Tempesta di Amore

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Author’s Notes: 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 the 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.

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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.

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Chapter 1

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.

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Chapter 2

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 entirelyinconvenient 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.

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[nextpage title=”Chapter 3″ ]

Chapter 3

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.

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Chapter 4″ ]

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes: ZOMG! Thank you so, SO MUCH to whoever nominated this story at the Spark and Burn Awards! Tempesta di Amore has been nominated for Best Fantasy and Best WIP. ZOMG IT’S UP FOR BEST FANTASY! Sorry…I’ve obviously never written a fantasy before now, so it’s all shiny and new! Really, thank you so, so much. I can’t tell you how much it means to me. *bouncy bouncy*

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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.”

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Chapter 5″ ]

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes: Tempesta di Amore has been nominated at LLGA! SQUEE! ZOMG TEMPESTA’S BEEN NOMINATED AGAIN! MY FIRST AU! SQUEE!

Thank you SO MUCH to whoever nominated me! *glomps*

---

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 marryingher, 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.

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[nextpage title=”Chapter 6″ ]

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes: 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!

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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 weddingnight 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 wholly belong 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.

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[nextpage title=”Chapter 7″ ]

Chapter 7

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 calledfruition.

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.

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Chapter 8″ ]

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes: My apologies for the delay. School’s been kicking my ass hard.

And welcoming angelic_amy aboard my beta team! Thanks go to her, megan_peta, ghostgirl13, dusty273, and therealmccoy1 for editing this for me.

---

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 havingWilliam 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.

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Chapter 9″ ]

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes: LOOK! An update! I figured, as I wait for two of my betas to get my It Came Upon The Midnight Clearchapter 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.

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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.

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Chapter 10″ ]

Chapter 10

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.

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Chapter 11″ ]

Chapter 11

Chapter Notes: 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.

---

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.

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Chapter 12″ ]

Chapter 12

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.

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Chapter 13″ ]

Chapter 13

Chapter Notes: While there was a delay between updates, it wasn’t quite as long. Heh. And this time, not due to working on other stories. It’s nearing the end of the semester for me and I’ve had about seven thousand school projects due all at once. Okay, so I exaggerate, but you get the idea. ^_~

My endless thanks to my betas, and, of course, all the lovely readers who are sticking this thing through with me. I appreciate you more than you will ever know.

---

For years she’d slept alone, and in those years she’d never imagined herself sharing a bed with anyone. The concept that she would marry was always a distant fantasy; something she yearned to experience but never thought she would touch. It had been difficult, then, accommodating to sleeping beside a naked man. A man she loved, no less. There were nights in the beginning where sleep was impossible. Nights occupied by staring at her slumbering husband, wondering how on earth she’d managed to find a place at his side.

The adjustment, in reality, had only taken a few days. Only a few days. She remembered well their first night as husband and wife—lying beside him with miles of mattress in between. She remembered reflecting on the oddity that was sharing a bed with a man. How different bed sheets felt against naked skin when she was so used to sleeping clothed. How the foreign ache between her thighs seemed to leave a permanent mark. She hadn’t imagined it ever fading, then. Nor the knotted sensation of pleasure in her belly, remnant from their lovemaking though lacking the warmth she so desperately craved. She’d wondered then if she would ever sleep again, or if all her nights would be wrung with restless tension.

Buffy had her answer now. William had only been away for a few hours, and she couldn’t sleep. The bed felt empty without his comforting presence beside her; without the indention of his weight pressed into the mattress, wordlessly reassuring her that she wasn’t alone. Every position she twisted herself into lost any pretense of comfort within seconds. Restless, Buffy occupied the long nighttime hours turning over and over again, her eyes habitually falling with great reluctance to William’s empty side, and wondering how he was spending his night. Was he dozing peacefully or did he miss her company as desperately as she missed his?

William was sleeping alone. He’d promised her as much, and she believed him.

Buffy supposed she must have eventually fallen asleep, otherwise she could not have been so surprised upon awaking. Rather than watch the sun rise from the Morning Room, she jerked alert with the shrill of the phone at her bedside.

“Mrs. de Winter?”

Mrs. Hart’s wintry voice had the power to render anyone instantly awake.

“Yes?” Buffy replied, clearing her throat, her blurred vision taking in the sunlight which poured in through the thin veil of curtain, splashing the floor and brightening her bedroom in a manner she so seldom noticed. Her room was quite lovely in the morning.

“The time is eleven o’clock, madam. I trust you’re feeling well?”

She blinked stupidly and glanced about the bedroom again. Eleven o’clock? She’d never slept so late in her life. Her eyes turned immediately to William’s side of the bed, knowing, of course, he was miles away; nothing, however, could prevent the sinking sensation in her stomach upon remembering she was alone in the manor. A part of her had hoped blindly that William would return to her if she slept. It was a foolish desire, she knew, but she couldn’t help herself. She’d never realized with as little time as she got to spend with him during the day how much she felt his presence. No matter where she was in Manderley, she was comforted by knowing William was within reach. William was there if she needed him.

For months she’d felt like a foreigner in a strange land. Now, for the first time, isolation truly sank in.

“Mrs. de Winter?” Mrs. Hart pressed, her voice crisp and alert, though nothing could hide her apathy. “Do you wish me to send for the doctor?”

“No,” Buffy said immediately, throwing her legs over the side of the bed. “No thank you. I am feeling fine. I just…didn’t sleep much.”

“I see,” came the indifferent retort. “I have today’s menu prepared for your approval.”

“Mrs. Hart, whatever you have arranged is fine with me.”

The scoff was expected, as was the swift, almost robotic reprimand. Mrs. Hart argued again that Buffy was the lady of the house. These decisions—all household decisions—required her consent before anyone was allowed to make one step in advancement. Buffy again apologized and promised she would try and remember tomorrow, knowing full well this conversation would merely repeat itself tomorrow.

“Will you be dining in the Day Room this morning?”

Buffy paused, her mind immediately envisioning the small room where she and William dined every morning. She saw herself sitting at the table and the empty chair placed precariously across from her, and knew she couldn’t abide the thought of eating alone in a place where she was so accustomed to being with the man she loved. It would make the hours between now and William’s return seem endless.

A long sigh rushed through her body. How hopeless was she? William’s absence would barely cover the span of two days. She was moping around like a woman whose husband had been shipped off to war.

“No,” Buffy replied, realizing she’d been quiet a beat too long. “No, thank you.”

Mrs. Hart’s tone didn’t change. “I will have Winifred bring a tray to your room.”

“Thank you.”

There was a rough sound of acknowledgment and a click. Mrs. Hart rarely troubled herself with things such as formal goodbyes. Buffy pursed her lips and returned the phone to its cradle, turning her eyes to the warm glow brightening the walls and warming the floors. Even though little sunlight poured inward, the dichotomy separating the appearance of her room in the morning and at night was nearly enough to astound her. Buffy spent so little time in her bedroom. Like the Day Room, her bed chambers were a place usually restricted to her life with William. He was there when she awoke and he was the one she slept beside. However, the room she knew at night was a mere shadow of the room surrounding her now.

Her morning routine was already disturbed. There was no need to rush to the Morning Room and sketch. There truly wasn’t a need to do anything. Buffy stifled a yawn and flopped tiredly back onto the mattress, stretching out and feeling, for a blink, delightfully liberated.

The phone at her bedside shrilled again, and she snatched it up like a child caught in the middle of sneaking sweets from the kitchen.

“Hello?”

“Well, that was quick,” William purred into her ear, turning her insides into mush. “Don’t tell me you were waiting by the phone.”

Heat rushed to her face and without warning, her heart began to thunder. Buffy immediately admonished herself for such a childish reaction, though to little avail. “I—umm. Hello.”

He chuckled and her body filled with warmth. “I thought we’d already covered ‘hello.’”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for greeting me?”

It felt so good to hear him tease. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine him standing right across from her. “No,” she replied, smiling in spite of herself. “I didn’t expect you to call me, is all.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” William replied. “London’s a bore, and the bloody dinner has turned into quite the function. Moreover, I wanted to hear your voice.”

Buffy was grateful she was sitting, else her legs would have assuredly given way beneath her. He sounded so warm. So inviting. So unlike how he sounded at Manderley. Was he enjoying himself? Was he happy to be away?

London might be a bore, but it provided his voice with warmth she so rarely heard.

“You won’t be home tonight then?” she asked softly. “If the dinner has…become a large event?”

“Wild horses couldn’t keep me away,” William murmured. “What are your plans for the day, sweetheart?”

“I haven’t been awake long enough to set any plans,” Buffy confessed, casting a guilty glance downward to her nightgown. “I…sort of slept in.”

There was another chuckle. “You’re still in bed?”

“I had trouble sleeping.”

William made a small sound of agreement. “Me too,” he replied. “I’d wager you look adorable right now. Are you in your rose nightgown?”

Buffy blinked and glanced down again, her eyes soaking up the soft-pink fabric of her nightdress. She didn’t think he noticed what she wore to bed. Most of what occurred at night had more to do with removing her clothes rather than observing how she looked in them. “Yes,” she replied shyly, smoothing her hands along the fabric.

“Do me a favor, pet, and have Mrs. Hart launder it for you. I’d like to see you in it tonight.”

If her skin grew any hotter she was certain she would melt into a puddle on the bed. “Would you?”

“Very much.” William paused. “Have you missed me?”

“Oh yes.”

A long, nearly pleasurable sigh rushed through his lips. “I’ve only been away for a day.”

“I…”

“Feels longer, doesn’t it?” he replied gently, his voice dropping in degrees without warning. “For me too. It always feels that forever would pass between my leaving Manderley and coming home.”

Buffy’s heart sank a little. Reality had a way of chilling one’s bones, regardless how expected said reality was. He was merely homesick, and her presence was just another factor of home.

She was just glad to be here for him in whatever way he needed.

“I’ll be home this evening,” William assured her. “Wesley insists on dropping by for supper, but after we get rid of him, we’ll commence a homecoming celebration, yes?”

Her face flushed. “Celebration?”

His chuckle warmed her again. “Life is always best when you find reasons to celebrate, love.”

Several quick, albeit nervous knocks stole words from her lips. Buffy smiled and glanced up as Winifred timidly pushed the door open, her arms full with a large sliver tray which dwarfed her in size. The girl looked so hopelessly awkward that for a second Buffy could have sworn she was gazing into a mirror.

“What’s that?” William asked.

“Winifred has brought me breakfast,” Buffy replied, encouraging her forward with a friendly wave.

“You’re eating in the bedroom?”

She stiffened guiltily. “Is that all right?” she asked, hating how quickly her confidence abandoned her. How she could at once sound weak and unsure of herself. “It was Mrs. Hart’s suggestion.”

“Of course it’s all right,” William replied, his tone flippant. “Why on earth wouldn’t it be?”

There was no way he could see the color return to her face or the sigh which rolled off her shoulders. He would likely be appalled if he knew how often her heart stopped and started again within a day. How very little it took to paralyze her body entirely with fear. The softest spoken word, a soft draw of breath, a fleeting glance across a crowded room—anything and everything had the power to unmake her. William held her entirely in his hands.

If he knew it, he was too good to let her know.

“I-I don’t know,” she replied, wincing. “I just thought—”

William cut her off with a groan which nearly drowned out the sound of a knock echoing somewhere on his end of the line. “Bloody hell,” he all but growled. “Sweetheart, I’ve got to run. Have Mrs. Hart instruct Cook to make stuffed chicken tonight, if you would. With any luck, I’ll be home before nightfall. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, William. I love you.”

The line went dead too quickly—she didn’t know whether or not her words carried over. Buffy stared at the phone for several long, silent seconds, her heart predictably wedged in her throat once more. As quickly as it had come, the hum of his voice faded and the room fell still. She was left with silence.

But she wasn’t alone.

“I-is this all right, Mrs. de Winter?” Winifred asked nervously, brushing her hair over her shoulders. “I-I didn’t mean to interrupt your—”

Buffy smiled disarmingly and waved a dismissive hand. “This is fine, Winifred. Thank you.”

“Is there anything else I can do?”

She nodded, glancing downward. “Inform Mrs. Hart that Mr. Wyndam Pryce will be joining us for supper, and that William has requested stuffed chicken for the meal.”

“Yes ma’am.”

The formality made her flinch inwardly but Buffy did nothing to correct her. Nor did she bother to assure the girl that the use of her given name was more than all right since they were alone. Ever since the incident with the Turning Angel, Winifred had understandably withdrawn within herself, defining identifiable boundaries of what was and wasn’t acceptable. At some point, rules and station had once again become imperative. Winifred needed them, and if the use of formalities gave her any comfort, Buffy wasn’t about to deny her.

Especially since the mess with the Turning Angel had been entirely her fault.

Buffy occupied herself for the rest of the morning in her room, emerging a little after one o’clock in a pair of brown trousers and a cream blouse. She still wasn’t accustomed to what she regarded as informal wear. Living with Mrs. Kendall—and beforehand, growing up as she did—
had taught her that anything less than a skirt was ruled unacceptable. She didn’t know why, but she was becoming more and more convinced with every passing day that either her guardians growing up and her employers lived in a mindset not fashionable since the nineteenth century, or underclass girls were expected to dress a certain way else society make crude judgments.

Buffy found she preferred trousers. They were so much more practical. Especially on days like today. Lazy days. Days she wished to spend enjoying herself without worrying about visitors—the curious, never-ending parade of Drusilla’s friends who were interested in catching a glance at William’s new wife.

There would be no visitors today, and if there were, she wouldn’t be found in the house. It was too gorgeous outside to confine herself indoors. Days like this were made for the Happy Valley with her sketchpad at the ready. Thus, with Jasper at her side, Buffy took down the familiar path leading to the small, natural sanctuary.

A long sigh rushed through her lips. She tossed her head back and glanced up, enjoying the sun’s warm kiss and the way the breeze flirted with her hair. Her constant mental track back to William was unavoidable; she knew how foolish her dependence on him looked to those on the outside. People like Anya, Xander, Wesley, and Drusilla’s endless horde of curious friends. It was one of the reasons she’d been so adamant on being left alone. She didn’t need anyone witnessing her quiet despair, or her jollity at mere news of William’s return.

He’d only been gone two days and one night, but the void of his absence was so potent she knew she wouldn’t be able to breathe freely until he returned. The depth of her own reaction had her astonished; she couldn’t abide the thought of anyone she knew and liked seeing her in such a state. Though she rarely saw him between awaking and suppertime, she felt him with every move she made. He was there—his gentle touch guiding her through the day. Sheltering her. Veiling her in ways she hadn’t fathomed.

Without William here, she felt truly alone. Alone in a stranger’s house.

It was strange how little she had adapted to life at Manderley. Every time she felt she was making progress—that the whispers behind her were truly nothing more than figments of an overly active imagination—she found herself struggling for balance with every obstacle tossed at her. Real and imagined.

Buffy inhaled sharply and shook her head, rubbing her arms to generate heat. When she glanced up, she saw she was at the fork in the path. One path was familiar and friendly, canvassed in trees and shielded with a sense of inherent comfort. The other led to the bay. The place she’d only visited once. The place where she’d met Ben. The place where Drusilla had disappeared.

Another long sigh rolled off her shoulders. Jasper had expectedly hurried down the path with which he was most familiar. No matter how many times she walked with him to the Happy Valley, Jasper always attempted to lead her to the bay. He was such a happy creature—so warm and friendly. She almost felt bad for chastising him upon every walk for nothing more than mere instance. The dog could hardly help it if he preferred one path over the other. Familiarity bred comfort; Buffy felt she knew this better than anyone.

Nevertheless, it did not stop her from raising her voice to chastise him. “Jasper!” she called, jerking her chin toward the Happy Valley when he turned his small, red head in her direction. “This way.”

Jasper stared at her vacantly for a few seconds. There was a silent plea in his warm, loving eyes. One he issued upon every walk.

And Buffy, for the first time, hesitated a beat too long, allowing her thoughts to catch up with her. Thoughts which crossed her mind at least once every time she took him outside. Thoughts which, due to William’s absence, felt bolder today. More courageous.

There was nothing preventing her from venturing down to the bay. Nothing at all. William wouldn’t be back for hours. He wouldn’t be waiting for her in the Happy Valley as he had been the first day they walked together. He’d never know she’d gone to the bay.

He’d never know.

And the bay, of course, was on Manderley’s property. She wouldn’t be trespassing.

No. She’d just be standing in the place where Drusilla had last touched solid ground. The place where her life was forfeit. The place where William’s sorrow began.

Jasper wagged his tail expectantly. Buffy worried a lip between her teeth. Her mind was made up—it had been almost since the second she set foot out of the home. She just hadn’t realized it until reaching the fork. Until the happy dog glanced over his furry shoulder and beckoned her with his large, persuasive eyes.

“All right,” she whispered, her voice barely audible even to her. “All right, Jasper. Lead the way.”

How the creature heard her, she didn’t know. But the second the words left her lips, he emitted a joyous bark and bounded down the pathway.

Buffy cleared her throat and clutched her sketchpad closer to her breast. It felt heavy in her arms and she suddenly wished she hadn’t brought it along. She wasn’t going to use it today.

The path to the bay was a complete contrast from the path to the Happy Valley. There wasn’t a canopy of trees guarding her from the harsh sting of sunlight or small, seemingly insignificant gems of nature aligning the walkway. The air surrounding her seemed unnaturally heavy, and though it felt cool against her skin, the thickness had small beads of sweat dampening her brow. She didn’t know how the contrast of cool and heat failed to affect Jasper, who grew progressively cheerier the further they traveled.

How any creature, be it dog or human, could prefer this barren stretch to the quiet, heavenly solitude of the Happy Valley she didn’t know. The bay was everything the Happy Valley was not. Loud. Bright. Open. Harsh.

And here. Here was where Drusilla had taken her last steps.

It was just as she’d remembered it. The fathomless stretch of the gulf raced an eternity into the distance. She couldn’t tell where the ocean ended and the sky began. The warring blues clashed and blurred. She might as well have been at the edge of the world. At that moment, Buffy didn’t think she could have told the difference. This might have been where Poseidon and Zeus conferred. The heavens and sea merging. It was spectacular and terrifying at the same time. Here, she might as well have been the only person left on earth.

Here, she knew the true meaning of alone.

Jasper, of course, knew nothing of such solitude. As he had the first time she chased him to this lonely beach, the dog yelped cheerily and rolled in banks of sand. Oblivious as ever to the starkness of his surroundings. He couldn’t know this was where William had lost everything. This was where William’s nightmare began.

Buffy shivered again. How odd that she could be so warm and so cold at the same time.

“She don’t come here no more.”

A jerk commanded her heart but she forced herself not to jump. Instead, she swallowed hard and slowly turned around. A part of her had known Ben would be here, just as a part of her had known her feet wouldn’t carry her to the Happy Valley. Ben was as much a part of the mystery of the bay as Drusilla’s disappearance.

The vacancy in Ben’s eyes—the same which had followed her back to the Happy Valley the first time they met—told her that William was right in his summation weeks earlier of Ben’s mental faculties. There was nothing about Ben to frighten her. He looked at her dazedly, as though he was only half-aware she stood before him at all. He had the presence of an overgrown child and nothing more.

Still, even with such knowledge, she found herself trembling. Buffy swallowed hard and nodded encouragingly. Behind her, Jasper released a friendly yip. “Hello, Ben,” she said evenly, startled and pleased when her voice didn’t shake.

At the mention of his name, Ben’s eyes darted to his feet, his hands leaping to his shirt. He busied his fingers with a worn button which dangled from the ripped front pocket. “She don’t come here,” he repeated as though entranced. “The dark lady. She don’t come.”

“She doesn’t?”

He glanced up sharply and took an abrupt, jerky step backward. “You’re not gonna send me to the asylum, are you? Please don’t.”

“No, Ben.”

“I don’t want to go to the asylum.”

She shook her head. “I’m not going to send you to the asylum,” she assured him. “Who doesn’t come here anymore?”

“You’re not like her,” he replied, either not hearing her or ignoring the question. “Tall and dark. She said she’d send me to the asylum. She said it. She said—”

Buffy held up a hand to placate him. Waves crashed against the shoreline. Jasper barked joyously and dug himself a fort of sand. Ben stood a few feet away from her, trembling, nervous, afraid of her but in desperate need of something. Reassurance? What was there to say that she hadn’t already said?

There was little doubt in her mind that the dark lady was Drusilla. This man—this poor man—had known Drusilla. Had she frightened him?

Or had Ben frightened Drusilla? He was rather daunting on appearances alone. A vagrant wandering around the property, collecting seashells and looking perpetually lost—a lady like Drusilla would have been terrified. And rightfully so. Perhaps threats were made. Threats before William could explain Ben to her, as he had to Buffy. Before he could assure his beloved first wife that, while ostensibly intimidating, Ben was, indeed, as daft as a child.

“No one is going to the asylum,” Buffy said again.

“She don’t come here.”

A deep, resounding chill seized her bones. “Did she come here often?” she asked. “Drusilla, that is? Mrs. de Winter?”

Ben looked at her blankly and shook his head, not understanding.

Unfazed, Buffy pushed on. “Did Drusilla come here often, Ben? Was she down here—”

“She don’t come here no more.”

“I know she doesn’t. She won’t anymore. She won’t ever come here again.” Another current of cold crashed over her, sending rippling shock waves across her skin. “How often was she down here, Ben? How often was she in the boathouse?”

Buffy had no idea why the question was suddenly important; it simply was. Not that pressing did any good. Ben merely whimpered and shook his head, fat tears filling his fearful eyes. “Please don’t get mad,” he pleaded. “Nice lady. Won’t send me to the asylum. Nice lady won’t.”

A long tempered sigh crushed her chest. “I’m not angry, Ben. I just…”

Words failed her completely. There was no sense talking to Ben. He’d retreated within himself. His head was downcast now, his legs shuffling nervously from side-to-side. He was mumbling unintelligible words, and when she prompted him to look up again, he merely shook his head again and kept his eyes on the ground.

She’d frightened him. She didn’t know how, but she had frightened him.

At once, Buffy felt like a monster, and she didn’t know what to do. She wanted to apologize, but feared speaking would only exacerbate things. Ben was no longer with her—talking to him would make little difference. He wouldn’t hear her, and even if he did, he wouldn’t understand. How could he? She barely understood herself.

“Jasper,” Buffy said, patting her side. Immediately, the dog was at her feet, standing on his hind-legs and favoring her hand with several long, friendly licks. “We’ll head back now. It’s okay, Ben. It really is.”

Ben didn’t reply. He merely shuffled out of the way as she took up the path again.

Thoughts collided and warred on the way back, a thousand nameless presumptions floating around her head. Presumptions without guidance. Presumptions which wouldn’t provide answers.

Answers to what, Buffy didn’t know. She didn’t know anything.

Nothing beyond William’s return. Perhaps his absence was driving her mad.

Perhaps being alone in Manderley was driving her mad.

Perhaps Mrs. Kendall was right all along…

The thought was poisonous. She wouldn’t allow herself to think of such things. Not tonight. William was coming home.

The rush of comfort the persistent reminder provided was chased away the second Buffy glanced up.

There was an unfamiliar car in the drive.

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Chapter 14″ ]

Chapter 14

Buffy wandered the halls, feeling very much like a criminal in her own home. It wasn’t an unusual sensation, by any means. She was quite accustomed to feeling like a stranger. Like she belonged anywhere but where she was. It had never been like this, though. Never had she been reduced to actually tiptoeing around the house to avoid notice. She didn’t know who was here, but it was obvious enough they were welcome. Mrs. Hart wouldn’t allow someone who didn’t meet her approval inside. The person had to be a friend or colleague of William’s. One Buffy hadn’t met before.

One she wasn’t too eager to meet now. After her disastrous discussion with Ben, she would much rather just steal away to her room and wait until the evening brought William back home. Thus with Jasper at her side, she sneaked up the main stairwell, hoping the dog would remain quiet enough to elude attention.

A wordless conversation drifted through the still air; Buffy recognized the icy timber of Mrs. Hart’s voice immediately, her insides freezing as though caught under the woman’s unmovable glare. The guest was on the second floor, then. The guest was an intimate guest. One who knew the family well enough to proceed beyond the rooms below, which were designed, in part, to entertain visitors.

Only family and intimate friends were allowed upstairs.

And only friends of the family were allowed in the west wing. Buffy froze with the tenfold of that knowledge. The voices she heard were coming from the west wing. The place Drusilla had lived with William. The place William had closed off. The place no one but Mrs. Hart dared venture.

The guest had to be Mrs. Hart’s. There was no other explanation.

The man answered Mrs. Hart with a booming roar of a voice which bounced off the walls and carried down the corridor. It would be a wonder if the whole house didn’t hear him.

“That’s really all ol’ Spike is up to nowadays? I don’t even know why I’m surprised. Nothing quite like taking up a new one before the sheets get cold, though. What’s she like? The new one, I mean?”

Buffy’s eyes widened, her veins stiffening. It was appalling; the words themselves and imagining them being spoken to Mrs. Hart. The housekeeper’s answer, however, didn’t come with the hostility one might have imagined. Instead, her tone was quiet and reasonable, the words themselves an unintelligible murmur that might as well have meant nothing.

At her side, Jasper barked.

Buffy nearly jumped out of her skin, her eyes aiming a useless glare at her furry companion, whose tail was wagging with eager friendliness. Her heart pounded and her pulse raced. The last thing she wanted was to be caught eavesdropping by Mrs. Hart, thus before she could stop herself, her feet carried over the threshold of the nearest room. She took a quick glance around before resolutely placing herself behind the door, hoping Jasper wouldn’t follow her inside.

She cursed herself for hesitating at all before heading to her room. The situations she managed to get into around here were downright humiliating.

“What the devil was that?” the man’s voice carried over, seemingly louder than before.

“The dog,” Mrs. Hart replied obviously, her words now audible. They must be proceeding down the hallway. “It seems the mistress has returned home.”

Jasper barked a happy affirmation and panted.

“Spike’s new girl, right? Can’t wait to catch a glance of her.”

Buffy shuddered violently and prayed Jasper wouldn’t betray her. There was something about the man’s voice which made her insides recoil. Something undefined and beyond her sense of reasoning, but something very present nonetheless. She didn’t want to see his face, or know that he had seen hers. She didn’t want to be forced to shake his hand and paste on a smile for anyone’s benefit. The man was quite clearly Mrs. Hart’s guest. He was here to see Mrs. Hart.

Anyone here to see Mrs. Hart was someone Buffy wanted nothing to do with.

Her prayers, however, fell on deaf ears. Jasper bounded into the Morning Room a second later in search of her, bringing the mysterious visitor with him.

The mysterious visitor and Mrs. Hart.

“Well, well,” the man said, pulling the door back with a wide grin. “What have we got here?”

Seeing his face only furthered her discomfort. Buffy was paralyzed for long, endless seconds, her eyes soaking him in. He had dark hair and a generous build, and an expression which told her plainly he knew exactly how good looking he was. The sensation gripping her gut suddenly had her in an impossible choke-hold, and while she knew she should speak—should say something in hopes of alleviating this awkward moment—her mouth ran impossibly dry and all she could do was blink at him.

“May I present,” Mrs. Hart said behind him, her tone icier than ever. “Mrs. Elizabeth de Winter.”

“Elizabeth?” the man repeated, brows arched.

At any other point in introductions, Buffy would find it appropriate to correct whoever she was meeting with her preferred name. However, for whatever reason, she didn’t want this man to have any sort of intimate knowledge about her. Be it her name, which was powerless, or her relationship with William. Thus she swallowed hard and nodded, managing a tight, “Yes, I am Elizabeth de Winter.”

Mrs. Hart knew well enough which name she preferred. If she was surprised by Buffy’s reply, she did not show it.

“Wonderful to meet you at last,” the man said thickly, taking her hand before she could offer it. The feel of his skin against hers sent an unpleasant shiver down her spine. “I’m Angelus O’Malley.”

Buffy desperately wanted her hand back. “Charmed,” she replied.

“So…don’t tell me Spike’s already run off on you?” Angelus drawled, his black eyes twinkling as he rocked on his heels. “I hear he’s taken to London.”

She very much didn’t like the way he spoke. The words themselves were innocuous; his tone was very much not. And she certainly didn’t care for the name. The name she remembered seeing scribbled in a book William had given her ages ago. The name Drusilla had called him. However, betraying nothing, Buffy managed a mere nod and confirmed, “There was a public dinner.”

“Oh yes. A public dinner. There’s loads of those, I’m sure.” He shrugged and shot Mrs. Hart a wide grin. The woman did not grin back. “So…Elizabeth, is it? How’re you liking Manderley? Bit of a bore, I’d say, ‘specially when Spike’s away. Not that he’s good for much as far as entertainment goes whether he’s here or not.” Angelus laughed loudly as though he’d said something incredibly witty. “What do you do for fun?”

Buffy pursed her lips and shot a glance to Mrs. Hart, silently imploring her for help. There was none to be had.

“I sketch,” she replied politely.

“Can’t imagine I’d be driven away from a sweet little filly like you, were I in Spike’s shoes,” Angelus continued as though she hadn’t spoken, his eyes roaming over her in a predatory fashion which made her feel naked. “Spike told you much about me?”

She really wished he’d stop referring to William by that name. It painted her husband in a harsh, near unforgiving light. He was no longer William the Poet; William who walked with her to the Happy Valley, who petted Jasper when the dog jumped into his lap, who made her body sing with pleasure even if he kept the part of him she wanted most out of reach. William was a good man; calling himSpike stripped away inherent levels of propriety. It was degrading and disrespectful. It didn’t acknowledge him for the man he was.

“No. William hasn’t mentioned you,” Buffy replied coldly. She barely recognized her own voice.

Angelus didn’t acknowledge her one way or another. He didn’t nod apologetically or balk in offense. Her tone wasn’t ambiguous; the widening of Mrs. Hart’s eyes—imperceptible but existent—expressed a certain measure of surprise. It was justifiably surprising, as Buffy never spoke up. The day, it seemed, was one of many surprises.

“There’s a shocker,” he drawled. “Figured he’d have sprouted a load of warnings by now. No worries, though. I was just here to see ole Erzsie.” He tossed the living statue another glance. “We’re old friends, Hart and I.”

Buffy blinked. She turned her eyes to Mrs. Hart, who betrayed nothing. “Erzie?”

“Erzsebet,” Mrs. Hart with a slight inclination of her head. “My given name.”

She didn’t clarify, and Buffy was stunned. Never would she have expected Mrs. Hart to tolerate such blatant insolence to her face. This was the same woman who chastised Buffy every morning for telling her the day’s menu wasn’t a matter she gave much thought. Imagining Mrs. Hart and the man at her side as old friends was practically impossible. They were from two completely different worlds.

“Mr. O’Malley was Drusilla’s cousin,” Mrs. Hart said softly, as though reading her mind. “He visits occasionally when Mr. de Winter is away.”

The revelation nearly knocked Buffy off her feet, and perhaps would have had Jasper not barked loudly to remind everyone he was in the room. Her heart thundered and her pulse raced, a shrill deafening her ears for seemingly endless seconds before the world returned to her. Angelus was a relation of Drusilla’s?

Mrs. Hart’s eyes burned into hers, and Buffy felt at once as though she was the symptom of everything wrong in the world of Manderley.

This changed everything. This made everything relevant.

Angelus connected Mrs. Hart to Drusilla.

Buffy’s stomach turned. It suddenly became imperative that she put as much distance between Angelus and herself as possible. There was something in his eyes she didn’t trust. He looked like a thief on the verge of a truly amazing steal. As though this revelation should make him royalty in her eyes; as though she should feel privilege to stand with him, for his time was precious. He was a relative of Drusilla’s.

“I should like to take you driving sometime,” Angelus purred, his eyes raking over her again. “Did you see the Bentley in the drive? She’s a beaut, isn’t she?”

The air was very thick. Her skin was warm and slick. Buffy swallowed hard but didn’t reply. She needed to get away from him. From Mrs. Hart. She needed to get away right now.

“Next time Spike skips out, we’ll make a day of it.” The horrible man winked, turning at last to Mrs. Hart with a small nod. “Think I’ll be heading out, Erzsie. Be a love and see me out?”

Buffy didn’t breathe freely until she was again left alone. Until the weight burdening her shoulders finally allowed her a gasp of reprieve. She didn’t know what had just happened, and she wasn’t sure she wanted an answer. Her tired mind was exhausting itself into another endless race. She still had to muddle through how she could interpret Ben’s cryptic words. Faced now with someone who knew Drusilla—someone seemingly unconnected to William—it was too much for her. Too much for this moment.

William is coming home, she reminded herself, but the reassurance didn’t calm her nerves as it had all day. She wanted him home right now. She needed to talk to him about this—about the thoughts colliding with conscience and the ghosts constantly chasing her around corners. There was only so much a person could take.

Only so much…

Buffy sighed heavily, absently caressing Jasper’s head when the dog whined and arched on his hind-legs, his two front paws pressed against her thigh in search of attention. It was growing increasingly more difficult to ignore the pang in her chest. The way it hurt to breathe when she gazed upon William’s familial portraits. The way her reflection portrayed a girl far out of her element. The way the servants whispered. The way Mrs. Hart’s critical eye never gave her a single moment’s rest.

Mrs. Hart, who had loved Drusilla.

Jasper favored her hand with a parting lick before taking off down the stairs, leaving her completely alone. Buffy shivered, her eyes turning to the forbidden stretch of hallway which led to the west wing. Mrs. Hart and Angelus O’Malley had come from those quarters. The only place in Manderley she had yet to explore. What could be left in the west wing from William and Drusilla’s marriage?

Did she want to know?

The word want, of course, was relative. There was very little want about her living conditions. She didn’t want to hear tales of Drusilla, no more than she wanted to consider the endless emptiness which seized William’s eyes. She didn’t want to know how happy he’d been one time and she didn’t want any reminders of how he would never find such happiness with her.

Drusilla’s ghost couldn’t chase her forever. Either she would find rest or Buffy would go mad. She couldn’t continue like this.

She couldn’t continue half alive, hoping her love for William would be enough. And she couldn’t let her marriage fail. She loved him too much. Perhaps—perhaps—if Buffy found a way to consign Drusilla forever to the grave—if only for herself—she could learn how to live at Manderley. She could learn…

Before Buffy could stop herself, her feet were carrying her down a corridor of shadows and into a realm she’d never before ventured.

The halls of the west wing mirrored those of the east with unsurprising symmetry. For long, heavy seconds, she was aware of nothing but the sound of her thundering heart and the trembling breaths rolling off her shoulders. Many times she had envisioned what Drusilla’s end of the manor looked like—picturing drawn curtains, cob-webbed corners, and a tunnel of darkness before emerging in the once-master bedroom. Her imagination faltered in the wake of reality. Aside from a definitive lack of light, there was nothing out of place. Every corner was spotless. The walls, unsurprisingly, were decorated with portraits. There was nothing to suggest this wing of the house was uninhabited. Were Buffy to hold her breath, she could envision a woman in an immaculate dress—a woman of infamous charm and beauty—turning the corner, the fabric of her skirt whispering with every step.

Drusilla’s heart still beat in this hall. In the air Buffy breathed.

Then she turned again, her feet leading her to where she knew she would find the bedroom. And in the doorway, she froze solid.

Sunlight poured in through open windows, spilling onto flawless pearl carpet as though guided by God. The canopy bed against the wall was neatly made, save for the corner of the crimson spread, turned down as though waiting for its mistress. A white nightgown was strewn across the mattress with a pair of matching slippers waiting on the floor. Across from the bed sat a large mahogany armoire, one panel open, displaying an assortment of stylish clothing which knew no time period. In the far corner, complete with a waiting set of brushes and a selection of rich perfumes, was a vanity. The room itself was a snapshot of time. There was nothing dead about these walls.

Sickness churned in her gut. The air around her thinned. Her chest ached. Every nerve in her body trembled with awareness.

Drusilla had never left the room. She lived here still. Everything was waiting for her. Everything was set out. Her brushes. Her clothes. Her nightgown. The windows were unlocked so she could hear the ocean. Her armoire was open so she could riffle through her belongings. The bed was turned down in anticipation of her rest. The room breathed of her. Lilac fragranced the air.

“Oh my God,” Buffy breathed, her numb legs dragging her back. She needed to get out. She needed to get out now.

“You have wanted to see this room for some time, haven’t you, Mrs. de Winter?”

The intrusion nearly startled her out of her skin. Buffy jumped and turned, her heart crashing against her chest as the rest of her turned to stone. Mrs. Hart was in the doorway, her hands crossed properly in front of her, an odd look on her face. The tone of the question indicated she did not want a reply; it was the sort of thing one said when they wanted to provide their own answer.

“Of course you have,” she said, her voice firm with conviction.

“No,” Buffy replied immediately. “No, I want to return—”

“Here.” The woman’s icy fingers closed around her wrist, tugging her eagerly to the armoire. “Let me show you.”

This was a face of Mrs. Hart she had never seen before. The once-frozen façade had melted into an almost schoolgirl warmth. It was not reassuring—if anything, the absence of the tundra made Buffy even more aware of herself. But she didn’t know what to do. The woman’s grip was unmovable, dragging her into a subworld she should never have breeched.

“She had infamous taste,” Mrs. Hart said, throwing open the other panel of the armoire and selecting a sleeveless, ruby dress. “She was envied for it. Every event, every party, every celebration…people would rush in just to see what she was wearing. This she wore to the very last New Years party she and Mr. de Winter threw together.”

Buffy swallowed hard. She didn’t want to touch it. “It’s lovely.”

“And here,” Mrs. Hart continued, jerking Buffy’s reluctant feet to the vanity. “She used to sit here for hours as I brushed her hair. One hundred strokes at a time. No more. No less. She had the finest hair.” With her free hand, the woman selected the largest brush and held it up for Buffy’s inspection. “You can see her hair here. As though it had just been brushed last night.”

The admission had her feeling sick all over again, but fortunately, she didn’t get any time to react. In an instant, she was at the side of the bed, her eyes glued to the nightgown and the turned down bedspread.

“And this,” Mrs. Hart said, releasing Buffy’s wrist at last to admire the lacey white fabric with both hands. “Still warm. You’d think…she was still here. Still with us.”

“Mrs. Hart, please…”

“The night she went out and never came back, I sat in here. Waiting for her. Waiting to brush her hair. I could hear Mr. de Winter upstairs, of course. He spent the night in his study. He had no wish to sleep without her, you see.” Mrs. Hart nodded hard, as though only half aware Buffy existed at all. “I heard him pacing all night. He never stopped pacing. For weeks after, I would sit in here, waiting…and he would stay in the study. He never slept in here again.”

Buffy’s stomach curled again. She was too stunned to cry. Too stunned to react. Too stunned to register the many stabs the woman took at her heart and the way she was slowly bleeding from the inside. There was nothing about the night Drusilla disappeared that Buffy wanted to know. She wanted to keep Drusilla in the past. She wanted to keep her buried.

Mrs. Hart was intent on making sure she lived.

“Do you think,” the old woman continued wistfully, releasing the nightgown and turning back to Buffy with swift rapidity, “that the dead come back and watch over the living?”

The room spun wildly around her.

“I…I don’t know.”

Mrs. Hart came closer. “Do you think Drusilla watches you with Mr. de Winter? When you’re alone together?”

The manic note in the housekeeper’s voice sent a shiver of pure fear down Buffy’s spine. She was going to faint.

And yet, she was only aware of the cool air whipping her cheeks as she tore out of the room and raced down the hall, determined to get as far from Mrs. Hart and Drusilla’s room before consciousness evaded her completely. She ran without direction, without thought. She ran until her tired legs collapsed at the foot of the staircase, and waited there for the world to stop spinning.

*~*~*

Someone was shaking her shoulder.

“Buffy? Buffy, are you all right?”

Her eyes remained closed. Every inch of her ached. “William?”

There was a small pause. “I’m sorry, no,” came the soft reply. “It’s Wesley.”

Buffy blinked and sat up wearily. Colors blurred and shapes merged, but eventually she found she was lying on the settee in the downstairs drawing room. The cold cloth which had been pressed against her brow fell limply into her lap. “What…?”

“Mrs. Hart had you brought in here a little while ago,” Wesley said, waving Winifred over with a disarming, almost charismatic smile Buffy had never seen on his face before. He took the glass of water the young woman offered with a gracious nod, then turned back to Buffy and held it to her lips. “She said you weren’t feeling well.”

Mention of the woman had her stomach churning all over again. “Where’s William?” she asked instead, her tired muscles screaming for rest.

“He’s…Buffy, I’m so sorry. He won’t be making it tonight.”

“What?”

“He telephoned just after I arrived. The weather in London is dreadful. Not at all ideal for driving.” Wesley held the glass to her lips until she took it into her own hand, concern etched across every line of his face. “I’m so sorry, Buffy. You should have heard him…I don’t know if I’ve ever known him to be so distraught.” He paused shortly. “He’s going to phone again tonight. He needs to hear your voice.”

Buffy blinked again. Her mind was frozen around one reality. William wasn’t coming home tonight. “What?” she replied, chilled.

“I told him you’re ill. He’s very worried.”

“Oh.”

She wasn’t ill. She just wanted William.

She wanted William, and she wanted to forget Drusilla’s bedroom. She wanted to forget everything.

“William requested that I stay in one of the guest rooms. Is that all right?” Wesley paused, gauging her response. “He doesn’t…he doesn’t want you to be alone if you’re not feeling well. He did tell me, though, that the final word rests with you.”

There wasn’t an inch of her that wasn’t numb. “Will he be home tomorrow?”

“Oh yes. He’s leaving as soon as it’s light outside.” Another pause. “I’m so sorry, Buffy.”

She nodded, barely hearing him, and sipped her water. She knew she should say something; should tell him she was all right. She should tell him one of a thousand things.

But he wasn’t William. And she wanted William.

So instead, she said nothing at all.

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Chapter 15″ ]

Chapter 15

She knew before she opened her eyes that the bed would be empty. William hadn’t come home last night; she’d waited up longer than she’d told herself she would, listening eagerly for the familiar cadence of his footsteps and the rhythm of his breathing. Of course, this was nothing for which she hadn’t been warned. He was supposed to have come back yesterday, but he hadn’t. It was storming in London and he didn’t want to risk the drive. While she knew it was a wise decision—that if something happened to William she would be irrevocably lost—the emptiness of their bed made every corner of her body ache.

It had been hard but endurable, living at Manderley without William. She’d tempered herself admirably, doing her best to not overstep her bounds; doing her best to let the house operate as it always did without getting in anyone’s way. She’d missed his eyes and his voice. She’d missed the dip in the mattress and the tender caresses of his hands. She’d missed the way she felt when lying in his arms. She’d missed him terribly, and as much as she thought she’d felt his absence before, there was absolutely no comparison to the void consuming her now.

It came back to her in short spurts. Meeting Angelus O’Malley. Enduring the rakish leer of his covetous eyes as he’d glanced over her body like a city waiting to be conquered. Listening to the raw innuendos buried within every slick word to roll off his tongue. His insinuation that William’s leaving for London wasn’t an unusual occurrence—the only thing surprising in his absence was, rather, the fact he’d gone so quickly. That he couldn’t get away from Buffy fast enough.

Yesterday had lasted a thousand years. She’d awakened with a phone call from her husband, his warmth and his frivolity providing her with both hope for his homecoming and a loom of sadness at the knowledge that it wouldn’t last. Whatever happened to him when he was away from Manderley very clearly had a positive effect on his disposition. He’d spoken to her like she was someone for whom he pined while he was away. Like he couldn’t wait to be home so he could touch her again.

So much had happened since then. Buffy’s head hurt just to think of it. Her walk down to the bay, her disturbing conversation with Ben, discovering Angelus’s car in the drive, meeting Angelus himself.

And then what happened afterward. The flawless presentation of the place where Drusilla had lived. Mrs. Hart’s eager tour. She’d shown her everything, right down to the brush which had once worshiped her dead mistress’s hair and the nightdress Drusilla might have worn to welcome her husband home from a long journey.

Sickness attacked her belly and her head spiked with heat. Buffy sighed and leaned against the mattress again. William hadn’t come home last night, but God-willing he would today. And she didn’t know what she would say to him. She was convinced Mrs. Hart didn’t want William to know Angelus had visited; it was fine with Buffy—she didn’t want to think of the encounter at all, much less discuss a relative of Drusilla’s with her husband.

The woman’s ghost wouldn’t leave her alone, and the past few days had done a number on her head. One second, she would find she was desperate for information on Drusilla; the next, even hearing the woman’s name made her shut down and retreat within herself. The dichotomy was driving her mad, and from her vantage point she could see no clear way out.

William will be home today.

The reassurance was an empty one. She’d told herself the same thing over and over again the day before, but she was still waking up in an empty bed. A part of her was desperate to believe William would have braved Hell itself to get home if he’d known how badly she needed him, but the rest of her was too cynical to hope. There was obviously an air about Manderley which brought his spirits to an unbearable low. Whether it was the walking memories of what he’d once had or the knowledge that the woman waiting for him wasn’t the one he yearned to see, she didn’t know, and truthfully, she feared finding out.

She feared so very much.

The phone at her bedside rang. Buffy rolled over and reached for the receiver. This was the second time she hadn’t been in the Morning Room to take Mrs. Hart’s expected call, but she didn’t feel the shock at her late sleep as she had the day before. She’d only been awake for a few minutes and she already regretted having opened her eyes at all.

The night hadn’t known too much rest, and while what little sleep she’d entertained had been plagued with nightmares, they were preferable to facing the world downstairs. The servants whom had undoubtedly seen her collapse at the foot of the stairs after fleeing from Drusilla’s room. Wesley, whose piteous eyes would take her in, whose words would offer numbing comfort, whose company would prevent her from isolation, even if there was nothing keeping her from being alone.

Buffy didn’t want pity.

She just wanted William.

“Hello?” she said into the phone, her voice hoarse with sleep.

“Mrs. de Winter, the time is eleven o’clock. Are you feeling well?”

It amazed her how detached Mrs. Hart could sound after the encounter in Drusilla’s bedroom. She spoke as though nothing at all had happened. As though nothing had changed.

How Buffy managed to keep her voice from trembling, she didn’t know. “I am quite well, thank you.”

“Mr. Pryce has requested the presence of a doctor.”

She wilted inwardly. The last thing she needed was a medical professional probing and prodding at her, especially since she knew there was nothing wrong with her physically. All her ailments were inward. Her heart was sick and her head wouldn’t sleep, but her body was operating as a body should.

“Thank Mr. Pryce for his concern,” Buffy replied, swallowing hard. “But assure him I am feeling quite well.”

“Mr. Pryce is on instruction from Mr. de Winter to keep an eye on you,” Mrs. Hart returned in a tone others might mistake for amicable. There was a brief pause and the muffled echoes of what sounded like an aside-conversation before the woman returned, “Mr. Pryce wishes me to tell you that he will refrain from phoning the doctor if you join him for an early lunch.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“He assures me it is, Mrs. de Winter.”

There was an air of heavy disinterest in Mrs. Hart’s voice. It was more than obvious she could give a damn one way or another if Buffy joined Wesley for lunch. As it was, dining with William’s friend was definitely the lesser of two evils; she had no desire to waste a doctor’s time or her pride to be told she was fine.

Wesley was just worried for her. She couldn’t help but appreciate his concern.

“Tell Mr. Pryce I will join him in a half hour.”

“Very well, Mrs. de Winter.”

There was a click and then silence. Buffy sighed and swung her legs over her bed.

Just get through the day, she told herself, rising to her feet. Just get through the day. William will make everything better.

The promise rang empty, but she couldn’t forgo hope.

If nothing else, she wouldn’t be sleeping alone tonight.

*~*~*

“I hope you’re not too angry with me,” Wesley said as she stepped into the kitchenette. “I don’t normally resort to petty blackmail.”

His warm eyes and genuine tone had her defenses faltering almost instantly.

“That is quite all right. Thank you.”

“I had Cook prepare us some sandwiches. Unless you’re hungry for something else?”

Buffy shook her head and tried to smile. In all honesty, she wasn’t hungry at all. Her stomach had been silently threatening a small rebellion since the prospect of food was mentioned, but she didn’t think relating as much would do anything to quell Wesley’s concern.

“That is fine, thanks,” she replied, trying to smile. “I do hope your morning wasn’t too dull.”

“Not at all.”

She pursed her lips. “Wesley…if there is some business you need to tend to or anything…I just don’t want you to feel you need to baby-sit me. I assure you, I am quite capable of—”

He held up a hand. “Not a chance.”

“Wesley—”

“It’s not that I don’t applaud your attempt, Buffy. However, my loyalty lies with William, and he is worried out of his mind about you.”

She sighed a little and nodded. “Has he telephoned?”

“I telephoned him this morning. He was in a rush to leave, so we didn’t talk much.”

“He’s…he’s on his way now?”

“It will be a few hours, but yes.” Wesley fell silent, a thoughtful look filling his eyes. “Buffy…do you want to talk about what happened yesterday?”

Every molecule in her body froze. “Excuse me?”

“The car I saw in the drive isn’t one I’m prone to forget anytime soon.” He sighed and tilted his head, imploring her silently for an answer she didn’t want to give. “Buffy…I know Angelus was here.”

“You were here that long?”

“I saw him tear out of the drive. We didn’t exchange pleasantries.” Wesley placed a hand on her shoulder and steered her out of the kitchenette and into the front parlor. To the place where she had enjoyed her first lunch with Wesley, Anya, and Xander. It seemed so long ago.

There were no more words until she was sitting, and Buffy was glad for it. She didn’t wish to embarrass herself further by losing her balance or swooning. Before yesterday, she wouldn’t have thought it possible to actually swoon; before yesterday, she’d never before fainted. Now she feared it—feared the spinning of the walls and the confiscation of control. It had happened so suddenly. It had happened without any sense of warning. Was that the way it always was?

Buffy shuddered. She didn’t wish to find out.

“Had you met him before?”

She blinked numbly and forced her eyes upward. There was every possibility her mind was playing tricks on her, however, while his tone was civil, there was almost a hint of suspicion buried in Wesley’s voice. The notion was so preposterous she inwardly laughed it off, even if she couldn’t quite dismiss the odd slant in the man’s eyes. Perhaps isolation was causing her sanity to collapse. Perhaps she was now making enemies out of friends.

My God.

She was suffocating. Manderley was slowly strangling her, and it wouldn’t be satisfied until there was nothing of her left to torment.

“No, of course not,” Buffy heard herself saying. “No…my meeting him was an accident. I took Jasper for a walk. We went to the bay…” She held up a hand when Wesley’s eyes widened dangerously, offering a faint nod as the rest of her struggled for strength. “I know.”

“William would hate it—”

“I know, Wesley. Which is why I ask you not to tell him I was there at all.”

He nodded solemnly but didn’t say anything.

Buffy waited a second, collected herself, and continued. “When I returned from my walk, I saw there was a car in the drive—a car I’d never seen before. I came inside with a mind to go directly to my bed chambers and wait for William to come home.”

There was a long pause.

“Was Angelus O’Malley here to visit Mrs. Hart?”

She nodded.

An unreadable emotion crashed behind Wesley’s eyes, but he neither acknowledged nor seemed to notice the ostensible change. “Angelus was Drusilla’s cousin,” he said. “He was a frequent visitor when Drusilla was alive.”

The thought of the ghastly man polluting the halls of the manor, despite however much the manor seemed determined to ruin her, made Buffy’s stomach coil. “I didn’t like him,” she said. “I didn’t like him at all. He made me feel very…I didn’t like the way he made me feel. He doesn’t come here often, does he?” She paused and frowned at herself, then clarified, “I mean, of course…does he come here often now?”

“I’d say not, if this is the first you’ve met him.” The look in Wesley’s eyes, however, remained unconvinced. “Mrs. Hart was very involved with Drusilla’s side of the family. It is possible she remains in contact with Angelus out of some sort of…survivor’s guilt.”

“Survivor’s guilt?”

“The sense that they are alive whereas a loved one is not.”

The explanation didn’t help, but Wesley had continued before she could give the matter much consideration.

“Do you intend to tell William of Angelus’s visit?”

Buffy frowned. “I don’t believe Mrs. Hart wants him to know.”

“Be that as it may, this is your home.”

Wesley could say the words as often as he liked, it wouldn’t make them feel any truer. “It has been her home much longer,” she replied reasonably. “Mrs. Hart runs the house; I merely live in it.”

“You cannot—”

“Wesley…I appreciate everything you’re trying to do…but my relationship with Mrs. Hart is…delicate at best. I do not wish to give her reason to dislike me. If she doesn’t want William to know that Angelus was here, then I shall not be the one to tell him.”

A frown deepened the man’s brow. “Your relationship doesn’t rest on whether or not Mrs. Hart is fond of you. I can understand the appeal of being well-liked, but Buffy…she is, at the end of the day, only your maid.”

Buffy broke her eyes away, a long sigh tearing through her lips. There was no way to explain this in a manner which would make Wesley understand. It was something he couldn’t understand unless he lived here. Unless he felt the way the walls whispered and compressed upon one’s body. Unless he felt air stripped from his lungs. Until he knew how it felt to choked by a ghost.

To know his house was run by a woman who no longer lived.

There was nothing to say, so she said nothing. Instead, she leaned back and waited for Mr. Giles to serve them lunch.

She would be much happier when she could return to her room.

*~*~*

It wasn’t William’s footsteps or the soft rhythm of his breathing which jarred her from sleep. It was the sound of his voice.

His screaming voice.

“If I ever hear of that man setting foot in this house again, I will personally show you the door. Do you understand me?”

Buffy gasped and jerked upward, her eyes fixing on the bedroom door. She’d left it open before retiring for a midday nap. Her husband’s shouts were loud enough to rock the home to its foundation. He was home—William was home.

And he was furious.

“I assure you, Mr. de Winter,” came the tempered, frosty reply, “I will not welcome Mr. O’Malley into Manderley again.”

William didn’t seem to hear her; the floor trembled with the heavy crashes of his paces, his voice only climbing octaves in volume. “You want to associate with filth like O’Malley, that’s your own bloody call, Hart. But you do it on your time and on property that is not titled to me. You did this deliberately and with full knowledge of how I would react if I discovered that man had been within a mile of Manderley. And that’s the rub, isn’t it? You brought him here to spite me.” A thick pause. “Well, didn’t you?”

Mrs. Hart didn’t reply.

“Oh sod it. Just get the hell away from me.”

Then those weighty footsteps were proceeding down the hallway. Toward the bedroom. Toward her. And before Buffy could gather her thoughts, her feet found the floor and were carrying her to the doorway.

Carrying her to William.

However, when she saw him at last, she couldn’t conceal her gasp. He looked crazed, fueled with fury and grief. He looked barely human.

“Buffy,” he growled, and the next thing she knew, she was in his arms, his mouth tearing wildly at hers. She was shocked numb, her mind spiraling far from the strain of control. She felt him. She felt him like she’d felt nothing before. His tongue licking the inside of her cheeks before attacking hers, his hands trapping her cheeks to hold her to his kiss as his body rocked against hers in a startlingly blatant imitation of lovemaking. He consumed her angrily, wildly, stamping himself into her skin. Gone was the tender man she’d known just days ago, and with as frightened as she was, there was a part of her which couldn’t help but respond with enthusiasm.

Something in her chest purred with delight.

“William,” she breathed against him, her heart thundering. Her hands found his face, feeling him as though to verify his authenticity. To convince herself he was really with her, really against her, and the kiss they’d shared had been real.

Their kisses were always careful. She’d never tasted anything like this—not but once after their first walk to the Happy Valley. He’d kissed her angrily there as well, and until now, it had been the most memorable kiss of her life.

The moment didn’t last. If anything, the tender caresses of her hands as she explored him seemed to anchor him to reality. Seemed to bring him back to himself. William blinked in surprise against her, astonishment at his own actions leaking into his eyes. He looked at her as though he’d never seen her. As though they had been parted so long he didn’t remember her at all.

Then his eyes flickered darkly. “Did he touch you?” he all but snarled. “Did that—”

“Who?” Buffy asked innocently.

“You. Know. Who,” came the angry retort. “Angelus—”

“No.”

“No?”

“No, he didn’t…I…we barely spoke. He…” Buffy panted, trying hard to collect herself. It was damned hard while standing in William’s arms. Feeling William’s firm body against her, hardness she knew well now pressed intimately against her stomach. A part of her thought she should be appalled such roughness had this effect on him, but the rest of her was too astonished to notice. Too…hot. She’d never been this hot.

William’s breaths crashed against her lips. “He didn’t touch you?”

“No,” she promised. “No. He…he was talking to Mrs. Hart. I came in from my walk and he was here…he was here to speak with Mrs. Hart.” She frowned inwardly. This was something William couldn’t have known unless Wesley told him, which, she supposed, was perfectly fair. She’d merely told Wesley that she wouldn’t be the one to betray Mrs. Hart’s trust; and though she would have liked time to prepare for the fervor of William’s reaction, she couldn’t deny her relief that he knew. Her relief that she wasn’t the reason he knew.

For now she could tell him. She could tell him how much she disliked Angelus without suffering Mrs. Hart’s retaliation.

“I didn’t like him. He made me…”

The shadow returned. “Made you what?”

“Uncomfortable.”

“That’s all? You’re sure?”

She nodded. “That’s all.”

It took a few tempered seconds, but eventually the fire in William’s eyes began to fade. Eventually the flames died down, leaving her chilled in their wake. He brushed his lips across her brow and released her from his arms, putting space between them without any want of explanation.

Buffy stood dumbfounded, her chest crashing, her mind racing.

“I’m sorry I lost my temper,” he said. “I didn’t mean…I didn’t mean to lose my temper. Are you feeling well?”

There was no way to answer the question. None her brain could provide. And even though she heard herself reply, she had no idea which words she spoke.

She had no idea what had just happened.

Though for the way her lips tingled, she found herself quickly missing the fire.

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Chapter 16″ ]

Chapter 16

Buffy didn’t enjoy spending time with Drusilla’s friends, and from the look on William’s face, hers was a shared sentiment. However, it was typically Mrs. Hart who scheduled the appointments and made arrangements. The woman would, of course, confirm the luncheons with her employer, but William would acquiesce to nearly every proposal unless he was otherwise engaged. There was no rhyme or reason to his constant and unfailing accord—and it meant, more or less, that whenever Drusilla’s friends contacted Mrs. Hart, William and Buffy were subjected to their company.

Today was one such day.

“You know how I’ve always admired that portraiture,” Darla Manners crooned, indicating one of Buffy’s favorite oil paintings. “It’s deliciously…gothic.”

The artwork to which she referred depicted Christ at Gethsemane, the sky graced with the whispers of morning and the ground freckled with the temptations of the earth. Buffy herself wasn’t overtly religious—Mrs. Kendall had never taken her to church and though she’d provided Buffy with a Bible, she hadn’t demanded she read it. And yet, her own lack of religiosity notwithstanding, the image of Gethsemane, of true torment, of being torn between the spiritual and the temporal, was one she found moving beyond words.

It seemed an odd painting for Darla to admire. Perhaps she liked seeing pure beings inflicted with pain and temptation.

“Yes, it’s lovely,” William agreed absently, taking a sip of wine and meeting Buffy’s gaze. His face wasn’t smiling, but his eyes were—as though inviting her to enjoy a private joke. “Though rather gloomy for the Day Room, isn’t it?”

Darla batted a hand and turned back to the party. The small room wherein Buffy and William normally took their meals was composed of a modest group of relative strangers. Anya and Xander were with them, but Anya’s customary bluntness was seemingly fastened on a rather short leash. She would occasionally get a gleam in her eye which demanded vocalization, but would use a forkful of food to quickly dismiss what she wanted to say. Likewise, the familiar and welcome face of Wesley also graced the table; he kept shooting Buffy reassuring glances when he wasn’t following Winifred’s progression from the kitchen into the main hall.

The remainder of the party consisted of people whom Buffy had met before but didn’t particularly care to know beyond what was expected of her. There was Darla Manners, allegedly one of Drusilla’s favorite confidantes, and her husband, an older man named Holland. Sitting beside Darla was Lilah Morgan, a wealthy widow whose husband had passed away under circumstances which some might construe as suspicious. Lastly, there were Francis and Cordelia Doyle, who, of all Drusilla’s friends, seemed to be the nicest people present. Neither spoke much, but when they did, their words were always kind and without the hint of malice Buffy heard in Darla’s questions or sensed in Lilah’s seemingly innocuous observations.

“I must say, Will,” Darla said, sighing heavily. “It is a shame not to see the place living up to its reputation.”

“Easy for you to say,” William retorted. “You’re never left with the clean-up.”

“I believe what Darla means,” Lilah interjected coolly, “is that Manderley—”

“I assure you, there’s nothing you can tell me about Manderley that I do not already know.”

“It seems criminal to hold such great artwork hostage,” Darla continued, indicating Gethsemane again.

“If you like, I could provide you with the phone number and address of the artist in question. I’m sure he sells duplicates.”

Holland Manners chuckled as though something outrageously funny had been suggested. “Don’t give her any ideas, my good man,” he said thickly. “My darling wife is already rather savage on my pocketbook.”

“The price one pays for having exquisite taste,” Lilah noted.

“And no virtue,” Anya mumbled. Xander and Buffy glanced up at the same minute; Xander seizing his wife’s wrist as though to scold her as Buffy stifled a laugh. Anya met her eyes and winked, then tossed her husband’s hand away and glanced up, the mock-picture of innocence.

“My sister’s a bad influence,” William muttered, startling her. “But a bloody entertaining one.”

Buffy looked at him curiously. “Anya’s a bad influence on me?” she whispered.

“On everyone with a pulse. On you, though, my love, she could stand to be a little worse.”

“Ahhh,” Darla said loudly, forcing them apart like guilty lovers. “The newlyweds are whispering again. Should we be concerned?”

“Not so newly,” Wesley observed.

“Still, we haven’t gotten a chance to get to know the new Mrs. de Winter. Not really.” Darla tilted her head and tsked, her eyes forming two perfect slits as they sized up Buffy. “You ought to call me sometime, dear. I can’t imagine how dreadfully dull it must be…trapped within these walls day after day…not a shop in sight. Do you ever go to town?”

“On occasion,” Buffy said politely. It was a stretch. William had taken her for dinner and a show two weeks back, following his own return from London, and Anya had once dragged her along to shop for hats. Her life, otherwise, was indeed confined within Manderley. And though Manderley itself seemed to be an entity determined to bring about her end, Buffy found herself oddly defensive at Darla’s casual insinuation: as though her life had little to no value if she wasn’t entertaining herself in the city day after day.

Thankfully, Cordelia Doyle spoke before she could. “I think if I lived in a home as vast as this one,” she said, “I would find wandering its corridors to be adventure enough. The paintings themselves, Darla…you were admiring the Gethsemane. Imagine living in a museum such as this house. I could lose myself for hours simply admiring the walls.”

The smile on Darla’s face was one of forced civility. “From you, we could expect no less.”

“That begs the question, then,” Lilah said. “Buffy…have you selected a favorite painting? I’m sure you’ve had more than enough time to sort through the finalists.”

“It’s a good thing this conversation isn’t dull,” Anya said loudly, completely ignoring her wide-eyed husband.

Wesley snorted into his glass. William bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. Buffy squeezed his hand under the table.

“Your tact has improved, I see,” Darla said acidly.

William chuckled. “I wouldn’t goad her. There’s plenty she hasn’t said.”

“I haven’t,” Buffy told Lilah, forcing her attention away from Darla and Anya, who were now glaring at each other. “I haven’t chosen a favorite…though I do like the one in the main hall. The girl in the white dress.”

“Our great-grandmother’s portrait? The girl who’s holding the sun hat?” Anya asked with sudden interest.

“That’s the one,” Buffy agreed.

“Oh yes. That one has always been wildly popular.”

William’s hand fell from hers without warning, and when she glanced up, the far-away look he often adapted had seized his stormy eyes. The cold detachment. The pained seas of some coveted memory. The fall was so swift, Buffy barely had any time to recover.

“Oh yes,” Darla said. “That portrait is gorgeous.”

Buffy hurriedly turned her attention back to Lilah and Darla, who shared a significant look.

“Do you have a favorite, William?” Lilah asked.

There was nothing for a cold second. It was as though he hadn’t heard her.

Wesley coughed into his hand and nudged him gently. “Will?”

William blinked, shaking his head hard and coming back to himself. He glanced from Buffy to Lilah, and answered before she could repeat her question, “Favorite work of art? Nothing that’s on the walls.”

“I always thought you might hide your more…risqué pieces away from public viewing,” Darla practically purred.

Cordelia rolled her eyes and muttered something to her husband.

For his part, William did little more than offer a thin, somewhat amused smile and politely incline his head. “Your imagination humbles me, Mrs. Manners,” he said, his tone polite but accented with a cool undertone which could not be interpreted as anything other than a fine warning. The flicker in Darla’s eyes whispered that she’d received the message loud and clear. “I don’t have any artwork in storage…that I’m aware of, anyway. As it is, the house decorations aren’t by my design.”

“That’s right,” Lilah said. “Didn’t Drusilla pick these out?”

Buffy clenched a fist beneath the table, willing herself not to meet Anya’s, Xander’s, or even Wesley’s eyes. She didn’t even wish to glance up to see how William would react; her mind provided enough detail as it was.

“Most,” came the clipped reply.

“And you do not have a favorite among her selection?”

“The best artwork in the house is in my wife’s possession,” William asserted.

Buffy glanced up sharply. “What? I don’t own—”

“He means your drawings, dear,” Wesley said gently. “Your sketchbook?”

William met her eyes and smiled, offering a soft nod to confirm his friend’s clarification.

“Oh, you draw?” Darla patronizingly crooned, clasping her hands together, an unkind light filling her near-inhuman eyes. “How…delightful.”

“Yes, very quaint,” Lilah supplied. “You simply must share them with us.”

The thought of showing either of Drusilla’s friends something as personal and private as her drawings, the many sketches she’d done of William, the scenery of the Happy Valley, the few drawings of Jasper, and just recently, Manderley itself, was repulsive. Couldn’t bear the image forced upon her by her unforgiving mind of Darla and Lilah dropping saccharine words of false sincerity over every page, sharing those damned secret looks only to convene far away, laughing about what an utter failure she was. How she was nothing like Drusilla. How William’s loss had obviously made him addle-minded, should he believe her an adequate substitute for the one he truly loved.

Or perhaps it would confirm what they thought already; William had chosen Buffy to be his wife because she was so different from Drusilla. So it would be impossible for him to touch what he once had—to besmirch her celebrated memory.

“I don’t think she must do anything,” William said dryly. “The drawings are hers to share with whom she deems…worthy.”

The possessiveness in his voice was very humbling, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes again.

A laugh slithered through Darla’s lips, as though he’d said something highly amusing. “Down boy,” she drawled, “I don’t think Lilah was suggesting anything particularly sinister.”

William didn’t reply, but Buffy had the feeling he wasn’t entirely convinced.

“I still say you’re doing this house a shame,” Darla continued richly. “The costume balls, William! You’re depriving your lovely bride the image of how Manderley functioned in its prime.”

“It’s a house, not a steed,” Anya remarked.

Holland Manners chuckled as though the entire high-tempered conversation was a big joke. “You know these women and their parties,” he said, winking at Xander, who forced a polite smile and shuffled uncomfortably.

“If Buffy is interested in throwing a masque, I’m more than willing to stand aside,” William said coolly, at last meeting Buffy’s gaze.

Suddenly all eyes were on her. Her throat ran dry and her heart thundered.

“I…I don’t…I’ve never attended…”

It would be better if the words she spoke formed a coherent sentence or, at the very least, a non-fragmented thought. How thoroughly ridiculous she must look. To these people who were accustomed to seeing a woman of elegance and glamour at William’s side. To these people who looked at her as though she was a child who demanded their patience and soft, short-worded explanations.

Worst yet, her lack of verbosity seemed to only fuel Darla and Lilah, who traded what looked like a triumphant glance. “The poor girl’s never even attended a masque?” the former demanded. “Good Lord, William, have you been keeping her locked in the attic?”

“Here now,” Wesley intervened, his brow furrowing. “That’s not—”

“We’ll discuss it,” William said abruptly, his tone indicating, in no uncertain terms: the conversation was over. “Believe me…if we decide to throw a masque, you’ll be the first to know.”

The light in Darla’s eyes refused to die out completely, but even she, it seemed, knew when to stop pushing.

Still, it didn’t stop her from trading significant glances with Lilah.

The sort of glances which screamed volumes through silence.

*~*~*

“That foul, contemptible, buck-tooth old hag!”

Xander met Wesley’s eyes, barely holding in his grin. “Please Anya,” he said, “tell us how you really feel.”

If she noticed the levity in her husband’s voice, she made no note of it. “I had a right mind to throw her out the window.” Her eyes narrowed as she took in Xander’s muffled snickering. “Are you saying I couldn’t? I have incredibly strong thighs, as you should know by now!”

That much shut Xander up. His skin became an interesting shade of red and his chuckles broke into harsh coughs.

“Anya, you have all the tact of a whore in church,” William mused dryly, though his eyes were warm with amusement. “Though for the sake of my bay windows, I admit I am relieved you restrained yourself.”

“She was purposefully goading you, Will!”

William bowed his head politely, resting a hand on Buffy’s knee. She hadn’t said anything since their less appealing company left. She hadn’t known what to say or even if there was anything to say. Her mind was still racing, her heart cadencing steadily as she fought to grasp a hold of herself.

“You should throw a masque and keep her name off the guest-list, just to spite her,” Anya said, her voice hardened with conviction.

“My answer remains the same,” William replied reasonably. “If Buffy wants a masque, we will have a masque.”

“I’ve never attended a masque,” Buffy said, her voice soft, her eyes distant, her mind elsewhere. “I don’t…I don’t know…”

There was a long, heavily sympathetic pause. “They are quite fun,” Anya admitted begrudgingly. “And Manderley was certainly known for them. I say, Will, if you do it, you really must make sure Darla and that horrid Lilah woman aren’t invited.”

“I daresay William wouldn’t go out of his way to subject himself to their tiresome company,” Wesley observed, flashing a brilliant smile in Winifred’s direction as she entered the room with the afternoon tea. “They weren’t great friends of his.”

The unspoken words made every follicle in the air freeze. It lasted for an eternity before offering anything resembling a reprieve. William cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, his grip on Buffy’s knee becoming discomfortingly tight. “Yes, well,” he replied, his tone evasive, “Mrs. Hart remains in close contact with…acquaintances I’ve made over the years and acts—”

“Like she owns the place,” Anya muttered, taking her tea with a polite, half-smile.

“Now—”

“Honest to God, I don’t understand why you don’t simply dismiss her.”

“On what grounds?” William returned, tilting his head. “She runs the manor most efficiently.”

“She runs it like it’s her home.”

“Manderley is her home. It’s home to all who are employed here.”

“But it’s—”

William held up a hand, and all conversation abruptly ceased. “I’ve had my…disagreements with Mrs. Hart,” he said gently, his eyes going distant again, leaving little doubt as to what he was recollecting. The incident just two weeks back; the one where he’d yelled at the old woman in the hallway. He hadn’t mentioned Angelus O’Malley or his displeasure with Mrs. Hart since, but there were times when his gaze would harden disapprovingly when she entered or exited a room that Buffy knew he was remembering.

“I’ve had my disagreements,” he said again, returning to himself. “Mrs. Hart is a woman from a different era. She is accustomed to things being handled in a certain way. I’ve had little trouble with her over the years, and it seems rather unnecessary to dismiss her without warrant. As it is…” William turned his attention to Buffy. “I don’t believe it would be my call.”

She blinked dumbly, realizing after a second what he was implying. “I’m sorry?”

“Well, love, you’re the one who has to deal with her day in and day out. I barely see her at all. If Mrs. Hart’s performance is disagreeable, it would be for you to decide.”

Buffy swallowed. “I…I don’t…she’s…” The walls spun around her. “This is her home.”

William frowned and looked ready to correct her, even though he had just said the same; perhaps he would have, had Xander not chosen that second to interject:

“Besides, if you’re going to throw a masque, Mrs. Hart’s the one to call the shots, right?”

This seemed to placate whatever had been on William’s mind. The inquisitiveness died and he nodded wisely, leaning back. “Quite right.”

“Mrs. Hart would plan the masque?”

“Of course,” Anya remarked snidely. “It’s her house, after all.”

“She has experience planning parties,” Wesley said, a bit softer. “They’re always great successes…the parties.”

“Well, if Buffy has never attended a masque, and if William’s willing, I don’t see why we shouldn’t follow Mrs. Manners’s suggestion.” A sly smile drew across Xander’s face. “Though I’m with Ahn on this…you should make sure she and Mrs. Morgan aren’t invited. They’ve never struck me as…oh, how to put it…good people. And now that—errr, that is, it seems there’s little reason to continue associating with them.”

Buffy quite liked this idea. She would be very happy never to see Darla Manners or Lilah Morgan ever again.

“But Cordelia and Francis Doyle are lovely,” Anya said, her tone earnest. “Invite them.”

William chuckled. “Am I to understand we’ve decided? We’re throwing a masque?” He squeezed Buffy’s knee again. “Sweetheart?”

It struck her after a few blank seconds that she was expected to speak. Buffy shook her head and sat up, feeling very much like a student caught daydreaming in mid-lecture. “I—ohh, yes. A masque sounds like great fun.” She paused and cleared her throat. “I must admit my accord with Anya as well…as far as the guest-list goes.”

William smiled gently and nodded. “I believe that the vote is unanimous,” he said. “Unless Wesley harbors a secret affinity for the aforementioned that he doesn’t wish to share among dissenters?”

The look on Wesley’s face was so funny, Buffy had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

“So now that we’re definitely having a masque, the task becomes deciding who or what to dress up as,” Anya declared, evidently proud of herself.

“D-dress up as?” Buffy repeated, her mirth fading to more familiar confusion.

Everyone looked at her. She shrank.

“Oh yes,” Anya said. “A masque, darling. A masquerade. Costumes. Should be fun.”

“Most women love it,” William agreed, smiling kindly at her. “A sort of…come as you aren’t night…or as you are but often pretend you aren’t.”

Anya snorted appreciatively.

It all was very much self-explanatory, but she still felt especially lost in a world beyond her measure. Still, the prospect held its fair share of appeal. To hide oneself in costume—to become someone else entirely. To take on a different personality. To be different.

Buffy could understand the allure. Hiding behind another face seemed, at times, the only way to survive.

“It’ll be brilliant,” Wesley said. “They’re great fun. You’ll enjoy yourself.”

“And God knows this place could stand some lively music and dancing,” Anya observed. She held up her hand at William’s expected objection. “I know, I know. Tact of a whore in church. Can’t blame a girl for speaking the truth.”

Buffy grinned at Anya, who sent her an answering wink. In very few places, she felt fate had smiled upon her; the gift of this particular sister-in-law was one of them. This woman had the ability to dismantle Manderley with her mere presence.

Buffy only wished her own bravado measured up.

*~*~*

The task of appropriating a costume for the masque had seemed, at first, an easy one. However, as the date of the masque approached, Buffy found herself running vastly out of ideas. It occurred to her—namely due to Mrs. Hart’s constant, however indirect reminders—that this would be her public debut as Mrs. William de Winter. She’d met most, if not all, of William’s friends and associates in private, but this would be her first time to step into a role expected of her. She needed to represent him, represent the home, represent the name.

She needed to be as alluring as Drusilla without being Drusilla.

It all seemed near impossible.

“There are quite a few portraits in the home, as you might have noticed,” Mrs. Hart suggested one day upon her daily inventory of the Morning Room. “I have known women to draw inspiration from familial renderings. Perhaps there is something there that would suit you?”

Buffy frowned thoughtfully, leaning on her sketchpad and completely missing the disapproving glare Mrs. Hart directed at her arm as her white linen sleeve brushed against the lines of her drawing. “Yes…one of the family portraits…but…what sort of costume could I come up with in that amount of time? I don’t—”

“You have your drawings, of course.”

She sat up. “I’m sorry?”

“I know a special sort of tailor in town. I used to send him many of Mrs. de Winter’s orders. She used him most famously for Manderley’s various parties.” Mrs. Hart paused. “If you find a painting you most admire, I suggest you sketch it out. Winifred can take your measurements.” There was another short silence. “It’s the sort of thing Mrs. de Winter would have done.”

There was no rhyme or reason to this sudden breach of kindness in Mrs. Hart’s icy demeanor, but Buffy wasn’t about to question it. Perhaps, in the wake of everything, the woman was at last trying to reach out to her. Trying to be friendly. After all, Manderley was about to throw a masque, an event which gave Mrs. Hart a sense of regal power and a reason to feel whole and normal once more. Given her rate, continued disapproval of her new mistress seemed a futile effort.

Moreover, Mrs. Hart loved Manderley, even if she didn’t favor Buffy. She wouldn’t want the home’s reputation to suffer.

“Oh, thank you,” Buffy said eagerly, jumping to her feet. “Thank you. That is precisely what I’ll do.”

“Very good, madam,” Mrs. Hart replied. “And if…I might be so bold as to make one further suggestion?”

Eager to keep the sense of companionship thriving, Buffy nodded. “Yes, please.”

“The portrait in the main hall…I believe I heard you say you admired it?”

Buffy’s racing mind instantly summoned an image of the girl in the white dress, dark curls spilling to her shoulders, a sun hat in her hand. “Oh, that’s perfect,” she said, not waiting for Mrs. Hart to complete the thought. “That’s absolutely perfect. Thank you!”

Gathering up her sketchpad, Buffy bolted from the Morning Room without another word.

She would do Manderley proud. She would do William proud. She would.

And perhaps then, perhaps, this place would at last feel more like home.

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Chapter 17″ ]

Chapter 17

Chapter Notes: The rumors of this fic’s death have been greatly exaggerated. It’s NOT dead, nor will it be. I’m a good ways through the next chapter and, time-willing, will be working nothing but this and Strawberry Fields until one is complete.

I do, however, have eighteen hours of coursework ahead of me and betas who have very strenuous schedules. Not to mention my actual job. I beg your patience and thank your understanding. I know this fic has been a long-time coming, but I assure you, I am not letting it go. It will not remain unfinished.

Thanks to everyone who’s still reading/reviewing. To everyone who hasn’t given up on me. I appreciate your understanding and support more than I could ever hope to put into words. Thank you.

---

The transformation of Manderley was unlike anything Buffy had ever witnessed. The once-rigidly elegant walls now emulated a sense of majesty which made every detail in the manor, down to the cracks in the floor, seem royal. It happened overnight; she’d gone to sleep in William’s arms in the bed she’d known for months, and had awakened in a revitalized version of the place which had become her home. The same place which so often felt like a living museum—to be admired from a distance, but never touched. The vases, the paintings, the statues, the classically graceful furniture—everything was decorated, yet somehow managed to exude an element of everyday negligence, as though this was the Manderley in which people lived. As though Manderley sat like this always, simply waiting for guests to arrive.

In all honesty, Buffy hadn’t given much thought to decoration. There hadn’t been much in her eyes to change or alter, or dress-up for public consumption. Manderley was, after all, intimidating enough without even trying. It judged without speaking, condemned without moving, and made her feel small with every outlandishly large step her clumsy feet dared to steal across the floor. No amount of living here could change the effect it had over her—every time she thought she was growing accustomed to the home’s secrets, she would turn a corner and find herself overwhelmed in a world hitherto unexplored.

“They’re going to love you, darling,” William assured her over breakfast. It was the morning before the masque, and judging by his perception, her anxiety had drawn lines across her face.

Buffy glanced up from where she’d been gazing at the rendering of Gethsemane that Darla Manners had admired upon her last visit, lost in her thoughts. “I’m not what they’re coming to see,” she replied. “It’s Manderley—”

“Piffle.”

She blinked dazedly. “William?”

“The house they’ve seen a thousand times. I’m bloody convinced there’s a handful of invitees who know the corridors even better than I.” William smiled and reached across the table to refill her morning coffee. “If you think this party’s for anyone but you, you’re completely off your bird.”

Her cheeks reddened and she sipped her drink, her mind wandering to the dress Mrs. Hart had ordered for her last week. The one sitting in her private wardrobe—the one she hadn’t allowed William to see for the desire to surprise him. “I hope they don’t find themselves too disappointed,” she noted quietly.

“Buffy…”

“Well, honestly. You say such things…it’s a party, isn’t it? You honestly believe I’m the star attraction?”

“And you honestly suppose you aren’t?”

“Who would come so far and go to such trouble to see me?”

William’s head tilted as he considered her, the soft glow in his eyes lighting a fire in her belly. The words between them hung thick and heavy, but otherwise remained unspoken.

“The house will look lovely,” Buffy observed after a few heated beats. There were times when silence deafened her, filling her head with thoughts which poisoned her heart for yearning too much. When William looked at her like that, it was almost hard to believe there had ever been anyone else in his life. It was almost hard to believe Drusilla wasn’t the phantom in his head just as much as she was the name on his lips at night. It was almost enough to make a girl hope, and hope was a dangerous thing. She couldn’t stomach her hope to provide her with falsities about the reality around her.

William glanced down and focused on his eggs. “Right,” he agreed shortly, nodding. Then, on an afterthought, he looked up again. “I don’t suppose you’ll let me peek at the dress before the guests arrive?”

“I’ve already told you that you can. You and Anya—”

“I meant privately, love.”

“It’s a surprise.”

His eyes twinkled with amusement. “Mmm. Yes. You’d think after living with women as long as I have that I’d become immune to the variety of surprises to which I’m constantly subjected.”

“You have not?”

“With you? Hardly ever.”

Her face warmed again. “I’m not very surprising. It’s only a dress.”

William’s brow drew up, and she received the impression she’d either said something highly amusing or highly insulting; perhaps a combination of the two. Either way, his soft reply of, “Not surprising?” had her bones rattling. “Buffy,” he continued gently, “there’s nothing about you that has failed to surprise me.”

The heat in her belly roared to full fire. “It’s only a dress,” she repeated.

He shrugged and attacked his eggs again. “If you say so.”

And it was only a dress, but it was also the perfect dress. A dress fitting for Manderley. It was all Mrs. Hart’s doing, of course, thus Buffy couldn’t take the credit. It had been her idea, her help, her special input which had placed the dress in Buffy’s hands, in Buffy’s closet, and very soon on Buffy’s body. In all honesty, the old woman had proven herself to be a godsend in the past week. Mrs. Hart’s attitude had completely revolutionized since they announced the masque. Her temperament was bright, her manner friendly, her suggestions helpful and her work-performance, if possible, became even more proficient. She chatted eagerly whenever the chance arose, seemingly forgetting her self-imposed rule about the relationship between a home’s mistress and her employees. She wanted to speak of Manderley as it was in her memory—in the golden years, as she called them. Manderley and its former grandeur. Manderley and its life before Buffy.

Buffy was determined not to take this kindness for granted. Perhaps she wouldn’t be as elegant or glamorous as Drusilla, but she wouldn’t shame Manderley or its reputation. Not at the masque.

She would make Manderley proud.

She would make William proud.

This one thing…she would do this right.

*~*~*

On their honeymoon, Buffy hadn’t had the luxury of a private maid to help her into designer gowns, assist her in jewelry selection, or laugh with her in a girlish fit of nerves as the clock ticked onward and the sun dipped lower in the sky. She’d only then come from a world wherein she was the companion to the wealthy woman, not the wealthy woman herself, and thus nothing of value had looked right on her small, awkward form. And while Buffy maintained she would never physically embody the royal elegance of Drusilla or any woman born into wealth, she was beginning to appreciate how thoroughly tiring it was to prepare for a function such as a masque.

She was fortunate to have Winifred, who made her laugh when she thought her nerves were doomed to reduce her to nothing more than messy tears.

“Oh Buffy,” the girl gushed, having long-since abandoned the need for formalities. They were more friends now than anything—the closest thing to a friend Buffy had enjoyed since she was a child. “You look gorgeous.”

Buffy blushed, tearing her eyes away from her reflection long enough to favor Winifred with a grateful smile. But for the first time in her life, she found the girl in the mirror to be a vision. She barely recognized herself. Where Buffy de Winter stood, someone else had taken over. Someone whose bronzed skin wasn’t rough and barbaric, rather bold and beautiful. Whose hands weren’t calloused and rough, but seasoned with knowledge. Her hazel eyes appeared almost completely emerald against the black curls which made up her wig. The white straps of her dress molded nicely around her shoulders, exhibiting more skin than she’d ever revealed in public but making her so richly aware of herself as a woman that instead of embarrassed, she was thoroughly empowered. The fabric of the dress was silky and tailored, embroidery ribboning down the sides in the pattern of small, graceful white roses. The sunhat had the same design, and though Buffy knew she wouldn’t be able to fit it atop her head, especially with the wig, she similarly knew the costume would be incomplete without it.

“Do you see anything I should change?” Buffy asked, twirling, though more for the benefit of feeling the material caress her legs than locating an imperfection. She felt positively radiant. Even the wig, which she’d studied skeptically for several minutes before fitting it on her head, felt as though it belonged. Had she not known herself, she would never suspect the dark curls spilling over her shoulders were not her own.

Winifred shook her head, rocking eagerly on her heels. “No! No, it’s all perfect. Oh, they’re gonna love it! I can’t wait.”

Buffy giggled girlishly, then started with a gasp at the swift knock on the door. It seemed, in her haste to get dressed, she’d completely lost track of the hour. It was now approaching six o’clock, and the first guests were scheduled to arrive.

Granted, the first guests were made of Anya, Xander, and Wesley, but they were the only people, aside from William, whose opinion she truly desired. If William loved it, everyone else would. Or they would not—it didn’t matter. As long as William loved it.

“Mrs. de Winter,” came Mrs. Hart’s rigid voice—rigid, but lukewarm as opposed to frosty. It was as close to cordial as they would ever be, Buffy supposed, but it was this same disposition which had accompanied her in preparing for the masque. Mrs. Hart had been friendly, and Buffy was more than grateful for it. “Mrs. de Winter,” the woman said again, “I am to inform you that Mr. and Mrs. Harris have arrived along with Mr. Wyndam-Pryce. Mr. de Winter wonders when you might join them.”

Heart hammering, Buffy managed to squeak, “In a moment, thank you!” before turning back to Winifred, wide-eyed.

“It’s time,” she said breathlessly, but the girl wasn’t with her anymore. Winifred was staring at something on the wall, a glassy, dreamy look on her face.

“Winifred?”

“Wesley’s here,” she whispered. “Oh…”

Buffy’s brows arched and she somehow managed to keep from smiling. The furtive glances Wesley had exchanged with Winifred had gone far from unnoticed by anyone in this household, but until now, she hadn’t been entirely sure if the girl was aware of his interest. But the look was undeniable, and it took her back to the days at Monte Carlo. Days when she’d watched William from across a crowded room as he focused on his meal, unaccompanied by anyone, looking so miserably alone that no one could ever touch him. William had never stared at Buffy the way Wesley stared at Winifred, of course—not with the same heat, at least. But months had passed and now Buffy stood in the bedroom she shared with William. In a dress she’d had made for a masque they were throwing.

Still, even as she turned and collected her nerves, reaching for the door handle, she couldn’t help but twinge in jealousy over what Winifred and Wesley did have, whether or not it was known to them. Wesley was clearly infatuated with Winifred; were she to become his wife, he would love her unconditionally, without hesitation, without doubt. Winifred wouldn’t be the one taking the place of a woman left behind. Winifred would be Wesley’s everything.

The way Buffy wanted to be William’s everything.

“I’ll make sure you see him,” Buffy said absently before departing into the hall. Whether or not Winifred heard her was another matter altogether. If she allowed her mind to embark down that road, she would find herself in a sea of self-examination wrapped in doubt, and she couldn’t allow that tonight.

The walk down the hall was endless. A journey she’d made a thousand times—daily, inevitably. One step, two steps, three, four…beyond the familiar turn to the Morning Room, where she sketched until breakfast. Mindful of the eyes of the de Winter ancestors, the same which sized her up upon every venture into the manor. Every step she stole which belonged to someone else. Buffy swallowed hard and wondered what, if anything, they thought of her now. If the wig upon her head and the dress hugging her body made her any more worthy of her name and stature in their eyes. Her excitement ebbed with anxiety; she knew William could hear her heart thundering, even above the muffled conversation drifting up the stairway and leaking into the corridor. She caught the casual boldness of Anya’s confident voice, accompanied by Xander, who said something which made everyone around him laugh. Then Wesley replied, earning a deep chuckle from William, whose rejoinder came in the same cool timber which never failed in sending shivers down Buffy’s spine, even from afar.

Then she rounded the corner and appeared at the top of the stairs, and began her slow descent.

It was strange the way perfectly obvious things took an eternity to realize. She didn’t read anything as she should have. Not the widening of Anya’s eyes or the gasp clawing at Wesley’s throat. Not the rigid stance of Xander’s usually lax form. Not the way all conversation ceased the second her presence became known. Not even the frozen, unreadable look on William’s face. The light in his eyes blinked out and she didn’t notice—she always noticed, and this time she didn’t. Warning bells shrieked in her head but her brain refused to connect alarms with knowledge, and thus her feet never received the message to stop walking. To realize—to understand—that something was horribly wrong. That this wasn’t the way people should look at the lady of the house. But no one said anything, so she kept walking. She kept walking until William drew up and held up a hand. There was no smile on his face. No warmth. No radiant, “You look lovely,” or anything which had played in her numerous fantasies. There was nothing but cold detachment.

“Oh Buffy,” Anya cried pitifully, shaking her head.

William stepped forward. It took him a few seconds to gather himself. To meet her eyes. And when he did, she all but collapsed. She couldn’t collapse; every cell in her body froze and finally her feet cemented on the stairs. The wall barricading her from understanding finally caved, and she realized what she was seeing. William was pale, spooked, and so incredibly cold. He looked at her as though she was a stranger—anyone but the woman whom he slept beside every night. The blue of eyes turned stormy gray, and she knew.

But this wasn’t anger. This wasn’t the same color he’d worn that day she’d followed Jasper to the bay. This wasn’t the outrage she’d seen then. This was something different.

This was heartache.

“Buffy,” he said slowly, his voice hard, “go upstairs and change. Now.”

Every breath she took made her chest ache. “William, I—”

“They can’t see you in that dress. No one can. I don’t care what you put on, just take that bloody thing off. Before anyone else gets here. Before anyone…sees you. Do it now. You hear me?” His eyes flashed with a sudden rush of angered hurt. “I don’t know what…I don’t…just get rid of it.”

It wasn’t a matter of misunderstanding the words or questioning his seriousness; Buffy honestly didn’t know what it was. Her instincts were split, raw and open. She wanted to launch herself into his arms. She wanted to break down. She wanted to run until there was nothing around her but open air and the cold comfort of the earth beneath her fingertips. But she was locked, completely railroaded, standing there at the scrutiny of those she’d come to consider friends; none of whom could look at her.

And William, who she loved with every aching beat of her heart, looking for all the world as though she’d just ripped out his. The hurt etching the agonizingly familiar contours of his face served as the proverbial knife. She stood gutted, naked, and she couldn’t move.

Then, without warning, the hurt shifted to anger.

“Do you think I’m joking?” he rasped, eyes shining. “Don’t just stand there, you daft child, go take it off. You hear me? Get out—get out.Get out before—”

Her screaming mind didn’t hear the rest. She was running too hard, her bloodless legs pumping her upstairs much too slowly. Her lungs collapsed and her head swelled and then everything around her dissolved. She was halfway down the corridor to her room before the shouting began—shouting from Anya and Wesley, shouting not at her, but at William, their words colliding and crashing and making no sense except for a unified front of outrage.

The tears in her eyes didn’t fall until she was safely on the other side of her bedroom door. She distantly heard herself barking at Winifred, ordering her out, before throwing herself onto the bed with a heart-wrenching sob.

And at the first crack, she finally broke. Everything came down around her, and all she could do was cry.

*~*~*

She didn’t remember opening the door, nor did she remember walking numbly back to the bed. Noise fell into a dull buzzing around her, and though she understood the words falling from Anya’s lips, they failed to connect into any recognizable pattern. Buffy remained on her side, curled on the mattress, her red, swollen eyes fixated on the tiny imperfections lining the bedroom wall. She hadn’t energy left for tears. No matter how hard she shattered every time she thought of William’s eyes or how often her cruel mind replayed his callous words. She couldn’t cry. There was nothing left in her.

Whatever they’d been working toward was over. The casual glances. The furtive smiles. The way he sometimes looked at her, softness lining his eyes and warmth burning his lips. The few heated kisses they’d shared, always after the climax of a firestorm. The Happy Valley. The day he returned home from London. Heat and anger brought passion out of them, and brief as it was, she’d found herself fixating on those isolated moments—those stolen kisses—more than even she had realized until tonight.

Until she realized that after the empty betrayal with which he’d regarded her, there would be no more kisses. Tonight she’d crossed a bridge and it had collapsed behind her. There was no going back. No way to make this right. No answer to give him.

“You can’t stay up here all night,” Anya said softly, stroking Buffy’s hair as one might to console a grieving child. “People will talk. It’ll be worse.”

There was no way this could possibly be worse.

“He’s an idiot,” the woman continued. “He’s so blind and stubborn and—”

“It’s not his fault,” Buffy murmured, her voice muffled in the bed-sheets and weighted with tears. “I should’ve known.”

“How in the world would you know?” Anya demanded.

She had no answer; none she would voice. She felt foolish enough as it was.

Apparently, the other woman took her silence as accord with the theory that there was nothing she could have known and nodded. “I say again, he’s an idiot. He’s an idiot for thinking you would ever do anything like this on purpose, and he’s a ruthless bastard for—”

On purpose?

Buffy sat up, bleary-eyed. “He thinks I did this on purpose?”

Anya blinked. “Well, yes. The dress is what Drusilla wore, you see. To the last masque. The last one she ever attended. You were so secretive in designing the costume, he’s thinking—”

“I would never do that on purpose! How could he—”

The woman nodded, her eyes bland and heartily unimpressed. “We’re back to the point where my brother is the world’s largest dolt. And truthfully, Buffy, he knows you wouldn’t. You couldn’t. There was no way for you to know anything of what Drusilla wore to the last ball.” She fell silent, contemplative. “It’s the shock. You looked exactly like her. The hair. The dress. There was even this…funny look on your face, the sort she used to get. For a moment, it was as though she…he saw you, and he thought—”

“He thought of her.”

Anya nodded, unknowingly willing away the last of Buffy’s broken heart.

There was no recovery from this. It truly was over. The happy picture she’d tried so hard to sketch around Manderley, no matter that it always fell short, had disintegrated. The promise she’d made to herself—the whisper that her love would be enough to sustain their marriage, even if William never loved her in return. She thought distantly of Mrs. Kendall, and wondered how the woman would react if she could see Buffy now. If she could see the fruition of her prophecy. The thing she’d told her in Monte Carlo.

The sort of darkness William lived in was nothing from which she could ever rescue him. He’d seen Drusilla tonight and he couldn’t have her. He couldn’t touch her. He’d seen at last that no new wife could replace the hole left by his love’s death. She could dress the part but it wouldn’t be anything but an act. And no matter how hard he whimpered for Drusilla in his sleep, she would never be the woman with whom he awoke.

“I don’t want to go downstairs,” Buffy whispered. “Can’t you tell the guests I’m not feeling well?”

“They’ll know something’s wrong.”

“I don’t care.”

“Buffy, please. For William…I know he’s an absolute ass and if I were you, I’d refrain from giving him any sort of physical gratification for the next twenty years, but he didn’t mean what he said.” Anya paused and wet her lips. “Not really. He wasn’t thinking.”

No. He was thinking. And that was the problem. For the first time since he met Buffy, he was thinking clearly.

He was at last seeing what everyone else saw.

The illusion might be fun, but it was still an illusion.

And no amount of wishful thinking could make it otherwise.

*~*~*

The dress Anya selected was the one William had peeled off Buffy the night they first made love. The night after the opera, when he’d undressed before her as though her life hadn’t just changed. Buffy could barely stand to look at it, but she didn’t fight. She cooperated. She allowed her sister-in-law to pick out her jewelry and adjust her hair. She attempted to smile when Anya assured her she looked radiant, but there was no feeling behind it. What was left of her innards was strewn across the floor, invisible to the naked eye but undeniably felt by everyone in the house.

“The best revenge is always to have a good time,” Anya said shortly, leading her into the corridor. “You’re going to have a wonderful time.”

There was little chance of that.

“I say you and Wesley tear up the floor dancing. You should have seen him—I’ve never seen him lose his temper, and certainly not with Will. He was livid.”

The thought was an odd one. Wesley and anger were not factors she would put together.

Buffy swallowed hard. “I told Winifred that she and Wesley—”

“Buffy,” Anya said shortly, “in case you haven’t noticed, Wesley considers you about as close to family as his own siblings. He doesn’t stand for it when people he cares about are hurting, especially over something so ridiculous.”

Anya guided Buffy around the corner, and suddenly they were at the head of the stairs where she’d stood just an hour before. Just an hour before when everything had suddenly changed forever. Guests were arriving. William was in the foyer. And everything had changed.

“I haven’t done anything to earn Wesley’s favor.”

The woman turned to her then, and the compassion in her eyes nearly brought the tears Buffy had thought to have banished back to roaring life.

“You’ve loved my brother,” she said. “You’ve loved him well when he needed it. Wesley loves William. I do, too. So does Xander. And so do you. You love William, we love you. That’s the way it works. And since we have the benefit of being family, our love isn’t blind. When he gets stupid, we notice. Your love for him isn’t family—it’s…what I feel for Xander. He’s awkward and clumsy and he doesn’t go with any of my things, but I love him so I don’t see it.” She paused and grinned sheepishly. “That often, anyway. You don’t see how stupid William is—fine. But we do. That’s why Wesley’s angry with him. That’s why I’m angry with him. He hurt you over something you had no control over. So yes, you have Wesley’s favor. You have mine, too…which is why I say you go downstairs and have a fabulous time.”

Buffy was grateful when Anya stopped speaking; her body was too broken to cry anymore.

Still, words came when she didn’t want words. They came against her will. “But he doesn’t love me.”

To that, Anya had no reply, which was more crushing than anything else.

It wasn’t until they began to descend the stairs that she caught a glance of Mrs. Hart, standing in the shadows which led to the west wing of the manor. And perhaps it was Buffy’s imagination, but she could have sworn there was a self-satisfied smirk on the old woman’s face.

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Chapter 18″ ]

Chapter 18

Chapter Notes: This is for JO, Kelly, Stephanie, Heather, Millie, and Spikeskatmac for taking up my tagboard and making my especially hellacious week enjoyable. I don’t think my tag has ever been so consistently popular, and it makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside. *smoochies*

My thanks to Yani, Mari, Tami, and Amy for looking over this for me. I’m also under advisement to warn my readers that this is another angsty ride. But if you’re really nice to me, I might be persuaded to ignore homework just long enough to have another update within a week. *bribes shamelessly*

---

She existed in negative space. People filed in through the main doors, approached her and took her hand, complimented the house and her dress, and moved on toward the sound of the orchestra playing in the parlor. She stood at William’s side, their bodies separated by inches; she felt further away from him than she had in the whole of their relationship. Further than the early days before she’d known his name, known anything of the true Manderley or Drusilla. Further than the night she’d first lain in his bed, her body still warm from his, listening to him whimper his dead lover’s name. Further than the numerous thoughtless blunders she’d made referencing the woman who should be here. Further than anything. She stood at William’s side but they were miles apart.

He wouldn’t look at her. He wouldn’t meet her eyes. He hadn’t done more than hastily scan her dress to make sure she hadn’t managed another horrid gaffe before muttering that guests would be arriving and she was to receive them.

Buffy wondered if he recognized the dress. The one he’d removed from her trembling, virginal body so many months ago. She wondered if he thought of that night at all like she did. The way he’d caressed her, brushed soft kisses across her skin, held her hand, rocked against her as he unlocked her body’s secrets with his own.

Her life had changed forever that night.

His had not.

Buffy continued to nod and smile, greet the faceless multitude of merry strangers, feeling very much like an imposter. William had told her it would be like this—greeting people and smiling until she was certain her face would freeze. And though he hadn’t made it seem like fun, she’d anticipated it. She’d anticipated being the dutiful hostess; anticipated being the graceful woman at her husband’s side. She’d imagined moments filled with private glances and soft grins, the way they often silently communicated when unable to speak candidly. She’d thought he’d hold her hand as he did when they sat in company, gently squeezing it every time he needed to tell her something but couldn’t breathe life to words. She’d seen it all well before it happened. Standing beside William, enjoying the private way they spoke in public. Feeling anything other than how she felt now.

Every bit of her ached and William would not look at her. There was no recovery from this.

“Buffy.”

The sound of her name was so startling she nearly leapt out of her skin. Hope shooting through her veins, her eyes darted to William, but he stared stubbornly ahead; the look of a man who knew he was being watched but didn’t dare meet her glance. It took an eternity to understand the voice she’d heard wasn’t deep enough to belong to her husband, and another embarrassingly long beat before she realized Wesley was standing before her.

“Oh,” Buffy said, attempting and failing to conceal her disappointment. She flashed him an apologetic glance, which he answered in kind. “Wesley. Is there something—”

“We’re dancing,” he informed her shortly, taking her by the hand. He tossed William a look of mild disgust, then shook his head and led her away before she could even think to offer a protest.

Not that she would have protested. The air around her head seemed to thicken and the rush of blood she’d sorely missed the last hour rushed back. People around her swirled and laughed, pouring champagne down their throats and having what appeared to be a wonderful time.

People looked at her. People noticed she and William weren’t speaking.

“He’s a git.”

Buffy glanced up, surprised to find herself in Wesley’s arms. It took a few seconds to realize he was guiding her around the floor, watching her carefully, his eyes weighted with compassion.

She didn’t want compassion. She wanted William.

And despite how terrible he made her feel, her loyalty was to her husband. “No, he’s not,” she replied. “He thought—”

“Buffy, he’s a world-class, blinded wanker who doesn’t know what he has.” Wesley shivered and shook his head. “I don’t care what he thought. What he said to you was unforgivable.”

She blinked stupidly. “Wesley…he’s your friend.”

“And you aren’t?”

“You only know me because of William. He—”

“And I suppose my friendship with him automatically aligns me at his side, even when he’s a dolt?” Wesley’s eyes softened. “Will is like my brother…well, my brother were I employed by my brother. I can be angry with him and love him at the same time.”

His words were an echo of what Anya had told her upstairs. Love between siblings came with the added benefit of clear-sight, whereas the love of lovers was so often accompanied by rose-colored glasses. Anya said Buffy couldn’t be angry because she was in love with William, and perhaps that was true. Perhaps she was so starved for his affection she couldn’t be angry or defensive. She couldn’t see anything but what she would never have.

Was it possible to miss someone when they were across the room? Miss them so fiercely the fabric holding her together split thread-by-thread with each passing second? She could barely breathe for missing William. She wanted his strong arms around her; no matter how comforting Wesley might be, he wasn’t who she wanted. He wasn’t William. She wanted William so badly, wanted to beg his forgiveness and rest her head on his shoulder and let him hold her. Even if he never looked at her the same, she just needed to be in his arms.

“You did nothing wrong, Buffy,” Wesley assured her.

Then he whirled her around and landed her directly in William’s waiting embrace. The move was so surprising she nearly tripped over her dress. Just seconds ago he’d been across the room, but he wasn’t now. He was with her. He closed an arm around her middle and took her hand in his.

His eyes finally met hers. She felt so small.

“Dance with me,” he whispered.

It seemed her life had become a walking contradiction. A millennia ago, she’d realized she was in love in William and she’d known nothing in the world could ever come of it. Then he’d proposed marriage, reshaping her world, giving her new hope. For a few wonderful hours, she’d envisioned herself as his salvation. As the one to bring light back into his life. As anything other than what she actually was.

She’d envisioned becoming the lady of Manderley, only Manderley had never been hers. She’d envisioned her love for William being enough to sustain them, but the truth was far less forgiving. She’d envisioned so many things.

So many things.

When given precisely the thing she wanted the most, she never knew what to do with it. Now the thing she’d desired so fervently just seconds before was suddenly pressed against her. Suddenly swirling her around the room, and while her head continued to yearn for his shoulder, she knew somehow it wasn’t welcome.

“Love the dress,” William murmured, his fingers sliding over her shoulder to caress the lacey fabric. “Almost as much as the first time you wore it.”

Her heart broke. “Will—”

“Not now. Just dance with me.”

Buffy swallowed hard and nodded, her eyes glazing over with tears. But she couldn’t duck her head. She couldn’t bury herself away. She just had to dance, hoping no one noticed. Hoping she could make it through the next few minutes without breaking completely. Anya had been wrong—there was no way to have a good time tonight. Not with Wesley, who only reminded her of how much she wanted William, and not with William, who would never look at her the same way again.

She was in the arms of the man she loved but she couldn’t touch him. They were miles apart.

As soon as the band died, she broke away from him. Another second would have betrayed everything and then she would have been nothing but a sniveling mess in the midst of strangers. She felt him gazing after her but didn’t dare turn around lest she betray herself and break.

Buffy didn’t get very far. Cool fingers hooked under her elbow and steered her to the side and she quickly found herself in the comforting shelter of a dark corner, a wine glass unceremoniously shoved into her hand.

“Good on you, honey,” Anya said appraisingly, raising her own glass to her lips, wordlessly implying Buffy should do the same. “Leave him high and dry.”

She shook her head. “I would have embarrassed myself…he was there but so far from me.”

There was an awkward pause. “Well, let him believe otherwise.”

“I don’t know how.” Buffy glanced down, shivering. “I just want to be…are you certain it would look negatively upon William and Manderley if I go upstairs? I don’t think I can stay down here much longer. Everyone keeps…looking at me…expecting things—”

“Of course,” Anya said bluntly. “You’re the lady of the house, Buffy. This is your party.”

Buffy’s treacherous eyes wandered across the room. William stood where she left him, Wesley at his side. He was staring at her.

And she felt nothing but cold.

“Nothing about this is mine,” she whispered.

*~*~*

It wasn’t intentional. In fact, Buffy made a point to avoid William for the rest of the night. This was, however, a rather difficult feat seeing as he made no such effort to do the same. He didn’t ask her to dance again, but when her will broke and her desire to look at him overrode her desire to maintain her dignity, she found his eyes fixedly locked on her. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking—if his gaze was one of anger or regret. If he felt anything of what had happened earlier.

She avoided him with the hope he would come after her. He didn’t. He just looked, and the distance between them expanded with every second.

Thus it wasn’t intentional when she stumbled upon them. In her attempt to evade William she’d similarly made the effort to dodge Wesley, for good as his intentions might be, he was simply a reminder of what she wanted.

It wasn’t intentional but it happened all the same.

She found herself by the staircase in the main foyer, their voices carrying over the laughter and the music in the other room. And though her feet knew the proper thing to do was pivot and promptly return to the masque, she couldn’t move.

She could only listen.

“I don’t care what you saw,” Wesley was saying, his tone heated. “I don’t bloody well care if she walked down in Drusilla’s negligee. You know what you’re doing to her, don’t you?”

There was a short pause before William replied. “I lost my head.”

“You’re losing her.”

Silence filled the corridor. The walls seemed to hum.

And then he said, “I know.”

Another beat. Wesley was clearly waiting for something else, and when nothing came, his voice hit a shrill Buffy had never heard before. “And does it not bother you? This girl would walk through fire if you asked. All she wants is—”

“Wes—”

“I love Buffy,” Wesley said, then added hastily, “like a sister. You can’t keep doing this to her, Will. The way she looks at you…”

“She doesn’t know me.”

There was a roar from the other room. William’s voice cracked and he sputtered something else—something Buffy didn’t hear. Not that she wanted to hear anymore. Not that she could move away. Her blood had frozen in her veins and her tired eyes threatened to weaken her resolve with more weeping. But she couldn’t move away. Not even as her heart split and shattered, scattering along the perfect marble floor. Not as William’s muffled voice, thick with emotion she’d never before heard, broke over the laughter again.

“…and she can’t. She can’t know me,” he was saying. “She can’t know that part.”

“Because you say so, I suppose?”

There was a pregnant pause followed by a rustle of fabric. She envisioned him wiping his eyes and mirrored the image her mind presented, terrified she would do something to announce her presence. She suffocated on the gulps of air she denied her lungs and drowned in the tears swelling in her throat.

Her feet refused to move.

Not while William spoke. “She can’t know that…seeing her dressed like…I felt like I’d fallen into…she could’ve been…and I couldn’t touch her.”

A long-suffering sigh rumbled through Wesley’s throat. “I know,” he replied, defeated. “I know that. But Will, Buffy is not Drusilla and she never will be. Either accept that or start being honest with her…just stop these blasted mind games. They’re killing her, and God knows she doesn’t deserve that.”

Feeling finally returned to her legs and at once she found herself moving. Moving, moving, moving until she was back among the guests. Back among people who laughed and drank and danced. People who looked at her and whispered things. Was she crying again? Buffy hardly noticed. She pressed a hand to her cheek but her skin was dry. She met Anya’s concerned eyes and quickly turned away. She didn’t want more lectures on bravado anymore than she wanted more wine. She didn’t want anything but for the night to be over.

Perhaps this was a dream. Perhaps she had yet to wake up. Perhaps it was actually the morning before the ball and she had a chance to do everything again.

Oh God.

How could a broken heart pound so hard? Didn’t it know it was broken?

The air around her head was warm. Eventually, the music drowned into a dull buzzing and the dancing figures swirling across Manderley’s majestic floor slowed, caught in a time rift only Buffy could see. She stood awkwardly to the side, her face a porcelain mask. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t pretend to smile anymore. Anytime someone approached her, asking her questions or wondering if they could get her something, her lips would part and some seemingly intelligible response would tumble forward. Whatever she said was enough to purchase solitude.

Enough to replay the conversation she hadn’t meant to hear until she felt her ears would bleed.

William was right. She didn’t know him.

She didn’t know him at all. He hadn’t wanted her to know him. Not once. Not once had he let her in. He would smile at her and squeeze her hand and kiss her brow. He would make love to her body and take her on walks to the Happy Valley, but he didn’t let her know him. He didn’t want it.

He hadn’t let her close because he wasn’t meant for her. He was meant for Drusilla.

And he always would be.

“Buffy.”

She glanced up wearily. It was Anya.

“Buffy, I think you have a headache.” The words were slow and deliberate, the unspoken message unmistakable. “A very bad headache. Why don’t you go lie down and see if you feel better?”

Several seconds passed. People laughed. The air hummed.

“I have a headache,” Buffy said, barely hearing herself.

Anya nodded. “Yes. I was wrong before. You shouldn’t over exert yourself…especially when you’re feeling ill. You’re too…generous with your guests.” She motioned to the shapeless blur of people behind her. “Please, go lie down. You’ll feel better. The music can’t be helping.” A pause. “With the headache.”

Buffy nodded and turned, walking without direction. She navigated dancing couples, bypassed circles of guests who were enjoying a good anecdote, flaming the inner inferno with the roar of their merriment. Back into the darkened foyer where she’d been just moments before, but it was empty now. Back until her tired feet were confronted with the task of carrying her upstairs.

A sudden gasp of life in the corner directed her gaze to the west. Winifred was swept in Wesley’s arms, their mouths fused together with passion which twisted Buffy’s stomach.

Thankfully, they didn’t notice her. No one did.

No one save Jasper, who waited for her at the head of the stairs and faithfully followed her to her room.

*~*~*

Buffy laid awake hours after the party died down. The dog was at her side, resting, her hand tunneled through his fur and enjoying the cold comfort of the rise and fall of his even breaths. She’d never let Jasper on the bed before but she didn’t think she could bear to stomach the evening alone.

Not after everything.

So she lay. Her face was cold and wet, the whole of her trembling every few seconds—every time the memory broke through the barrier and replayed the conversation she’d heard in the foyer. Every time she heard William say she didn’t know him.

She didn’t know him, and he couldn’t touch her.

How long had he known this? Did he intend to speak with her?

She didn’t know. All she knew was she couldn’t sleep.

Instead, she sat with Jasper and watched the empty space beside her. The space where William slept.

Only William wasn’t there.

And as night rolled into morning, realization hardened and sank. He wasn’t going to join her.

He left her thoroughly alone.

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Chapter 19″ ]

Chapter 19

Golden sunshine splattered across the carpet, stretching over the vanilla bedspread until it was impossible to ignore that morning had arrived. Buffy didn’t want to open her eyes. She didn’t want to look over and confirm William had not joined her last night. Her sleep had been tumultuous at best, wrought with images of balls and gowns and laughing strangers. Of a painting in the foyer come to life. Of Mrs. Hart’s frozen smile, grim satisfaction sparkling her eyes in ways which made her look positively inhuman.

William had not come to bed last night. Jasper lay faithfully in his place, favoring Buffy’s palm with affectionate licks every time he arose on his stubby legs and resituated his warm, furry body for a more comfortable position. She envied the dog so much. He knew nothing of heartache or despair. Knew nothing of the hollow cold claiming every facet of her insides, or the tears crusting against her cheeks. How it ached every time her lungs fought for air. How four little words could render her thoroughly gutted.

She doesn’t know me.

Buffy squeezed her eyes shut and choked back tears. Her head swirled; her skin was cold and clammy but she felt—at the same time—she was burning from the inside. The very fabric of her being was jerked and pulled in every which direction, allowing her no reprieve no matter how hard she screamed. Sleep so often provided a new spin on hopeless situations, but daylight refused to give her amnesty. There was nothing this morning to comfort her in what she had learned the night before.

Her marriage was over.

The ache in her chest exploded, a hard, raucous sob clawing for freedom. Her marriage was over. William wasn’t hers. He never had been and she’d been such a blind fool to think otherwise. To think she could make anything between them work when he so obviously wished to remain with Drusilla. Drusilla, who was dead but never gone; whose ghost provided him more comfort than any living woman ever could. He was trapped in grief but too in love with his lost wife to move onto the one with whom he’d replaced her.

William would never be Buffy’s. He remained forever Drusilla’s husband. He couldn’t belong to anyone else.

He’d never done anything to make Buffy believe he would love her, of course. His marriage proposal had been more a business arrangement. His methodical manner over the course of their honeymoon—the way his eyes would warm slightly upon meeting hers, even if that warmth never reached his face. There was always something about him which betrayed his thoughts; she could never read them, of course, but she’d always known they weren’t with her. Always.

William only exhibited passion when reminded of Drusilla. The boathouse. The visit from her cousin. Last night. God, last night. His eyes had been dead and empty, but the fire remained thoroughly undeniable.

He’d seen Drusilla, only she hadn’t been Drusilla. She’d been Buffy, and he’d known once and for all that no matter how hard he tried, he would never get his beloved back. It was why Buffy could never know him, as he’d told Wesley. There was a part of him which belonged eternally to his former wife, and he wished it to remain that way forever. He didn’t want to let anyone else inside. He didn’t want Buffy—he just wanted companionship.

He didn’t want to be alone.

It was why he’d married her. To keep from being alone. To keep the space beside him warm.

Only Buffy couldn’t do this anymore. She couldn’t love him like this—her love for him was ripping her apart. She was too much his to belong to anyone else, but if she stayed here only to be reminded of how very little he cared for her in turn, it would destroy her. It would utterly destroy her.

As it was, loving William would be easier if she didn’t have to see him. If her mind constructed a narrative around their tragic almost-love story through which to live vicariously through the rest of her days, rather than let Manderley erode her soul away until nothing was left. Until she was as hollow and cold as the manor itself.

She couldn’t do this anymore.

But she couldn’t leave. She couldn’t do this and she couldn’t leave. No matter what she knew, no matter what had happened last night, the thought of walking away from William devastated her all over again. It was the price of loving, she supposed. Staying would kill her and leaving would kill her. Leaving with nothing but his face immortalized in her sketchbooks and the few fond memories they’d made here together.

The fond memories which had provided her with some hope. He’d smile and whisper and squeeze her hand, and make her feel, in some small way, loved. Not a creature of passion or romance, by any means, but she’d felt he cared for her. She knew he cared for her.

Or he had until last night.

Until she’d dressed up like the woman he truly wanted. Until she’d thrown the pivotal stone at their glass house and stood frozen as the world shattered around her.

Jasper whined and rose up on all fours again, his warm eyes taking in her sobbing body with compassion which nearly destroyed her. He sniffed sympathetically and licked her face. A pathetic, humored rumble overtook the sobs wracking her throat; Buffy reeled back and ran a thankful hand through his red fur, her nose scrunching when he favored her finger with his tongue. The dog truly was the most affectionate animal she’d ever known. He offered comfort in the only way he knew because he knew she was sad. He knew she was sad, and he wanted to console her.

“Thank you, Jasper,” she whispered, pressing a kiss atop his warm head.

He whined again in response.

“I’ll be all right.”

It felt positively criminal, at that instant, to lie to a dog.

Buffy sat up completely, rubbing her sore eyes and tossing a glance to the clock on the nightstand. It was just after nine in the morning. She wondered idly if the phone in the Morning Room had rung; if Mrs. Hart was continuing her routine as though nothing extraordinary had occurred. If William was in his study or working on poetry or whatever it was he did to occupy his days when he wasn’t in London.

She wondered where he’d slept all night, but the ache in her gut whispered she already knew.

The west wing. Undoubtedly, of all the spare rooms, the one he’d shared with Drusilla would be the one he selected. The place where it looked as though the dead woman could walk through the door at any minute, pick up one of her brushes and run it through her hair. The nightgowns on the bed were still warm; Mrs. Hart saw to that. Mrs. Hart did her best to keep Drusilla alive, if only in that room.

Only Drusilla had been alive throughout all of Manderley last night. More so than ever before. More so than the whispers from the servants or the hint of fabric rustling around a corner—the ghost had manifested entirely; she had consumed every inch of the manor. Every stroke of the musician’s bows against the strings, every chord blown through a finely-tuned woodwind, every champagne toast, every consumed hors d’oeuvre—it was the party Mrs. Hart had planned. It was the party she would have wanted for Drusilla.

After all, it was Drusilla she had resurrected. The party was all for her. All of it.

Buffy forced her feet to the floor and carried herself to the vanity. Her hair was in a state and her face was lined with tear-stained makeup. She hadn’t bothered to wash before bed, too exhausted and too torn to trust her body to carry her further than necessary. This wasn’t the face the mistress of Manderley should show around the halls. And though it astonished her that she was able to care, the part of her concerned with propriety burned hot enough to force her to clean herself appropriately. She took as long as she could, though with each passing second it became more and more difficult to ignore William’s absence. No matter how difficult the confrontation might be, she knew it would only grow worse with time. She needed to speak with him—explain what had happened last night while simultaneously swallowing her pride at the secret she hadn’t meant to overhear.

A part of her hoped he’d spoken out of hurt. The rest of her was too wise, too jaded, to allow for much hope.

Perhaps it would be easier to speak with William if she spoke with Wesley first.

Her instincts, however, couldn’t be denied. When she felt suitably dressed to wander around the house, Buffy made her way instinctively for William’s office. It was empty. The parlors were empty, too, as was the Day Room where they took their meals in the morning, and the Sun Room, where she’d broken a figurine a thousand years before. The hammering in her chest foretold she was just stalling—she knew where she would find him—but she wasn’t yet ready for the final blow. For the image of him sitting alone and desolate in his empty bed-chamber. The place where his heart had been ever since he first brought Buffy to Manderley.

Desperate to avoid the west wing, Buffy called for Jasper and walked with him down the familiar pathway to the Happy Valley. The place where William had never brought Drusilla, but loved more than any other part of Manderley. The terrain here was relatively undisturbed, appearing no different than it had when she last visited with her sketchbook.

Buffy didn’t know when Jasper had ceased attempting to take the path to the bay, or if he simply sensed her mood well enough to keep to her as he had this morning. He remained steadfastly at her side and licked her hand whenever they broke stride for more than a few seconds.

“Well,” she said breathlessly, attempting to ignore the way her heart fell. William wasn’t here. Of course he wasn’t here. She’d known he wouldn’t be here. And it was foolish looking for him when she was certain she knew where he was.

But a part of her knew the soft, near-dead glow of dim hope that they could talk things through would die completely if she walked through those doors and saw him sitting in Drusilla’s room.

Jasper huffed and sniffed at a suspicious clump of grass.

“Come on.” A defeated sigh rolling off her shoulders, Buffy turned and began the slow march back to Manderley.

There was one stop to make before she swallowed what was left of her pride and investigated the west wing. The Morning Room. She would stop there and phone Wesley. If there was any grace left in the world, he would have news pertaining to William. Perhaps there was more to the conversation she’d overheard the night before. Perhaps he would explain something she hadn’t considered, or at least offer some idea as to William’s whereabouts—an idea which didn’t conclude with a journey to a dead woman’s room.

And even if Wesley had nothing, there was nothing wrong with seeking the counsel of a friend. The comfort of a friend, especially after the night she’d had.

Her mind flashed to the image of him entwined in Winifred’s arms, their mouths locked heatedly, and a rush of warmth tickled her cheeks. Though perhaps he wouldn’t want interruption this morning. Though Wesley was a gentleman, there was something about his devotion to the maid which ignored the sense of decorum. It was similarly difficult to ignore Winifred’s absence from her routine this morning, though it might have been at Mrs. Hart’s discretion. Perhaps Mrs. Hart wanted Buffy to feel completely isolated, therefore ordered the staff to avoid her today.

Then again, Mrs. Hart cared about rule and rank almost as much as she cared about destroying Buffy. Either possibility seemed logical.

Jasper took to rolling on his back in the middle of the great room. He very rarely followed Buffy around so loyally, rather took to minding his dog-business and catching up with her whenever their paths crossed or whenever she beckoned him for a walk. Today, he seemed determined to keep her in his sight, and while she didn’t pretend to understand it, she couldn’t deny she appreciated the company.

She didn’t have to wait long before Wesley picked up the line. Unlike Manderley, there wasn’t a staff through which to filter the call. It rang one and a half times before he answered.

“This is Wesley Wyndam Pryce.”

“Wesley, this is—”

“Buffy,” he said with no need of elaboration, though his tone was sharp and wary. It surprised her; she didn’t realize she had such a recognizable voice. “Are you feeling better? Anya mentioned you were taken to bed early last night.”

Hearing him voice any acknowledgment of the night before hardened a lump in her throat. It made it tangible, and with it, the reality it had cemented. Buffy distantly recalled being told she had a headache and to retire. Of course, Anya would have spread word to preserve her dignity. Anya was reliable like that.

“My head is fine,” Buffy replied; she couldn’t say she was feeling better when she knew she could crack at the slightest turn. “I was wondering…have you spoken with William today? I can’t seem to find him.”

There was a short pause. “No, Buffy,” Wesley replied, and the pity in his voice nearly killed her. “I’m afraid I have not. Did he speak with you last night?”

“No.”

“Not at all? That pompous git—”

“Wesley,” she said slowly, her voice tempered, careful to betray nothing. “It’s all right. I understand now.”

“You understand?” he repeated, his voice awash in confusion.

“It’s Drusilla. It’s always Drusilla, isn’t it?” Without warning, tears swarmed behind her eyes again. “It’s always her. She’s here. And last night…I heard you two speaking last night. You and William—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to listen, but I was in the foyer and—”

There was a mortified gasp. “Oh God…”

“I understand. It’s all right, Wesley. You’ve done everything you can but…” A tempered sigh. “He wishes to be left alone. With Drusilla. He still loves her, you see. He will always…love her. And he can’t love me because of it. Because she’s still here.”

“Oh God, Buffy. Let me come and speak with you. I—”

“No. Please don’t. I just wanted to thank you for your kindness. You’ve been extraordinarily kind to me, Wesley. But I understand now.”

“I’ll be there in a half hour. Do you hear? A half hour. I—”

Buffy slammed the receiver down before he could finish his thought, her eyes immediately lifting to the doorway. There was only one place to go now. One place she hadn’t yet explored.

The place she knew she would find him.

“Jasper,” she told the dog as he rolled onto his belly, prepared again to follow her. “Stay here.”

Jasper whimpered in protest.

“No. You must stay here.”

There were some things, after all, one must do alone.

*~*~*

The first time she’d crossed the threshold into Drusilla’s room, it had nearly been a mistake. Hot off the unnerving encounter with Angelus O’Malley and desperate for William to return from London, she’d found herself carried in a twist of corridors, wandering in a daze through the forbidden wing. Though she knew logically she’d broached the area with intent, her mind recalled her apprehension. Her hesitance. The very real part of her which had protested unlocking any more of Drusilla’s secrets, despite however much it was needed for her peace of mind.

The thought of William wasting away in the living museum was crippling.

Only it wasn’t William Buffy found.

It was Mrs. Hart.

The rush of relief crashing over her shoulders was so potent it nearly knocked her off her feet. William wasn’t here. He wasn’t in Drusilla’s room, and from the look of things, he hadn’t been all night. The bed was as Buffy remembered—turned down with Drusilla’s nightdress spread across the bedspread, but there was no indention in the mattress. The pillows were immaculately fluffed and hadn’t known a head in over a year. The room, more or less, appeared untouched. All except for Mrs. Hart, who stood at the vanity, hunched over, her hands grasping the marble surface.

Mrs. Hart had been here all night. Not William.

Not William.

Instead it was the woman who had sought to destroy her. Destroy her and William.

All for the love of Drusilla.

And suddenly, without warning, a dam within broke and words came spilling out. Words she barely recognized. Words she only heard after they touched the air.

“Are you satisfied?”

Mrs. Hart stiffened almost imperceptibly but did not answer.

“I understand you don’t like me,” Buffy said, doing her best to keep her voice level and tempered. “But you did it to him, too. You hurt William. You knew seeing me in that dress would hurt him as much as it hurt me.” She paused, swallowing hard. “How could you? How could you do that to him?”

Her voice fell unceremoniously and silence stretched between them. Howling wind crashed against the shutters. The air smelled of lilac and cinnamon. Buffy was only aware, however, of the ache in her chest and the heat flaming her cheeks. There was no turning around after this.

“William didn’t deserve—”

“He did,” Mrs. Hart said softly, and the air around them froze. Buffy didn’t know what she’d expected—denial, evasion, any of the above—but the words couldn’t be ignored for what they were or what they meant. “He tried to replace her. You tried to replace her.” The old woman paused, shuddering so violently it seemed she might collapse; she did not. Instead, Mrs. Hart inhaled sharply and turned around, her usually-emotionless eyes filled with the blackest hate Buffy had ever seen. “You tried to replace Drusilla.”

The words had hung between them for months, unspoken but implicit in every move. Every condescending nod of the woman’s head, every time her lips curled around Buffy’s name, every time their gazes clashed, every time they occupied the same room—every time except recently. Recently, Mrs. Hart had forced herself to be friendly, if only for she knew it would go further in securing Buffy’s fall.

“You knew you never could, though, didn’t you?” Mrs. Hart continued heartlessly, the loathing in her eyes growing deeper by the second. “From the moment you arrived here, you knew he could never love you as he loved her. Never worship you as he worshipped her. He needed someone to take up the time, and you thought you were enough for it. You thought you could make him forget her. Forget my Drusilla—you tried, didn’t you? You tried and what became of it? Can you not see the truth now?”

Words choked in Buffy’s throat. Oxygen fought to fill her lungs, only they had forgotten how to work. All she saw was Mrs. Hart—the endless black of Mrs. Hart’s eyes, Mrs. Hart’s skeletal face contorted in revulsion, Mrs. Hart’s words drowning out the wind and the creaks until there was nothing left but a silent, hysterical shriek.

“I had to show him, you see,” the old woman continued. “I had to show him you would never be enough. Not to take my Drusilla’s place. Not to walk through her house, touch her things, and pretend it all belongs to you. Nothing here belongs to you…you see that now. Of course you see it now. He showed you last night. He loves her. He wants to be alone with her again.”

“She’s gone,” Buffy gasped, her chest sore from the thunderous booms of her heart. At the moment, it didn’t seem to matter that she had been thinking, even telling Wesley the same thing less than a half hour ago; the confirmation of her worst fears rolled her into a new reckoning, and dead as the dream might be, she wasn’t ready to relinquish her hold. Not yet, and definitely not like this. “She’sgone. Does he not deserve—”

“She is not gone. Surely you feel that she is not gone?” Mrs. Hart stepped forward, her eyes widening with malice. “You feel her as I do. She lives all around us. She watches you and Mr. de Winter together, watches as you touch her things and pretend to be even a shadow of the woman she was. Do you ever wonder why Mr. de Winter chose you? You, when Drusilla was bold, beautiful, adventurous…when she was the envy of every woman and adored by every man? Mr. de Winter was enraptured with her. Your confidant, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce? He was taken with her, as well. He hated himself for loving her, but he did. There was no end to the men who loved her. Angelus O’Malley, Alexander Harris…they all fell under her charm. Why do you think you feel her even now?” Mrs. Hart positively shook. “She’s still here, of course. She’s in everything. She wants her home back…and Mr. de Winter wants it, too. He wants to be alone. He wants to live with her…he wants Manderley as it was. He doesn’t want you—he never did. Certainly you can feel it? You can feel how much he misses her? How very much she remains…in Manderley.”

The fire in Buffy’s veins chilled, her stomach churning. Nausea settled deep in her skin. She was going to be sick.

“Drusilla could temper the ocean,” Mrs. Hart continued. And then she was moving—oh God—she was moving so quickly, her icy hand closing around Buffy’s wrist. The next thing she knew, she was standing at the window. The open window. Fresh air touched her face and filled her closing throat. The scent of the sea washed away the hint of Drusilla’s perfume, but the relief which should have been imminent never came. “She should be the one standing here. Not you. You should be where she is—you should be gone.”

Bile rose in Buffy’s throat, her eyes taking in the distance from the window to the ground. The heat caressing her face trickled down her skin, spreading into her belly and thinning the air around her head to such a point where even the breeze billowing into the room couldn’t ease her.

“Do you think he would miss you?” Mrs. Hart whispered, behind her now, her hands clamped tightly around Buffy’s upper arms. Her voice was everywhere. It manifested in Drusilla’s perfume, assaulting every sense with strength no mere breeze could ever hope to defeat. “You could leave, but you won’t, will you? Not even with what happened last night. No, you will never leave him. You will stay…to torment him with the memory of what he cannot have.”

Buffy’s head spun. The ground was so far. So incredibly far away. She felt herself falling even if her feet remained firmly planted. The hard, jagged planes below would rip her body to shreds, and she felt it. She felt every tear against her skin. Every bounce. She felt it. She was on at the window, looking down, Mrs. Hart pressing her minutely closer to the threshold, and she felt it.

God, she needed to get out of there.

“Let me…let me go,” Buffy protested, her voice weak even to her ears. “Mrs. Hart…you have to…let me go…”

“Why don’t you jump?”

The suggestion, though anticipated, still startled her out of her skin. “What? No!” Strengthened now—Buffy jerked away, forcing her eyes back to the room. The walls around her twisted and curved but the daunting height presented by the window’s view no longer tormented her. “No…I most certainly will not—”

Thunder cracked through the air, stealing her words, her heat—only it wasn’t thunder. A raucous roar arose from the bay, drawing Buffy’s eyes back to the window.

“What was that?” she gasped, not expecting a reply.

There wasn’t one. There was nothing but silence—silence and then, from below, the sight of William sprinting across the terrace. Toward the path which they had walked day after day. The path to the Happy Valley.

Only his feet didn’t guide him to the Happy Valley; he took the forbidden turn and ran for the bay.

Directly into the thunder.

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Chapter 20″ ]

Chapter 20

Chapter Notes: My profuse apologies for the delay. I’ve been bogged down in school papers and exams. I hope to have the next chapter written by the end of the weekend, but no promises. My betas similarly have hectic schedules, therefore I’ve been waiting for their revisions.

As a small reminder, here’s where we left off…

Previously: After being tricked by Mrs. Hart into donning the very same costume worn by Drusilla at the masque, Buffy spent the night waiting for William to join her. A confrontation with Mrs. Hart confirms the woman’s previously-unspoken hatred for Manderley’s new mistress, resulting in an attempt at coerced suicide. Buffy and Mrs. Hart are interrupted by the sound of an explosion at the bay, and the sight of William running toward the scene.

---

Her feet crashed along the stony terrain, wind whipping across her face. Pillars of smoke billowed over treetops as though led by an invisible paint brush. The sky was practically on fire, the roar from the inlet piercing into the quiet solitude of the de Winter property. A shotgun blast through perfect silence, shattering the world into a thousand pieces. And no matter how fast she ran, how close she became, the bay seemed a thousand miles away.

There had never been such a congregation. People had materialized along the bay, stepping out of nothingness like they’d been waiting for something to watch. Manderley had a few neighbors, but the manors were separated by miles of wilderness. Not that separation meant anything when the earth rattled with an explosion.

William was nowhere to be seen. He’d come this way—watching him tear up the forbidden path would forever be engrained in her mind. Only he wasn’t here now. How could he have disappeared so quickly?

“Mrs. de Winter?”

Buffy blinked wearily and turned to her left. A young man she didn’t recognize was hurrying toward her, one hand steadying his hat on his head so the wind didn’t tear it away. A familiar pang of awkward guilt struck her heart when he met her eyes. Before she married William, she’d never found herself in the situation where strangers knew her name. She was so accustomed to being overlooked—there was no way, even if she lived the rest of her life as a lady of means, that she would ever become accustomed to this feeling.

“Hello,” she said inelegantly. “Have you seen my husband?”

The man nodded. “One of the sailors banged up his head pretty bad. Mr. de Winter and Mr. Wyndam-Pryce took him to town.”

Buffy inhaled sharply. “Wesley?” she repeated. “Wesley was here?”

“Yes, ma’am. He’d just arrived when it happened.” The man tossed a glance to the bay, and as though staring at an abstract painting, forms suddenly tugged together and molded into logical shapes. There was a fishing boat cast against the crystal water, one, maybe two miles from the shoreline. Smoke rose from its lower vessels, veiling over the sun but doing little to shield her eyes from the blinding white beach.

“Mr. Wyndam-Pryce came down here immediately,” the man continued. “He and Mr. de Winter should return later this afternoon.”

“What happened?” Buffy asked, unable to tear her eyes away from the scene.

“We’re not certain yet. The boat’s just stuck for the moment. Divers are going down to see what she ran into.” There was a pause. “Mrs. de Winter, this might be a while. If you’d like, I could have someone escort you back to the house.”

Buffy didn’t reply immediately. She stared fixedly at the boat. Manderley was a thousand miles away. Mrs. Hart couldn’t reach her here. The empty foyer stained with the footprints of a sea of faceless guests wouldn’t haunt her as long as she remained at the bay.

“Mrs. de Winter—”

“Yes. I mean, no. No, thank you.”

The man looked puzzled but ultimately left her to her own devices. Buffy wandered the pearly stretch of shore for what felt like hours, transfixed on the sight and struggle as men clamored to and from the boat in narrow canoes. The imposed seclusion of the bay had exploded, rendering it from an illicit place of which no one was supposed to speak into a breeding ground of chaos. This place where William’s wife had died—where his life had drained, where he’d stepped from the happy existence of a man in love into the hollowed shell with whom she’d been living. For as many months, the bay had served as a living tomb for Drusilla. An extension of the family crypt where her body rested and the faultless museum which had once been her bedroom. Here was death, a sharp contrast to the life Mrs. Hart tried desperately to keep thriving within the walls of the manor itself.

What had William thought when he heard the explosion? After last night—after what they’d been through: the silent torture of the party, the long agony of his failure to come to bed, the desperate search across the grounds—nothing seemed real anymore. Nothing. Not this morning. Not the walk to the Happy Valley. Not the encounter with Mrs. Hart. Had she really been in Drusilla’s bedroom less than an hour ago, her weary eyes absorbing the dizzying heights of a fifty-foot drop? Vertigo overwhelmed her senses.

The bay was no longer closed, no longer private. And William was gone. Not only from her bed; he’d left the grounds. He was with Wesley; would Wesley betray their phone call? Would he tell William everything Buffy couldn’t? How would she react if he did? Did she even want that? Was it better to suffer quietly or get everything in the open? God, she didn’t know anymore.

Buffy lost track of how long she lingered at the bay. Eventually, her exhausted body found its way to a smooth slab of rock protruding from the snowy sand. She sat, lost between worlds. Divided by realities. Watching the crowd of strangers and assorted divers went a long way in distracting her long-suffering mind from the harsher truth surrounding her. She wasn’t safe, of course. Nowhere on the grounds was safe from scrutiny. Every few minutes, her mind would inevitably crawl back to the life waiting for her within Manderley’s walls.

She doesn’t know me.

A long shudder claimed her body. Those words would never stop haunting her. Though less than a day had passed since they broke into her sanctuary, she couldn’t imagine—sitting here, watching the fishing boat sway against the tide—she would ever emerge from the fog into which she’d so willingly wandered.

Do you think he would miss you? Mrs. Hart had whispered, pressing her closer to the ledge. She’d wanted Buffy gone—she’d wanted her to feel the weight of her isolation. For all her cruelty, Mrs. Hart’s motives were refreshingly unambiguous. Now, at least. Now in the harsh light of a new day. Buffy felt older now. So much older than she had a short twenty-four hours ago.

So much older.

But she had an answer for Mrs. Hart. Despite the heartache, despite her concerns, despite everything which had occurred, a part of Buffy knew William would miss her. The idea of her, at least. He might now realize she wasn’t what he wanted and never could be—he might know finally that Drusilla would never again walk down the stairs or dance or make love with him—but he was lonely, and he needed companionship.

She knew he would miss her because he hadn’t stayed in Drusilla’s room last night. The pinnacle of her worst fears never saw fruition. He hadn’t stayed in Drusilla’s room.

He was lonely. He needed someone. He’d never love again, but he needed someone.

Perhaps he’d married Buffy because he’d known she was in love with him. Their breakfast at Monte Carlo had certainly alluded as much. He’d sat across from her, discussing the clock and offering her toast and speaking vainly as though all was right and natural. He’d been the one to mention her love for him before she even knew how to form the words. He’d known she was in love with him, therefore he knew she wouldn’t say no.

He cared for her just fine. As someone might care for a favored pet.

Buffy’s head dipped when she realized her eyes had filled with tears again. The wisps of black smoke clouding the sky seemed to her as poison seeping into a glass filled with clear water. The sun’s heat was suddenly intolerable. She couldn’t stay here anymore.

No one noticed when she slipped to her feet and took the turn to walk back to the manor. Not the crew, not the crowd, and not the nameless young man whom had been so keen to help her a short while ago. Buffy marched slowly up the barren path, her arms folded under her breasts, her heart seemingly determined to break free from her chest. The walk back seemed to stretch lifetimes, but eventually she made it to the familiar bend in the pathway where her feet would normally divert to the Happy Valley. It felt wrong viewing Manderley from this angle. While it was hardly the first time she’d ever braved a journey to the bay, the walk home nearly always coincided with a rush of guilt and abnormality. As though God and everyone knew she’d been where she was not welcome.

The dress she’d worn last night had ripped William apart. How would he react now? Now that there was an accident involving a boat in the very place where Drusilla had sailed away, never to be seen alive again? Would he even remember he had a living wife waiting for him at home?

Her mind drifted again to Wesley, piecing together elaborate stories as to what he would divulge and how William would react.

How William would feel if he knew she knew.

Buffy wandered through the entrance, lost in another world. The hall looked as it always did: large, beautiful, and achingly empty. The portrait which had inspired the disastrous evening had been removed. No lingering remnants of the night’s party remained. There were no crumbs, no spills, no empty glasses scattered across the furniture.

There was nothing. The house was full of ghosts and whispers, but nothing else.

Inhaling slowly, she turned to the left and drifted over the marble floor, dry, still air fanning her sweat-laced skin. Her feet carried her without direction to the parlor, shadows of dancing puppets dragging her eyes across the open room. The entire masque had been a play, and the actors had done their part to make sure the scene unfolded as Mrs. Hart had scripted.

Just as Mrs. Hart had scripted.

Buffy exhaled slowly and sank into the settee. The rustle of her linen slacks might as well have been a glass shattering for as silent as the room stood. She wondered idly if Mrs. Hart remained in Drusilla’s living sanctuary. If she had watched William tear toward the place where Drusilla had disappeared. If she knew anything of what happened at the bay.

Inevitably, however, Buffy’s thoughts returned to William. What he was thinking. God, after the night they’d had, the commotion at the bay could only serve as the proverbial pinch of salt. Would he even remember Buffy existed when he arrived home? Would he want to speak with her at all? The world around her had tumbled completely out of order, out of the quiet control on which she’d come to rely.

The silence around her had an intoxicating effect; within minutes, she found herself nodding off. Shadows of William, masked guests, haunted paintings danced behind her tired eyes. Her ears rang with the crash of waves, her nostrils filled with the scent of the sea. The black smoke curling from the fishing boat assaulted her senses. She was everywhere at once. At the top of the stairs in a white dress. At William’s side in the fabric he’d peeled off her body on their honeymoon. Lying in bed, waiting for him to join her. Standing at the bay, sand filling into her shoes, the sun bouncing off the water, watching as divers disappeared and surfaced again and again.

Waiting. Perpetually waiting for William.

“Mrs. de Winter?”

Buffy jerked upright. Giles stood in the doorway.

He nodded promptly, always the epitome of decorum. “Colonel Riley Finn,” he announced, turning to leave just as the words escaped his lips.

“Colonel Riley Finn?” she repeated, rising shakily to her feet. In a blink, a man she’d never before seen had pushed through the double-doors in Giles’s place. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and had the face of an infant. When he saw she was alone, the hat on his head was immediately rendered to his hand and pressed against his chest.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said courteously. “I’m here to see Mr. de Winter.”

Buffy swallowed hard. “I’m afraid Mr. de Winter is away from home at the moment,” she replied, wondering idly why Giles had failed to relate this. Then again, there was every chance Giles hadn’t known William had left the premises at all. Everything since last night had been so scattered and confused, as had been William’s departure to town. There was nothing in her universe right now which made any sense. “Is there something I can do for you?”

Finn shifted awkwardly, his eyes darting to the floor. “All due respect, ma’am, this is something I think I should discuss with your husband.”

There was something definitive in his tone Buffy didn’t like. And without warning, the thundering in her chest increased tenfold. The last thing William needed at present was another blow, no matter the form in which it came. After last night, what little hope for them remained was kept only alive by the promise of no more disasters. A promise dangerously close to breaking from the guilty flush of the Colonel’s cheeks. Whatever he was here to relate would do nothing but drive the wedge between her and William even further, and this was something she couldn’t allow. Not now. Not until she had the chance to explain herself to him. Not until she looked him in the eye and knew he didn’t blame her for what had happened, even if the realities it had produced couldn’t be ignored.

She couldn’t let it rain where it had already flooded. Not if she had the means by which to stop it.

“Colonel,” Buffy said softly. “My husband has had a very trying night…and this mess at the bay—”

“It’s why I’m here, ma’am. We’ve found something.”

A beat. Buffy swallowed hard, attempting and failing to digest the information. Her thoughts were entirely with William. “All right,” she replied. “Well, as I said, my husband is away from home right now, so whatever you need to say will have to be conveyed through me. I—”

Resolution hardened Finn’s face. He at last looked up again and shook his head. “Mr. de Winter needs to hear this from me. I’m sorry.”

“Needs to hear what?”

“What we found.”

The inclination in his voice was significant enough that the words penetrated the veneer surrounding William and stuck. Buffy exhaled deeply, locked her eyes on his, doing her best to ignore the sudden rush of heat attacking her face. “What…what did you find?”

“I shouldn’t—”

“He will tell me anyway.” It was a wild lie—a supposition based on hope—but she knew without a doubt she needed to hear what Finn had to say before William, and for reasons greater than their troubled marriage. This went beyond the party, beyond what Mrs. Hart had done with a mind to sabotage her, beyond everything in her grasp. This was something which could not only destroy Buffy, but William as well. And though she didn’t know how she knew it, there was no doubt in her mind. None at all. Everything had been shoved aside save for a rash need to protect the man she loved.

She didn’t know how to protect him from words, but at least she would have an idea of what she faced if Colonel Finn told her first.

Hesitance splattered Finn’s face. “Mrs. de Winter—”

“Just tell me what you found. William—”

“It was the boat.”

A heady pause. “The boat?”

“The boat Mrs. de Winter—your husband’s first wife—the one she was sailing the night she disappeared.” The corners of Finn’s mouth drew down almost apologetically, as though he sensed how Drusilla had plagued her these many months. “It was what caused the fishing boat to crash.”

The roar of the sea against the shoreline exploded across distance and glass, filling Buffy’s ears as cold permeated every nerve in her trembling body. She felt choked without reason, suddenly floored with the stench of Drusilla’s perfume. As though every hinted manifestation of the woman’s ghost took shape, rising from the ashes of her memory scattered across every corner of the great estate. The floorboards positively hummed, reassured with the presence of their old mistress. Risen from the watery depths of her clandestine tomb. No matter she was buried in the family cemetery, and had been ever since William identified her. This went beyond the physical—this was the resurrection of the thing which had killed her.

Not even a day since William caught a glimpse of his beloved late wife at the top of the stairs.

If he knew what had been uncovered, it would be worse than anything Buffy had ever dreamt up. The magnitude of the fall was inconceivable. Like trying to imagine eternity—a concept beyond grasp, beyond understanding, beyond any sort of conventional wisdom.

“Please,” Buffy gasped, barely aware she was speaking at all. “Please don’t tell him this now. Please. She’s gone, isn’t she? Drusilla’s gone. We knew the boat was lost…what good can come from bringing it up now? I’ll…we can repay the damage done to the fishing boat. Anything. Just please don’t do this to him now.”

The sympathy on Finn’s face was unbearable. He held up a hand. “Mrs. de Winter—”

“This doesn’t change anything,” she insisted erratically. “Anything. Just please don’t make him go through this again. Hasn’t he been through enough? Hasn’t—”

“Were it only a matter of the boat, I would gladly step out of here and never bother you again.” There was a significant pause. “But there’s more to what I told you…and we have to follow every lead from here on out to its logical conclusion.”

Buffy shook her head, unwinding. “I don’t understand.”

The Colonel studied her for a long, grueling moment, his mouth forming a perfect line. “We have reason to believe now that Mrs. de Winter—that is, the late Mrs. de Winter—wasn’t alone in the boat when it capsized.”

The words made no sense to her. She heard them, digested them, intellectually comprehended them, but found herself irrevocably lost in translation. “Not alone?” she repeated, doing her best to ignore her buzzing skin and her shaking hands. “I…I don’t…”

“This is why I need to speak with your husband,” Finn continued apologetically. “There was no report of anyone sailing with Mrs. de Winter that night—”

“Well, that’s because there wasn’t,” Buffy replied. “I don’t understand—”

“Mrs. de Winter…there’s a body.”

The air fell absolutely still. She felt suspended between realities. “A body?”

Finn nodded. “In the main compartment of Mrs. de Winter’s boat. We found a body.”

Buffy’s eyes fixed on a miniscule imperfection on the wall as sound dulled and shapes fell to a place she could not follow. There was no thought. No speech. No sound. There was nothing but absolute knowledge, and the ceaseless despair it brought in its wake. The endless awareness it was over. It was over. It was completely over. The stormy terrain of William’s troubled eyes would dominate him without end. The small steps they’d taken would be completely conquered by devastated, restless silence. Drusilla was resurrected—her boat was no longer submerged and forgotten, no longer an abstract thing of theoretical existence, as it had lived in Buffy’s mind these many months. This was more than seeing Drusilla in the flesh. This was utter loss. This was complete ruination.

“Someone was sailing with her,” Buffy heard herself say. Her legs crashed against the settee without her permission. There wasn’t room enough to breathe.

“Yes, ma’am,” Finn said softly. “This is why I need to talk with your husband. The boat was found on his property, which presents a problem. Moreover, we didn’t know of anyone else sailing with her that night. We need to—”

There was a sudden slam from the main hall. Buffy’s head jerked up.

And then she heard it. The soft baritone of his voice. The cooling lumber with which she’d fallen in love.

“Buffy?” he called softly, searchingly. “Are you down here?”

Her heart leapt into her throat.

William was home.

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Chapter 21″ ]

Chapter 21

Chapter Notes: I’m so nervous about this. *hides*

---

She didn’t know when the draperies had changed. The current texture was coarse, the shade a deep charcoal, and yards of fabric pooled at the ground. She was certain the drapes hadn’t always been this color. As though sensing the shift, the subtle but significant change in the tide, the house had altered its mood. Manderley sensed the impending storm, and despite the resurrection of its mistress, chose to mirror the lifeless shade of William’s eyes.

“Mr. de Winter,” Colonel Finn said diplomatically, offering his hand. “I’m—”

“I know who you are,” William replied, his eyes flickering to Buffy, heavy with concern but likewise well-guarded. Everything about him was guarded. “Is everything all right?”

“Colonel Finn,” she implored desperately. Her tone only furthered the concern in her husband’s eyes. “Please, I—”

“What is it?” William demanded. “What’s happened?”

Buffy sank deeper into the settee, thoroughly vulnerable and more than a little useless. The voices around her stretched into long, incoherent notes which resembled nothing of actual words. She didn’t need to listen—hearing it a second time would amount to little more than rubbing salt into an already achingly open wound. She watched color fade from her husband’s face. His jaw hardened, his head nodding as though detached from his body. Every few seconds his lips would part, and he would offer a non-committal, monosyllabic retort. A dull hum filled Buffy’s ears, drying her throat and numbing her skin and rendering her nothing more than a shadow.

The voices which surfaced made sense but she could barely hear them. She felt miles away.

“I see,” William murmured. “Yes, of course…”

“Obviously, I don’t want to trouble you more on this difficult subject than is necessary,” Finn said sympathetically. “But you understand the problems…” He nodded to Buffy. “Your wife and I think there must have been someone else in the boat with Mrs. de Winter.”

A long, unbearable pause. William’s face didn’t change, nor did his inflection. He merely cleared his throat and nodded. “I see.”

“We don’t know who—”

“Yes, that would be problematic.”

“And I know the last thing you want is more attention on this…matter. The whole island knows that.”

William met Buffy’s eyes and held. There was nothing behind them.

“Yes, Colonel, you’re correct…but obviously our desires don’t coincide with the nature of things.” He nodded again. “If you leave your number, I’ll be sure to give you a ring in the morning. As it is, I believe I need to discuss a few things with my wife. This changes…quite a bit.”

“I can imagine,” Finn said, and if he weren’t so damned empathetic, Buffy would have shoved him through the bay window. He didn’t know what he’d done. What he’d just cost her. He didn’t know how the world had suddenly changed.

And she couldn’t stop it. The last shoe had finally dropped. There was no ray of hope, no way of talking herself into something which truly no longer existed. Colonel Finn had extinguished the last bit of light she’d reserved for herself. Buffy sat on the settee and watched as William slipped away from her completely, unable to do anything to stop it. Everything around her blurred again, disconnected, static, leaving her only to the terrible cadence of her thundering heart. Along the bay, the waves were crashing and Drusilla’s boat was rocking and there was a body in the main cabin. A body which oughtn’t be there but was.

A body which had brought Drusilla herself back to life. No longer a ghost; the woman was truly alive again.

Sound clarified after what felt like hours. Buffy watched William shake Finn’s hand again and show him to the door. Then they were alone. A few agonizingly long minutes passed, but William returned to her. He stood in the doorway, not looking at her, his hands in his pockets. How long they remained like that, she didn’t know. Only that it seemed hours before he closed off the parlor from unwanted visitors.

It took every nerve in her body to command herself to her feet. William met her eyes but only fleetingly, turning instead to the window. There he fixed his gaze on something distant and held. She watched the bob of his Adam’s-apple. She listened to the steady course of his breaths. She stood and waited, but he didn’t say anything.

He wanted to say something. He wouldn’t still be with her if he didn’t want to say something.

“I’m sorry,” Buffy heard herself blurt. Then she was moving—moving swiftly across the room until she was against him. Her arms encircled his waist and her cheek found his chest, and before she could help herself, the tears she’d cried all night tore through the dam she’d built. Everything came tumbling down. “I’m so sorry, William. Please forgive me. Please.”

It was immediate. She’d never felt an embrace like this. His arms were suddenly around her, hugging her to him with foreign intensity. It was unlike anything. Apart from their lovemaking, apart from the captured moments of stolen tenderness—apart from everything. It was so unexpected she didn’t know what to do with it, save hold him tighter and hope he didn’t let go.

William’s lips brushed her brow. “What are you sorry for, sweetheart?”

“The dress. I didn’t mean to…I know it was foolish. I should have known. I should have—”

“Oh, Buffy…”

She blinked, startled beyond reproach. His tone was not one of an angry widower. There was nothing but raw sincerity, and it rattled her to the bone. “What?”

“You did nothing wrong last night,” he murmured, kissing her temple as his fingers played with the wisps of hair at the base of her neck. “I lost my head. My behavior was unforgivable.”

“But the dress—”

“Was only a dress.”

“It was the dress she—” Buffy’s breath drew up short, her heart leaping into her throat. Never before had she referenced Drusilla directly. With intent. But then, never before had they been in such a situation—in a place where his dead wife was more than the ghost in the room. She was the room itself. And no matter how much it terrified her, there was no ignoring Drusilla anymore. “It was the dress she wore.”

To her astonishment, William offered a dry chuckle. “Not the same one, I’d hope,” he replied. “That’d be bloody awkward.”

“No. Mrs. Hart—”

“So it was Mrs. Hart.” A long sigh tore across his shoulders. “I should have seen something like this coming. The woman was devoted to her…” William paused long enough to slowly untangle himself from her clinging arms. “It doesn’t matter now,” he continued, turning again to the window. “It’s over.”

Cold froze Buffy’s insides. “What’s over?”

“Everything, darling. You heard what Colonel Finn said. It’s over now.”

“Because she was sailing with someone else?” Buffy demanded, astonished at the sudden shrill in her voice but unable to stop it. “It was…I know it comes as a shock, but—”

William shook his head indiscernibly. “That’s not it.”

A long sigh depressed her heart. And before she could help herself, the voice of her greatest insecurity tore down the walls of her psyche and stepped forward with uncharacteristic audacity. “I’ll be better,” she promised softly. “I can do better.”

He whirled around, frowning. “What?”

“I’ll be more…I don’t know. I didn’t know how to…when you married me, I didn’t know how to behave. How to be the best…the best wife…for you.”

The dead look on his face made her feel like an over-rubbed scar. “What are you talking about?”

“I know I can’t ever be her. I—”

“You think I want that?”

It wasn’t the fact the words were truly between them, carried by air and existing somewhere other than the recesses of her mind; it was the endless astonishment on his face. As though he had never been plagued with such thoughts. As though he’d never thought her any less than what she was, or never wanted her to be anything more. And perhaps it was the truth. She’d harbored the delusion William wanted her to embody Drusilla, a delusion she suspected the night before had destroyed when he realized she never could be.

Still, there was nothing to support the contrary. Every whispered breath between them was spelled out by distance. William never met her eyes when they made love. Their nights were often occupied with his desperate pleas to his dead wife. He’d turned away from her last night when he’d seen her. He’d told Wesley that she didn’t know him, and never could. He never went to the bay—he’d been so angry with her when she dared venture that way with Jasper, telling her she wouldn’t dare if she had his memories. He bought her dresses and jewels and acted thoroughly bewildered when she couldn’t step with ease into the role into which she’d married.

“I don’t…I don’t know,” Buffy whispered, the air stinging her eyes. “Didn’t you?”

It was a slow transformation. The way his face fell pale, his gaze filling with the most potent sorrow she’d ever seen. The veils between them fell. Standing in the deceitful quiet of the parlor, the space between them occupied with heavy breaths and thundering hearts, it seemed they understood each other at long last.

“Oh God,” William murmured, horrified. “Oh God…”

“It doesn’t matter,” she assured him hurriedly, her feet carrying her to his side before she could stop herself. “None of it matters. We’ll start over. We can still start over.”

He shook his head, though for the dismayed look on his face, she didn’t know if it was in reaction to her offer or if he was still in shock over her revelation. “No,” he whispered. There wasn’t an inch of him that wasn’t haunted. “No, my love. It’s too late.”

The bottom of her stomach dropped. “No,” she protested urgently. It suddenly didn’t matter this was the moment she’d predicted since last night. Since the incident at the bay and the visit from Colonel Finn had fortified every negative fear her mind had whispered to her lovesick heart. Ignoring everything, because the alternative was unbearable. “No, it can’t be too late. It can’t be. I know this is…I can’t imagine how horrible this must be for you. But William, please. It was just someone sailing with her. It was—”

He sighed, his head dropping. “Buffy…”

“I love you,” she cried, tears stinging her eyes. “I love you so much. I know I haven’t—”

William whirled around, and the explosion of life she saw flash across his face nearly knocked her off her feet. “Say it again,” he said softly, his voice weighed with something heavy—something she couldn’t identify, something she barely noticed for her own anxiety. “Say it again, Buffy.”

“I love you.”

It was wondrous—a page from a storybook. For a blindingly perfect moment, she thought he would finally say it back. The softness of his eyes and the hope in his voice begged expansion, but as he approached the definitive line, the fire died and he backed away again. And without warning, the moment passed. “It might have been enough once,” he said, casting his gaze downward. “I thought it would be. You, me…I was so foolish for coming back here. Our one chance of happiness is gone forever.”

Buffy shook her head, hot rivers scalding her cheeks. “William, please. Please.”

“Drusilla has won.”

The words served as the proverbial slap. “What?”

“She’s won. I left to forget her. To forget…God, to forget everything that happened. I never knew I’d meet you. Never dreamed of marrying again. Never thought I could come back to Manderley…not after…” William cleared his throat and turned to the window again, crossing his arms elegantly behind his back, but for the first time she saw how he trembled. “But then I saw you. You were wearing that white dress. Do you remember?”

She remembered screaming at him, terrified she was about to witness a man’s death. Her dress was insignificant. She’d just needed to save him.

“You looked so innocent,” William mused thoughtfully. “You were, of course. Innocent. So much more than even I knew. And you drew me in. God, you drew me in so deeply. But I couldn’t…you couldn’t…”

When his voice faded to silence, Buffy knew he would not speak again. His body was too tight with tension, holding with it the strings keeping her heart together. How he could ever have been enchanted with her was a mystery. It was something she’d never seen—something he’d certainly never revealed. The thought alone was enough to blow her mind but she couldn’t stop. No matter what he said about the past, the fact remained he thought it was over. Whatever it was between them had ended. Their marriage. The life they lived at Manderley. There was something he refused to tell her—something the rest of him was practically screaming.

And again, she thought of his words the night before. The words which would undoubtedly haunt her to the grave.

She doesn’t know me.

“Drusilla has won,” he said again. “I was foolish to think I could beat her. Even in death, she always had the upper-hand.”

“I don’t understand,” Buffy whispered, because it was the truth. “It was someone sailing with her, William. It was only that. Someone was sailing with her that night.”

There was a short, nearly indiscernible shake of his head. “No.”

“But—”

“It’s her. It’s Drusilla.”

It was an odd sensation, feeling one’s heart stop. Tiny prickles danced up and down her arms, her insides flushing cold and her throat threatening to choke on air. What he said was impossible—absolutely impossible. Drusilla was buried in the family plot. William had seen her, identified her. There had been a funeral. This wasn’t a flight of fancy; it was knowledge. It was something to which the whole country could attest.

Shock, Buffy told herself, swallowing hard and forcing a brave step forward. It’s the shock.

Perhaps it was easier for him to imagine Drusilla under water than the less pleasant alternative; the one wherein she was out sailing with a lover.

Another step. She was closing in on him. If she could just touch him, reassure him with a caress, she was certain she could talk him off this ledge as well. He might not want to face the truth of his former marriage, but he’d given Buffy enough ammunition to resurrect her fallen confidence. He’d seen something in her that day on the bluff. Something in her open, vulnerable face and her white dress. If he just looked at her now it wouldn’t seem so horribly bad. Nothing would. She could save him from this. For the sake of their marriage—for his sake—she had no option. “William,” she said softly. “I know it’s…hard to imagine her with someone else down there, but—”

Shivers danced across her skin at the harshness of his laugh. “Oh, yes,” he drawled. “Bloody unfathomable.”

“Talk to me.”

“It’s over. There’s nothing to talk about.” He stared fixedly out the window. “I’m so sorry. I wish I…but she’s won. Drusilla has won.”

“Stop saying that!” Buffy cried, tossing caution aside and grasping his wrist. In a blink, she was trapped beneath the power of his azure eyes. She refused to blink; refused to back down. Not when she had something so vital for which to fight. “She was sailing with someone. Colonel Finn said so. She was—”

“Buffy, it’s no good. It’s her. She’s back. She’s in the boat.” William took her hands in his, tossing a fleeting glance to the door behind her as though it would open on his command.

“It’s impossible! She—”

“You have no idea how I wish it was.”

And then there was fire. Sparks ignited in her belly and began to spread. “So you don’t wish I was her?” she asked before she could stop herself, wincing at the horror which engulfed his face. But there was no stopping—the gate was open. She couldn’t help herself if she tried. “You don’t wish she was here and I wasn’t?”

“No. No. God no. Oh Buffy—”

She heard the words but they made no sense. Not with everything she’d seen. Everything through which she’d been. Not after seeing his eyes last night. “But you wanted her,” she gasped. “You wanted Drusilla. You wanted her back and—”

“Buffy, stop—”

“—you could never love me like you loved her.”

Shock replaced horror. William released her at once and staggered back as though struck with a bullet. “Loved her?” he replied. The words might as well have been toxic for how he spat them. “Loved Drusilla? I hated her. I hated every wretched thing about her. She was a menace. A bloody viper. She never—” He broke away, shaking his head, the whole of him trembling. “I never loved Drusilla.Never. She was pure poison. She killed everything she touched. Everything she…I never thought I was capable of hatred before I met her.” William paused before meeting her eyes again. “And you say you love me. You tell me you love me. I asked you before we married if you loved me. But you can’t, sweetheart. You can’t love me. You don’t know…” He twisted on his heel and pointed at the window. Pointed to the bay. “You want to know how I know Dru’s in that boat? Because I bloody put her there. I shot her with a double-barrel shotgun, put her in the boat, and made damned sure she’d never…but she’s won. Do you understand? She’s won. I killed her. I killed Drusilla, and she still won. She always wins.”

William’s head snapped back to Buffy. She was motionless, frozen with shock, unable to do anything but stare.

“I killed Drusilla,” he said again. “And now you know. The whole world will know. She’s not in the cemetery. She never has been. She never even left Manderley. Never. She’s been here always. Always.”

Every inch of her had frozen. She existed between realities.

And William, with eyes like a thunderstorm, was all around her. He gripped her arms and pulled her to his chest, threatening to consume her, devour her, and daring her to fear him in turn. “So look at me, Buffy,” he whispered, his voice dropping to a plea. For the first time, the tears clouding her vision weren’t her own. “Look at me and tell me it doesn’t matter. Now that you know what I…what I am. Look at me and tell me you can love me now.”

Note: Don’t hate me! I’m halfway through the next chapter, promise!

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[nextpage title=”Chapter 22″ ]

Chapter 22

The flash of his eyes overtook her like a tidal wave, and before she could do so much as gasp his name, her cheeks were between his hands and his lips had crashed upon hers. And then the floor fell away and the walls melted, and there was nothing but them. William’s mouth moved against hers, hungry, demanding; his tongue prying her lips apart to taste every facet of her mouth. And Buffy was so stunned she could do little more than stumble back, her racing mind stuck on repeat. She seized his forearms and secured her balance, gasping when her rear collided with the buffet table along the wall. And William kept kissing her. Pouring every inch of himself into the union of their lips. When he pulled away, it was to sigh her name. When physics reminded him they needed to breathe, he would pant for air while peppering her face with sweet kisses. His hands dropped to her waist and hoisted her onto the table, anchoring himself between her legs. It was the most passionate embrace she’d ever known—the sort of thing she’d only dreamed of touching with William. With anyone. And yet, her mind was stuck. Far away. She could only think of what he’d just confessed.

The words that changed everything.

Loved Drusilla? I hated her. I hated every wretched thing about her.

Strange how nearly a year of apprehension could lift in a matter of seconds. Buffy felt like crying and cackling at the same time. The tears she’d battled all day were suddenly fresh once more, but there was no sadness. There was nothing but the accompanying bubble of laughter lodged in her throat and the tingles spreading through her skin.

William had never loved Drusilla. Never.

As though sensing the thought, his lips broke away just long enough for her to register the absence of his warmth. “Buffy,” he murmured, raising a hand to her face. “Look at me.”

She didn’t realize her eyes had fallen closed. The world fell away again the second their gazes clashed.

William smiled gently and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “I love you. God help me, I love you so much.”

And then he was kissing her again. Hard. Desperate. Passionate. Demanding. He nipped at her lips, sucking her tongue between his teeth, devouring her like a man starved. It was the most wonderful moment of her life and all she could do was sit in his arms and try to keep from bawling at what he’d confessed. At how everything had changed.

William loves me. He never loved Drusilla. He loves me.

It ended as quickly as it’d begun. His mouth broke from hers with a harsh pant, his brow rubbing intimately against hers as he tried to keep from trembling. But before she could gather her wits and draw him into her again, he’d rumbled a long, resigned sigh and moved away, leaving her cold.

“It is too late, isn’t it?” he said, his eyes focused on the floor. It took a few seconds before her mind caught up with the conversation—the thing to which he’d confessed before kissing her into new life. The sin he was convinced would drive her away. “I knew it. I knew…once you knew…”

Buffy’s eyes shot wide. “Oh no. William—”

“I don’t blame you, darling. I—”

“No,” she protested, sliding off the buffet and storming forward, commanded with confidence she’d never before tasted. The nerves wracking her body were empowering rather than incapacitating. There was no losing William now—not if she fought. Not if she revealed everything. “No, I was just…you love me?”

The break of passion in his eyes served as all the answer she needed. A mixture of regret and awe which broke her for the knowledge of the reason behind it. “Oh Buffy,” he sighed, “how can I help but loving you? You’re so…so bloody pure. So genuine. You’re light personified. Just looking at you blinds me. And the fact you even have to ask…I’ve tried so hard to love you while being completely aware that there’s nothing about you I deserve. You’re everything I’m not. Everything. Having you here alone is…it’s so wonderful, but you’re so…after what I’ve done…what I…I’m beneath you. I’m so beneath you…and I’ve been so focused on that I haven’t told you how much you mean to me.” A heartbreaking pause. “You really didn’t know I loved you?”

Buffy inhaled sharply and glanced away. The desperate sincerity in his voice made her feel foolish for her assumptions, but the fears which had harvested her insides were no less authentic now that she knew the truth. As it was, she wasn’t forced to say the words. She wasn’t forced to confess. Silence did all the talking. “I thought you loved her,” she said again, small, her voice hoarse.

William shook his head heavily. “Never. Never, Buffy. I’ve always been yours. Always. Since the day you looked at me.” A heavy break. “I just don’t…I don’t deserve you.”

She was living in a parallel life, walking in a world that looked and felt like hers, but had taken such a radical turn the two couldn’t be mistaken. “How can you say you don’t deserve me? I’m not something to be deserved. I was only a paid companion before—”

“You think that matters to me?” he replied raucously. “I saw you were light and the rest didn’t matter. I wanted you. Then when we spoke…when I knew what sort of person you were…I started loving you and it’s just gotten stronger.” A hard shudder commanded his body. “But I’m…Dru ruined me. Don’t you understand? Don’t you get it? I said she was poison, and bloody hell, she was. She spread through Manderley—through me—and infected everything she touched. She’s gone now, but the darkness she left behind…” His voice lapsed to silence, his crystal eyes large and haunted. “It takes darkness to end darkness, and there’s nothing darker than ending a human life. It’s poisoned me. Made me so…what kind of man am I…”

Buffy instinctively reached for his face, her fingers dancing across his cheek. “You’re a very good man.”

He shook his head. “I don’t deserve you. I never did.”

“Stop saying that.”

“Buffy—”

“You think you can scare me away with talk of darkness? She’s gone. Even if she…whatever she did is over now.” A long breath rolled off her shoulders and she took one of his hands in hers, placing it atop her thundering heart. “I love you.”

The crack of emotion in his eyes was crushing. “Buffy—”

“I do. I love you. And if I’m light—”

“You are. God, you are.”

“Then let me take the darkness away.”

It was near impossible for someone so familiar with detachment to readily adapt to all-encompassing awe. To stand where Buffy stood now. The storm to which she’d grown accustomed had taken a drastic turn, and for a frighteningly long moment she worried he might collapse entirely. It was the most profound shift she’d ever known—the planes governing their existence had reallocated, and she saw at last how much he needed her. She felt it in his throaty breaths as his fingers gently caressed her skin. In a wondrous blink of realization, she saw herself through his eyes and felt cherished for the first time in her life.

She thought he might speak. He did not. Long seconds fell to minutes, filled with nothing but the hard echoes of their breaths. Finally, William inhaled and turned away, focusing again on the bay window. It wasn’t rejection, though when she became schooled enough to identify the difference was beyond her. All she knew was William needed her as much as she needed him, and when he turned from her, it wasn’t to run away. It was out of shame.

“Manderley has been in my family for generations,” he said at last, his voice soft. “When I was younger, it was impressed upon me the importance of property, and the wealth which would one day be mine. Manderley was so much more than a home…it was representative of everything good in my family. The knowledge I would one day be the head of the house, as my father was, was daunting…something I felt I should earn, despite the fact it would be mine no matter what.” William sighed and turned, capturing her eyes again. “It was everything to me. The happiness of my childhood, the namesake of my father…I wanted to make it as happy a place as I could when I inherited it—the way I’d known it growing up. Love was…well, I’m a poet.” A harsh laugh rumbled through his throat. “I’ve always wanted love, though I knew love was more a luxury than a necessity in the world I lived in. But I was determined. I wanted love. I had to have love in my life.”

The warmth in her heart was overbearing. She wanted to speak, but had no words, thus merely extended her hand. It was a long beat before William moved forward, insecurity and longing heavy behind his eyes. The life between them sparked and grew when he took her hand; she felt every tremor that seized his body as she led him to the settee.

“It’s okay,” she said belatedly, though only because she didn’t know what else to say. She placed his hand in her lap as they sat, an unspoken anchor of her support. Intellectually, she understood nothing was okay. Outside the walls awaited harbormasters and boats and dead bodies. Outside awaited a sea of trouble, but she didn’t want William focused on what was coming. Not now. Now, she needed them alone in the world. She needed him to believe no one could touch him so long as she held his hand.

When William nodded, though, she knew it wasn’t in accord with her words, rather a need to get the story out.

“My father was good friends with the Baylocks, and had nothing but good things to say about Drusilla. She had a way of…ensnaring people when she wanted…she made exactly the sort of impression she wanted to make. She was accomplished, intelligent, charming…everything anyone could want in a wife.” He sighed and cast his gaze downward ashamedly. “There was no courtship. I met with Dru three times before our plans to wed solidified. I thought she was…I didn’t know what love was, and I was enchanted with her. There’s no one she couldn’t enchant. She had me under her thumb with a bloody glance…and she knew it. She knew what she was doing and she did it flawlessly. We married in a whirl and set off on a honeymoon that would’ve made the Queen envious.” A significant pause. “Monte Carlo was our first stop.”

There was nothing to do but wait when he grew quiet again. Buffy rubbed her thumb over his hand in silent encouragement. She tried hard to assume patience; these things could not be forced.

“You remember the bluff,” he said absently, as though buying time. “Dru and I picnicked there on our second day as husband and wife. It was there that she told me about herself.” Once again, he fell deathly quiet, his gaze dropping to their joined hands. And without warning, every inch of him dissolved into tremors. It was not a time to intervene with words, she knew, but she couldn’t keep herself from leaning inward to brush her lips across his. The liberation with which she kissed him was intoxicating. There were no boundaries anymore. Nothing left to separate them.

“I love you,” William whispered against her heavily. “So much, Buffy. I’ve never known love like this.”

She blinked hard and offered a watery smile. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yeah…I hear you say it…but what I am—”

“I love you, too. Nothing can change that. Whatever you need to tell me is in the past.” She kissed him again. “It’s in the past, William. I’m right here.”

The look he gave her forewarned he wasn’t convinced, but likewise understood forward was the only way to go. With a jerky nod, he continued. “What she told me was enough to terrify the devil. She was dark, corrupt, conniving, deceitful, and quite adamant on remaining that way. She snacked on goodwill and scoffed at anything that commanded propriety. She was powerful and she knew it…anyone she wanted was hers. Anyone she seduced was at her mercy. She thrived on physical pleasure and sought it from anyone willing to accommodate her.”

Heat flushed her cheeks. There was no question as to what William referred, but the implication alone was enough to scandalize anyone. “Then why did she marry?” she heard herself asking, surprised but pleased to discover the butterflies which usually accompanied her questions were nowhere to be found. “If she wanted to pursue…ummm…”

William scoffed. “’Cause she was a bloody lady, wasn’t she? It’s one thing if you’re a whoring child, but people talk. And people would talk about her. Not then, of course…her father married her off before rumors could circulate. And he made sure to marry her off to me, because I looked into her eyes and thought I saw warmth. I saw what she wanted me to see.”

“I didn’t know arranged marriages existed anymore.”

“They don’t…not like you’re thinking. But marrying for money is still…” He broke off and shook his head. “That’s another thing. Dru’s family wasn’t nearly as well off as they made out to be. The whole sodding lot of them were comprised of con-artists, and they couldn’t afford her lifestyle. I could.

“She told me she would make Manderley a success. That day on the bluff, sitting on a white blanket and eating grapes like she hadn’t just…she was devastating. Manderley would be a success if she got her hands on it. A manor infamous for more than its beauty, but its warmth and hospitality…even those bloody masques she insisted on throwing. Then she grew real quiet and looked me in the eye. Said, ‘Of course, if you prefer the scandal a divorce will bring, we can always go our separate ways now.’ And she knew she had me. I couldn’t do that. Not to my family, not even to hers then…not to Manderley. We made a deal, you see. There on the bluff. Our marriage was a business contract from the beginning. She would do as she pleased…all the while we played this role of being the perfect couple. All for Manderley. It seems so ridiculous now…but at the time, holding onto this place and making it what I wanted it to be overreached my need for…everything.” William sighed. Again, he avoided her eyes. “But that was the first time I thought about it. Then. On the bluff.”

“What?”

“Killing her.” He shuddered, self-disgust splattered across his face. “The world had come crashing down around me. It wasn’t real…the thought. I didn’t think it was real. But this woman I thought I loved—God, how that sounds now—was essentially telling me how she’d conned me into marrying her…into believing she was something she was not…and how she would use me…and she had Manderley as collateral to get what she wanted because she knew how much this damned place meant to me. She’d ripped away my rose-colored glasses, and I thought, just for a minute, how easy it would be to be rid of her if I…pushed her off the bluff.” William met her eyes briefly but glanced away before she could connect with him, as though pained alone by the thought of looking at her. “I’m so…the thoughts I’ve had…the things I’ve done…”

It was instinctive. She knew nothing but to comfort him. Knew nothing except her hand needed to slide over his shoulder. Her arms needed to take him into her embrace. Her fingertips made a slow dance over the back of his neck, tenderly weaving through his brown locks and coaxing his head up just enough so she could kiss him. “I’m still here,” she promised him. “You can’t scare me.”

“I’m a horrible man, Buffy.”

“No.”

A stark, desperate laugh crackled through his lips. “You can’t make it so just by saying it.”

“Neither can you.”

“You understand what I’m saying. This isn’t something that just happened. I wanted her dead long before I killed her. I wanted her dead then. That moment.” William sighed softly. “But I didn’t kill her. I couldn’t. But it’s why I went back there. To that spot. I had to see the place where I first thought of ending it. I thought…I thought if I saw it, if I stood there, I’d understand more of myself. What these last few years had turned me into…where there was to go from…doing what I’d done.” He grinned and met her eyes again. “And then you were there, and you wanted to save me. You were so pure. So…bright…I wanted you to save me, too. If anyone could, Buffy, it was you. You just didn’t know from what.”

Her heart clenched. “I thought you were going to jump.”

A slow, meaningful nod. The pain in his eyes was nothing short of crushing. “Yeah…problem is, love, I already had. Seeing you…you gave me a lifeline.” William shifted and focused his attention on the carpet. “But that’s…that’s why I was in Monte Carlo. Dru had set up a nice little scene and handed me the script, and I played my role. Everyone thought we…I don’t even want to consider what they thought of us…the lies she planted in the heads of those who carried influence while gallivanting across the countryside with whoever she was shagging at the moment.”

Buffy worried a lip between her teeth. “Were you jealous?”

“What?”

“That she was…you know…”

William made a face. “No. No. God, no. I didn’t touch her. Not after I knew what she was…she and I…we slept in the same room to keep the servants from talking, but she was hardly here. She was either at her boathouse or in town. No, love, I didn’t care about her affairs. I cared about my family’s reputation. She was a de Winter after she married me, therefore if she was caught in…compromising situations…she’d eradicate our good name. She threw parties, spent money like it was nothing, entertained down at the boathouse…and I was bloody miserable.”

Something in his words had another dark thought bubbling to the surface. One which made her shiver with revulsion, but she knew in a blink that she had to know the answer. Buffy swallowed hard. “Did you…ummm…if she…if your marriage was…”

“A joke,” he provided.

“Did you…I…I mean, she had lovers. Did—”

“No.”

She blinked dumbly. “No? I…I hadn’t even asked—”

A wry grin stretched his lips. “You didn’t need to, love. It’s all over your face. No, Buffy. I didn’t take a mistress. I couldn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I was married. It meant something to me.” William frowned and rolled his eyes at himself. “My logic’s all buggered. It’s not like I didn’t think about it. I knew I was entitled…I wouldn’t be betraying Dru. Hell, she told me on more than one occasion I should…relieve myself every once in a while. But I couldn’t…I don’t take vows lightly. It’s the poet in me.”

The tone in his voice indicated apology. What on earth he had for which to apologize, she had no idea. The romanticism of being faithful, even to a woman he hated? The need to uphold vows he took in a church, even if the promise between them meant nothing? William was a poet, and words were his bread and butter. If he spoke them, if he meant them, he would follow.

As it was, she couldn’t be happier he hadn’t had a mistress. Though she knew, logically, if he had taken a mistress, Buffy would never be here. Only love could have prompted William into an affair, thus he would have loved whoever he took to bed. He hadn’t fallen in love while Drusilla was alive; he’d waited until she was gone.

“It sounds absurd,” he scoffed, shaking his head at himself. “Giving a fig about adultery when I put a bullet in her.”

“William—”

“I think it was Angelus who…his…bastard was always here. Always. He and Dru played friendly for the staff, only to sneak and have a shag in the nearest available room. They loved it…the thrill of getting caught. Didn’t matter who. They’d play it innocent publicly, but figured it was at the blame of the staff if they were…spied. So they shagged loudly. And roughly. They wanted attention. They wanted me to catch them.” His eyes darkened. “I did once. Never after that. I told her I didn’t want him here again, not that it did any good…but when I was here, she’d take Angelus down to the boathouse and…” A pause. “It wasn’t just him. She tried to seduce Xander and Wesley…though I think she learned once was enough after an attack from Anya. Wesley told me straight off, and I think that’s when he knew how things were. You know Wesley, though, he’s too good to mention anything.” William sighed. “She had me imprisoned in my own home. The place that had been so wonderful…the place I wanted to make…happy…as it had been for me. There was no happiness here. Drusilla drained me of everything. She infected…everything.

“I don’t really know what sent me over, Buffy,” he whispered. “And that’s what terrifies me the most. It was nothing. It was nothing at all. Dru was supposed to be in town for the weekend, but when I arrived home from a visit at Anya and Xander’s, Mrs. Hart informed me she had returned prematurely and Angelus would be with her. They both had already relocated to the boathouse in anticipation of my arrival. I sat in my private library for a very long time, seething, drinking…hating her. Thinking about the sham of a life I’d allowed her to create for me. Thinking how I was slowly wasting away into nothing…and how bloody content she was. And then something in me just…broke. I couldn’t fathom spending the rest of my life with her…like that. With Angelus trekking the halls of my father’s house. So, after my third or fourth glass, I retrieved my shotgun and went down to the bay to confront them. The gun…I never dreamed I’d use it. I just wanted to scare them. I wanted them to know I meant it. What I had to say.”

When he grew silent again, Buffy raised his hand to her lips and pressed a gentle kiss across his knuckles. He hesitated before gracing her with a small, sad smile. “This is where—”

“I know,” she told him.

“I can’t believe you’re still sitting here.”

“I am. And I still love you.”

William shook his head. “Can’t believe that, either.”

“The past means nothing to me,” she said again. “I didn’t know you then…I married the man that came after all this.” She offered a smile in turn and kissed his mouth. “But you…you haven’t told anyone else this, have you?”

“No.”

“Not even Wesley?”

“No. I think he knows, though. He’s always…I think he knows.”

Buffy nodded, more to herself, though, than anything. It made sense. Wesley’s pleading reassurances over the past few months were just as subject to interpretation as all the small moves she’d seen William make—the moves she’d translated as a man in mourning rather than a man consumed with guilt. It certainly explained why Wesley had insisted just a few hours ago upon driving up to Manderley to discuss her fear of William’s never-ending love for Drusilla. Perhaps he’d been ready to divulge the truth, or at least his understanding of the truth.

The next time she saw Wesley, she owed him a hug. A hug and an apology.

But for now, William needed her. William had needed her for so long; he’d simply been convicted of his own unworthiness. His assumption that needing her didn’t equate to deserving her—not after the crime he’d committed. She was determined to prove him wrong. She was with him; she was at his side, and there was nothing he could do to persuade her otherwise. Not when she knew the truth.

Not when she at last knew that he loved her.

After a long beat, William squeezed Buffy’s hand and fortified himself with a deep breath. “I found her alone when I got there. Angelus had yet to arrive. She was sitting in the dark with her back to me. She knew it was me without a word. I got to the point quickly…it was over I told her…I wanted out. I wanted a divorce. I didn’t care about our deal. I didn’t care about anything. I just wanted my life back. She stood up then and turned to me. I thought she might scream or gasp when she saw the gun, but she didn’t. She acted like it wasn’t even there.” He paused. “Looking back, it bloody figures. Dru’s unflappable. She always was. I could’ve stormed in there firing into the air and it wouldn’t’ve made an inch of difference. She always knew what to expect…and if she didn’t, she sure as hell didn’t show it.”

There was nothing to say to that. Buffy opted to nod her support and wait for him to remember himself.

“I told her I’d make sure she was taken care of,” William continued. “Divorcing her was going to be difficult enough…I thought money might make it…but she just shook her head and said, ‘There’ll be no divorce.’

“I knew she’d object but I wasn’t swayed. ‘It’s over, Dru,’ I told her. ‘Take Angelus and your things and go to town.’ But she didn’t move. She just looked at me, then at the gun, then smiled and said no one would believe it.”

Buffy blinked. “It?”

“Any cause I had for divorcing her,” he clarified. “After all, we’d played the part of the perfect couple. Everyone thought our marriage the pinnacle of modern success…how marrying for love…” He trembled at the word. “No one would ever believe she was unfaithful to me or that I wasn’t happy with her. No one would ever believe any motion for divorce. Too much time had passed and we’d never seemed anything but happy. I told her it didn’t matter. If she agreed to the divorce, I’d make sure she had enough to live as wildly as she chose until she died. But she had none of it. She wasn’t going to let go.” William sighed, and his whole body shook. “She was going to keep me trapped forever.

“Then she looked up and grinned, running her hand over her belly. ‘Wonder if I should have a child, Spike?’ she said. ‘Angelus and I are hoping for a boy. No one would ever believe he wasn’t yours. He’d grow up here, of course. At Manderley. And when you die, well, the sole heir would inherit the estate, wouldn’t he? I’d make sure he took good care of things. Might be a little looser than you with his pocketbook. We only have the one life, you know?’”

The air grew still. Clouds rolled over the sun and cast shadows through the open windows. William shook so hard it was a wonder the ground didn’t shake with him. He squeezed his eyes closed, unwilling to let her see what lay inside even if she’d promised it would never chase her away. He was perpetually caught among worlds—and God, how she was seeing it now. Every move he made, every word he whispered, every breath he inhaled was trapped somewhere between remorse and a feeling of endless inadequacy. Buffy did nothing. She didn’t calm him with words, didn’t offer him a kiss, didn’t caress his hand; he knew she was there, and what he had to say was more for him than for her. He’d lived with his ghosts too long. This wasn’t about placating her fears—this was about confession.

Still, she couldn’t help herself when he whispered, “Buffy?” His voice sounded so small. So desperate. As though he feared by her silence that she’d changed her mind.

Never. It wasn’t a possibility. She leaned forward before she could help herself and kissed his brow. “I’m here,” she told him. “I’m not leaving.”

William nodded, but she could tell he only half-believed her. “Everything went dark then,” he said softly. “Everything. She’d taken so much from me…so much I’d let her take. My freedom. My integrity. Everything I’d done since I put the ring on her finger was for Manderley. All for Manderley. I’d poured so much of myself into it…because it meant something to me. Manderley was the last thing that meant something to me. It represented everything good in my life which I’d allowed to be infected by her disease. It was my father’s house…and Dru was going to have Angelus’s child, and my father’s house would be…” He inhaled deeply. “I lost it. My eyes went black. All I could see was her. Laughing. Gloating. Her dark eyes shining, mocking me. She knew what she’d done. She knew it. And I raised the gun and shot her.”

The floor trembled with the weight of his admission. And though she’d known it was coming, Buffy couldn’t help but shiver.

“That’s it,” William said. “I put her body in her boat. It was a horrible night. Sea raging…the earth screamed around me, and all I could do was focus on getting her in the boat. I put three holes in the floor and stood by the bay as the water took it. Then I cleaned up the mess in the boathouse and…I haven’t been back there since. Not until today.”

Buffy nodded numbly, her mind racing back to the first trip to the Happy Valley. Jasper taking off for the bay, and Buffy’s mindless need to follow. William had been so angry when she returned. Demanding how she could have gone there, especially when he asked her to leave it alone. How she could venture to that portion of the property.

You wouldn’t dare…not if you had my memories.

And here they were. William’s haunted eyes overwrought, every inch of him shaking as though he’d shot Drusilla all over again. He was back there. Back at the bay. At the boathouse. He was watching the woman laugh at him, mock him, boast about the unborn child in her belly. The child which belonged to another man—a man William despised. A man who would someday hold claim to everything William held dear, if in blood alone.

“I had to leave,” he whispered, clutching her hand tighter now; like he needed to remind himself of the life he’d built in the aftermath. “Once it was over…the body that washed up…I didn’t know who it was, only it was a godsend. I said it was Dru and that was the end. And I left. I left and I found you.” He paused long enough to cast her a grateful smile, and her heart melted. “I found you where I found her, odd enough. Where I found who she really was…looking down at the place where I’d first wanted to kill her. I went there…and I saw you. And the black around me began to fade. You brought me into the light again, Buffy…but God, I’ve known all along. I’ve known I didn’t deserve you.”

“William—”

“She knew it, too.”

Buffy frowned, a spike of fear shooting through her veins. “She?”

A moment’s pause, then a short, cynical laugh huffed through his body. “Dru. Only place she lives now is in here.” He indicated his head with a tap. “You understand she’s always there. Always. Every time I look at you, she whispers how you’d hate me if you ever knew. How angels never know the devil is a gentleman until it’s too late. She’s everywhere. I thought I could escape her if I…if I proved I could actually love, that she hadn’t taken it away from me…and hearing you say you love me—”

“I do, William—”

“But you didn’t know. You could never know. You trusted yourself in the arms of a murderer.” There was a crack in his voice and for a horrible moment, she thought he might collapse in tears. “I looked at you the first night we were together. The first night I…we…you were so nervous, but you trusted me. You gave yourself to me and all I could think about was how unworthy of you I was…of the bloodstained hands that touched your perfect skin. I couldn’t look at you…God, I still can’t. Your love—”

“William—”

“And she’s always there. Always. The second I drift away, she’s waiting for me. Laughing at me. Telling me how you’ll hate me…how you could never…”

Buffy slipped from the settee and settled on her knees before him, propping herself between his legs. The hands which had held his so staunchly now came around his wrists, prying his arms down to his sides so she could see his face. “William,” she said softly, “I don’t hate you. I could never hate you.”

“Buffy—”

“I’ve sat here. I listened to everything, and I’m not going. I’m not leaving you. It wasn’t cold blood—”

“It was. I’d wanted her dead for so long—”

“You reacted out of anger.”

“And that’s supposed to excuse it?”

She frowned and raised her hand to his face, her fingers gently wiping his tears away. “Do evil men weep for their crimes?” she asked. “The devil doesn’t cry out of remorse, William. He cries out of selfishness and pride.”

He shook his head. “You don’t understand—”

“I do.”

“I’m not sorry she’s gone, Buffy. I never have been.”

“But you are sorry you’re the one…” There was no need to finish the sentence. “William…it hasn’t been just you. She hasn’t just been with you. She’s haunted me, too. Every step of the way. Every breath I’ve taken since I came here. All I’ve heard is how wonderful she was and how happy you were and how I was just a replacement for what you couldn’t—”

“God, Buffy…”

“She’s haunted us both. But she can’t anymore. Not if we’re honest with each other.” Buffy smiled softly and rubbed her thumb across his cheek. “I love you, William. I have since Monte Carlo. Nothing can change that.”

The seconds it took to cross the bridge could fill an eternity, but by the time she reached the other side, she knew at last she was home. The brightening of his eyes couldn’t be denied, nor could the rush of pertinent understanding that finally cracked through the hardened exterior of conviction and replaced words of doubt with love. William seized her and dragged her into his arms, covering her mouth with his and engulfing her in passion she hadn’t known existed. They battled hard only to surrender without a victor. He tasted of tears, of the bay. Of cigarettes he’d smoked God-knows-when. He clutched her like she was all standing between him and Hell, and she was determined to prove to him that wherever he went, she would follow.

“I love you, too,” he gasped into her hair. “I should’ve told you every day.”

She was too familiar to the sting of tears to be taken aback, but she didn’t want to cry.

She wanted to hold him, and let him hold her. They had just ridden the storm clouds out, and for a minute, brief as it was, she felt the kiss of sunshine again.

It wouldn’t last, though. Not beyond this room.

Beyond this room awaited the hurricane. There was no telling how long they had before it hit.

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Chapter 23″ ]

Chapter 23

Chapter Notes:

Author’s Note: I’m back! And I have a very special treat for everyone who’s still reading. I am incredibly sorry for the delay on this; I took a brief break to write holiday fics and it took me longer than I thought to get back on track. But again, if you’re still with me, this chapter shouldn’t disappoint. My thanks to Tami, Mari, EB, and Yani for looking over this.

Previously: A grisly discovery at the bay forces William to confess he murdered Drusilla, as well as the true details of their less-than-happy marriage. Buffy finally learns that she’s had William’s love from the beginning, but even as they take solace in each other’s arms, they know they can’t get too complacent, as the reality of Drusilla’s demise might end up costing William his freedom, and Buffy the man she loves.

---

A quiet blanket of calm settled over the manor.

William had remained at Buffy’s side all night, save for the few times he was called to the phone. It hadn’t taken long for the harbor master to confirm the body in the boat was female, leading to a series of uncomfortable phone trades speculating as to William’s stability when he identified the woman currently lying in the de Winter tomb. To his credit, William remained calm throughout every inquiry. He stood stationary by the phone, answering with detachment Buffy would have, just yesterday, mistaken for grief. But his eyes remained on her—fixed, determined. In those deep irises, she saw nothing but her reflection. He was absorbed in her.

Few words were actually traded once they left the unassuming sanctuary of the front parlor. However, stepping into the hall, Buffy felt the grip of Drusilla’s ghost at last fade away. She had William’s love—she had the thing she thought she’d never touch. And though the future was clouded with uncertainty, the peace she felt was insurmountable.

She had William. She truly had him. There was no way she would let him go. They’d made it this far by fighting two separate battles a world apart; they were joined now in ways they couldn’t have been before. Together they would beat back the storm.

Failure was not an option. She had something for which to fight. Something more precious than she could have ever dreamt.

The evening passed slowly. William accepted calls—most from Colonel Finn, though a few from reporters. He closed himself in his office until supper, and while they ate together, watching each other with newfound understanding, not many words were traded.

He kept looking at her as though he expected her to disappear. As though he thought her promise of love, regardless of the sins of his past, could not overcome the monstrosity of the moment. The horrors they had yet to face.

What was coming tomorrow.

She did not want to push him. Thus, after supper, she did as she did every night; climbed the stairs to the second floor and turned her feet toward the east. Tonight did not feature a spared glance toward the unused wing where William had lived with Drusilla. There was nothing to envy. That place was a cavern of sorrow, a tomb where her husband’s gentility and idealism had been all but destroyed. The shadows following her footsteps no longer whispered of her inadequacy. She felt, of all things, wondrously liberated.

Buffy moved about the room with newfound confidence, but opted not to change into her nightclothes, lest William be called to town. She had no idea what to expect; an inquest on the cause of Drusilla’s death, no doubt, but beyond that…

She couldn’t see that far. She didn’t want to try.

Ordinarily, Buffy would crawl into bed and wait for William to join her. Tonight, however, the prospect of slipping under the covers without him was unbearable. She instead took seat on their bed, the room dark, and waited. What had passed in the parlor hours before seemed like snippets of a dream, but the taste of his despair, the veracity of his fear at her disgust for his sins reminded her just how real the day had been. William loved her—he truly loved her. But he didn’t feel he deserved her.

Last night, she’d slept in their bed alone, every molecule of her being shattering at his unreadable eyes and the multilayered confession in the darkened entryway. She’d thought her life over—thought she’d truly resurrected Drusilla now, and there was no way for them to ever reach the small hope of happiness she’d once harbored. The delusion that if she loved him enough, it wouldn’t matter if he never loved her back.

Only he did love her back; he always had. And tonight she didn’t want to sleep alone.

She didn’t want William to walk through the door and find her already far from him. She needed him to know she was with him always—no matter what had happened in the past. The future was theirs. They merely had to outrun the ghosts.

Buffy had no idea how long she sat before he knocked, and after the echo died, she blinked dumbly at the door. William never knocked. It was his room as much as it was hers—more than it was hers. At any time, he wandered in as he pleased, uncaring, perhaps even eager to find her in a state of undress. But he was knocking now—knocking as if the room no longer belonged to him.

As though she wanted him anywhere but at her side.

Buffy cleared her throat and smoothed her palms along the fabric of her trousers. Her lips parted to call him inward, but then she thought the better of it and rose to her feet. It would take time to assure him that she wanted him—that she loved him regardless of his past. That she wasn’t living in a daze and speaking simply to reassure him rather than out of truth.

The door creaked as she opened it, and then her eyes were lost in his. William stood inches from her—mere inches that somehow seemed to fill a gorge.

“May I…” He began awkwardly, his breathing ragged, every inch of his body trembling. “…do you want…”

It unnerved her to see him so rattled. William had for so long been a pillar of strength. The stone façade he’d worn these last few months had hidden more than the truth of Drusilla’s fate; it had also concealed the passionate, emotion-driven man beneath she saw now. Words weren’t enough. He failed to see his own goodness, focused too much on his failing to identify himself as a victim.

Drusilla had nearly destroyed them both. Buffy needed no proof other than the bruises her heart still wore and the glares Mrs. Hart leveled her way every time they passed. It didn’t take knowing Drusilla to identify her as toxin; Buffy knew William. He was kind and compassionate. He was loving, funny, intelligent, and for too long he’d been trapped in his own home.

Not anymore.

Buffy nodded jerkily and threw the door open. “I meant what I said downstairs,” she said softly. “I meant every word. I love you.”

A relieved whimper tumbled off his lips. “Thank God,” he gasped, nearly falling into her arms. “I need you so much, Buffy. So much.”

His raw, broken voice nearly ripped her in two. “I’m not going anywhere,” she promised, her heart in her throat. “Did something happen? I know you were on the phone all night…”

William shivered, shaking his head hard against her. “Nothing we didn’t expect,” he murmured. “There will be an inquest. But…nothing. They didn’t find…anything. Not on her. The bay’s had her too long. There’s no evidence of…” He broke off with another hard shudder. “Of what happened.”

Buffy nodded, her fingers tunneling through his hair. “It will be all right,” she whispered, and she believed it. “You just said it yourself…they didn’t find anything. They will think you were distraught when you…it will be all right.”

William’s grip on her tightened, a bitter chuckle burning his throat. “Bloody distraught,” he agreed cynically. Then his voice dipped with a whisper. “I can’t believe you’re still here.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Her hand found his chin, tipping his head upward to taste his lips with her own. The velvety feel of his mouth had her knees weakening. Their kisses had always been delicious, but there was something so inherently separate from their stolen moments of intimacy of the past and the tenderness which had blossomed between them in the few hours since the confession downstairs. While William’s touch had always left her burning, there was simply no comparison to this. To his tongue’s passionate exploration of her mouth. To the way he held on to her with aching desperation. To the small whimpers scratching at his throat—the way his need poured through every move he made.

“Buffy,” he gasped into her mouth, coaxing her arms to link behind his neck. Then he was walking her backward, murmuring her name between desperate kisses. “My Buffy. My Buffy…”

Buffy nodded hard, her voice cracking. “Yes. Oh Will…”

“I’ve done so much wrong by you.”

“It’s all right.”

William shook his head. “No. No, love, it’s not all right. I made you…what I made you believe…” He cupped her cheeks as her legs hit the mattress, drawing her into the ocean of his eyes. “I didn’t deserve you. I couldn’t…and in my wanting you while knowing I didn’t deserve you, I pushed you away. I didn’t mean to…I never meant to make you feel like you were anything less than royalty. I’ve been so selfish, Buffy. So bloody selfish. I’ve needed you but I’ve felt like having you was…it was just asking too much.”

She swallowed, her hips swaying against his in a manner she barely registered. He was hard against her, and she wanted him desperately. Wanted him like never before—wanted him at last like a woman. In the past few hours, Buffy felt she had grown up. She understood so much about herself now—things which had eluded her only yesterday. And while she and William had made love before, she had never initiated anything. She had always waited for him to come to her, so certain anything else would be rejected for want of a woman who no longer lived.

It wasn’t so. William wanted Buffy, and he always had. The frightened child that had lived with her for so long had finally vanished. She was no longer a little girl. She was a woman, and she had grown up.

“There’s so much I’ve wanted to give you,” William said gently. “So much I…I’ve wanted to do to you.”

Her cheeks flamed. “We’ve done a lot.”

There was a pause; his eyes darkened. “Not nearly enough,” he murmured, kissing the corner of her mouth. “I’m a bad, bad man, Buffy.”

“No, you’re—”

“No.” He grinned, this time rakishly. “I mean the things I’ve wanted. The things I’ve…I’ve wanted to do to that delectable body of yours. Our first night together…do you remember?”

Buffy nodded, a small thrill racing down her spine. “Yes. I was so terrified.”

“I wanted you so much.” His fingers dropped to the buttons of her blouse. “I wanted to pepper kisses across your lovely breasts. Have I told you that you have lovely breasts?”

A lump the size of the island swelled in her throat. Her eyes watered and she shook her head, shuddering hard as his mouth took chart down her throat, drawing her flesh between his teeth and nibbling her delicately—such that she was suspended between jolts of pleasure and tugs of pain. She felt her blouse fall away, and then the only thing between his hands and her flesh was her brassiere. One of many brassieres she felt made her look much more ample than she was in reality.

“You do,” William murmured, trailing his mouth along her collarbone. “So soft. So pretty.” The air snapped as the clasp was liberated, and the protective cups dropped away and her naked flesh was his to explore. His kisses traveled further southward, wandering across the slope of her breasts as small, gratified murmurs scratched his throat. “Buffy…”

She existed a world apart. Never before had she been touched like this. Never before had he whispered against her skin as his mouth pressed kisses across her breasts. As he told her how lovely she was, how small and perfect. Never had she been in William’s arms with him completely. He was always somewhere else, he was always far away. Convincing himself he wasn’t worthy of the love she so desperately wanted to give him.

That wasn’t to say lovemaking with William hadn’t shaken her foundation. The pure bliss of being one with him, of feeling him in her body, had sustained her, fueled her with hope, and given her a part of him she thought otherwise untouchable. But he’d never met her eyes before when they were intimately locked. Never looked at her as he moved within her—never had he allowed it.

William had kept himself at bay. The passionate creature who held her now was the William she’d seen only in glimpses. This was the man whom had screamed at her for wandering toward the bay. The man whom had mauled her lips upon discovering Angelus’s visit. This was the man whom had taken her by storm downstairs. He was free at last, no longer the captive of his own misgivings. No longer bound by the whispers of his demons. He might have walked through shadows, but he was in the light now. And he was learning her as though they’d never before shared a bed.

As though tonight was their first as husband and wife.

Her legs hit the edge of the bed as his tongue flattened against her nipple, small shivers rippling across her skin. His fingers tenderly fondled the underside of her other breast and squeezed her with something akin to reverence. He licked her, flicked her, drew her into his mouth and sucked. Beads of white hot pleasure fired through her veins, small but insistent, and growing by the second.

“Our first night, I wanted this,” William murmured against her, leaving her nipple with a parting kiss before his head shifted to her other breast, giving her the same treatment. “Wanted…and maybe I could have.”

He pulled her tightly into his mouth, something resembling a purr vibrating through his throat. The way his tongue moved across her skin, the way it curled and laved and rubbed her sensitive peak before tracing the gooseflesh his attention incited made Buffy feel thoroughly cherished in a way she’d never imagined. She was no stranger to affection—rather, she’d been at the receiving end of affection for months. But this was something more than affection; this was love. Love unlike the sort formed between friends and family. Love unlike anything the world could fathom. William loved her, and she felt it in every move he made.

“I was selfish,” he continued in a whisper, releasing her nipple with a wet plop. “I wanted you but…I couldn’t let myself have you the way I craved.” Soft kisses whispered down her belly as his mouth migrated southward. “I’d make love to you, and then dream about this. About tasting you like this. Of loving you the way I truly wanted.” He nipped at her bellybutton before lowering himself fully to his knees. “But dreams were…she’d…they never lasted. They never lasted, love. She was always there. Always chasing you away. Always telling me—”

Buffy tensed and cupped his cheek, directing his gaze upward. “This isn’t a dream, William,” she promised hoarsely. “And it’s just us.”

He nodded, his eyes heavy. “Just us.” A lengthy pause; his head fell downward again, soaking in her bare stomach before gracing her flesh with a kiss. Then his fingers pulled on the waistband of her pants, gently coaxing her onto the mattress. He made quick work of her footwear before gently encouraging her to roll her hips upward as he dragged her trousers down her legs.

William’s face had never been so close to her center, and at once, she felt a warm blush flood her skin. He’d touched her there, rubbed her with his fingers until she climaxed, but never spread her on a bed like this. Never had the look in his eyes that he had now. Her remaining undergarment was gone in a matter of seconds, and then she was thoroughly naked for his exploration.

“I never touched you like this,” William stated matter-of-factly, his fingertips whispering across her mound, through her curls until his index finger was pressed between her vaginal lips, rubbing her wet flesh with gentility that betrayed intent. “I can’t believe I’ve had you for so long without touching you like this.”

When he glanced up again, his eyes melted. “And you…this is why.”

His thumb slipped over her clitoris, rubbing her with almost lazy circles.

Buffy was certain her heart would leap from her chest, but it didn’t. The white streaks of pleasure he’d sparked with his mouth blazed harder. She fought the urge to thrust her hips against him, though for reasons she could not fathom, only it felt as though they were at the beginning all over again. As though her limited knowledge was completely eradicated, and he was at the beginning. He was reeducating her. Silently shoving the months of intimacy they had enjoyed aside in favor of teaching her as he’d wanted from the start. “W-why?”

“The way you’re looking at me now,” William said softly. “I couldn’t have you look at me like that with what…”

He didn’t finish. There was no need. Instead, he turned his attention back to her exposed flesh, licking his lips hungrily. “You trusted me with your body without knowing what I was. I couldn’t take advantage…”

“It’s not—”

“God, but you’re heavenly.” William’s mouth neared her center, sending electric shocks through her veins. Buffy attempted to sit up—to cover herself, to close her legs, to do anything—but he refused. Her thighs were kept spread by strong forearms, his thumb still massaging her slippery pearl. With his other hand, he parted her intimate lips and favored her most secret flesh with a long, lavish lick.

Any thought of resistance promptly melted away. A hard gasp clawed through Buffy’s throat, her head rolling back. She caught herself before her back collapsed entirely on the bed, propping herself up on her elbows, wide eyes taking him in as William situated her so her knees were draped over either shoulder.

“You have no idea how gorgeous you are, do you?”

He didn’t pause and let her think. Rather, his tongue stole several more licks of her wet flesh. Every swipe had her damn near jolting off the bed, and for once, her mind was too clouded with sensation to bear any thought. He prodded her opening before delicately delving inside her, licking her inner walls with such tenderness she nearly burst into tears.

“Taste so good.”

Buffy blinked dazedly as another hard tremor seized her body, at last sending her fully against the mattress. “I…I do?”

“God yes,” William murmured, nuzzling her. “Like honey. So bloody rich. I’ve wanted to taste you for so long, kitten. Wanted to bury myself here…” He ran his fingers over her mound. “Wanted to lick up every inch.”

She trembled. “Will…”

Two fingers slipped into her body and the thumb gently manipulating her clitoris was replaced by the wet haven of his mouth. With the first tender swipe of his tongue, she bolted off the bed, hips bucking madly against his face. Her reaction didn’t startle him away like she would have thought; rather, a rakish grin stole his lips and he licked her again. Once, twice, then her hypersensitive flesh was between his lips. He pulled and sucked on her, teased her with his tongue, waggled her with a shake of his head. Ecstasy ricocheted and built, fanning toward something she’d never experienced save for when he was inside her. Save for when his body was locked in hers—holding her to the earth, keeping her grounded. But he wasn’t inside her now—he was driving her mad with his mouth, and when she felt herself lift toward explosion, there was no one to anchor her.

“That’s it,” William purred into her wet skin. “Let it go, sweetheart.”

Buffy sobbed and split apart, spasming hard under his mouth. She thrust madly against him, control a thing of the past, tears stinging her eyes and her heart flailing against her chest. Her body buzzed with warmth, numbed, and then she felt him. His tongue still prodding her, licking up everything she’d given him. His thumb at her clitoris again, stroking softly so as not to let the fire die down. As if it could. As if she could calm with him looking at her like she’d fallen from the heavens. As if he hadn’t been the one to show her the stars, rather a passenger she’d taken along the ride.

“You’re glorious.”

Her voice was harsh when she tried to use it. “Oh William…”

“Absolutely glorious.”

He kept her under his eyes a minute longer before releasing a small sigh and rising to his feet. The second his flesh left hers she was overtaken with cold. Buffy sat upright. “Don’t leave,” she said softly. “Please.”

He frowned and looked at her quizzically. “I’m not…oh Buffy. No. I’m just…” An awkward grin tickled his mouth as he gestured to his persistent state of dress. “I’m just going to…”

“Oh.”

William smiled and leaned forward, brushing a kiss across her brow. “Not going anywhere,” he promised, though his eyes spoke the words he couldn’t. He wasn’t going anywhere tonight. Tonight he was hers—the morning could change everything.

No. No. Buffy forced her thoughts away from the bay. She wasn’t going to think of what daylight might bring. Not when she had something truly worth fighting for. Her jaw hardening with resolution, she rose to her feet and lifted trembling fingers to the buttons of William’s dress-shirt. She’d never been proactive in disrobing him—content always to sit by, never wanting to overstep her bounds. Tonight there was no such fear, only conviction.

Still, she couldn’t quite meet his eyes as she undressed him. William had shaken her hard; in just a few hours, her entire world had redefined itself. And while she didn’t doubt the truth of his words or the depth of his love for her, it would take more than knowledge to reshape her horizon. It would take the deepest form of understanding.

William inhaled sharply when her fingers grazed his bare chest, his eyes darkening. The slightest touch was enough to snap his patience. He pushed her back and tore his shirt from his body, his hands flying to his trousers. In seconds he was as naked as she, his chest crashing, his eyes consuming her. They came together in a frenzy, mouths fusing, arms entangling, falling together on the mattress. His lips savaged her skin, leaving no part of her untouched. Hands wandered across her breasts and belly before slipping further between them to tease the ache between her legs.

It seemed imprudent to beg after he’d already numbed her with pleasure, but she couldn’t help herself. He’d refused to let the fire die and now she was burning all over again. Buffy craned her neck with a gasp, her fingers tunneling again through his hair.

“William…”

His heated eyes met hers, his mouth pulling on one of her nipples. “I want to remember you just like this,” he said after he released her, moving upward so the head of his erection nudged her slippery folds. “On our bed. Beneath me.”

Her breath hitched but she couldn’t speak. She couldn’t do anything but nod. And then he was sliding into her, parting her body with his. Buffy’s chest tightened. She linked her arms under his shoulders and pulled him closer. Their breaths mingled in the space between their mouths, uniting in a sigh once he was fully within her. It was a dance she knew but had to relearn all the same. Her body knew his so well, but not without the unseen barrier. Not without the veil between them.

William’s crystal eyes absorbed her. They remained locked in silence, him inside her, her legs curled at his sides, as though getting to know each other all over again. And when he blinked with doubt and turned to bury his face in her shoulder as always, she was there to catch him.

“No,” she whispered, fingers catching his cheek before he could turn away. “No, darling. Look at me.”

He trembled but didn’t argue. His eyes found hers again.

“I trust you,” she promised him, lifting her head to kiss his lips. “I know it, William. I know everything. Keep looking at me.”

Another hard breath rolled through him. He blinked hard, rapidly, silent tears misting his gaze. But he didn’t look away. Not as he wept. Not as he began moving inside her. He watched her. Watched as her words dissolved into whimpers. Watched as she rolled her hips beneath him, recapturing his length every time he slipped away. Watched as the sounds around them gave way to moans and sighs, to the creaking of the bed beneath their rocking bodies and the illicit wet smacks of their flesh colliding. Watched as the world fell apart and rebuilt itself. He watched her—his eyes remained lost in hers. He cried silent tears until realization fused with understanding; she wasn’t going to refuse him.

“Keep…looking…”

William nodded, his eyes remaining open as their tongues entwined, and even with the feel of him moving inside her, the intimacy of watching him as they kissed shook her to her core.

“Say it,” Buffy gasped when her body demanded air, her head falling against the pillow. His thrusts were coming harder now, new need blazing across her skin. Where the demand came from, she knew not. Only that it was important—she needed to hear it now. Now with William inside her, with his eyes on her, with the taste of his kisses in her mouth, she needed him to say it. She needed the words so badly.

“Buffy?”

“Tell me, William,” she begged sweetly, nipping at his lips. “Please.”

A flash; then he knew. “I love you,” he told her. “I love you. I love you so much.”

She sobbed. “Will…”

“I love you. I should have told you…God…” His brow found hers, his eyes remaining with her, his thrusts coming harder. “You’re warm. You’re heaven. Never felt this, Buffy. Not once. Just you. Only you.”

“Oh…”

“Burn me up, you do. And you love me.”

She nodded blindly, sucking his lower lip into her mouth. She battled him best she could, demanding custody of his body every time he dared pull back. Every time she felt his erection threaten to slip out of her—every time he teased her before slamming back home. “I do,” she gasped. “I do. William…”

“Always, love.”

“Yes.”

William kissed her lips again. “Still with you,” he promised softly. “Just need to…” His eyes broke away for a beat as his mouth wandered down her throat. “Always deserved to be worshipped.”

“Wo-worshipped?”

“You’re a goddess, Buffy. Liquid fire, you are. Burn me so sweet.” He growled lightly when his mouth found her breasts again, and had she been in such position she might have laughed. He seemed rather preoccupied with them. Not that she was complaining—not if his tongue kept teasing her nipples like that. Then he met her eyes again and the world was set ablaze. She felt she could come apart simply by watching him.

“Want to feel you,” he whispered suddenly, slipping his left hand between them. Her eyes followed suit, absorbing the sight of his nimble fingers teasing her as his length dipped in and out of her. And the second she felt him rub her clitoris, the white heat he’d kept her under roared to freedom and she felt herself spiraling toward ecstasy again. Clenching him. Drenching him. An inhuman cry rode off her lips as her nails dug into his shoulders, and she held him as he kept thrusting, his eyes never leaving hers.

Not even when she felt him tense and spill inside her. He watched her. He never stopped watching her.

And she never gave him reason to look away.

*~*~*

The night saw little rest. They held each other, talked to each other, cradled each other in the midst of gruesome uncertainty, and they made love until strength faded in favor of sleep. William didn’t let her sleep away from him—didn’t let her scoot to the edge of the bed she had for so long thought of as hers.

Never again, he told her. Never did he want to sleep without her in his arms.

She pillowed her head at his chest, their hands clasping and resting at his belly.

Tonight, there was no cold. Only warmth.

Tonight, there was no doubt, only knowledge.

Tonight, William was undisturbed by nightmares.

They slept in each other’s arms, encompassed in silence.

End note: I thought it was time, even though it didn’t follow my outline, to reward my faithful readers and earn this story’s rating. I did attempt to keep the love scene appropriate and “in step” with the rest of the story…and my betas have assured me it was, indeed, tender and tasteful rather than tawdry.

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[nextpage title=”Chapter 24″ ]

Chapter 24

Chapter Notes: My current plan is to wrap this story up in three more chapters. Thank you guys so much for not giving up on me—particularly thanks to ghostgirl13 who wouldn’t let me give up on myself. For this chapter, thanks to dusty273, spikeslovebite, and ghostgirl13 for looking over it for me. You guys are the best!

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Dawn crept over Manderley like a villain, stealing the night for the glaring, unforgiving light of morning. Buffy awoke with slow leisure, finding her head pillowed on William’s chest and a pleasant ache lingering between her thighs. Flashes of their passion played across her mind in the manner of a flicker show and sent a warm blush across her skin, one which could not help to counter the giddy tightening of her chest or the smile on her lips.

It was the first time she’d awoken completely in his embrace. There had been a few mornings when he’d draped an arm over her waist or rested a hand at her hip, but never had she been fully entangled in him. Never with his naked flesh beneath hers, her right leg woven around his. Never before had she felt closer to him, and it was a sensation she never wanted to forfeit.

The night had given her so much. For the revelations he’d made, the promise of love he’d given her, she’d half-expected to awake in the prison-world to which she was most accustomed. Not the world William had shown her the night before. It seemed unreal that only a day had passed since she found herself alone in their room. Since she’d been so certain that William was forever beyond her reach. Since the panicked phone-call to Wesley, in which he’d begged her to remain calm until he could drop by and speak with her.

William was beside her, nude, and sleeping. She had no idea what time it was, nor did she particularly care. The routine phone call Mrs. Hart rang to the Morning Room was unimportant. She was with William, and she didn’t want to leave his side.

The line between their former bedroom life and what she had experienced the night before absolutely rocked her foundation. Making love with William had always been a revelation, but what he’d done to her last night transcended any conception she had of physical intimacy. He’d touched her like he’d only then opened his eyes. As though his hands had never before caressed her skin. As though they had never shared anything before last night; before they had truly stepped into each other’s worlds.

He’d devoured her with his mouth, worshipped her with his hands and loved her with his body. And though she desperately wanted to know him as he now knew her, a part of her remained trapped within the lingering trepidation that refused to leave her entirely. The need to explore him gnawed at her; while she knew there was nothing to fear by bearing her own vulnerability, her fears were much older than her hope, and fear always had a way of prevailing.

Her body tingled with the love he’d shown her. Buffy wanted to give that love back to him.

However, when William’s eyes were on her, courage was in short supply. He unmade her with a gaze, peeling layers away and leaving her just as she was without a blanket with which to wrap herself. No matter how much he loved her—no matter how secure she was in something of which she’d previously been so uncertain—the prospect of being so brazen involved putting her healing heart on the line. It terrified her, but she wanted it nonetheless.

Perhaps if she touched him while he slept, her thirst would be satisfied without risking her heart. Buffy swallowed hard and shifted upward, drinking him in. Only once or twice had she studied him as he slept, and never without Drusilla’s ghost in the room. Now Buffy and William were thoroughly alone—they had cast the demon out last night, leaving them at last to themselves.

His chestnut hair was ruffled in the aftermath of their lovemaking and slightly wild with sleep, his head inclining slightly toward her. The steady rise and fall of his chest was gentle, much like the rest of him. His stomach was flat but toned, his nipples a dark, dusty brown. Soft wisps of hair formed under his belly, trailing beneath the blankets and leading to his penis.

Buffy inhaled sharply, her eyes darting back to William’s face. Then her fingers were around the blankets, slowly drawing the fabric southward to bare him to her hungry eyes. She was continuously amazed that she could be so unlearned in physical pleasure yet still no novice to it. Her hands itched to touch him all over—though where to begin was a different matter. Nowhere and everywhere seemed the best bet. She desperately wanted to feel his length against her hand, but felt it wiser to work up to holding him intimately.

Her fingers landed, as by their own volition, at his right breast. For as fervently as he’d suckled at her nipples the night before, she wondered if his own were as sensitive. What would he do if she licked him as he licked her? If she teased him with her mouth—flicked him with her tongue and nipped with affection that shook him with bouts of pleasure-laced-pain? Never had she thought any form of pain could be pleasurable; William had dissuaded that as well as many other misconceptions. He’d freed himself of his own shackles and unleashed a firestorm of passion beyond her imagining.

This morning was about the future, not the past. Buffy would never again be disturbed by what had once been. She had to become her own woman beyond the shadows that had haunted her. William loved her for her innocence and her light, and while she was adamant on maintaining both, for both their sakes, the future was laid open for growth.

She swallowed the lump that had stubbornly climbed back into her throat before bending forward, pressing her lips to his neck. The fingers playing absently with his nipple began a gentle slide southward, drawing mindless patterns across his skin. He was both soft and firm, breathing warmth into her hand with every steady rise and fall of his chest. At the same time, her mouth became more boisterous in its silent demands, soft kisses graduating to harder, needier explorations. Her teeth skimmed the column of his throat and wandered down the slope of his shoulders before trailing over his chest.

There was something addictive about courage. Though her heart pounded faster and her pulse raced, she was drugged on pure nerve and found herself wanting more with every stolen taste. When her mouth found his nipple, she treated him with a soft, almost shy lick before savoring him completely. At the same time, her fingers wove through the coarse hair trailing to his penis before finally working up the bravado to take him into her hand.

It was wondrously novel. The few times he’d guided her hand to his length, he’d instructed her how he enjoyed being stroked, though her memory was overshadowed with the ever-present fear of performing improperly or displeasing him. He was always hard when she touched him, but he wasn’t now.

Buffy worried a lip between her teeth, her mouth abandoning his chest as her cheek found rest against his stomach, absorbing the sight of her hand working up and down his shaft. It wasn’t long before his flesh hardened and expanded, growing to the size with which she was most accustomed. He was thick and long, standing upright against her wandering fingers. She explored every inch, curiosity and hunger ebbing her past the border where she would have previously reined herself in, instead dragging her deeper down the proverbial rabbit hole.

Her thumb brushed his tip, and the sensation shot shivers through her body. She did it again, then replaced her thumb with her whole palm, rubbing herself over his erection’s head, enjoying the icy hot shards racking her insides.

“God…Buffy…”

Her head whipped back. William’s eyes were wide, half-drugged with pleasure. For several seconds they simply stared at each other, both startled and caught in an odd stranglehold. Her hand must have halted its exploration, for the next thing she knew, he’d seized her wrist.

“Don’t stop,” he begged softly. “God, please don’t stop.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Feels wonderful.” A half-smile tugged at his lips. “Please, just…God, yes.”

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Buffy concluded, her cheeks reddening. “I just wanted—”

“And I suppose you think I’d want to sleep through this?” William countered, the grin stretching into something broad and delicious. “Your hand…Christ, love, please…more.”

She was in no position to deny him, especially when more was just what she wanted, as well. She resumed her exploration, palm rubbing circles against his head before taking him into her hand again. “Like this?” she asked, pumping him slowly. “I…I think this…”

“You’re wonderful.”

“William—”

He chuckled warmly, though it died on a gasp as his body arched into her touch. “Trust me, sweet,” he assured her, his voice strained and his breaths coming harder now. “You can’t not do this right.”

“You’re certain?”

“Bloody right.”

Buffy grinned and turned her eyes back to her hand. Then, remembering how his tongue had prodded her sensitive flesh the night before, she wondered how he would like her own mouth around him. For as much as he liked her hand…

Emboldened, she swallowed the last of her fear and took a long swipe of his velvety head with her tongue. Her name rushed the air on a whimper, encouraging her to pursue him further by drawing him completely between her lips. She hesitated, then drew him in as far she could, her hand dropping to his testicles.

“Oh God,” William hissed, bolting upward. He cupped her cheeks and drew her upward, smashing her lips to his. And against her, he melted with a long moan, feasting on her mouth, sucking at her tongue, coaxing her up his body. “You drive me wild,” he murmured, nipping at her. “Absolutely wild.”

“Was that okay?” Buffy asked shyly. “I didn’t know—”

William chuckled. She loved way his chest rumbled when he laughed. “You are adorable,” he murmured, dropping kisses along her chin.

“Are you teasing me?”

“A little. Doesn’t make you any less adorable.” His gaze dropped to her legs. “Straddle me, love.”

She blinked. “What?”

“See?” He kissed her nose. “Adorable. Throw your leg over…yeah, that’s it.” William sighed, his eyes trailing down her body until focusing on her center. “You’re so lovely. So lovely. And mine. All mine.”

“Will—”

“And that perfect mouth of yours anywhere on me is Heaven.” He smiled at her as he wrapped his hand around his erection. “Here, though…I’ve thought about your mouth around my prick more times than I should rightly confess.”

If her skin grew any hotter, it would likely slide right off her bones. Never had she sat over him like this—with her legs trapping him and her vaginal lips caressing the underside of his erection. Her skin buzzed. Her pulse raced. She was empowered and terrified and reassured all in the same beat, trapped in his eyes and living on his words.

And yet, all she could manage to say was, “Oh.”

William’s eyes softened. “Come here,” he urged gently, capturing her lips when she knelt over him. “Lift your hips, kitten.”

“Mmm?”

“Lift your hips. Wanna be inside you.”

Never had they made love in the light of morning. What happened behind their bedroom door always took place after the sun had dipped below the horizon. Now with soft rays of sunlight peppering the bedspread and William looking at her like she’d fallen from the stars, some inner door unlocked and led her from dreams into reality.

Buffy nodded hard, shifting upward so he was pressed against her entrance.

“You’ll guide me?” she whispered.

William smiled. “I’m right here.”

She sank down with a long, pleasured sigh, leaning forward so her breasts were against his chest, his arms around her. And as she began rolling her hips against him, the windows of her mind aligned with further conviction.

There was nothing more worth fighting for than this.

“I love you,” William whispered. “God help me, I love you so much.”

He could tell her that every minute of every day for the rest of their lives and she wouldn’t tire of it. For as long as she’d waited, for every wound she nursed, she wanted those words with her always.

Buffy kept her eyes on his. He never looked away. Not once.

He was with her now. Completely. Wholly. He was hers.

There was no way in Heaven or Hell she was giving this up.

*~*~*

It was well after the noon hour before Buffy emerged from the bedchambers, pleasantly sore in the appropriate places. Like the night before, she found the halls were brighter, the paintings friendlier, and the whispers she’d once heard around every corner had completely evaporated.

William had been called away to town, presumably where theories of an inquest would solidify. While nerves remained on high alert, Buffy refused to allow fear of the future damper the newfound light in her heart.

Buffy wasn’t surprised to find Mrs. Hart in the Morning Room, nor was she surprised that the cold which seized her bones at facing the woman had yet to fade into nothing. Drusilla’s ghost might have lost its power, but the housekeeper had done everything in her power to keep her mistress alive. Things which, upon having confessed these last few months to William, had him red with fury and ready to shove the old woman out the door.

They agreed, however, it would not be wise to anger Mrs. Hart while a formal ruling on Drusilla’s death was still in the air. There was no telling how much she knew or how much she would put together. While it was almost certain she believed William had been as infatuated with his late wife as everyone else in the country, there was little sense banking on Mrs. Hart to validate William’s good behavior. Not when she resented him so for marrying Buffy. Not when she’d attempted to coerce Buffy into suicide.

When Buffy had admitted what transpired seconds before the explosion at the bay, she was almost certain Mrs. Hart would have found herself pushed through a window herself for the rage in William’s eyes.

She and Mrs. Hart had not spoken, had not crossed paths, since the old woman had whispered how much better it would be if she jumped to her death. After it came out that it was Drusilla’s body in the boat, Mrs. Hart had staffed out her duties and vanished for the evening, presumably into her dead mistress’s bedchamber. It was no great surprise, however, to find her waiting in Morning Room. No matter what had happened, the woman was bent on obligation and duty. She might try to sabotage Buffy, but she would remain quietly civil. It was what made their encounters so terrifying.

“Mrs. de Winter,” Mrs. Hart said, inclining her head. Her large, cold eyes were unreadable.

“Hello.”

“When you did not answer the phone this morning, I thought I would leave today’s menu on your desk.” Her voice tightened. “I take it that it was to your liking?”

Buffy wondered if her cheeks were still flushed from William’s lovemaking—or if it was in her eyes, how she’d spent her night. Granted, this was not the first time she had crossed paths with Mrs. Hart after a night of lovemaking with her husband, but she felt, for all the world, as though she had been a virgin until last night. As though she stood now newly deflowered. She remembered after their wedding night feeling everyone who met her eyes would know she had been plucked. Even as she grew accustomed to intimacy with William, she had never relived the sensation of facing a day as an ex-virgin. Not until now.

“I hadn’t had a chance, actually,” Buffy replied, refusing to lower her eyes or bow her head. “But I would prefer baked chicken and mushrooms.”

“I have a French dish on the menu today.”

“That’s fine, but I would prefer baked chicken and mushrooms.” She smiled politely, taking in Mrs. Hart’s blank face. “Please relay that to the kitchen, and make sure it’s prepared by six. Mr. de Winter and I will be dining early tonight.”

The long, heavy silence would have lasted forever had Jasper not chosen that moment to bark happily and bound into the room. He pawed at Buffy’s legs to seize her attention and offered another joyous yap when she turned to face him.

“Hello, there,” she said fondly. “Want to go for a walk?”

Jasper barked again and, as though understanding her, turned and trotted back for the door, pausing only slightly to look over his shoulder to make sure she was following.

“Make sure those changes are made, Mrs. Hart,” Buffy said. “And please call and invite Wesley to lunch.”

Her feet carried her after her enthusiastic dog without another moment’s pause.

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[nextpage title=”Chapter 25″ ]

Chapter 25

Chapter Notes: I know the excitement insofar as William and Buffy’s relationship in this story has died, but I do thank everyone who’s stuck with me for the remainder. It’s a ride I never thought I’d actually see to the finish, and the support from you guys makes it all the more worthwhile.

For those of you familiar with the book, you’ll notice I’m taking a slight detour from the way du Maurier wrote her conclusion. It’s not a break from what happened, per se, but I am cutting back a significant portion from the inquest to the final chapter, and I’m doing so for the following reasons:

1.) That section, while I love it, drags a bit.
2.) This is my story, modeled admittedly after du Maurier’s, but I don’t feel a need to do everything exactly as she did.
3.) I’ve been working on this story now for over two years, and I admit I’m suffering from “senioritis.” I really want to see it finished, not because I’m tired of it or no longer care for the story, but rather I promised myself I wouldn’t start another HUGE project again until it was finished and I’m dying to get to the other saga that’s been in my head since October.

As I said, the minor alterations don’t really affect the storyline. Or if they do, hopefully not too drastically. ^_~

Thanks again to my betas and my readers!

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Were it not for Anya at her left and Wesley at her right, Buffy was certain she would have collapsed the second William left her side. He held her with a long, meaningful gaze, promising all he could without uttering a word, then moved away from her and to the heart of the large, daunting room. A room full of reporters, lawyers, and an eager sea of spectators, taken with reports of the unfeeling widower who hadn’t even waited for the sheets to cool before taking a second wife.

The past few days had been nothing but onslaught after onslaught—the bay exploded with excitement. With scandal. With whispers and speculation and heated debates as to what might have actually happened to Drusilla, all of which eventually led some to demonize William. He was a monster, it was said, for marrying so quickly after the untimely death of his beloved Drusilla. He’d rushed out to identify her body, too eager to forget, too desperate for fresh thighs to part. It didn’t help matters when Mrs. Hart disappeared three days following the discovery of Drusilla’s body, nor did it help when one of Manderley’s staffers leaked that tidbit to a hungry reporter. One of England’s more widely read papers reported that William’s most trusted confidant, Erzsebet Hart, whom had allegedly begged to remain on staff following Drusilla’s death, now found herself at such odds with what she believed to have been her mistress’s demise and what might have actually transpired that she fled the grounds in fear of her life.

Where the story developed, neither Buffy nor William had any idea. Despite Mrs. Hart’s sadism, it wasn’t like her to forgo propriety in favor of scandal. If anything, the old woman would likely keep a low profile and resented being at the center of any such gossip.

“That cowardly old hag!” William had screamed before thrusting his fist through the nearest wall three nights prior. “I bloody tell you, she better have fled the bloody country. If I ever get my hands on her—”

“William, please…”

“No, Buffy. No. Not after what she did. Not after the way she’s treated you.” He’d centered his gaze on her and held. “She knows. She knows I know how she’s…she knows…”

Buffy had enveloped William in her arms to cease his outcries and held him as he trembled. He was afraid; she was, too. Only a few days of paradise and the real world was again breaking through their wall. Now they were out of Eden and unsure of what lay ahead.

“Are you all right?” Wesley whispered.

Buffy’s eyes were trained on William. He was on the other side of the room, a horde of people separating them. He might as well have been across the universe. “Yes.”

“I did apologize for not making lunch the other day, didn’t I?”

“Yes, Wesley. Several times, in fact.” She turned to him with a soft smile. “You’ve been very good. Thank you…but…I understand things now as I hadn’t before. As I couldn’t.”

There was a long pause. “Do you?” he asked softly, his eyes wide.

“Yes.” Buffy turned to face him completely. “And do you, Wesley?”

“Do I…?”

“William and I have discussed…many things in the past few days.” She worried a lip between her teeth, unsure of how much to divulge while simultaneously needing so badly to know she wasn’t the only one in her husband’s corner. She needed to know that Wesley knew what was at stake. What could happen between now and the day’s end. And if William was correct, if Wesley did know, then Buffy could take solace in the knowledge she wasn’t alone.

Wesley nodded, his face unreadable. “Have you?” he asked. Then clarified, “Discussed things?”

“Yes. There’s…there’s little I don’t know.”

Another long pause. He nodded. “Then you’re on the inside.”

“Of what?”

Wesley directed his gaze to William. “Of whatever he told you. In this room, Buffy, you know more than the lot of us.”

“More than you?”

A simple smile crossed his face. “I only speculate. William is my friend and always will be. You are one of the best women I’ve ever known, and if you’re here for him, I can only assume he deserves it. From the look in your eyes and the way you two have gazed at each other today, I believe the problems you discussed with me are a thing of the past.”

She thought of the phone call. The morning she rang Wesley after the masque when she was so certain she and William would never reconcile; that things were so broken no amount of healing would ever lead them into new light. “That day…Wesley, you must understand—”

“What he said to you was—”

“It’s in the past.”

Wesley smiled wryly. “You made him grovel, I hope.”

“He made it up to me.”

Whatever retort waited on Wesley’s lips rode off into oblivion with the sudden jab of Anya’s elbow. “Whatever are you two murmuring about?” she demanded in a loud whisper. Then, without awaiting a response, she brusquely turned her attention back to the crowded room. “I really don’t understand what the fuss is all about. So Drusilla died in the boat rather than out of the boat. Does anyone really look like themselves after months under water? How was William supposed to know the woman he identified was—”

“Anya,” Wesley said sharply, his eyes narrowing. “Must you be so crass?”

“Wesley,” she retorted in the same manner, “must you act so shocked?”

Buffy bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. Again, she looked back across the room and met William’s eyes. While betraying nothing, his ocean blue eyes sparkled in such a manner she could have believed, if she tried hard enough, that he was beside her instead of a world away. As though they were anywhere else, exchanging a silent private joke over Anya’s flamboyance and Wesley’s quiet etiquette.

‘I love you,’ she mouthed, at first without thinking, then again with conviction.

William smiled softly. ‘Love you,’ he replied.

It was another few minutes before the room quieted. Buffy wasn’t familiar enough with the legal system to know whether or not the man leading the proceedings was a judge or not, but once her eyes settled on his, she found it didn’t matter. He held power over William, therefore power over her, and that alone made him intimidating.

“Leonardo McGarry,” Wesley whispered. “We’re fortunate.”

Buffy blinked. “Fortunate?”

“He was one of William’s favorite professors before he became a judge, and William has likewise written Leo several glowing endorsements in local papers.” He tossed her a small smile. “This is to our advantage.”

“Is it?”

Anya nodded, leaning over. “It’s always better to have a judge who likes you rather than one who’d just as soon see you hang.”

The image that flashed before Buffy’s eyes was something she never wanted to relive. “Yes,” she agreed quickly. “Oh yes.”

A stilled hush fell over the room as McGarry took his seat. He wasn’t wearing robes or anything that would otherwise identify him by his position, but he did have an expression of fixed importance that couldn’t be ignored. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentleman,” he said, propping glasses on the bridge of his nose. “Hopefully this won’t take much time. I know Mr. de Winter is eager to put this ugly matter behind him.”

William inclined his head but didn’t say anything.

“We’re here to decide upon the cause of death for the late Drusilla de Winter, survived by her husband, William de Winter. Previous cause of death thought to be drowning at sea.” McGarry sighed and rustled what appeared to be a stack of papers. “Though Mr. de Winter identified another woman as his wife, I think it safe to conclude that traumatic events, such as losing a loved one unexpectedly, can often result in impaired judgment.” He nodded at William without really looking at him. “I know this might be difficult, but for the purpose of declaring a cause of death, it is imperative to go over previously recorded testimony.”

William nodded. “I understand.”

“You might not remember everything. If something doesn’t match our records, it might be necessary to go over it again at length to sort through significant inconsistencies.”

Another nod. “Yes.”

“All right.”

McGarry removed his glasses and focused entirely on William. “Can you go through the last day again, for the record?”

William nodded once more, his eyes shifting in Buffy’s direction but not meeting her gaze. As though he couldn’t bear to look at her when he told this version of his history. The false version—especially when she knew exactly how it had happened.

“Buffy.”

She frowned and turned to Wesley, whose eyes were fixed steadily to their left. And when she saw what had his attention, her insides flushed cold.

“Oh God,” she whispered, her hands balling into fists. “What are they doing here?”

“William thought she might show up,” Wesley whispered. “It’s no surprise that she should be with Angelus.”

Seeing Mrs. Hart outside the confines of Manderley was startling, but her presence at the inquest, despite the improbability of her knowing anymore than anyone else in the room, save Buffy, served as a damning omen. The woman’s hatred for Buffy was very slight compared to how desperately she resented William. It was William who had replaced Drusilla with Buffy’s image—and while Buffy herself was an easy target, everything Mrs. Hart had done to harm her had been an attempt to hurt William.

“Do you think…” Buffy murmured, then immediately drew silent before she inadvertently asked a question to which Wesley could not possibly know the answer. She couldn’t ask her friend to speculate if Mrs. Hart would interject without divulging the truth. And no matter how much Buffy trusted Wesley, there was nothing in the world that could coerce her into endangering William. Let the authorities lock her up first.

“…arrived home late from my sister, Anya’s,” William was saying, drawing her back to his testimony. “Drusilla was scheduled to be in town all weekend, but our housekeeper, Mrs. Hart, told me upon arrival that she had cut her trip short and had retired to the boathouse. There was a fierce storm that night, but weather wasn’t the sort of thing to temper Drusilla.”

A collective, appreciative snicker rang through the room. As though everyone present had been party to or at least aware of Drusilla’s wild streak.

“Did you see her that night?”

William shook his head, still avoiding Buffy’s eyes. “No,” he replied softly. “It was late and the weather was already treacherous. I thought I would see her the next day. I spent the night in my study. The next day came and the boat was gone. Dru was gone. No one had seen her. No one knew where she was.”

“How many weeks passed before you identified the woman you thought to be your wife?”

He blinked hard. “I don’t…four, six. Time was…fuzzy.”

McGarry nodded. He thanked William for his testimony, and invited him to take a seat. For a second, Buffy thought that might be the end of it. She thought—and then felt her heart crash against her chest when Mrs. Hart was called forward.

“Oh great,” Anya drawled. “The old crone is going to talk.”

“You don’t think she’ll say anything to hurt William, do you?” Buffy asked hurriedly. William had tossed her a brief glance, not wandering far from the front of the room. Not able to join her and Wesley in the back. She knew why, of course; more questions might follow, and he needed to be readily available should he be called up again.

“State your name,” McGarry instructed.

“Erzsebet Hart,” the woman provided in the same, cold tone to which Buffy was so accustomed.

“And your station?”

“I am head of staff at Manderley.”

McGarry nodded, his eyes glued to his notes. “Mhmm, yes. And who hired you?”

“I have been in Mrs. de Winter’s employ since she was a girl,” Mrs. Hart replied. “I was her nanny when she was young and her personal maid when she was older. When she and Mr. de Winter married, I was named head of staff at Manderley.”

“Uh huh,” McGarry replied, his tone indicative of someone only half-listening, though there was sharp wit about his eyes that told Buffy he was hanging attentively on every word. “And do you corroborate with Mr. de Winter’s account?”

A very long silence settled through the room. “Mr. de Winter arrived home around sundown. Mrs. de Winter had been home for about an hour, and had immediately retired to the boathouse. Mr. O’Malley—”

McGarry glanced up sharply and removed his glasses again. “Who?”

“Angelus O’Malley.” Mrs. Hart waved to Angelus. “Mrs. de Winter’s cousin and close confidant.”

William turned in his seat at that, meeting Angelus’s smirk. There was a thick beat during which Buffy witnessed a dangerous shadow cross her husband’s face. It lasted longer than she would have liked, but she soon found herself under his eyes, and watched with a breath of a relief as he softened.

“All right,” McGarry said, putting his glasses back on and turning his head downward again. “Where does Mr. O’Malley come in?”

“He was scheduled to meet her at the boathouse that evening.”

The comment earned a few snickers. Several women shifted uncomfortably.

“Was Mr. de Winter aware?”

Mrs. Hart nodded. “Yes.”

“Okay. Continue.”

“Mr. de Winter, to my knowledge, remained in the house all evening.” She paused almost theatrically. “Very often, however, there will be days when our paths do not cross. I remained in Mr. and Mrs. de Winter’s bedroom all evening, awaiting Mrs. de Winter’s arrival. I heard Mr. de Winter upstairs after the storm began to rage. He paced quite a bit all evening with what I assumed was worry for Mrs. de Winter.”

McGarry perked a brow. “Assumed?”

“I do not presume to know every thought that goes through my employer’s head.”

The judge’s mouth twitched. “Fair enough. And what ensued afterward?”

“Mr. de Winter lost his color and didn’t eat much. He was very quiet. Very tense. When he received the call that Mrs. de Winter might have been located, he became intensely distressed.”

It was difficult compressing her reaction. The woman’s account, from where Buffy sat, seemed to do more than merely corroborate William’s telling of Drusilla’s disappearance; it gave credence to a man in mourning, something she never would have expected from the icy housekeeper. Hope was a fragile thing, especially when placed in the hands of someone who was desperate to destroy everything Buffy held dear.

Buffy had no idea what to trust. Mrs. Hart wouldn’t lie—she was too proper—but she certainly wouldn’t do her any favors.

“How was Mr. de Winter the day he identified the woman he then believed to be Drusilla de Winter?”

“Very vacant,” Mrs. Hart supplied. There was no emotion behind her account, and thankfully, she didn’t meet Buffy’s eyes. “Very hollow.”

McGarry nodded briskly. “Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Hart. You may take your seat.”

No one breathed as the woman moved back to Angelus’s side. The anticlimactic nature of her testimony had seemingly stunned even those Buffy couldn’t identify. And though her heart kept crashing against her chest, a larger part of her, despite her relief, remained unmoved. Unsurprised. There was no need to think Mrs. Hart would falsify her account, or reveal knowledge she had previously kept to herself. Her duty to Drusilla superceded everything else; if she’d ever suspected William had anything to do with her mistress’s disappearance, she never would have stayed. Not without action. Not without seeking some form of revenge.

“All right. Colonel Finn.” McGarry glanced up, motioning the man Buffy recognized as the one who had been in the room before William revealed what had really happened the night Drusilla disappeared. The man who had told her there was a body in the boat the divers had uncovered.

Unlike William and Mrs. Hart, Colonel Finn met her eyes when he was moved to the limelight, and smiled as though to reassure her it was nearly over.

“Could you expand upon your findings of eight days ago?”

“Following the crash of a local fishing boat, me and my crew discovered the boat that had gone missing the night the first Mrs. de Winter disappeared. Inside, to our great surprise, we found the lady herself.” He nodded to William. “At first, we thought it was someone else in the boat with her, but we were able to identify her based on various pieces of jewelry…with the help of Mr. de Winter and Mrs. Hart.”

“Did you find anything to contrast the accounts as I have them?”

Colonel Finn shook his head. “No sir. I firmly believe Mr. de Winter was under great duress the first time he was asked to identify his wife. Other than the other body, I have no reason to believe anything other than what has been described here is the full truth.”

Wesley squeezed her hand. “It’s almost over,” he whispered. “It will be over soon.”

Buffy nodded shortly. She could scarcely believe it. This thing she had dreaded so wretchedly—the thing she and William had both believed could rob him of the future they both desperately deserved—was nearing its end. In a few moments—perhaps seconds—she would be in her love’s arms, and the past wouldn’t be able to catch them anywhere.

“Well,” McGarry said, nodding shortly, “if there’s nothing else—”

Somewhere to the far left, a throat cleared, and the warm sphere of hope that had begun to swell dissipated. Heads turned and bodies shifted as a man Buffy didn’t recognize slowly climbed to his feet. He was dressed informally, denoting his station as working class, and his personality as one who didn’t care to be seen in official settings wearing attire most would consider inappropriate.

“Yessir, I got a question.”

McGarry peered over the rim of his glasses. “Okay. State your name?”

“Name’s Doyle. Allen Francis Doyle.”

“All right. What’s your interest?”

“I was commissioned by the late Mrs. de Winter to craft the boat that sank,” Doyle explained, belatedly removing the hat from his head and slapping it across his chest as though preparing to pray. “She had me work on several different models before she was satisfied, so when it was brought to town earlier in the week, I made a point to take a look at it to find out how it might’ve capsized. Mrs. de Winter was the sort to raise a fuss, see.” He frowned, then nodded at William. “My apologies.”

Buffy watched the corner of William’s mouth tug upward. “Quite all right.”

“I put in a lot of time on that boat, your honor,” Doyle continued earnestly. “There’s not a person on this island who doesn’t know how much time I put on that boat. None of my clients, at least. I was concerned, see, when I found out the boat wasn’t lost in the storm. It wasn’t lost. It sank pretty close to the shoreline. Too close. I don’t give a bloody damn how powerful the wind was or how high the water came…I knew if I got a look at that boat, I could give an answer as to what happened that night. And here’s where I have concern…”

Buffy didn’t realize she wasn’t breathing until Anya inhaled sharply and seized her hand.

“From what I understand, Mrs. de Winter was found in the lower cabin of the boat. The latch was sealed. The entire cabin was sealed. I don’t understand why Mrs. de Winter would retreat to the lower cabin in the middle of a storm like that and lock herself in.” Doyle shifted. “Understood, she could’ve knocked her head on somethin’. The wind could’ve sealed her in. I’ve been on the water a long time, your honor, and I’ve seen wind do funny things. That could’ve happened.” He paused. “But what I wanna know is who drilled the holes in the bottom of the boat.”

Silence stronger than any storm washed over the room. Then there was buzzing. Horrible buzzing. It rose from the floorboards and spilled into the air like toxin. Air clamored angrily against her chest, demanding to be heard over the steadily rising voices of the eager multitude. Her seat shifted. The walls began to spin.

“Quiet!” McGarry snapped. It didn’t help. People were talking loudly now. Openly speculating. Gawking. Peering over seats to catch a closer glimpse of William.

William.

“Those holes shouldn’t have been there!” Doyle yelled, excited now. The sound of a man eager to be at the center of attention. “Someone put those holes there! Someone sank that boat!”

McGarry fidgeted uncomfortably, tossing William an almost rueful glance. “Mr. de Winter,” he said, his soft voice somehow louder than the foray of debate swelling around him. “I think, under the circumstances, it might be necessary to ask you…were things perfectly well in your marriage?”

Oh God.

William’s jaw tightened and his eyes hardened. And Buffy was so far from him. She couldn’t touch him. Couldn’t calm him. Couldn’t reassure him. Couldn’t remind him wordlessly that she was here—she was with him. Couldn’t whisper to keep his temper in line or remind him what was at stake.

She couldn’t touch him. She needed to touch him, but he was so far away.

She couldn’t do anything but call out to him, even if her voice was muted.

“William.”

Though it was nothing but a whisper, her throat ached as if she’d been screaming for hours. And before she could blink, Wesley was holding her up, and she heard William. William’s voice ringing over the eager sea of spectators.

“You must excuse me. My wife looks ill.”

McGarry nodded a quick, wordless consent, and then William was rushing over. The floor moved. Her head spun. She found herself propped against a strong, familiar chest, and then they were out in the open.

Away from the voices. Away from the stares.

The future slipped through her fingers and she could do nothing to stop it.

Nothing at all.

*~*~*

“I really think Wesley should take you home.”

Buffy shook her head again. The cooler air helped clear her thoughts, though she couldn’t detach herself from the growing hum wafting from the halted inquest. It was better, now. Now with William’s eyes locked on hers. With William’s hands steadying her. With William’s lips cooling the rage in her head with soft, tender kisses.

“No,” she whispered, wrapping her hands around his wrists. “No, please. I’ll go crazy if I’m not here.”

“I can’t think if I’m worrying about you.”

“William…”

“Will.” Wesley materialized out of nowhere, favoring Buffy with an apologetic nod. “I’m so sorry, but I think McGarry is ready to commence.” He paused, his gaze flickering between them. “Am I taking Buffy home?”

William nodded. “I would really prefer it.”

“No,” Buffy protested with another hard shake of her head. “William, please. Let me go back in. I can’t—”

“You don’t look well, darling.”

“I won’t look any better if you send me home.”

A soft smile crossed his lips, and though he looked resigned, the relief in his eyes—the part which told her how much he wanted her near him—filled her insides with warmth. “All right,” he replied, kissing her gently. “All right. But out here. I don’t want you in there…where they can see you.” He paused. “I mean, I don’t want you to become a part of the spectacle.”

Buffy’s eyes widened. “Could they make me a part of it?”

“I’m sure, if they tried hard enough.”

“My guess,” Wesley interjected calmly, “is that Mr. Doyle’s observation will open a new line of questioning…but given Drusilla’s erratic behavior, it might be concluded rather easily that she committed suicide.”

“Suicide?” Buffy asked, wincing when she realized how far her voice carried. “You really think…” A beat. She caught herself. “You think Drusilla…committed suicide?”

A different voice stole the retort off Wesley’s lips. A voice which had her stomach curling with disgust; a voice which initiated a renaissance of the sickly heat that had nearly caused her to lose consciousness.

A voice which inspired William to anchor her to his side.

“Hate to interrupt such a tender moment,” Angelus drawled with a snicker, crossing his arms. “Goddamn, Spike, you sure know how to snag the pretty ones.”

“Angelus,” William practically snarled. “Anything I can help you with?”

“No thanks, old boy. Think I got everything under control.” He smiled unpleasantly, reaching into his coat jacket and retrieving a single piece of worn parchment. “See, if Doyle hadn’t done me a jolly by bringing it up first, this might not pack quite the punch it will in there. Gotta say, I can’t wait to see your face.”

William didn’t blink. He merely inclined his head with false civility. “Is that so?”

“Suicide? Oh Spike, we both know better than that, don’t we?” Angelus smiled unpleasantly and tapped the parchment against his teeth. “I think it’s time we let the lady herself do the talking, don’t you?”

He disappeared into the room without waiting another instant, leaving Buffy frozen in William’s arms.

“What does he mean?” she asked, her voice hard, her heart thundering. “What was that all about?”

“Nothing good,” Wesley murmured.

William stared for empty seconds at the place where Angelus disappeared, then turned back to Buffy. “Darling, are you sure you won’t go home?”

“I’m not leaving,” she said firmly. “Please don’t ask me again.”

“If he has something from Dru…something of hers he kept…”

“Don’t ask me to leave you.”

William was quiet for another second, searching her eyes, then broke off with a nod. “All right,” he murmured. “But out here.”

“No.”

“Buffy—”

“If you go in there, I will follow.”

Wesley smiled grimly. “I wouldn’t cross her, Will,” he advised. “Women are unmovable when they have their minds settled.”

Though she had never quite heard herself applied in such a context, Buffy felt no need to object. Rather, she crossed her arms and nodded, trying to appear braver than she was. Whether or not she succeeded due to her determination or William’s lack of conviction in fighting her was in the air; all she knew was he caved with a nod, a kiss to her brow, and before she could gather her thoughts, they were moving again.

Back toward the voices. Back to where Angelus waited with his piece of parchment. A piece of parchment which might have been from Drusilla. A piece of parchment which might take William away from her.

Back into the lion’s den.

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Chapter 26″ ]

Chapter 26

Chapter Notes: I’m going to save the big author’s note for the conclusive chapter. The next will be the end of this story—one nearly four years in the making. All I have now is…my endless and utter thanks to everyone who stuck by me with this. I know at times it seemed I’d never finish it, but we’re in the final stretch now. Almost to the finish line. Thanks to my readers and my betas.

---

William was adamant on keeping Buffy as far from the spotlight as possible. He didn’t want people looking at her, pointing at her, speculating about her. The inquest was to be about himself and his life with Drusilla; he feared what might happen should Buffy take a seat beside him. If she brought herself from the shadows and the whispers and the rumors and place herself steadfast in the public eye.

It was this and only this that kept Buffy from sitting beside him as the inquest resumed. Again, she found herself situated between Wesley and Anya, doing her best to keep her chin held high and her eyes far from Angelus. The steady breaths pressing her chest did not betray her racing heart, even if she felt the thundering could be heard for miles.

The propriety which had so long guarded her thoughts and actions had all but entirely melted away. She wanted to claw out Angelus’s eyes—wanted to scream to the court the truth behind William’s marriage if only to shove Drusilla into the ground. Paint her as the opposite of people—the opposite of goodness, of gentility, of decency, of anything resembling a life worth saving. A life worth anything at all. And though she knew her views were shaped and skewered by what she knew of William—by what she felt for William—she likewise understood her husband to be the very best of men, and trusted his judgment in place of all others.

One such as Angelus couldn’t be trusted. Surely McGarry would know it—if he knew William, he would know not to trust Angelus. He would recognize Angelus for what he was: monstrous, bitter, vile, incapable of love. A beast that was here only to hurt William, his motive protected under the disguise of avenging a woman who had truly been his equal.

“I might need to speak,” Wesley murmured. “Angelus’s character is not unknown, but if his evidence is as damning as he indicated, I might be able to counter the blow with what I saw in William and Drusilla’s marriage.”

“Yes, but what if Drusilla’s friends do the same?” Buffy asked, thinking of Darla Manners and Lilah Morgan.

Anya snickered. “To do so would defame Drusilla’s character, not William’s.”

“Not if they offer dishonest testimony.”

Wesley shook his head. “It would be unwise. Mrs. Hart would counter any untruths. No matter how she feels about William, she wouldn’t lie for the sake of seeing him hang. She’s too proper, and she believed William to be as infatuated with Drusilla as every other man.”

Buffy nodded, feeling hollow and useless. Though the air was chilled, she couldn’t stop burning. A hot, sticky sickness enveloped her gut, threatening to climb higher by the second. She felt Angelus’s eyes on her but didn’t dare return his stare. If she so much as blinked in his direction, there was every chance she would truly get sick, and then William would demand she remain outside as the proceedings continued.

Her eyes focused on the judge. McGarry resumed his seat, looking uncomfortable and more than a little reluctant. He tossed William a glance and mumbled a quick something. William nodded, replied in the same manner. The trade seemed cordial, if not a little concerned.

“The good news,” Wesley said, jarring her back to herself, “is that this is still rather informal. If Leo rules Drusilla’s death an accident or suicide, that’s the end of it. However…if foul play is suspected, it’s not the end. I promise you, Buffy. William will be home tonight.”

“It’s not tonight that worries me,” she replied. “Tomorrow is much more daunting.”

McGarry cleared his throat, an otherwise ordinary motion that, with him, had the ability to quiet the noisy chattering consuming the room. “All right,” he said in a manner indicating interruptions were punishable by death. “Are we ready to resume?” The room was silent. McGarry took this as a yes. “Okay. Mr. Doyle, could you repeat what you said before we broke?”

If Allen Francis Doyle were suddenly to drop dead of a heart attack, Buffy wasn’t certain she could muster up the decency to care. As it was, the man who had thrown her calming world into jeopardy without allowing her a free breath rose dutifully to his feet. “Yessir,” he said. “I said there were holes in the floorboard. Holes someone put into the bottom of that boat with a mind for sinkin’ it.”

“That last part is speculation,” McGarry noted.

“Due respect, sir, no it’s not. No one puts holes in a boat, ‘specially not the bottom. These cuts were too deep, too symmetrical to be done by anythin’ but human hand. That boat met the bottom of the bay by someone’s intent.” A beat. “Understand, I’m not accusing anyone of anything. I’m not sure what happened…all I know is I know boats…that boat, specifically, seein’ as I made it and all. That boat sank ‘cause someone wanted it sunk.”

An excited murmur rang through the room. McGarry silenced it with another throat clearing. “Yes, well,” he said, glancing downward. “Thank you for your observation, Mr. Doyle.” There was another pause. McGarry kept his eyes lowered for a few long seconds, during which no one moved. “Now…I don’t want anyone making any accusations. This is not a criminal trial. It’s an inquest, designed to pinpoint cause of death. I’d like everyone to keep that in mind as we proceed with questioning. Is that understood?”

No one spoke, but the warning had many nodding impatiently. A sea of bobbing heads and eager eyes, and many wary glances cast in William’s direction.

“Mr. de Winter,” McGarry continued a second later, “my apologies to you and your wife for what I’m sure is going to be a very uncomfortable afternoon, but given what Mr. Doyle has presented, we must venture down a line of questioning that might be a little rough.”

William nodded. “Whatever is needed,” he agreed.

“Were things perfectly well in your marriage?”

“As well as could be expected,” came the reply. “Drusilla took pleasure in many things, and I was happy to provide for her. Before these recent events, I had not been aware of any such rumors that our marriage was anything but a happy one. I know Drusilla had her secrets, and I certainly had mine, but nothing that interfered, to my knowledge, with the sanctity of our marriage.”

Again, William was very careful not to look at Buffy, though she saw something in his face invisible to anyone who didn’t know him well. Who didn’t know him as she did—perhaps, even, as Wesley and Anya did. It was so subtle she wasn’t sure she could describe it if asked, but it was there all the same. A small tell that told her how much he loathed pampering the lie. How much he wished he could allow the truth of Drusilla’s character to ring from the top of every hillside rather than rely on the false history she had helped fabricate with her deceit.

“And to your knowledge,” McGarry continued, “your wife was alone at the boathouse?”

William nodded. “As Mrs. Hart said earlier, her cousin was due to meet her but was unable to make it to Manderley.”

“Can you describe your wife’s mannerisms?”

“Unpredictable,” William replied easily. “She loved challenging herself, and overcoming those challenges.”

A throat cleared from the far right cleared, belonging to a woman Buffy recognized from the luncheon whereupon the masque was suggested. Thankfully, it wasn’t Darla Manners or Lilah Morgan, rather the one friendly face of Drusilla’s acquaintances. Cordelia Wright, wearing a lovely cream-colored dress and a matching decoration in her chestnut hair, rose to her feet. She paused only briefly to meet Buffy’s eyes and cast her what appeared to be a reassuring smile. Then she turned to McGarry and said, “I’d like to make an observation.”

McGarry’s brows flickered upward with interest. “Your name, please?”

“Cordelia Wright. I was a friend of Mrs. de Winter.” Cordelia drew in a breath, nodding to William. “I would like to concur with what Mr. de Winter has said thus far. Drusilla was very vivacious—very daring. She enjoyed conquering aspects of life others found unconquerable. I remember several incidents when we were younger wherein she faked her own death…with great personal risk to herself, convinced of her invincibility. She did it for her own amusement. I’m sure Mrs. Hart remembers…once at the lake, we were terrified she’d drowned. We searched for hours, but we couldn’t find her. When at last we returned to the house, we found her in the drawing room, drinking tea and smiling from ear-to-ear.”

“Wait,” Angelus objected suddenly, jumping to his feet. The sudden explosion of his voice made the walls shake and sent another excited murmur through the eager, crowded gossipmongers. “Wait a second there, Cordy…”

Cordelia’s nose wrinkled with ostensible distaste. “Angelus.”

“I presume you have something to add, Mr. O’Malley?” McGarry drawled.

“I do,” he agreed, staring hard at the woman. “You’re not suggesting she killed herself, are you?”

“You knew Drusilla as well as I did, Angelus. Point of fact, I believe you were the one who helped her fake her death during the aforementioned incident.”

“Childhood pranks are one thing,” he barked. “You think Dru was actually dumb enough to ruin her own damned boat and lock herself in the lower cabin, knowing it’d sink all to prove a point?”

Cordelia shrugged. “If she thought you were on your way, why not?”

“She hasn’t tried anything like that in years.”

“I’m only saying it’s a possibility.” She turned back to McGarry. “Likewise…while I can’t imagine a motive…yes, I could truly see Drusilla simply…killing herself.”

“Horseshit,” Angelus growled, reaching into the lapels of his coat jacket to retrieve the letter he’d waved in William’s face so adamantly. “Drusilla pushed herself all the time, yeah, but she wasn’t stupid about it. The storm would’ve stopped her—she tested her limits, but she wasn’t an idiot.”

“Then perhaps she didn’t intend to fake her death,” Cordelia retorted. “As I said—”

“She killed herself?”

“It’s possible.”

Buffy held her breath, her eyes captivated by the verbal tennis match though she couldn’t help but steal glances of her husband. He looked riveted, if not a bit apprehensive. As though the notion of suicide itself was novel to him. As though he didn’t already know the ending.

“Possible,” Angelus snorted, tearing open the letter. “Your honor, Drusilla left this for me the day she disappeared. She’d been in town that day and came by to visit me, but unfortunately I was otherwise engaged. She left this, asking me to meet with her at Manderley. ‘Angelus,’ she writes, ‘I must speak with you. Meet me at the boathouse tonight. It’s a matter of extreme urgency.’Now…” He flashed a smirk to William before continuing, “Tell me, does that sound like a woman hell-bent on killing herself?”

A gasp strangled the cry that tore at Buffy’s throat. Her head whipped back to Cordelia, hoping against hope the woman had a feasible explanation for this at the ready. However, her eyes were wide and her face was blank with confusion. After a pregnant pause, the woman shook her head and reclaimed her seat.

“Thanks for the try, Cordy,” Anya whispered, grasping Buffy’s hand.

“That’s a letter from Mrs. de Winter?” McGarry asked.

“Yessir.”

“Is there any particular reason you didn’t mention this before?”

“Waiting for the opportune moment,” Angelus replied, flashing what was supposed to be a charming smile.

To Buffy’s relief, McGarry looked intensely unimpressed. “I know you might be confused with all the people,” he noted, “but this isn’t a theatre. If you have pertinent information, you offer it up at the beginning.”

“Sorry, your honor. Won’t happen again.”

McGarry’s eyes narrowed. “Let me see the letter,” he said, motioning Angelus forward. Once it was in his possession, he read once, then again, then folded it properly and turned to William. “Is there any reason to believe your wife wouldn’t have corresponded with Mr. O’Malley?”

“Oh right!” Angelus snapped. “Ask Spike. Ask—”

“I have every confidence the letter is genuine,” William replied calmly, effectively silencing the protests. “Drusilla and Angelus were quite close.”

“There’s a word for it,” Anya muttered.

There was another long silence during which McGarry and William shared a meaningful look. “All right,” the judge said, drawing a deep breath. “Mr. O’Malley…obviously you have some thoughts as to what this letter means.”

It took a second for Angelus to collect himself. He kept staring at William as though trying to see through his skull—as though trying to understand why he hadn’t contested the letter’s authenticity.

However, Buffy understood. She understood everything. More than she thought possible. There was no reason for William to contest—contesting wouldn’t help him, as others could just as easily verify Drusilla’s penmanship. Others such as Mrs. Hart, whose testimony had already bent in his favor. His refusal to object gave him credibility. In that alone, he appeared sincere. He appeared as a man with nothing to hide.

He appeared honorable.

“I think for sure it means she didn’t kill herself,” Angelus sneered. “Does that sound like a woman who’s aiming to take her own life? She said she had to speak with me about a matter of extreme urgency.”

McGarry nodded. “And I suppose you have a theory as to what the matter of extreme urgency involved?”

“Yes.” Angelus tossed William a smug glance. “I think Dru wanted to tell me something that would’ve…well, let’s just say, put our boy Spike here in a bit of a pickle. See, it was no secret to most of Dru’s friends…hell, from the sound of things, most of the people in this room, that Dru and I were…intimate.”

As expected, an excited rumble surfed through the crowd. Buffy’s other hand seized Wesley’s and squeezed hard.

“Spike knew,” Angelus continued. “Spike knew and he hated us for it.”

Anya huffed loudly enough to attract a few wary glances. William’s jaw tightened but he didn’t react beyond that.

“Way I see it, Dru came to town for a very specific purpose. My pal Erzie can attest to that.” Angelus turned to wink at Mrs. Hart, who didn’t so much as bat an eye. “Seems Dru had a doctor’s appointment.”

McGarry’s brows perked. “This true?” he asked, his question directed at Mrs. Hart.

There was a deathly still beat. “Yes,” the woman murmured. “Mrs. de Winter had a standing appointment with Dr. Ethan Rayne. She went once every other month. The day she disappeared, she was in town for one of these appointments.”

“And this is relevant?”

“I think she found somethin’ out,” Angelus observed. “I think she discovered she was having a baby. My baby, to be specific. And I think that’s what she wanted to tell me the night she died. The night she…disappeared.”

A sick, familiar tightening pulled across Buffy’s chest, her unforgiving mind pointing to a scene she’d tried so hard to banish, lest knowledge betray her. The walls shifted in form and color, and she suddenly saw herself in the boathouse. William was with her, but his eyes were pointed forward, a shotgun coiled in his arms. It was a startling visage of truth, only she existed as a ghost.

Every word William had related formed a picture forever locked in her mind. It resurfaced on a whim, terrifying her, calling to her…showcasing years of pain through which her husband had suffered. Time she wished she could replace with her fully at his side—tangible, rather than wisps and figments. Drusilla had dangled the threat of Angelus’s child before William’s wounded eyes, knowing full well he couldn’t prove any babe growing in the woman’s womb wasn’t his. Drusilla had set everything in motion for the purpose of conquering everything William held dear when he’d already been raped of his identity, his freedom, his very self.

And now this.

“Erzie can tell you any child of Dru’s would be mine,” Angelus boasted with a broad grin. “Dru and Spike didn’t…well, let’s just say he didn’t know how to satisfy certain…itches.”

More excited, scandalized murmuring.

“We talked about what would happen,” he pressed forward. “If Dru had a baby, that is. She and Spike were so good at playing up the lovey-dovey no one would ever believe I was the father. And then, of course, the kid would get the manor. Manderley. A child ofmine would inherit Manderley. Spike’s pride and joy. And if Spike knew about this…if Dru told him…”

McGarry’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Are you suggesting—”

“Holes in the boat. Dru locked in the bottom cabin. Spike conveniently identifying another woman…”

“Hold on!” Cordelia Wright again leapt to her feet. “Where do you get off—”

“If you wanna know that, you should have taken me up on my offer, dollface,” Angelus interjected, tossing her a wink.

A look of pure distaste waved over the woman’s face. “You are the absolute gutter of civilized society. Everyone who has ever met William knows he wouldn’t harm a kitten, much less a woman he adored. I don’t care what warped little game you played on Dru to get her to—”

“Warped little game? Dru worshipped me!”

Cordelia snorted. “In your equally warped little dreams.”

“Erzie!” Angelus had all the countenance of a toddler complaining to his mommy. “Would you please tell everyone the truth of it? How Dru was in love with me. How any child in her belly would be mine, not this sorry excuse of a—”

“That’s quite enough, Mr. O’Malley,” McGarry said grimly. Another ripple waved through the room. Eager patrons shifted in their seats, craning their necks to catch a hint of William’s stoic reaction.

William didn’t move. Didn’t budge. Buffy wanted so much just to look into his eyes, but he didn’t appease her. He couldn’t, and although she knew why, she ached with loss.

It was a long minute before McGarry was able to calm the room down enough to turn his attention to the old woman. His eyes were worn and tired, incredulity stressed through his worry lines. No one had anticipated the inquest taking so long or having so many turns, and it was becoming more apparent of how twisted the uncovered truth would be. “Mrs. Hart,” the judge said at long last, tiredly rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Do you have anything you wish to add to Mr. O’Malley’s…claims?”

“Tell them, Erzie,” Angelus goaded.

McGarry aimed him a nasty glare. “Is there something about that’s quite enough you didn’t understand?”

“I just want her to tell them. Tell the world. Tell them how Dru really loved me.”

“She didn’t.”

Two words. Strange how they were able to bring about dead silence whispered from the lips of a woman who was little more than a ghost herself. The smug arrogance on Angelus’s face melted in a flicker, traded for astonishment. “What?” he demanded, whirling around. “What do you mean she didn’t love me? Dru was crazy about me! She and I—”

“Mrs. de Winter didn’t love you,” Mrs. Hart said softly. “…my Drusilla didn’t love you. Or Mr. de Winter. Or any man. Love was a game. Love…never played into it. She would laugh about it. Laugh so righteously…no, Angelus, she didn’t love you. You didn’t know her. No one knew my Drusilla. No one knew her at all. No one but me. She was like the sea. Wild. Untamed. No one could tame her…she wouldn’t allow it. She would play with men…play with love…and laugh about it when we were alone. Life was a game, and she would be ageless. She is ageless.” It was startling to see the eyes of a woman who instilled so much fear and intimidation well with tears. “She never wanted to age. Never wanted her strength to fail or her willpower to be anything than what it was. It was a game. It was all a game.”

Angelus looked thoroughly shaken. It seemed hours passed before his jaw collected itself from the ground. He swallowed hard. “Well,” he said, his voice desperately attempting to regain its edge. “Would you at least agree that if Dru was pregnant, the kid would belong to me?”

Mrs. Hart nodded solemnly. “Yes.”

A long sigh rolled off his shoulders, and though not as strong as before, the smirk returned. “Well, there you have it. If Dru was pregnant, it would be with my kid. On the day she left me a note. The night before she disappeared. In a boat with holes in the bottom.”

“You have nothing but speculation as to what the doctor’s appointment yielded,” McGarry observed.

“Speculation can become fact with a simple phone call,” Angelus countered. “Dr. Rayne’s office is here in town. Call him in…and we’ll separate the speculation from the non-speculation.”

Despair was crushing. There was nothing now. No other option but to wait.

No other option. Calling in the doctor was the only way to put the truth of Drusilla’s death to rest.

And he would tell all. Everything.

And Buffy could do nothing but watch as her life fell down around her.

*~*~*

It was as William said that day in the parlor. The day Drusilla’s body surfaced.

She had won. Drusilla had won. She achieved everything she wanted the night William aimed the shotgun at her heart. Something had indeed been growing inside her. Mrs. Hart said it herself, and Mrs. Hart knew her better than anyone. Mrs. Hart knew she could not be tamed or weathered. Mrs. Hart knew.

Just as Drusilla had known—known exactly what words to say, what buttons to press, what would coax William from his shell and prompt warning into action. Manderley was all he had left, and she’d threatened to steal it as she’d stolen everything else. His freedom. His happiness. The promise and chance at love. She’d threatened to take it because she knew what he would do. The second her eyes landed on the shotgun, she’d seen her way out.

Cancer was, after all, a disease which would rob her of her freedom. If she persuaded William to destroy her before the illness did, she stood the chance of bringing him down in the process.

She almost succeeded. Almost.

No one objected when McGarry ruled the cause of death as suicide. None of her friends believed Drusilla would remain on the temporal plain after discovering what her future months had in store. Not even Mrs. Hart could fathom Drusilla bed-ridden and frail. She would want to destroy the island with speculation—cause a storm the likes of which had sunk her ship the night she drilled holes in its floor. Drusilla would have known what her suicide looked like. She would have known the chaos she would cause, even posthumously, with the mystery surrounding her affairs, her husband and his purported jealousy, and what he might do in a fit of rage.

Suicide, then. To spare herself a long, painful death. To torment William from the afterlife.

Only it wasn’t suicide. William knew that. Buffy knew that. But by the end of the day, she could have believed otherwise. It seemed decades had passed before she felt William’s arms around her again, his lips peppering kisses across her face, uncaring of the onlookers or the loud whispers. Uncaring of who saw them—two lovers distanced too long. Hours that felt like years. Buffy hadn’t been beside him then, but it wouldn’t be so ever again. Their future was now a lifetime. She would never leave his side.

No one saw Drusilla’s blood on his hands.

No one, for Buffy had washed him clean.

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Chapter 27

Chapter Notes: Thanks so much to dusty273 and spikeslovebite for looking over this for me.

---

The life of a sketchpad reminded her of a butterfly. In the beginning, it was unremarkable, lifeless though not without its potential. The beholder found value in its very existence; a fresh beginning, a new start. She loved the musty scent of an untouched canvas. Loved what it represented. Loved what it provided.

Loved the promise of hope.

The first strokes against the virgin parchment did nothing to rob it of its intrinsic beauty. Even as cream-colored sheets turned crisp with lines of charcoal, the thrill of creating something new overwhelmed her with its simple grace. Especially when her inspiration came in the form of her beautiful, naked husband.

Buffy smiled, running the end of her art pencil down her cheek. Her hair had grown longer over the past few months, falling now over her shoulders and curling at her waist. William preferred her hair long. He played with it for hours—curling it around his fingers, inhaling its scent, dragging it across his bare flesh…though there was little he didn’t delight in exploring. The first year of their marriage had washed away in a sea of passion since their whirlwind second honeymoon—a whirlwind that had yet to stop.

It was worth it. The stress of the past few months, the terror of the inquest, the dread which had threatened to rob her of her happiness the second she had William’s love locked safely in her heart. There were times when she had difficulty finding enough air to feed her lungs; now she was floating among the clouds. Watching the man she loved stand against the tide without batting an eye. Watching the rise of everything she held dear survive without succumbing to the fall.

Watching…

William.

It hadn’t been easy getting where they were. Getting to this modest hotel room in Florence, where the Duomo was visible across the hazy, yellow glow of Italian sunlight—no, the journey had nearly compromised the battle. After burying Drusilla, there had been the matter of dealing with Mrs. Hart. Dealing with her coldly, brutally, and in person.

With William at her side, Buffy had, at long last, confronted the old woman. Told her, in no uncertain terms, exactly how she felt.

“Ever since I set foot on Manderley, you have regarded me as something other than what I am. As something less than the mistress of this house, and given my initial fear of the position, that would have been understandable…were it not for the fact that you treated me as something less than a human being, as well.” Buffy had stood firm, ignoring the trembles seizing her insides and forcing all misgiving from her voice. Though she was still gaining her footing—her confidence—she knew she couldn’t have done it without William.

There was little she could have done without William.

“Manderley is not yours,” she had continued. There was no shame in admitting how much she had enjoyed the stark astonishment in Mrs. Hart’s eyes, as though the old woman hadn’t thought it possible for her position to ever be questioned. As though her lifeline at Manderley was indefinite, no matter what she did or who she hurt in the process.

“Mr. de Winter has never expressed dissatisfaction in my work.”

“That’s because my loving wife was too good to disclose your behavior,” William had all but snarled. “For what you pulled, you’re fortunate I don’t toss you down the bloody stairs.”

“I do not understand.”

“I don’t expect you would,” Buffy had coolly replied. “You don’t have the capacity to understand. You would have to be human first.”

Mrs. Hart had disappeared soon after, her quarters cleaned, Drusilla’s belongings in tow. William told Buffy it was grounds for pressing charges, and though he would have loved to pin something on Mrs. Hart, he couldn’t begrudge her for taking everything his demonic first wife had touched out of Manderley forever. For the first time, the manor felt whole—felt clean. Felt like it was truly hers. Truly theirs.

Manderley, however, was behind them. At least for now. Wesley, fresh off his honeymoon with Winifred, had agreed to serve as caretaker for the estate while William treated Buffy to the world. Since departing, Manderley hadn’t crept into their discussions; if William’s plans were indicative of anything, it would be at least another month before the familiar grounds of home were under her feet. Buffy wouldn’t admit to being homesick; home, for her, was at William’s side. And William wanted to show her everything. Wanted to show her as much of the world as he could—because she’d given it to him.

“This,” he’d whispered in Paris, their bodies dwarfed by the magnificent shadow of The Louvre, “is all because of you.”

“What?”

“You gave me this, darling.”

Buffy had grinned and swatted at him. “I can hardly afford the Mona Lisa. Besides, it’d be with your money.”

“Our money,” he’d corrected, stealing a kiss from her lips. “Everything I have is yours. You gave it to me.” His arm hooked around her middle, snuggling her closer. “You’re everything.”

“I suppose I could always steal it. It has a nasty habit of getting stolen.” Buffy’s grin had broadened. “Would you feel comfortable harboring a felon?”

“I’d harbor you anywhere you liked.”

Paris had been weeks ago. Now they were in Florence, in a room with a view of the Duomo. William was sprawled across the bed, his left hand resting against his abdomen and the back of his right hand pressed to his brow. He was a vision. Ruffled where he’d once been groomed. Wild where he’d once been proper. A passionate, eager lover where he’d once been contained. McGarry’s ruling at the inquest had not only put Drusilla to rest; it had provided the beast Buffy had unleashed with her uninhibited acceptance of his stormy past with a jolt of insatiable energy. He was alive in ways she’d never before seen and could hardy believe, even with her body aching with the evidence of his unquenchable hunger.

Hunger for her. He wanted her. Always. In places that made her blush. In ways that rendered her a blushing virgin with little more than a suggestive wink. Her skin burned from the path his lips had traveled. Her legs trembled when she tried to make them work as God intended. And though she was limp and drained from their lovemaking, she always wanted more. Always. She wanted what he did—to make up for the months during which they’d been together but not. During which they’d lived as husband and wife, but without this fiery zeal with every wake.

A sleepy yawn dragged her attention from the memory of William she’d transposed to paper. He blinked blearily, the hand at his stomach blindly searching the empty space beside him until his eyes locked with hers. A slow, predatory smile stretched his lips. One that had her insides tingling and her thighs clenching all at once. That grin would have her on her back with her legs in the air in careless seconds.

Once upon a time, Buffy would have thought herself quite the heathen. She could barely afford to care anymore.

Not now.

Not with William.

“Good mornin’,” he drawled rakishly, his voice rugged and tweaked with the hint of a lowerclass accent that admittedly sent ripples across her skin. “What are you doin’ all the way over there?”

Buffy’s eyes dropped shyly. “Drawing,” she replied.

“Anything special?”

“You.”

“Oh. While I sleep?” William grinned wickedly. “Pervy.”

She batted a hand, her cheeks warming. “You say that about everything I do.”

“Yeah, well, everything you do is pervy.” The twinkle in his eyes had the power to melt glaciers. “What are you wearing, anyway?”

“Nothing. A robe.” Buffy gestured to the closet. “It was hanging in there.”

“It’s hideous.”

“I’ll be sure to tell the staff.”

“In my opinion, you’re better off without it.” His grin stretched wider as he pulled himself onto his forearms, his unrepentant eyes roaming the length of her body as she rose to her feet. “God, I love your hair like that. You look so…like Eve. In the Garden.”

It still took courage to unwind her belt and bare her body to his hungry eyes, especially when the glow of morning light did little to hide the contours of her flesh. Intimacy with William had left every bit of her explored with his hands and tongue; there was nothing about her he hadn’t seen and touched. And even knowing that, she couldn’t help but blush when he drank her in. When his eyes fixated on her small breasts and he licked his lips as though anticipating tasting her nipples. She felt every inch of her flush red under his scrutiny, but he never made her feel awkward.

He made her feel like a goddess with a simple glance.

“Eve was docile,” Buffy observed softly.

“I don’t want you docile,” he countered, “I want you on fire. The image of Eve, the soul of a tigress.” His eyes dropped to her sketchpad. “Mind if I see my likeness? Did you draw my naughty bits?”

“They were under the blankets.”

William smirked, running his hand down his chest and bringing it to a halt right above the aforementioned naughty bits. “I’m sure you remember what they look like, love,” he drawled, leaning up and snatching her sketchpad away in a blink. “You spent a good time down there last night.”

If anything, the fire in her face only grew hotter. It was one thing to love him with her mouth; it was quite another thing to have her nightly deeds mentioned with the sun peeking over the horizon. “You’re wicked,” she muttered, though little could keep the smile from her face. Likewise, she couldn’t help the rush of empowerment that accompanied her self-consciousness upon puddling the robe around her feet. She was so different than she’d been just weeks before. New. Older, but not without her innocence.

“You love it.” William grinned at her a second longer before his eyes dropped to the drawing. Though his reactions were almost always identical, there was something so remarkably singular in watching the way his face softened and warmed all at once. As though he was entrusted with something precious. Something truly remarkable.

He studied the drawing for an eternity before meeting her eyes. “Buffy…”

“It’s not—”

“You did this just this morning?”

“You looked so wonderful. I wanted to remember it forever.”

William smiled tenderly, his eyes again dropping to her breasts. “I’m hardly wonderful, love. Whatever you see in me…you put it there. Everything you see is because of you. Buffy…” He set her sketchbook aside and reached for her, though she would have been in his embrace anyway. Her legs cast astride him, her entire self confined to his arms. She loved the feel of his heartbeat against her cheek. The way his arms folded around her. The way his breath wove through her hair. The way his fingers caressed her skin. She loved every second of it. She loved everything.

And somehow, apart from all the chaos, they’d landed in a haven of peace. Tranquility. This place so far from home, yet home all the same.

Home because they were together.

“Kiss me,” William whispered, confidence gone as though physical closeness allowed for honesty denied by distance. She heard him, then, as she’d heard him at Manderley. A man so magnificent. So unique. So thoroughly wonderful, even if his ghosts refused to fully let him sleep.

What peace freedom couldn’t give him, she hoped her lips could compensate. She kissed him softly at first, but this wasn’t the time for softness. Need ruled control and she soon found herself warring him for custody of his tongue, found her hands roaming the broad expanse of his shoulders before hooking around his neck, anchoring him into her. His taste was something to which she’d never grow accustomed. The way he purred and melted against her lips. The way he searched her mouth, tasting her, whimpering desperately as though he had never held her before. As though his body didn’t know hers, as though she had never felt the warmth of his arms. As though silken kisses had never been shared.

“Taste so good,” William murmured, his fingers sliding up her abdomen until her breasts filled his palms. The feel of his skin against hers made her insides sizzle, and then his thumbs found her nipples and rolled them into taut, needy peaks. “How did I find you?” he asked, dropping a kiss at the corner of her mouth before he began a southward venture. “Out of every corner of this miserable world, you were the one brightening—”

“You going to speak of how fortunate you are, again?” Buffy teased, though there was no hiding how her heart took off at a gallop the minute he began speaking of things she’d longed to hear.

William gazed upward slyly. “Don’t tell me you don’t love hearing it?” he retorted in the same manner, his tongue curling around one of her nipples. “Your body betrays you.”

“Damn my body.”

“No, no, no…” He licked her again and chuckled when she shivered and moaned. “No, darling, that’s my job. Damning you again, and again, and again…”

“William…”

His left hand found the appex of her thighs, fingers gliding deftly through her thatch of curls and parting her secret lips to rediscover her body’s secrets. “Heaven won’t have you after I’m done,” he whispered. “My wickedness will affect you, my love. All the nasty things—”

“Oh stop,” she berated softly. “I thought we agreed…”

“That you’re my salvation?”

“How can I, then, be damned if I am meant to save you?”

He grinned in a manner that was entirely wicked, though the lightness in his eyes could not be denied, no matter how fervently he believed it didn’t exist. “It’s paradoxical, isn’t it?” he whispered, his fingers slipping over her clitoris and rubbing her with such tenderness she nearly came apart then. “You’re light, I’m dark. Who corrupts who, do you think?”

“There is no corruption, Will.” It was amazing the words could ride out so evenly. Shards of ecstasy crashed through her tired body, ecstasy so potent she wondered how anyone, least of all herself, could contain it without exploding. The notion that she was built to experience and give this sort of pleasure made her head spin. Pleasure combined with happiness the storybooks couldn’t describe. Happiness that seemed to her too wonderful to be true, yet too grounded to be imagined.

They had fought for this and won. This morning was a celebration.

“No?” he asked. “No corruption? Even knowing…”

“Even knowing what, exactly?” Buffy stifled a gasp as two of his deliciously long fingers slipped inside her.

“What these hands have done.” His thumb remained on her slippery pearl, manipulating it in slow, tortuous circles. “What they’re capable of.”

She grinned at him and kissed his lips, keeping her eyes open and fixed on him. “I know precisely what they’re capable of,” she replied softly, rolling her hips to maneuver him into a gentle rhythm mimicking intercourse. “You do not frighten me. I love you. I love you.”

He growled his approval and quickly set to match her movements, hungry eyes devouring the sight of her quim swallowing his fingers again and again. “God, you’re glorious,” he rumbled, massaging her clitoris with fierceness that offset gentility. “So glorious.”

“Oh, Will…”

“Need to…need you.” In a blink, his hand was gone and her body strained in horrible limbo before she felt him pressing the head of his hard length against her opening. “Need…oh God, yes.”

Buffy sighed contentedly and leaned over him, her breasts pressing against his chest, her muscles flexing around him, tightening, drawing him in as deep as she could. Capturing him where she wanted him always.

“You’re magnificent,” he whispered. “So magnificent.”

She cupped his cheeks impulsively and kissed him. “Look at me. Stay.”

“Always.”

They began rocking together. Grinding together. Moving toward that luscious unknown. Flesh molded, connected, breaths mingled, eyes locked. And all she could think to say was, “Stay—stay with me.”

“Sweetheart…” His hands glided up her skin, slippery now with perspiration, until had her face captured between them. “There is nowhere else for me. Nowhere but you.”

She saw him. And believed.

“I love you,” William said, his eyes open and wide. Locked on hers. Always with her. Always. “Buffy, I love you so much.”

Grief had abandoned her. No more worries. No more suffocation. The tears she’d shed were behind her now. Only happy tears from now on. She loved and was loved.

And she believed.

fin

Conclusive Note:

Admittedly, when I began toying with the idea in the fall of 2004 of putting my beloved Buffy and Spike into the position of the unnamed narrator and Mr. Maxim de Winter of Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca, I didn’t expect it to go as far as it did. I often entertain the notion of taking familiar storylines and fitting them to my favorite characters, but never before have these whims seized and held me so rigidly. The more I toyed with the idea, the more I liked it. The pieces seemed to fit, particularly the role of Rebecca being filled by Drusilla. However, the book is a literary work of art and I didn’t feel comfortable touching it. I wanted to play but on my own terms—I wanted the story to be mine, should I ever decide to partake. And perhaps the idea would have died a lonely death in Natchez, Mississippi, where, like so many of my ideas, it was born…had I not mentioned to Yani that I was contemplating a Spuffy AU based on a book I’d read. It is because of Yani that the idea did not die; an avid fan of AUs, she devoured Rebecca in much the same manner that I did, therein instigating what would become a three year campaign to get me writing the story, and then prodding me after I’d started writing to complete it.

I had four chapters of this story written two years prior to posting. And despite what I told Yani and myself, I never thought I’d finish it. Writing this story was a nonstop wrestling match. I have been in the Buffy the Vampire Slayer fandom now longer than I care to confess, and while I’ve encountered bouts with writer’s block as all writers inevitably do, I’ve never fought so rigidly with a story to make it work. All fanfic writers are borrowing someone else’s creation, and I’ve always been comfortable with that. However, taking a story I loved and characters I loved and putting them together in such a manner where my artistic input was almost nonexistent was beyond difficult. I wanted the story to be my own, but it never could be, because it was du Maurier’s. I was merely borrowing it, and this made writing very difficult. I wanted the story to be accurate, but not merely Rebecca with characters bearing different names. It wasn’t until I made the conscious decision to take the story in a direction that felt natural to me that I became comfortable enough to give it the attention it deserved. Though admittedly, even with all the reviews this story has accumulated; the nominations, awards, the emails, the demands for new chapters…none of that has ever felt like it belonged to me. I’m always eternally grateful for my readers and their enthusiasm, but I didn’t create the atmosphere that had them so fascinated: that was, again, property of Ms. du Maurier.

That being said, I have been so overwhelmed these past two years since I began posting the story with the response it has garnered. I’ve lost count of the readers who have told me they picked up Rebecca because they liked Tempesta. I can’t detail the number of times I’ve responded to a letter from a reader, or been overwhelmed at the review count at any of the sites at which I post. I’ve received letters from fans of the book who confessed they were at first resentful of my audacity, but ended up reading out of curiosity and determined I was paying an homage, rather than ripping off du Maurier’s work. Toward the end, despite all odds, it did feel like the story could, in its own way, belong to me. Not entirely—never entirely. Too much of what I wrote was stringently reliant on preexisting material, but there were moments between Buffy and William that were solely for me. Buffy’s relationship with Wesley was, likewise, solely for me, as was Wesley’s relationship, barely mentioned as it was, with Fred.

In the end, I owe the completion of this story entirely to Yani. Through all my struggles and subconscious forfeits, she pushed me back into the arena and demanded more. She talked me through my concerns, offered her enthusiasm and criticism. She didn’t let me forget Tempesta, and that’s why the finished product is as much hers as it is mine. Without her, my version of Rebecca would not exist. Tempesta di Amore is dedicated to her.

I would remiss if I didn’t include my litany of betas who have worked with me on this story. Mari, Tami, ElizaBuffy, Megan, Amy, Kimmie, and a few others who betaed for me back when the story was in its infancy—people who had never before betaed for me, people with whom I lost contact between the first few chapters and the rest of the story, which was truly instigated in 2006 after meeting with Yani at the Queen Mary James&Friends con. She’d visited me just the month before, of course, prepared to talk me into writing more of Tempesta when my life in fandom seemed particularly finite. By the time I saw her again, I was in a much better place and ready to write. The story did not take off, and there were long, grueling breaks during which my muse was content to play with plotlines that belonged to me rather than someone else, but Tempesta refused to wither away. I couldn’t let it, even though there were times I very much wished it would…though I can only now confess as much, since it’s complete.

Even toward the end, I doubted I would ever finish it. The story’s been with me for four years, and somehow I managed to get it written. Because of Yani, my betas, my readers…because of everyone. It’s not the longest thing I’ve ever written, but it was certainly the most difficult. Thank you all so much for your enthusiasm and persistence, for failing to give up on me even when it seemed updates were not forthcoming. Thank you for sticking with me these past couple years, for believing it would have a finale even when I could not.

And again, thank you, Yani. Thank you for pushing me to finish it. She’s all yours.

– Holly

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