Chapter Twelve





When Anne told Buffy that William would be “delighted” to escort her to the ball, it was with the same assumption Buffy herself had: that William was so enamored of her, he would be delighted to escort her anywhere. Neither of them could have anticipated his true reaction to the proposal, which could be described, at best, only as a total and encompassing lack of enthusiasm. This was evidenced quite clearly in the single word he gave as answer to Anne’s gentle broaching of the subject at breakfast that morning.

“No,” he said bluntly.

Anne’s face fell with a poorly concealed look of disappointment. She placed her fork on her plate and leaned forward, turning her full attention on her son.

“No?” she echoed.

“It’s not possible.”

“Why on earth not?”

“Because I am not planning to attend the ball myself,” he answered simply. “Therefore, it would be rather difficult for me to escort Miss Summers.”

“Not attending? Of course, you will attend! You accepted that invitation almost a month ago! Why would you not attend?”

“I have changed my mind, is all. Those people that are sure to be invited—David Havisham, Charles Archer, and the rest—they are vulgarians. I would prefer not to associate with such people.” He arranged his face into a carefully contrived expression of haughtiness, and for a moment, he looked so silly and pompous that Buffy had to choke into her napkin in order not to laugh.

However, Anne did not seem much amused.

“Vulgarians,” she echoed blankly. “William, what on earth are you talking about? You have known these people since boyhood. We have seen them every season since you were a little child! They are not vulgarians; they are upper class gentlemen. And you have always been most fond of Cecily…”

Buffy looked up from her eggs in time to see William flush guiltily.

“Be that as it may, I don’t wish to acquaint Miss Summers with them,” he answered stiffly. “I have no interest in attending this function at all.”

“But why?”

“I have my reasons!” he insisted stubbornly.

Anne looked most annoyed with him, but Buffy remained serene. In her mind there was no doubt she could convince him to take her to the ball. She just had to find the right means of persuasion. She knew his weak spots well enough by now; he wore them on his sleeve.

“It’s all right, Anne,” she said. “If he doesn’t want to go, that’s his choice to make. It’s not right to force him to spend time with me, if he doesn’t want to. I won’t do that to him.”

His head snapped around to face her.

“Force me to spend time with you,” he echoed softly. “You think…I don’t want…”

“It’s all right,” she insisted, shrugging as if it was of little consequence to her. But William shook his head emphatically.

“Miss Elizabeth, I was not insinuating—”

“Seriously, I get it. And don’t worry…I’m not angry about it. You’ve been really nice to me since I’ve come here, and I appreciate it. But you don’t have to pretend we’re friends. I mean, I know I’m still an employee…”

Anne seemed bewildered by this train of thought, but Buffy knew William understood implicitly. He looked stricken.

“Y—you don’t understand. It is not that I do not wish to accompany you…but it would not be proper. We would be without a chaperone. It would look…”

“It would be a bit unorthodox, I’ll admit,” said Anne soothingly. “Yet, I cannot see why anyone should object, if the two of you take precautions to keep things proper. After all, Cecily did invite Elizabeth; she obviously wishes her to attend. And Elizabeth was so excited by the prospect of a night out, herself…”

He looked over at Buffy, his blue eyes softening behind the glare of his spectacles.

“You want to go so badly, Miss Elizabeth?”

“It would be nice,” she told him. “I’ve been in London two months, and the only people I’ve really gotten to know are the two of you. A party would be…nice. But it’s all right.”

William sighed heavily. He knew that he was no match against two such determined women, just as he knew that he was incapable of denying Miss Summers something she seemed to want so badly.

“You’d better ring for Matthew straight away,” he told Buffy resignedly. “He can take the card around to Mrs. Ellen after breakfast, when he exercises the horses.”

Anne smiled proudly at him. “There,” she said brightly. “I knew you would see reason.”

She began to talk, then, of all the preparations that would be necessary for Buffy to attend her first ball. However, Buffy hardly heard what she said. She should have felt happy to win the argument, but she was not. William had acquiesced, as she had known he would, but his acceptance of the matter had the air of weary defeat. He said all the right things; he nodded his head and agreed with his mother that it was high time Miss Summers become acquainted with London society. Yet the smile that followed his words was slow and painful, and Buffy could see from the way his shoulders drew upward that he was trying to hide his displeasure.

As she looked across the table at him, at the aggrieved look in his eyes…at the food that now sat, untouched, on his plate, she felt a little unexpected pain in her heart. Because if she had known it would hurt him, she would never have brought it up in the first place.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




Buffy wanted to tell William that she had changed her mind and that they didn’t have to go to the ball after all. Not if it made him unhappy. Yet she did not have the opportunity to speak with him alone until that afternoon, when Anne lay down for her nap.

Perhaps he had hoped that she would come. He had left the library door slightly ajar, and it was the first time he had ever done that. When she tapped lightly on the doorframe, he turned slightly on his seat before the desk and smiled that beautiful, slow smile.

“Miss Elizabeth.”

“Hi,” she answered softly. “If you aren’t busy…if you don’t mind…can I join you?”

An eager expression came into his eyes at the question.

“Of course, you may if you wish—”

He rose from his chair, a book clutched in one hand. When she lowered herself onto the sofa before the fire, he sat down beside her. And although he was still not exactly close, he sat much nearer to her than he had the day before—much, much nearer than was strictly proper.

But of course, her just being with him was not strictly proper.

Buffy reached across the space separating them and touched the cover of his book, unconsciously allowing her the tips of her fingers brush his hand in the process. “What are you reading today?”

He looked down at his book, and to Buffy’s utter shock—perhaps even to his own—his smallest finger reached out and softly stroked down the length of hers, finally coming to rest against her knuckle.

“Lord Tennyson, again,” he whispered in answer to her question. He looked terribly anxious about what he had done—what he was doing—but he didn’t pull his hand away. He added, even more softly, “The Lotus-Eaters.”

“Would you read it to me?”

To her surprise, he nodded slowly and pulled his hand away in order to open the book. But also to her surprise (and if she were honest with herself, her disappointment), The Lotus-Eaters was not a romantic poem; it was an epic based on an excerpt from The Odyssey. Buffy had read the latter in college, but this version was different. In it, the sailors were not dragged from the island by Odysseus, but instead elected to stay and surrender to the lull of the lotus plant. For a poem, it was surprisingly interesting. Besides which, William recited it beautifully. He hardly even glanced at the text as he spoke.

Afterward, he asked her what she thought of it.

“‘Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease,’” she quoted thoughtfully. “Why did they want to die?”

“I rather think it was an allusion to our own industrial times…For us, the advancements seem to be wonderful things…but for the workers who toil to bring about the changes...Well, I supposed that if any of them were given the chance, they would make the same choice. For in the poem, they spoke of life before the island being ‘all labor’; they likened climbing the waves to a war with evil and observed they could find no pleasure in it.

“Well, that much I can understand,” she muttered. “Who would want to spend their life warring with evil?”

“But if life were without evils, then how could there be good?” he asked. “Even the sailors say ‘There is no joy but calm.’ They aren’t happy; they are lulled into a false sense of contentment by the numbing qualities of the plants. Like the Chinese talk of the opium dreamers who sit all day upon their beds, quietly smoking. If they aren’t unhappy with that existence, neither can it be said that they are happy.”

“So, then it’s a cautionary tale of drug abuse. I get that.”

William looked away from her, but Buffy could see the corners of his lips twitching.

“You’re laughing at me, aren’t you?”

“A bit.”

Buffy tried to look angry with him, but she couldn’t hold back her own grin. “Oh, well. I know I’m stupid when it comes to this kind of thing, but—”

“You aren’t stupid!” He turned to her so quickly that she startled. “You…you’re delightful.”

“I am?”

He swallowed then, and she knew he was nervous. But he soldiered on bravely: “So…so very. I know that you aren’t always happy with us…I know how difficult it must be for you to adjust to a strange city, in a strange country. But for me…”

“For you…what?” she asked softly.

“For me, you are like a—a—”

Though she could not know it, the word he was struggling to say was godsend. But his courage failed him, and he faltered, saying instead:

“Before you came to us, I was, well, rather like the subjects of the poem. Content, numb, half-asleep. But you—you are so—spirited. You bring life to this house.” He looked down. “I am only sorry that it is so sad a circumstance that brings you here.”

“It’s all right,” said Buffy. “I’m glad to be here.” And a moment after she said it, she realized that it was true.

“I know that sometimes you grow bored here. Which is why I—I consented—” He hesitated.

A strange ache came over her at that. Those beautiful eyes…that naked expression. She touched his sleeve very lightly, and said gently, “We don’t have to go, you know. Not if you don’t want to.”

His hand jerked, as if he were longing to wrap it around hers. But he did not. “We don’t have to go where, Miss Elizabeth?” he asked. Although he knew. She was certain that he knew.

“To the ball. We don’t have to go. I know you aren’t too thrilled by the prospect, and—and I shouldn’t have bullied you into saying you would take me. If you really don’t want to…we don’t have to.”

He tilted his head at her, his eyes narrowing just slightly as he studied her expression. He said, “But you wish to attend, Miss Elizabeth. You think that you might you enjoy it.” It wasn’t a question.

“I don’t know,” Buffy said. “Maybe I would enjoy it. Anyway, it would be something new…a change. I guess that, yes, I would like to go. But not if it makes you unhappy.”

“If it pleases you, then I will be pleased. If you are happy…” He left the rest of the sentence unfinished.

“That’s very nice of you, but…well…if you’re worried about taking me, then just tell me. Okay? I’ll understand. If they found out what I am—that I’m your employee—then it would probably—”

William jerked his arm from beneath her hand, knocking his book to the floor in the process. Yet he didn’t even seem to notice that. He was staring at Buffy intently.

“You think that is why I am not more elated at the prospect of this ball? You think that I am ashamed of you?”

“No,” she said, shocked by his severe tone. “No…I’m just saying…I understand if you’re worried about introducing me to your friends. I’m not so good with the British etiquette yet—and—and I’m still struggling not to use the kooky American speak. Even if they didn’t figure out that I’m an employee, they’d think me really vulgar, and that would make you look bad.”

“You are not just an employee!” He pushed himself up from the divan. “And I am not the type of man who would allow something so shallow to determine my decisions. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“Whoa, whoa!” Buffy bolted off the sofa and toward the doorway, blocking his exit. “William, wait! Don’t leave. I wasn’t trying to offend you or upset you. I just want you to be happy…and you don’t seem very happy about attending this ball.”

He softened. “Perhaps I am not particularly excited about it,” he confessed. “But it has nothing at all to do with you! Nor am I unhappy. I could not be unhappy…not when just being in the same room with you is a pleasure.”

The compliment made her blush, and suddenly she was aware of just how close they were to each other. There was no more than two inches of space between their bodies, and it was by far the closest to him she had ever been. No wonder, then, that her heart was suddenly pounding like a kettledrum. He inclined his head just slightly, the warmth of his breath tickling her cheek as he added, “I would be proud to escort you anywhere, Miss Elizabeth.”

His eyes were so blue behind the clear glass of his spectacles. He was trying with everything in him not to look her directly in the eye, but he was looking anyway, and the intensity of his stare was enough to make her knees shake. Beyond her own volition, Buffy saw her hand reach toward his chest. The tips of her fingers barely grazed the edge of his lapel—

“Master Hartley?”

—and she could have screamed in irritation as Livvy’s high-pitched, girlish voice suddenly rang out across the room, once again ruining it all.

William pulled back from Buffy—not in the guilty leap that was his wont, but slowly, reluctantly. He took two steps backward and turned, staring at the young maid in bemusement. “Yes?”

Livvy looked uneasy, clearly aware that she had just interrupted a tender scene, and clearly very embarrassed about it. “Sorry to disturb you, sir. But your mum—that is, Mrs. Anne—is awake now. She was asking for you, asking if you had come home while she was sleeping. I think she has been a bit worried, sir, since you did not arrive in time for lunch. Can I tell her that you will be in to see her?”

“Do not trouble yourself,” he replied. “I will go now.” He looked at Buffy apologetically, plainly at a loss as to what to say.

“It’s all right,” she reassured him. “Go. We can finish talking later; we’ve got all the time in the world, after all.”

It was not until much later that she remembered what she said to him and stopped to consider the significance of her words. All the time in the world. For some reason, the thought was not as disturbing to her as it should have been.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




The days that followed were filled with preparations for the ball. So busy, in fact, that Buffy hardly had a chance to speak to William, and almost no time at all to see him alone. Whatever else he said on the matter, she knew that he was not looking forward to the ball in the least way, and she might have felt hurt by this—probably would have felt hurt by it—had he been any other man. When it came to William, however, her ego would not permit her to believe that the reason he did not wish to go was that he didn't want to accompany her. She knew better. It was true that he had accepted his invitation to the ball the moment it arrived, over a month before, and that he accepted it with far more enthusiasm than he showed now, when faced with the knowledge that she would accompany him. It was also true that he obviously had some kind of interest in Cecily Underwood—at any rate, he certainly did stare at her a lot when she came to call. Yet Buffy knew that whatever he felt for Cecily, it did not diminish the attraction he had for her. The expression in his eyes when he looked at her told her that much. Not to mention—

You bring life to this house…I would be proud to escort you anywhere…

He had told her that, and she believed him. And although he seemed to be dreading the ball a little more with each day that passed, his dismay did not dampen his determination that she should enjoy it. It was William, after all, who ordered the dress made.

This dress had started out as a humble evening gown of midnight blue velvet: pretty enough for a middle-class woman’s Sunday best, but not nearly as fashionable as the dresses that Cecily and her friends were sure to be wearing. Although Buffy had never seen a ball gown in person, she had seen pictures, and it was not hard for her to distinguish between them and the dress that she was expected to wear. The train of hers was far too short, for one thing, and the bodice lacked the lace and elaborate trim that were hallmarks of Victorian style. Buffy cringed inwardly as she thought of having to face a roomful of elaborately turned-out girls, while wearing such a plain gown; but she didn’t think there was anything she could do about it. She couldn’t complain, not when Anne had already gone well out of her way to buy her these few, simple gowns. Yet her discontent must have shown, somehow, because two days after the blue dress was finished, Mrs. Simms showed up on the doorstep again, armed with her sewing kit and an order to trim the dress lavishly to Miss Summers’ specifications—and hang the cost. Ostensibly, Anne commissioned the gown; but according to servants’ gossip, the orders actually came from William. He had noticed Miss Elizabeth’s displeasure with her current frock and had prodded his mother into having it changed. Since there was no time to tailor a new dress, Mrs. Simms was told to alter the existing garment, and as Buffy soon learned, a seamstress with two assistants and unlimited use of the family funds could achieve amazing things in just four days’ time.

Of course, this meant hours upon hours spent standing like a statue while Mrs. Simms poked, prodded, and pinned, creating a ball gown of which any woman could be proud. So beautiful a dress, in fact, that she almost felt that she was not pretty enough to wear it.

Although they did not really have time to spend together, Buffy managed to catch William alone one day, grabbing him by his sleeve as he was passing her in the hallway. He was on his way to the library, but she had a meeting with Mrs. Simms and couldn’t join him. Still, she wanted to thank him for his generosity.

He sighed when she told him that she knew he was behind it all—“Meddlesome servants”—but the corner of his mouth quirked up, and she knew that he was not entirely displeased. In fact, he moved a bit closer to her, as if hoping she would touch his hand or his arm, the way she had before.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she reached up and brushed back the curls that fell across his forehead. He closed his eyes, feeling his face heat at her touch. It was almost painfully awkward, that moment. But so very, very pleasant in spite of it. Her hand stroked down the side of his face, finally coming to rest on his cheek. She leaned up—leaned forward almost as if to kiss him—and then she whispered, "Thank you."

He wanted to tell her that she was more than welcome; he wanted to tell her she would look beautiful in that dress. That she looked beautiful in anything she wore. But before he could find his tongue, she had already drawn away from him.

He stood for a moment, watching her as she continued down the hallway. He lightly touched his fingertips to the place her hand had been.

All of the effort and expense had been worth it, he thought. Just for that.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~