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Forward to Time Past by Unbridled_Brunette
 
Chapter Twenty-Three
 
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Chapter Twenty-Three





Elizabeth was late to table the following morning. In fact, she was so late that William and his mother finally started the meal without her, the latter silently disapproving, the former confused and fretful.

William felt drained that morning. Again, there had been an almost sleepless night, hours spent tossing in his bed, fretting over things done and undone. All the mistakes he had made; all those vile acts. He was exhausted as he sat there, but he could not show it. He must eat his food and make ready to leave. He had to see the solicitor that morning, to discuss his agreement with the estate tenants. He was a man, and men were not supposed to show weakness, or weariness. Men were supposed to be strong and assertive.

This morning, he felt neither. He felt weak and hungry, though not for the food the footman placed before him. The little carriage clock on the mantle ticked away the minutes, and he counted each one of them. Elizabeth had not come down yet, and he must leave soon. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He wanted to see her, of course. He wanted it so badly it was almost a torment to him. Yet to see her would be a torment also. To see her—to look at her from across the table and not be able to touch her—would be nothing less than pure torture. To say nothing of the guilt he felt. The guilt from the night before—

He did not want to see her, he decided firmly. She would not be downstairs in time to see him off, and he was glad of it. It would give him the entire morning to regroup, to figure out how he could face her. It was a good thing, not to see her.

Why, then, did his eyes move so frequently to the doorway?

Anne was watching him without his realizing it, and with the keenness of a mother’s eyes, she saw everything. She waited until it was evident that he would not say anything voluntarily and then she put down her fork.

“Did you speak with Elizabeth yet, William?”

He flinched at the question. Of course, he had not spoken with her. Aside from questioning her about the terrible circumstances of her assault, he had not broached the subject of her behavior at all. Because in truth—and despite the sense he saw in his mother’s advice—he did not want to change Elizabeth. Her deportment might have been incorrect in London’s eyes, but he found it charming, endearing, and the thought of turning her into just another prim London society lady was almost intolerable to him. He loved her just as she was.

Now he toyed with his fork, turning it over in his hand. “I spoke with her,” he said slowly. “I spoke with her—briefly—last night.”

“Well?”

“She understands the dangers of London now. She will be more cautious in the future.”

Anne hesitated. “And her behavior…?” she asked finally.

Her behavior. Her behavior was wrong, a danger to her. He knew that. He did. And he meant to be firm with her about it, to tell her that she must never leave the house alone again—most certainly not at night—and that she must cease to be so trusting of strangers. He meant to tell her not as a request but a command; he meant to be assertive and his tone would broach no argument.

His first attempt had not been very successful.

It was only that she was so lovely, so soft. How could he say things that she would not understand? Things that would hurt her. She would think he wanted to change her and that she was not enough just as she was when in fact nothing could be further from the truth. She was perfect. It was the rest of the world that needed changing.

“Her behavior,” he began slowly. And the hot, possessive anger that seemed always at the ready these days suddenly flared. “I see nothing wrong in her behavior!”

“William, surely you don’t mean that. Her lack of decorum led to her attack. Does that not bother you?”

“Of course it bothers me!” He smacked the tabletop with his open palm so that the flatware jumped. “Do you honestly think I could so easily forget the danger she put herself in? She might have been subject to further harm, even death. I assure you that I addressed the affair with her last evening, and this matter is now settled. She will not venture out onto the streets alone anymore.”

“But William—”

He threw down his napkin. Still angry, but somehow feeling the unaccountable urge to cry. He pushed his chair back so quickly it almost tipped over as he stood.

“I cannot discuss this any longer. I shall be late…”

And he left her sitting there.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~





“William.”

He turned so quickly that Buffy knew she had startled him. He was still wearing his overcoat, although it was unbuttoned and half-hanging from one shoulder, as if he had started to take it off and then thought the better of it. One hand rested lightly on the library door as though he were preparing to escape into it. There was a tense, unhappy look to his face, and she knew that he was still thinking about the conversation with his mother. A conversation Buffy should not have overheard but had anyway.

“Are you all right?”

He frowned, confused by the question. She added in explanation, “I tried to catch you before you left this morning, but you were in such a hurry. I—I overheard what you said in the dining room—what you both said—”

William colored at that. “Elizabeth, please. I—”

“I didn’t mean to listen in,” she interrupted. “I was just—I was late to breakfast. When I got to the door of the dining room the two of you were arguing; I—I couldn’t just walk in—”

He sighed and his hand dropped from the doorknob. “You cannot know how sorry I am that you had to hear it.”

“No—” She put her hand on his arm, a clumsy gesture of comfort. “No, William. I’m sorry. You’ve been so good to me, and I’ve caused you so much trouble. All I ever do is cause you trouble—”

“Don’t say that!” He sounded more weary than angry, and looking closely into his downcast blue eyes, Buffy could tell that something more was bothering him than just an argument with his mother. She could read him like that. Read him like a book. It was just that sometimes, like now, she couldn’t understand what it was that she was reading. As if she had a learning disability when it came to him—maybe when it came to feelings in general.

Still, she tried.

“You look so tired. Didn’t you sleep well?” She rubbed lightly at his sleeve when she spoke, and he leaned into her hand—a gesture, a feeling, that was so much easier to read than the other one.

“Not very well,” he admitted.

“Why?”

The blush in his cheeks darkened. Blue eyes flicked to the door, and he said slowly, “I—I met with Dr. Wright earlier to see about a new set of spectacles, also with the solicitor. He is drawing up contracts for the tenants to sign.”

Okay…that came out of left field.

“Are you feeling all right?” she persisted. “I mean, the reason you couldn’t sleep—”

“—is something I do not care to discuss at the moment.”

This time, William did reach for the doorknob, twisting it behind his back and pushing so that the door almost appeared to fall open of its own accord. When he walked into the room, it was without a word to Buffy. She might have seen the gesture as dismissive—probably, he intended it to be—except that he left the door open in his wake, as if in the unconscious desire for her to follow him.

She did.

He made a wide and very pointed circuit around the armchair and parked himself instead on the shabby divan; Buffy, however, remained standing.

“I won’t bother you,” she said softly. “I just—I wanted to tell you that overhearing what your mother said about me this morning, it got me to thinking. Probably, I am a little bit lacking when it comes to good manners. I never really thought about that much before, but I am.”

William said nothing in reply, but from beneath the fringe of his gold-colored lashes, his eyes locked on hers, unwavering and responsive. She knew he was listening.

“It comes from living in California around all those cowboys so long, I guess,” she added, laughing at her own lame joke. “But I’m going to try to be better—I’m going to be better. In fact, I’m going to dazzle you guys with my ladylike respectability.”

A small smile tugged at the left corner of his mouth. Encouraged by the success, Buffy went on: “You think I’m joking, but I’m not. When I set my mind to do something, it’s as good as done. I’m stubborn like that. And I can do this. I really can. I can change—”

The smile disappeared.

“I don’t want that,” he said quietly.

“You don’t want what?” She was confused.

“Change.”

His arms went around her waist so suddenly that she almost gasped from the surprise of it. He leaned forward in his seat, and because she was still standing and he was at the level for it, he buried his face in her stomach. It was an odd and strangely intimate gesture. She could feel his hands fisting into the fabric at the back of her dress, his moist breath warming her belly as he murmured, “If I could take you away—if I could—”

“Take me away?” she echoed. The press of his head—the distressed clutching of his fingers—the almost pained look on his face—all of it was so baffling. Yet at the same time it was heady, all the power she held over him, over his happiness. She rested her hands lightly on his bowed head.

“What do you mean, ‘take me away?’”

“If I could take you to the country—to the estate—to where no one would bother you, you could be just as you like. Just as I like you to be. But here—”

“Here—?”

“There are so many bloody fools, so many malicious people who would take the most meaningless gesture and turn it to something vulgar.” He turned his head up just a bit, just enough so that he could look at her. “If you were to come to some harm—”

“So, I’ll just work hard on being like everyone else. Then you won’t have to worry.” The words sounded hard, but her tone was gentle. Her fingers played lightly in his hair.

“You could never be like the rest of them—nor would I want you to be. I do not want to turn you into a sheep, and I care nothing of your lack of knowledge in society matters. It is only that you must not venture out alone if you are to be safe in London. Do you understand? It is my job to protect you—”

It was his job to protect her. Buffy felt a strange thrill at those words. She didn’t need protecting, but she wanted it. She wanted to be so important to someone, so treasured and fussed over. She’d never had it before, not from any man. She promised him she would not take unnecessary risks. She would not go out by herself.

He stood, then. She thought for a giddy moment that he was going to kiss her; she could see that he was thinking of it, that he wanted it. Yet unlike the previous evening, he did not indulge in his desire. Instead, he lifted one of his hands to her cheek, caressed her with both deep affection and a sense of restraint.

Buffy wanted to kiss his bruised cheekbone, his eyelids, his soft mouth, but she was determined not to push him beyond the realms of what made him comfortable. Not again. Instead, she covered his hand with her own, and turning her head slightly, pressed her lips into his palm.

“I love you. Do you know that?”

He closed his eyes and smiled in a way that told her that nothing she could have said—or done—would have pleased him more.

“I do,” he murmured. His voice was low and dreamy. “I do.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~





Although William insisted that it was not necessary, Buffy, true to her word, made a valiant attempt to improve her manners. He grew angry with her when she worked on her grammar and diction (The way you speak is lovely. Why must you change it?), so she worked instead on improving her table manners, her conversational skills. She made rapid progress, and although he swore otherwise, Buffy knew this made life easier for William. For one thing, it got Anne off his back.

If he was not willing to be firm with her, as Anne had suggested, William determined to keep her safe in other ways. When he was home, he relentlessly dogged her footsteps, recording each of her movements with the steadfast dedication of a private detective. Buffy didn’t really mind this; she enjoyed the extra time spent with him. In a way, it even amused her, this sudden resolve to become her personal bodyguard. As if this were not enough, he decided bribery might be in order. With increasing frequency, he returned from his morning work with his coat pockets bulging with packages. He gave her books and perfume, jewelry and little decorative knickknacks for her room. None of it was proper, and he always presented them to her in certain amount of secrecy so that Anne would not know. There was always a tinge of embarrassment on his face, as well, as if he were afraid she would refuse them.

She never did, although the first time she saw the horse, she was actually very tempted to. Actually, it was not a real horse. It was a Connemara pony, a little dapple-gray creature that came complete with sidesaddle and tack. The idea was that he would teach her to ride and then she could accompany him out on horseback as a way of amusement. It was a decision he would eventually come to regret. Yet that was an agony far ahead of him, unforeseeable as he stood in the sunny stable yard that February morning.

Buffy regretted it the moment she laid eyes on the beast. She had never been one of those little girls who begged for a pony at Christmas. Nor had the desire for one materialized in her adulthood, or even since coming here. The horses that pulled the carriage were little more than the engine of an automobile, so little did she consider them. Only when she watched William ride the bay, natural and upright in his seat, did she see any beauty in an equine.

“Huh uh,” she said firmly, when first he suggested it. “Forget it. I’m not getting on that animal.”

“But why?” asked William. For some unaccountable reason he was laughing, which fact only annoyed her further.

“Because I value my neck way too much to break it falling off that thing.”

“You won’t fall. She is very gentle and will take good care of you.”

“I don’t care how gentle she is. I can’t even drive a car, for God’s sake. There is no way I’m going to be able to figure out how to steer that thing.”

“You won’t have to. Matthew put the leading rein on her. I will be completely in control; all you need do is sit very tall and straight in the saddle.”

“One of the stirrups is missing.”

He followed her gaze to the right side of the little leather saddle.

“It is a sidesaddle, sweetheart. It is meant to have only one stirrup.” He paused. “What is a car?”

“Okay, do you want to talk about cars, or do you want to show me how to get on this stupid thing?” Buffy asked quickly, hoping to distract him from the question and save her from answering it. It worked. Of course, it also meant that she had to get on the horse.

In truth, it was not as bad as she had first feared. Although her skirts were uncomfortably tight when she bent her legs that way (William said she must have a riding habit made), she felt quite secure in the saddle. In addition, that first day she did not even have to worry about steering, because he controlled the horse. It was only later, when she felt confident in her seat at walk, trot, and canter that he gently placed the reins into her hand and directed her in their use. In a matter of a few days after this lesson, she was competent enough that he took her out on the streets.

It quickly became evident that his desire for her to ride was merely another manifestation of his desire to be alone with her. They went out when the afternoons were fair. He took her to the parks and as she improved, even on long rides out of the city. She made a pretty picture in her dark green riding habit, the same shade as her eyes, its skirt flowing elegantly down the horse’s side. William watched her as much as he watched the road ahead. He praised her hands and her seat, completely overlooking the awkward way she handled her whip. He would not teach her to gallop or jump for fear she might fall and injure herself.

Buffy cared little for the pony—it was as smelly as it was pretty, also quite willful—but she came to love the rides. Alone in the clear, cold sunshine, they rode abreast so that they could talk to each other. Sometimes they stopped in a field and sat together on a log while the horses grazed. Occasionally, in times like these, he forgot himself and kissed her.

Anne did not exactly approve of their jaunts—she felt they should have a chaperone. Yet she said very little about them. After all, Buffy’s manners had greatly improved; likewise, William’s temper. She was clever enough to know when not to rock the boat.

On the days they did not ride, William took Buffy out into the city. They did not go to plays or concerts—nowhere they might run into Charles Archer and encounter more ugliness. Instead, he took her to poetry recitals and book readings, horse races and even a wild animal show where tigers jumped through hoops, and a man wrestled a bear. He took her to the shops, urging her to tell him what she wanted so that he could buy it for her. She never would, but he watched carefully for her reactions. The things she liked he bought for her, without any regard to cost at all. She learned to temper her expressions so that he could not so easily read them. She didn’t need gifts in order to love him, and she wanted to show him that. She loved him for who he was. She adored him.

Unfortunately, when the perfect opportunity to prove that to him arrived, she botched it.

Badly.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~
 
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