Chapter Eighteen




The first-class compartments on the train were very private. Little boxes with plush velvet bench seats on each side and a large window to look out on the landscape. True, the sliding pocket door did have a glass panel in it, but no one passed by except the lady that pushed the refreshment cart. For this privacy, William was grateful. He felt too mixed up to see anyone, and he felt if someone approached him for conversation, now, he could not bear it.

What had he done wrong?

He asked himself this question repeatedly, torturously, during the train journey home. To say that it was a mistake or an accident was dishonest; he knew that. And much as he would like to, he could not shy away from the reality that he must have been somehow terrible to her, to make her believe that she must service him in that way.

His heart hurt at the thought, because in spite of all the dishonesty between them—for which he knew he was entirely to blame—never once had he expected anything such as that from her. Her mere presence in his life was enough, more than enough. Her affection was a benediction and after weeks, still almost impossible for him to believe. Yet, somehow, he had led her to believe that it was not enough, that she also must debase herself.

His thoughts circled back to Charles Archer and those vulgar comments made at the Underwood home. Had Elizabeth taken them so to heart? They said that he brought her to him for those sordid purposes. Suppose she had believed them. With everything in him, he had tried to convince her otherwise. All those soft caresses he might have leaned into, all the kisses he might have claimed. Each time, he forced himself to draw away or worse still, to push her away. He had believed her to be naturally an affectionate person: physical but not overtly sexual because, of course, women never were. Now, came the terrible thought that perhaps all of those embraces were given to him out of a sense of duty or—or necessity. She said that she loved him, and he believed her with the whole of his heart. It was only the idea that she felt she must defile her body to keep him that hurt so badly.

He tried to prevent it. Alone in the dark with her, the temptation had already been so strong in him. Then, to see her unclothed, to feel the soft touch of her hands on him...he knew it was wrong. He did try to stop it, but how insistent she had been! And no lectures from church or school on the subject of practicing self-denial had prepared him for how good it felt, how very difficult it was to resist.

Even now, in his troubled state, he could feel his body betraying him at the memory of her: her hands, her body. On him. For him. From earliest childhood, he had been taught that women were to submit to relations, not enjoy them. Certainly, their men did not expect them to initiate. Even wives were expected to be impassive--even reluctant--to engage in relations with their husbands; it was, after all, the hallmark of a lady.

However, Miss Summers—Elizabeth—had been so assertive in her actions. Almost as if she had been through something similar before, although he knew, of course, she had not. He tried to tell himself it was only desperation that made her so persistent, but there was the memory of her soft mewling, the gentle arch of her body into his hand. No, she whispered afterward. It felt nice.

He forced his mind from that. Disgusting, he was, even to think of it. Perverse. To take advantage of the one person who saw fit to love him. How could he do that? How could he allow her to degrade herself in such a way? He wondered hopelessly how he could ever face her again.

He leaned his flushed forehead against the cool glass of the window and sighed. The only way even to begin rectifying matters would be to put an end to the deceit. He had lied to her for so long. Yet, he knew that when he told her the truth, she would hate him. She would never believe that his intentions were not for things to turn out this way. Still, for the sake of her heart and his own conscience, he knew must tell her.

If he could endure the agony of facing her, that is.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




While William was wrestling with his guilt on that southbound train, Matthew was deep asleep in the hayloft of the Hartley stable. He did not consider this shirking his duty, since, after all, he had been roused an hour early in the predawn cold to take Master William to the train station. The journey to the station was quite a short one, actually, but then he must first feed the horses and put on the harness, brush the carriage. All of this must be done with the utmost haste, according to the Master, and something in the man’s extreme anxiety alarmed Matthew. He rushed to do as William told him, and by half-past five o’clock, they were on their way. Though they were making excellent time, Master William seemed quite uneasy—so much so, in fact, that Matthew was concerned. He risked a single question.

“I—I do hope, sir, that there has not been some sudden calamity at the estate.”

“No. Of course not,” replied the Master. He turned quite pointedly towards the darkened window glass, letting his coachman know, in no uncertain terms, that he did not wish to discuss the matter further.

It was still dark when they reached the train station, but there were lamps shining inside the station house. Matthew sprang lightly from the box and jogged over to the ticket window. Although the early train was due to arrive in just a quarter of an hour, the first class compartments were far from being full, and he easily secured one for Master William. After passing off the luggage to a porter, he tipped his hat to the Master and saw him to the train. He was on his way home again before the first light began to fade the black from the sky.

Naturally, this nocturnal adventure left Matthew feeling rather exhausted, so after he did the morning chores, he thought he might take a bit of a rest. He was doing just that, propped up between a stack of straw bales and a grain bin, when suddenly his slumber was interrupted. Rudely.

It was Miss Summers, of course.

She kicked the grain bin out from under his feet, and Matthew tumbled unceremoniously from his straw bed onto the plank floor.

“What the bleeding hell—?” he sputtered, disoriented by the abrupt wakening.

“Where’d you take him?”

He picked himself up off the floor, rubbing at a bruised elbow as he did so. “Where did I take whom?” he asked. But he was certain he already knew.

And he was right.

“William, you idiot. He’s gone, and I know he didn’t walk anywhere in this weather. Where did you take him?”

Matthew frowned. Normally, he was very fond of Mrs. Anne’s eccentric young nurse, but now he found himself annoyed with her presumption and displeased by her tone. He straightened his coat and adopted a dignified attitude.

“I find myself disinclined to speak with you on this subject, given your current disposition.”

She looked confused. “Huh?”

“I’ve seen more refinement out of the chambermaid,” he clarified huffily.

She sighed. “Okay, I get it. I’m sorry. Is that better?”

“Somewhat.”

There was the briefest of silences. Then, she asked again, “So, where did he go?”

Matthew looked haughty. He was still annoyed with her. “Well, I took him to King’s Cross, didn’t I?” he said.

“The train station?” She said it in an almost disbelieving tone; as if the train station was a place no one visited, ever. Matthew shrugged.

“It is difficult to travel by train otherwise.”

“He went to the estate.” She said it mostly to herself, but Matthew overheard her and saw fit to respond.

“So said his ticket.”

To his complete shock, she suddenly looked close to tears. He realized then that the reason for the Master’s departure was not due to some calamity at the estate. Rather, it was trouble here in London, and Matthew was almost positive that the root of this trouble was standing right before him. He looked at her with renewed interest.

“He did leave Mrs. Anne a note. Did she not receive it?”

“She isn’t awake.”

“Ah. I see.”

“Did he…did he leave a note for me?” The words were halting, clearly said with embarrassment and difficulty. And Matthew wondered. For weeks, there were the playful insinuations among the servants about this beautiful, common girl. To say nothing of those rumors that had started even before she came to them. For the first time, he began to consider them seriously.

Surely, the Master would not do that, Matthew told himself. Still, he wondered—

He shook his head, suddenly aware that he had not answered her question. He watched her carefully as he said, “He did not. Yet he seemed in rather a state of turmoil. Perhaps he forgot?”

There was the briefest expression of hurt in her eyes, but the vulnerability it implied certainly was not in evidence when she lifted her chin and said condescendingly, “That is probably the dumbest excuse I have ever heard.”

“Rather silly,” he agreed with her. “Yet I thought I might not be so blunt as to suggest he left because he was angry with you. What happened?” He smirked. “Did you finally decide to give him back his bracelet?”

That fired her temper, and she turned to him with an outraged—yet no longer vulnerable—expression. “Piss off!”

Matthew waited until she stormed down the ladder, then he resumed his seat on the straw bales. He chuckled quietly. Vulgar creature. No wonder Master William was so eager escape to his country house. He had his hands full with that one.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




Anne read the note at breakfast, a small frown creasing her forehead. Buffy sat upright in her chair, trying to look as if the small sheet of paper was of very little consequence to her. In reality, it was all she could do not to rip it out of her employer’s hand. The explanation of his retreat. What had he said?

Anne did not offer to let her read it. However, as she folded the stationary and slipped it into her dress pocket, she said, “The message is from William. He has decided that now is a good time to visit the estate. He will telegraph us when he arrives.”

“When is he coming back?” Buffy hated her voice for cracking as she asked, but Anne passed over it as if she had not taken note.

“He does not say, only that he will wire us when he decides.” She picked up her water goblet, blue eyes watching Buffy fixedly as she spoke in a deceptively idle tone. “I do wonder what reason the haste, however. For weeks now, he might have told us when he planned on leaving. Why leave abruptly when everyone was sleeping?”

Buffy picked at her breakfast without appetite. There was a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. It felt as if someone had a knife in there, twisting it, and she thought if she ate a bite of food she would be ill right there on the tablecloth. Anne was looking at her expectantly, waiting for an answer. But what answer could she give? The truth—I molested your only son and now he’s run away from home—was not even to be considered.

She twisted the napkin in her lap, uncertain how to reply. Anne’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.

“William is very fond of you, Elizabeth. I hope you know that, and I hope you realize what a very great honor that is to you. There can be no greater privilege to a woman than the love of a good man.”

Buffy avoided that keen, yet kind, stare. God, please stop, she thought, tearing at her napkin.

But Anne was not finished. She continued softly, “He is so sensitive. That, I know, is my fault. I never allowed him the opportunity to experience much of life when he was young; I was too overprotective. I never allowed him to stray far from home, and in that selfish act, he never had the occasion to make friends. Associates, yes, but never true friends. As a result, it is very difficult for him to make himself open to anyone.”

She paused, clearly overwrought with feelings of guilt.

“Anne, I—” Buffy was hoping for a chance to escape this painful, embarrassing conversation, but Anne continued obstinately.

“Don’t you see how vulnerable he is, Elizabeth? And he loves you so. Please, don’t toy with him if you do not mean to return his affections. He won’t understand. Please don’t hurt him.”

Buffy made a soft, strangled sound and did not reply—she could not. Anne looked at her sympathetically.

“I can see this has upset you, and I am sorry for it. That was not my intent. You may go now, if you wish.”

She fled.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




That was a miserable time for Buffy. The house felt so empty without him. Lifeless. In fact, life itself, which had become so bright and beautiful, and easy—felt suddenly empty. For weeks, he had been the focus of her energies and her interest, and now, without him, she was lost. For hours—days—on end, she stood at the big picture window in the parlor, staring at the silvery sheets of sleet and white flakes of lazily drifting snow. The lawn was alternately a white blanket or an icy gray sparkle, but always sodden regardless. The dreary weather seemed to mimic the gray space in the middle of her heart.

He wrote letters. One every single day, although with the unpredictability of the postal service they did not always arrive that way. He did not write to Buffy. All the letters, he addressed to Anne. They were brief, generic epistles about the weather and the servants, the crops that were to be planted in late February. At the end of each letter, he wrote a single throw away line to Buffy: Please extend my best wishes to Miss Summers.

How cold he was being. Aloof. She wondered if he would be that way in person, or if he was deliberately staying away from her so that he could maintain the illusion that he did not care. She thought wearily that he must be angry with her and felt a tinge of anger at him in return. How could he put his hands on her that night? How could he stare at her in such awe when she told him she loved him, only to abandon her the following morning? She felt like kicking herself because, after all, there had obviously been something wrong between them. Pulling away from her hands, shifting beneath the weight of her body. He had not wanted her to continue. So what, if later he acquiesced. It would be difficult for him not to in the position she put him in. He would not even talk afterward. Why hadn’t she forced him to talk? Yet, he did not seem particularly upset or angry over the incident. She had thought that, perhaps, he was just over stimulated and trying to take it all in. Now she was pissed off at herself because she had not known better.

Did he think she was some big wanton ho now? The etiquette guide in her room had a chapter on “human relations.” According to it, women could only service a man but never enjoy him. Only harlots and loose women professed any real physical interest in sex. A man could visit whorehouses and sleep with the scullery maids as long as he was discreet about it, because men were acknowledged to have needs. But a woman suspected of even kissing a man not her fiancé was subject to banishment.

Which made her—what?

Her blood chilled at the thought. There was so much about him she did not understand. Funny, how she had never considered this before, but really most of the conclusions she had drawn were little more than clever assumptions. Up to now, her track record had been amazingly good; though she had a sinking feeling, she had fallen at the last fence. Was he ashamed of her now? Did he think to himself that his love for her was disreputable, because she had shown herself to be something other than a lady? Was he staying away to try to forget her?

The idea filled her with so much anguish that she felt she couldn’t bear it. She had put a sword through Angel and that had been torturous enough, but to hurt William, to damage his opinion of her, was so much worse.

The days passed, and she began to dream of him. For the first night and every night thereafter, there was the same dream—not the sweet and sometimes sensual dreams of before, but a horrible vision of Drusilla cornering him in a dirty, darkened alley. Drusilla: beautiful and terrible, evil and broken.

“Do you want it?” she asked him. Her eyes were soft and dark, so very insane. One hand gently caressed his haggard, tearstained face.

“Yes” was the hoarse reply. His voice didn’t sound right, as if he were drunk; he didn’t seem afraid when her demon visage appeared.

Then her small, sharp teeth were in his throat—her own throat jerking as she sucked, pulling the life out of him. He screamed—

The most horrifying thing about the dreams was not their violence or the graphic detail thereof. Their prophetic quality unsettled her more than any of those things. The nagging, anxious feeling that followed her all the next day.

It isn’t real, she told herself. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to believe it. Because it could be real, couldn’t it? It could happen. He was gone, alone, and perhaps wandering in the night without protection. He didn’t know how dangerous it was to be out after dark. He was a poet; he loved the moonlight.

Buffy was like a caged animal after these dreams. It was not only the dreadful thought that he would die that plagued her, but also a strange, lover-like possessiveness. William was hers, and she would be damned if she would let Drusilla take him from her.

Her days spent gazing out the window became days of pacing the floor, chewing on her bottom lip. She couldn’t eat. She became irritable with the staff and short-tempered even with Anne, who became so concerned about her, she wanted to call the doctor. Buffy wouldn’t let her. She tried not to let herself get caught up in it, because it was just a dream. But anxiety gnawed at her, tormented her, and eventually drove her out into the London night.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~