talk with me,” Buffy whispered, unable to keep her tears away. “I don’t know what to do, Wesley. So often he looks like he’s seen a ghost. Like he keeps expecting her to be there…and the way he looks at me when he realizes I’m the one he’s sleeping beside at night—”

“Buffy—”

“I’m not what he wants. I want so hard to be what he wants, or to understand why he thought marrying me would bring him any measure of happiness, especially after he’s lost so much…but I can’t. I keep trying to understand and it escapes me.” She shook her head hard, shivering against the chilling wind and wrestling her other arm free from his. “All I know is I’m nothing like her. I’m nothing like her.”

“Good Lord, Buffy, you can’t do this to yourself.” Wesley’s voice was strained and insistent, but she couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes again. “You must forget it, as William has. As everyone else has. I saw how he was after, and I’ve seen him since you brightened his life. You have done wonders on him. My God, if you only knew…”

“I can’t know. And even if that were true…he doesn’t…” She couldn’t bring herself to admit again that William didn’t love her. The more those words breathed life, the more concrete they became. The more hope she lost that he would ever love her. And she couldn’t live without hope. “You won’t tell him, will you, Wesley? What we discussed here? I couldn’t look at him knowing—”

“Of course not. I would never betray your confidence like that.” He paused. “But you should. Tell him, that is. William would want to know how you feel.”

Buffy licked her lips and said nothing, her gaze once again traveling up the terrain until she was staring into the eyes of Manderley. Tell William how she felt, when she’d known all along this was how her life would be. Tell William after it had nearly broken her to spill so little of her heart that day at the Happy Valley. Tell William…

No. That was out of the question.

Things were pleasant now. Quiet. And while the quiet could suffocate, it was better than screaming. She’d rather have this than nothing at all. If there wasn’t this, there would be nothing. She wasn’t willing to risk it. Not now.

But she wouldn’t tell Wesley as much. She’d already worried him enough.

Thus silence was the only answer she could give.

A/N: I know, I know, I know…I’m terrible. It’s been over a month. And I know I say this every time, but seriously…guys, I don’t blame you if you’ve stopped reading. My current track record notwithstanding, I am still VERY much into this fic. I promise. And actually, I think that might be one of the reasons it takes so long to update—the chapters of this story come much easier to me than the chapters of my other WIPs, therefore I give them more attention. I’ve decided to revert back to form, though, and take turns which WIP I work on, because I honestly hadn’t realized a month had gone by until I started getting emails. My profound apologies…and thanks to those who are sticking with me.

Many thanks to Megan, Mari, Yani, and Tam for looking over this for me. And special thanks to Claudia for everything that has been said. I haven’t forgotten you, hon. Look for an email from me here soon—once I get a chance to breathe.

Again and always, thank you so much to those of you who haven’t given up on me or my progress with this story. I hope you’re not disappointed.

The girl standing in the middle of the room could have been Buffy. Her hair was drawn back but still managed to look a little sloppy. Her eyes darted nervously from one corner of the room to the next, her trembling hands wringing the apron tied around her waist, her skin so pale she was practically transparent. She was standing in a room so much larger than herself—in a way only one who lived in true luxury could have identified. She was lost. She was in a world far removed from her true element.

She could have been Buffy.

“May I present,” Mrs. Hart said stoically, gesturing to the woman, “Winifred Burkle.”

Winifred curtsied awkwardly. Buffy had to wonder if she’d ever done it before.

“Hello,” Buffy said, her heart going out to the girl. It truly was like looking in the mirror. Not much time had passed—so little time had passed. Her life with Mrs. Kendall wasn’t even a half a year behind her. And had William not stormed into her world, her station wouldn’t have changed. Were it not for William, the girl standing in Winifred’s place could have been her.

William had changed everything. And now she was a woman who lived in a house with servants. She was standing behind the desk in the Morning Room with Mrs. Hart and the young girl standing across from her. Mrs. Hart stood rigid, barely moving to breathe, her stance as frighteningly fierce as ever. There was no compassion in her voice when she spoke. She stood with her hands crossed, all in black, not much livelier than a statue. Nothing about her insinuated she possessed human feeling.

“Since you arrived without a personal maid,” Mrs. Hart continued, “I took it upon myself to hire Winifred. I believe you will find her a most capable employee.”

“I-I’ll do what I-I can,” Winifred agreed, nodding eagerly, her voice trembling. “I-I—”

Mrs. Hart speared her with an icy glare but said nothing. Nothing needed to be said; one frozen frown from the old woman and the rambling girl’s mouth fell shut, heat flushing her cheeks and her eyes darting downward.

A pang of empathy struck Buffy’s heart. One glower from Mrs. Hart was worth a thousand condemnations. And while she wasn’t eager to find herself on the receiving end of any such glare, she couldn’t abide for the woman to make a young, nervous girl even more self-conscious. In the pretense of knowing what she was doing, Buffy cleared her throat and stepped around the desk, wiping her suddenly perspiring palms against her linen trousers. “Thank you, Mrs. Hart,” she said, forcing a smile to her face and doing her best not to tremble when the woman’s arctic eyes turned to her. “I can…show Winifred around.”

“Is there anything else, madam?”

Buffy shivered, her nerve failing her as her eyes hit the ground. “No,” she replied softly. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Hart nodded briskly and turned. “I will dispose of Winifred should you not find her to your liking.” She spoke so callously Buffy feared the girl in question might collapse. “Dinner is at seven.”

The air thinned when the woman left the room. Buffy didn’t realize she was holding her breath until the weight on her chest lifted in splendid reprieve. She turned to Winifred and favored the girl with what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “She can be a little frightening,” she said, “can she not?”

Winifred worried a lip between her teeth and nodded miserably. “I’m s-sorry, madam,” she replied nervously, “i-if I do anything to upset you. This is my first…I mean, I’ve never worked for…I’ve never—”

Buffy held up a hand, feeling both a sense of calm appreciation as well as terribly out of place. She wasn’t one to apologize to; she hadn’t been born into this lifestyle so much as haphazardly selected for it. Should circumstances be different, she could very well be in Winifred’s shoes. This world had been given to her—she hadn’t earned it. It was enough she felt as much simply waking in William’s arms every morning. In walking the halls of Manderley with the whispers of the staff on her heels and the eyes of the familial paintings judging her every step. There wasn’t a minute she wasn’t reminded that she didn’t belong—that she was here because of a hand dealt by fate.

She found herself wondering, taking in Winifred’s nervous stature and obvious self-consciousness, if she truly was William’s wife because he wanted her to be his wife or if she just happened to be the best option. How it was that she caught his eye in Monte Carlo was beyond her. She’d screamed at him to keep from jumping off a cliff, and amazingly, even in the face of everything he’d lost, he hadn’t begrudged her from denying him the serenity of death. No, he’d taken an interest in her. He’d spoken with her, educated her, glanced over her drawings and treated her to lunches. He’d saved her from the life she’d lived—the life she’d been born into. Perhaps her inexperience in worldly affairs was why he’d chosen her. He wanted someone who could never replicate what he’d lost.

He’d wanted someone.

Would he have just as easily married a girl like Winifred? What if Winifred had been at the resort in Monte Carlo? Perhaps Winifred would be standing where Buffy was now, meeting her own personal maid for the first time. Perhaps.

The thought sent cold shivers down her back and made her stomach knot. It wasn’t enough she lived in the shadow of Drusilla’s ghost; she couldn’t chase jealous flights of fancy around as though they were true. And yet, given everything that had passed and everything which remained unsaid, she couldn’t help but wonder.

“Madam?” Winifred asked timidly, blinking her large brown eyes and looking as though a gale of wind would send her to the ground. “I…I’ll do m-my best, madam. I mean Mrs. de Winter. I—”

“Winifred, it’s all right.” Buffy attempted another disarming smile and hoped her unspoken message conveyed. “I’m rather new at this as well, you see.”

The girl’s eyes shifted uncertainly. “At…being a maid?”

“Being…no. At being…married. And…” Buffy stopped and sighed, certain she was supposed to sound more confident and less foolish. The mistress of Manderley ought not to stutter or find herself at a lack of words. She was more than certain Drusilla never had. “Mr. de Winter and I have only been wed for a few months,” she continued, wondering idly if talk about the private life she shared with William was proper, and immediately knowing without a doubt it was not. “I was a traveling companion before we met.”

Winifred’s eyes went wide. “Oh. Oh! You…” She trailed off just as quickly and resumed her nervous stature, hands once again twisting the apron around her waist until Buffy was certain the cloth would tear completely. “He must…love you very much,” she said.

The assertion took Buffy completely aback. She was about to question how or why Winifred had arrived at such a conclusion before realizing how foolish it would sound for the lady of the manor to question one of her maids in such things. Instead, she pursed her lips and smiled. She didn’t want to nod—not when William’s love was the last thing she could attest to owning. William liked her. He found her charming, in an odd and funny sort of way. He talked with her whenever he could and often accompanied her to the Happy Valley. But at night when they made love, he fell asleep with his dead wife’s name on his lips.

His eyes still refused to meet hers when he was inside her. He would bury his face in her throat and kiss her skin. He would hold her tightly in the quiet following their lovemaking, no longer silently demanding distance between them as he had their first night together. He never called her by any other name until his mind was far from her. Until he was deep in sleep. Then his arm would tighten around her middle and he would whimper for the woman buried in the family cemetery. The woman Buffy could never be.

William didn’t love her. He might appreciate her, but he didn’t love her. And he never would.

Buffy waved dismissively at Winifred when she realized she’d been silent much longer than she’d intended. The smallest observation could send her mind spiraling down paths she longed to never again travel. “I only meant to say,” she continued softly, “that you haven’t any reason to fret about your employment here on account of inexperience. You need not be so formal around me.”

There was a pause and the girl’s eyes flashed with uncertainty. Then, realizing Buffy was sincere, her face blossomed with relief and a sigh rolled off her chest. “Oh, thank you,” she said, pressing her lips to the back of her hand. “I don’t want to be a disappointment, but I am…I’m so nervous.”

“Don’t be. Not around me.”

“Thank you, Mrs. de Winter.”

Buffy flinched inwardly. The title seemed so wrong. So misplaced. She wasn’t Mrs. de Winter; Mrs. de Winter was dead. She was merely the woman looking after her mansion and her husband in her absence. “When we’re alone you’re free to call me Buffy,” she said. “I don’t…as I said, this is all so new to me as well. I’m not accustomed to being addressed by my surname.”

Winifred’s nose wrinkled as she considered the matter. “Yes, it would be a little jarring.” She paused. “Thank you, Missus…Buffy.”

The second the name touched the air, the girl froze in terror, her eyes shooting to Buffy’s face to gage her reaction. As though fearing she was on the receiving end of a cruel joke.

Buffy liked Winifred. She reminded her of a friend she’d had in childhood. A girl of similar means—a girl most likely in a similar line of occupation. They had promised to keep in touch when they parted ways more than ten years ago, and while a few letters had crossed paths, it had been years since Buffy even thought about her, let alone wondered where she was and where life had taken her.

“If you have any questions, feel free to come to me,” Buffy told Winifred. “Has Mrs. Hart shown you to your quarters?”

The girl nodded, her eyes brightening. “Oh yes. They’re so large! I’ve never had such lovely living quarters in all my life.”

Buffy smiled softly. “Well…if Mrs. Hart has no other duties for you, I encourage you to walk around the manor. You won’t get a good grasp on how large it is today, but…well…” She thought about mentioning the number of times she’d gotten lost in the labyrinth that was Manderley, and decided against it. Ladies of the household weren’t to discuss such matters. Mrs. Hart certainly wouldn’t approve. The sentence died on a prolonged beat of awkward silence, which was almost as bad as admittance to one’s shortcomings. Buffy quickly cleared her throat and shook her head, deciding to change the conversation. “Have you ever been someone’s personal maid before?”

Winifred shook her head miserably. The poor girl looked doomed.

“I’ve never had a personal maid, so this will be a first for both of us. I do hope we can be friends.”

And just as quickly, the look on her face brightened. “Oh, me too, Mrs. de Winter. I mean Buffy. I mean—”

“Buffy.”

Winifred nodded. “Buffy. I would like that very much.”

“I would, too. But for now, you best get to your quarters.” She paused, contemplating her words. “Mrs. Hart likes to run the house in a certain fashion, you see. I don’t want her cross if she finds I have monopolized all of your time, should she need you for something. But if she doesn’t need you, I do recommend walking around a bit. It will help.”

As much as it could.

The girl smiled brightly. “Thank you. I’ll do my best for you, madam. I mean Buffy. I…” She paled. It was quite interesting how many moods Winifred could assume in a matter of seconds. Had Buffy not empathized with her, she might be tempted to find her amusing. “I’ll just…excuse me.”

Buffy watched Winifred scurry through doors and into the hallway, then returned to her position behind the desk. She’d hidden her sketchbook when Mrs. Hart knocked on the door, though she doubted she’d managed to hide her dirty hands. But Mrs. Hart never looked at her hands—not that she needed to. Enough time had passed to establish a sort of tacit understanding. If Buffy occupied the Morning Room, it wasn’t to answer mail or make calls, as the first Mrs. de Winter had; it was to draw. Days when the weather prevented her from venturing down to the Happy Valley typically found her concealed within the Morning Room. It was the only room besides her bed chambers which she felt comfortable entering without William at her side. Neither room belonged to her, of course, but familiarity provided a sense of comfort.

She would draw until six o’clock when Mrs. Hart rang to remind her supper was in an hour. Then she would pad to her room and wash her hands and face before changing into a suitable evening garment.

Evening was her favorite time of day. Evening commenced the time she was allowed with William. When he would return home or emerge from whatever project he was buried under, kiss her softly, and spend hours in her company and hers alone. Buffy lived for evenings. She lived for her time with him.

She couldn’t help but wonder if William knew it, and if he didn’t, what he would think if he did.

*~*~*

The figurine was likely priceless. A family heirloom of some sort, or perhaps a wedding present. It had been, after all, situated on a bookcase belonging to Drusilla in a room Buffy had never before toured. The room was closed off and nearer the west wing than she’d ever dared to venture. The wing Drusilla had shared with William remained perpetually off limits. Not so much in words or action—rather stern implication.

And not from William. William never said anything one way or another. Buffy knew, however, that Mrs. Hart would very much disapprove of her being anywhere near Drusilla’s things. It was for such a reason Buffy had declined to wander in any of the rooms that veered in the westward direction on the upper level of the mansion. She knew she’d have another maze of halls to brave before stumbling into something as private as the master bedroom, but she always felt like a criminal if she allowed herself to step over the invisible boundary. The west side of Manderley belonged to Drusilla. It had in life and it did in death. She supposed it always would.

Buffy didn’t know why she’d chosen today to brave the unknown side of the house. She hadn’t made it very far, ducking into the first open doorway when she heard footsteps ahead of her. She didn’t want to be caught sneaking around. She didn’t want Mrs. Hart’s cold eyes sizing her up more so than they currently did. But curiosity could only be ignored for so long, and now with a few months between her arrival at Manderley and the present, Buffy’s inquisitiveness could no longer go unquenched. She wanted to see the part of the house that belonged to Drusilla.

She supposed it was a fitting punishment. The figurine had sat untouched for months, perhaps years. It was a lovely piece, fragile as a cobweb, and now lying in several pieces on the floor.

All because of Buffy’s intrusion. Because she’d been curious.

Oh God. What was there to do? Something in the home was broken. One of Drusilla’s figurines—a piece of undoubtedly invaluable craftsmanship shattered because of her clumsiness. She couldn’t show Mrs. Hart. What would the woman think of her? She couldn’t show William; he would wonder why she was wandering around in that part of the house in the first place, especially since he’d made it abundantly clear—with action if not words—he preferred that she stay in the eastern side of the mansion. If he’d wanted her in the west wing, he would have moved Drusilla’s things out completely. The west wing, though, was off limits. And she’d broken the rules.

The broken angel at her feet sang up at her mournfully as though offering its sympathy.

She couldn’t bear to show anyone. She wouldn’t show this to anyone. Buffy hurriedly gathered the pieces together and rushed to the nearest piece of furniture—a bookcase in the far corner—and buried the glass remains in the bottom drawer. No sooner had she locked the case when she flee from the room. She never cared to venture into the west wing again.

Buffy occupied the rest of the afternoon in the secure seclusion of her bedroom, pacing frantically as her mind attempted to calm her thundering heart. To have broken one of Drusilla’s things…it was like tearing pages out of the Bible. Would William find out? Did he even venture into the west wing anymore? She didn’t know, and she truly didn’t want to think about it. Drusilla’s shadow darkened every corner of Manderley enough as it was—she didn’t want to consider the implications of William retreating to the quarters he’d shared with his first wife.

Then again, his refusal to even mention Drusilla’s name and the way he closed himself off if ever a hint of her was mentioned did not indicate a man who would wander through the quarters where they’d lived together. William seemed intent to forget his life with Drusilla altogether, or at least categorically separate it with the life he was living now. If he forgot what he’d had, there was no way to mourn what he’d lost. He wouldn’t go to the west wing unless it was absolutely required of him. He wouldn’t go into the room Buffy had ventured into. He wouldn’t find the broken angel.

Buffy jumped a mile in the air when the phone rang. It was Mrs. Hart, alerting her supper would be ready within the hour. While the woman’s voice wasn’t exactly the sort of thing which inspired comfort, it was a nice break back into normality. As though the day had been like any other. She submerged herself into routine and hoped her face wouldn’t betray her when she sat down with William tonight.

There was nothing in his mannerisms to indicate displeasure. Buffy met him downstairs at seven o’clock as she did every night. He smiled at her and kissed her softly, then directed her to the smaller dining quarters—the place where they ate when it was just the two of them.

“I received a call from Anya today,” William said, holding out her chair for her. He brushed her hair over her neck as she sat, and the touch sent shivers all through her body. She lived for his simple caresses. For the things he did without thought—things which meant the world to her. “She’s going to drive up tomorrow and try to persuade you onto a saddle.”

Anya’s campaign to educate Buffy in the art of horseback riding picked up in spurts. There were times when weeks would pass without hearing a word from her; other times when she’d receive two or three calls within two days to arrange an agreeable time to meet. Most often, Anya would phone to cancel an hour before she was set to arrive, and while Buffy was always disappointed, she understood the other woman had obligations. Anya was an assertive, modern woman—almost a businesswoman—and she couldn’t very well take time out of her day on a whim to entertain her brother’s mousy, timid wife.

Whenever Anya did manage a trip to Manderley, the visits were always brief but fulfilling. Buffy liked Anya very much. She only wished she could be more like her sister-in-law. That she could be more aggressive. More courageous. More confident.

“She promises she’ll actually make it this time,” William continued as he took his seat. He uncorked the bottle of wine on the table and poured her a half-glass, then favored his own glass with the same amount.

“Will Xander accompany her?”

“I rather doubt it.”

“I wonder how he approves of her driving such a long distance alone.”

William met her eyes and smiled a little. “I reckon his philosophy is much the same as mine when it comes to my sister. We pity anyone who tries to take advantage of Anya.”

“But she—”

“She keeps a pistol in the car, love. And she’s a dead shot. Don’t worry over her safety.”

Buffy frowned and nodded as though she understood. She didn’t. Growing up in the world as she had, it was a universal understanding that women weren’t to travel alone. Perhaps it was just what she’d been taught and nothing more—a fallacy in her education, or a lack of understanding of how truly modern the world was becoming. Buffy only knew what she’d been taught growing up. The world William had brought her into was so amazingly novel and exciting. It would be a wonder if she could ever reconcile the differences separating her upbringing and the life she now led.

Perhaps women of power and wealth didn’t have the same concerns as women of no means and little consequence. Buffy didn’t know, and she never left Manderley so it was impossible to investigate.

“Mrs. Hart informed me there’s an addition to our staff,” William said, causing her to jump at the woman’s name. For a terrible second, Buffy feared the broken angel had been discovered. But it had not, as William clarified a second later. “A personal maid?”

“Oh. Yes. A young girl by the name of Winifred. She’s lovely.”

And she could have been Buffy. Perhaps in a different world, Winifred would be the one seated across from William, discussing a new maid and an impending visit from his sister.

Buffy shivered hard.

William offered a non-committal nod and dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “There’s something I need to tell you,” he said without preamble, leaving her insides cold with sudden apprehension. “Next week I’ll be away for a day or so. A friend is hosting a public dinner in London, and he requested my attendance.” He paused thoughtfully. “I would insist that you come with me, love, but from what I understand, the invitation is rather exclusive. I believe you’d be left bored in the hotel all evening.”

“Exclusive?” Buffy echoed, her throat suddenly dry. “I don’t understand.”

“I don’t believe any of the attendees will be bringing their wives along.”

Oh. A gentleman’s only night. She flushed brightly, both with jealousy and self-consciousness. Buffy wouldn’t pretend to know what went on at certain get-togethers, but she did know that men in William’s circle weren’t bound to the same honor code as women were. Perhaps he was going—

“Not on your life.”

Buffy blinked and glanced up sharply. “What?”

“I know what you’re thinking, pet. It’s all over that gorgeous little face of yours.” He grinned and her skin flushed again, though this time with self-awareness rather than jealousy. “I won’t lie to you, Buffy. These things aren’t exactly the sort of event I enjoy attending, but I owe my friend a favor and he requested my presence. I can’t say everything will…well, I’ll likely be the only one with any sort of scruples present.”

“Oh.”

“Whenever I’m away, you have my bloody word I’ll be sleeping alone. I don’t want…” He willed his eyes closed for a minute as though grappling for control before meeting her gaze again. And the depth of resolution she saw there took her breath away. “When I’m away, my thoughts will always be with you. Always. No matter what, you’re the only woman who accompanies me to bed. Do you understand?”

Buffy held his gaze for a minute longer, then smiled softly and nodded. Of course he would remain faithful to her. Of course he would. William was a man of his word. He’d married her—he’d promised himself to her. If he wanted to chase other women, there would have been no point in marrying her in the first place.

William returned her smile, his eyes lightening with relief. He took her hand in his and raised it to his mouth, caressing her palm with a gentle kiss. “That is one thing,” he murmured gently, “you will never have to worry about.”

“Never?”

“Better bloody believe it.” He brushed his lips against her palm again before lowering her hand to the table, resting his atop hers and gently caressing her skin with his thumb. “As I said, I don’t really fancy attending these events, but I owe this particular friend a favor and am hoping to settle all debts with an appearance.”

Buffy nodded and pursed her lips. She tried very hard not to focus on the small strokes of his thumb against her flesh. The smallest touch made every corner of her body burn. “You’ll be gone for a day?”

William nodded and reached for his wine with his free hand. “Presuming no other business arises while I’m away, you’ll only be alone one night.” He paused thoughtfully. “Will that be all right? I know we’ve been home for a while now and you’ve had time to acquaint yourself with the manor, but Manderley…” He trailed off, searching for words. “Sometimes…it feels as though it has a life of its own.”

The prospect was admittedly terrifying and immediately left her feeling hollow and alone. Buffy honestly didn’t know how to respond; her mind hadn’t progressed that far ahead in what he’d told her. And now faced with sleeping alone in their frighteningly large bedroom, even for one night, she found herself shivering even as a fake smile stretched her lips and her head nodded in affirmation.

It felt as though years had passed since she’d slept alone. To not have William beside her in the haunting air of Manderley would make her feel truly alone. Beyond the halls which stretched forever, beyond the whispers nipping at her heels, beyond the eyes of the paintings which judged her every turn, she would be left for the first time completely to herself. No William. No William to comfort her in the night with his presence, even whimpering as he did for his first wife.

It’s just for a night, she told herself sternly, though the self-admonition did little to ease her suddenly panicked nerves.

“Would you feel better if Anya stayed with you?”

Buffy blinked and glanced up, not realizing she’d been staring hard at the tablecloth. “Stayed?”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

The proposal warmed her with consideration, but she shot it down almost immediately. The last thing she wanted was Anya thinking William’s timid little wife couldn’t handle a night to herself. Her logical mind knew above her highly illogical heart that nothing would go wrong. It would be, after all, simply a night. One night. Terrifying as it might be on paper, she couldn’t ask for a babysitter. She couldn’t expect people to watch over her as though she were nothing more than living porcelain.

A trembling, however convicted sigh rolled past her lips. “I’ll be fine.”

William perked a brow. “You sure, sweetheart? I’m sure it wouldn’t be any trouble.”

She nodded before her nerve failed her. “I’m sure.”

He didn’t look convinced and was about to rebuke her with another reassurance and likely a reprisal of his offer when three sharp, concise knocks reverberated through the room. William glanced to the door with barely concealed annoyance which somehow did not convey in his voice when he said, “Yes, you may come in.”

The second the door opened, the air filled with the pitiful sounds of a sobbing young woman, the cries sounding almost foreign against the calm, ethereal atmosphere Buffy had grown so accustomed to at Manderley. Inward came Mrs. Hart, followed by a girl she barely recognized as Winifred with Giles at the heel, his hand gently clamping Winifred’s upper arm as though to keep her from running. The pitiful girl looked completely unlike the jittery, albeit friendly hopeful that Buffy had met that afternoon. Her long brown hair was in her face rather than pulled back, her pale cheeks a swollen red mess of tears. She was hunched over and clutching her gut as though every sob wracking through her body had the effect of a crippling sucker-punch.

Dread seeped inside Buffy’s veins. The brutally cold expression on Mrs. Hart’s face and the compassionate, however distant look on Giles’s made every nerve in her body scream with apprehension. She glanced sharply to William, whose eyes were wide with curious alarm but set with a calm sense of control she envied unlike anything. How he could demonstrate such authority and empathy in one simple look was beyond her, and though the moment was entirely wrong, she found her heart swelling with love.

“Mrs. Hart,” he said evenly. “Is there a problem?”

The woman nodded icily, her eyes locked with William’s. For this, Buffy might as well not exist. “I was doing my normal inventory of the Sun Room,” she said, her voice hard, “and one of our more valued pieces is missing.”

William arched a brow and nodded his understanding. He didn’t so much as look to Winifred. It wasn’t needed. The girl was obviously the alleged culprit.

Only she wasn’t. Buffy’s stomach knotted with dread and her insides flushed cold. She felt for a second like she was falling a great distance. The Sun Room had to be the room she investigated earlier that evening. It had to be. Even though the sun was dipping below the horizon, the golden streams of light pouring through the bay windows had made a play of pure radiance along the elegant wallpaper. There was no other room it could be but the sun room. And she’d broken the angel. She’d broken the angel and hidden it, and now Winifred was crying because Mrs. Hart believed she was responsible.

“I see,” he replied with a nod, turning his eyes at last to the sobbing girl in Giles’s hold. “And who is this?”

“Winifred Burkle. She was hired this morning as Mrs. de Winter’s personal maid.”

“And you have so deduced that she’s the one responsible?”

“She was seen in the hall just before my inventory, Mr. de Winter. The Turning Angel was accounted for as early as this afternoon. It was gone this evening.”

Buffy’s throat ran dry. She’d told Winifred to feel free and wander the halls. Dear Lord, this was her punishment. She should have come to William immediately upon breaking Drusilla’s angel. She should never have hidden it. She never should have crossed the invisible boundary separating the rest of the home from the west wing. Her eyes soaked in Winifred’s broken appearance and her heart ached.

She had to get Mrs. Hart and the others out of here. Confessing as much would be difficult enough without Drusilla’s prized servant indulging every second of her humiliation.

“I-I didn’t steal anything,” Winifred whimpered miserably, her eyes shooting up without warning and finding Buffy’s, imploring her for compassion. “Please, Buf…I mean Mrs. de Winter. Y-you…I didn’t steal. I don’t steal. P-p-please believe me. I—”

William held up a hand and all movement ceased. “Mrs. Hart, would you please escort…”

“Winifred,” Buffy supplied, then shrank back when she realized she’d spoken.

He nodded. “Winifred to my study. Get her a glass of water and try not to terrify her too horribly. I’ll be in after supper to ask her what she knows about the missing angel.”

Mrs. Hart inclined her head properly, and the three filed out without another word. The pitiful echoes of Winifred’s sobs lingered in the halls for painfully long minutes; it wasn’t until sound died out entirely that Buffy turned to William, her heart in her throat.

“William…”

He glanced up from where he’d been focusing on the remainder of his supper. “Love?”

“The angel…the one…I know what happened to it.”

He nodded and waited, expression unreadable.

“I broke it,” she explained hurriedly, heat and shame flooding her cheeks. “I was…I didn’t mean to, but I was wandering around and I was in that room even…I was just in that room and it broke.”

She waited for anger or hostility, but William didn’t show her any. She waited for the cold, dead look that she hated so much to fill his eyes—the one that was always present whenever he was reminded of Drusilla—but it never arrived. Instead, he sat back, a little baffled, and furrowed his brow as though trying to reconcile two entirely different trains of thought.

It seemed forever past before he spoke. “Well…forgive me, but why didn’t you tell someone?”

“What?”

“You broke the angel. Did you alert anyone?” He nodded at the door. “Mrs. Hart takes rigid inventory of all our belongings. We don’t get many thefts, but it has happened once or twice over the years.”

“I didn’t know what to do. I…I hid it in the bookcase—”

William sputtered suddenly with something that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “You hid the bloody thing? Buffy…why didn’t you just ring up Mrs. Hart and tell her you’d broken something and see if she could get it fixed? If not—”

Buffy shrank back in her seat, feeling small and insignificant. “I didn’t want you to know I’d broken the angel.”

“I don’t care about the angel. I—”

“She said it was valuable.”

His eyes narrowed. “Well, if you admired it so much, we can always buy another one. Just don’t hide something when you break it, all right? I don’t understand why you didn’t just—”

An alien surge of hurt indignation filled her whole, and she shook her head hard to stave off the rattling of her bones. “Can’t you understand?” she demanded, then realizing how harsh her tone was, she lowered her voice by degrees. “Please? I’ve never…when I broke something, I was always…never in my life have I not had to…”

He sighed and glanced down, a sort of comprehension washing over him again. She didn’t finish her sentence. She didn’t need to; he seemed to understand what she was saying without needing further explanation. “Buffy, the angel is yours. You can’t upset me or anyone by breaking something that belongs to you. I don’t care if the bloody thing was once in the royal family, I honestly don’t even remember what it looked like. It doesn’t matter to me. It does, however, matter to those on our staff. There’s a grave difference between thievery and the lady of the house breaking something. I’ll have to call Mrs. Hart back in here and—”

Alarm speared her body. “Oh William, please. Can it wait? I don’t want her to see—”

William was already up and reaching for the phone. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

His quick rebuttal effectively killed whatever else she might have said in protest. There was nothing for Buffy to do. She nodded and waited, then did the same when Mrs. Hart reentered the room. William reiterated what she’d told him, and though Mrs. Hart betrayed nothing, there was a grim sense of satisfaction in her stature. She asked Buffy, though it sounded like anything but a request, to please come to her in the future with matters such as these.

Buffy wondered if perhaps Mrs. Hart had known all along that Winifred hadn’t broken anything. Perhaps she’d paraded everyone inward just to invoke such a confession. Now she would inform Winifred that she’d been falsely accused due to Mrs. de Winter’s foolishness, and another wave of rumors and jeers would spread through the manor. How foolish she was. How awkward. How clumsy.

“Don’t worry, love,” William murmured when it was all over, reaching for her hand once again. “It was only a misunderstanding.”

It was this sort of misunderstanding that was beginning to define their marriage. Be it the words she couldn’t say or the mannerisms she couldn’t perfect. The conversation they shared was always crisp and defined by the day’s events. She could never talk about what she truly wished to discuss.

She couldn’t ask him for what she truly wanted.

Their marriage couldn’t survive like this. She knew it couldn’t.

Perhaps, then, it wasn’t meant to survive at all.