Chapter Seven




In spite of all the care taken beforehand to keep her warm and safe in the dreaded “night air,” their outing to the theater was not without its consequences to Anne. Late that night, she had another coughing fit, her worst yet. Buffy tried everything she knew to ease the awful, unproductive hacking, but nothing worked. Anne was gasping for air, but each breath brought new strain to her diseased lungs, causing her to cough all the harder. Buffy was frightened, uncertain of what she should do. William was apparently asleep—at least, he was still in his private rooms at the other end of the hallway. Knowing he would be angry to find Anne’s condition worsening (after all, this was just what he had predicted), Buffy didn’t dare disturb him until she had to. Instead, she sent one of the maids for the doctor and then ran downstairs for the medicine. It hadn’t been long enough since the last dose, but she didn’t know what else to do.

The cough medicine had been left sitting on the small table in the parlor, Buffy remembered. She ran to check, praying that the maids hadn’t moved it to some out-of-the-way place where she would never find it. They hadn’t. She grabbed it up with relief and such haste that the bottle slipped out of her sweaty grasp. The container crashed against the hardwood flooring, only barely cushioned by the rug. The brown glass splintered, scattering shards all over the place while the thick yellowish syrup oozed into the soft nap of the Oriental carpet.

“Oh, damn it!” she swore in frustration. She started picking at the broken bottle; the bottom had remained relatively intact, and she thought maybe there would be enough medicine left in it to give to Anne. No sooner did she try to find out, however, than she cut her finger on one sharp edge.

“What is the matter?”

Buffy looked up sharply, suddenly oblivious to the blood streaming from her right thumb. William was standing in the doorway, surveying the mess.

Mistaking his bewilderment for anger, she began to stammer nervously. “Your mother is coughing pretty badly. I was just getting her some medicine, and I—I dropped the bottle.”

Even as she spoke, Buffy flinched inwardly. As if it weren’t already bad enough that Anne was coughing as a result of something she had convinced him to let her do, now she’d also wasted the medicine that was needed to help her. Buffy knew the syrup was expensive, and now, more than half a bottle of it was soaking into the parlor rug, which, incidentally, was also expensive. She figured that if ever there was a moment when William would chuck her out, this would be it. He certainly had enough of a reason to be angry. And if he threw her out, where would she go?

His eyes flicked down to her hand, but the glare of lamplight on his spectacles kept her from reading his expression. His voice was strange and tight when he noted, “You are bleeding.”

She looked down. The three-inch gash on her hand was still bleeding freely, blood flowing steadily from her thumb onto the already-stained wool of the carpet. She covered the wound quickly with her other hand.

“I—I’m sorry. I’ll pay for it and for cleaning the carpet, too. I’ll pay you back for all of it—”

“SARAH!”

He bellowed it so loudly, Buffy cringed; but his voice regained its even tone once the elderly housekeeper appeared.

“Go to the pantry and retrieve the other bottle of Mother’s medicine,” he ordered, ignoring her curtsy. “Then, go upstairs and give Mother one spoonful—and do it quickly. Sit with her until I come to relieve you.”

He glanced back at Buffy. “Did you send for the doctor?”

She nodded. “Ten minutes ago. Matthew went. He should be back soon.”

“Good.” He seemed almost as anxious Buffy was. When Mrs. Fitzpatrick did not immediately depart, he snapped at her, “Well, what are you waiting for? GO!”

Buffy shrank back into the floor, trying to simultaneously pick up broken glass and nurse her bleeding hand. She’d never heard him shout before, and something about it frightened her. Although she had not been certain about what kind of person he was, he was at least soft-spoken and polite. She figured if she’d driven him to screaming like a banshee, then her butt was as good as gone from this house. She ducked her head and waited for the dismissal.

But instead of ordering her out, William knelt on the floor next to Buffy.

“Your hand—?”

“It’ll be okay. I just—”

“You misunderstand. What I meant to say was: may I look at your hand?”

She fell silent and let him take her right hand into his own. He turned it palm-up, studied the cut for a moment, and then reached into his pocket for a handkerchief.

“I shall ask the doctor to examine this after he attends to Mother,” he said. His voice was so soft she could barely hear him. “It is quite deep.”

Buffy hardly felt it as he placed the handkerchief against her wound, gently applying pressure to stem the bleeding. What she did notice was that his hands were shaking even as they nursed her own. His voice was shaking, too. “It’s not that bad,” she told him, puzzled by his behavior. The cut was bleeding freely, but it wasn’t anything serious. No stitches required, at least. Why was he acting so oddly? Was it just the blood that bothered him?

She looked up to see if he appeared faint or sickened by the sight, but the expression in his blue eyes was one of concern. Tenderness. And there was something else. Something she couldn’t quite comprehend. Something that definitely was not the anger she had anticipated.

She lowered her head and babbled stupidly: “I’m sorry about the medicine. I know it’s really expensive, and I will replace it.”

“Don’t be absurd,” he said hoarsely. He was still holding her hand, even though the handkerchief-bandage had already stopped the bleeding. Again, she became aware of how hot his skin was, almost feverish. When she chanced to glance up, he quickly looked away from her, dropping her hand and avoiding her gaze.

“You are all right now?”

“I—I’m fine,” she stammered. “Thank you—”

She reached out to touch his arm, but he stumbled backward, quickly rising to his feet.

“I—I must see to Mother. Leave the mess and take care of your injury; I shall tell Sarah to have one of the maids clean the carpet.”

And before she could say anything in reply, he started away, his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets and his shoulders hunched. Even from the back, she could see that his ears and neck were scarlet.

Buffy sat back on her heels as one of the parlor maids rushed in and began picking up the bits of broken glass. She felt strange, somehow. Almost as though she wanted to go after him.

But of course, that was unthinkable.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




Hours later, Buffy was hovering near the doorway of the master bedroom. Dr. Gull had finished his examination and prescribed his pills; now, finally, he was making ready to leave.

Although the worst of Anne’s sick spell had now passed, Buffy could not bring herself to relax. She could tell by his expression that William felt the same way. Even though neither of them dared to voice it aloud, both of them were dreadfully afraid that Anne might develop pneumonia after her night at the theater. This fear was sharpened by the doctor’s insistence that it was foolish for Anne to be “out in the night air” when already she was “in poor constitution”. By then, Anne’s coughing spell was over, and she was resting--a little pale and weak, but basically all right. However, Dr. Gull insisted that the consequences of their outing might not end tonight. The violent coughing that accompanied her illness was weakening her lungs, and tonight’s bout was, by far, the worst yet. If they continued in this fashion, he averred, they would greatly shorten the time Anne had left.

Now, the doctor snapped shut his small black case and motioned for William to follow him into the hallway. To Buffy, he said nothing nor gave any acknowledgement of her presence as he passed by her. She was, after all, only a woman. A servant. It was not befitting of his position for him to notice her. Buffy wasn’t crushed by this. She waited until both men had exited the room and then dropped, exhausted, into a small chair beside the bed. The physical and emotional stress of the late evening had been overwhelming, and now that the crisis had passed and Anne was resting comfortably, Buffy realized just what a toll it had taken on her own body. Her feet and back ached so much that she knew sleep would be elusive even despite her fatigue. Of course, this was assuming that she got the opportunity to sleep. It was already half-past three o’clock.

Through the half-opened door drifted a sound of masculine voices, one of them very loud and obviously angry. Buffy sighed. Being routed out of his bed in the middle of the night had put Dr. Gull into a poor temper, and he had already scolded them soundly for having been so thoughtless as to let Anne out into the cold weather. Apparently, he wasn’t quite finished yet, and, being the man of the house, William definitely bore the brunt of the criticism. It seemed rather unfair, considering the fact that of the three of them, William was the only one who had been against the night out. He had not seemed of a mind to explain this during the first telling off, so Buffy had spoken up on his behalf. The doctor did not feel that this was a sufficient excuse. He had maintained (still rather loudly) that William was the head of the household and should be more than capable of keeping two women adequately in hand.

Now, Buffy kept waiting for William to lose his temper at this new round of abuse. If any doctor of Joyce’s had ever spoken to her that way, she would have shown him the door as well as the rough side of her tongue. And she knew he must have a limit to his patience; Spike’s hair-trigger temper could not have cropped up out of nowhere. Apparently, it had taken a vacation, because he merely agreed with the doctor’s observations and thanked him—thanked him!—for coming at so late an hour.

After a few minutes’ absence during which he led the doctor to his coach, William reappeared in the doorway. He was a sharp contrast to the immaculately groomed gentleman of just a few hours before. Then, every hair was in place, every button fastened, every crease crisply starched. Now, he looked as though a truck had hit him. His eyes were bloodshot and circled by bluish-black rings, and his hair was a wild tumble of curls. He had left his spectacles somewhere, during the confusion, and without them, Buffy could see his eyes clearly for the first time. He bore much more of a resemblance to Spike than she first imagined.

He moved into the room awkwardly, keeping close to the wall, as if afraid that close contact would be contaminating. Buffy remembered how he had staggered backwards away from her in the parlor, and her cheeks colored with embarrassment. When the doctor was there, and they were focusing all of their energies in making Anne well, it was all right; there had not been time to notice the unease between them. Now, Anne was asleep and they were virtually alone, and it all came back tenfold.

“My mother…is she all right?” His voice was hoarse from fatigue.

“She’s asleep,” Buffy told him. Then immediately felt stupid for it. He could see for himself that she was asleep. She rushed to add, “Her breathing is much better, though. Not so much wheezing.”

He nodded.

“I’ll stay with her for the rest of the night, though. You know…just to be sure everything is okay.”

“That isn’t necessary. I shall stay with her; you may go take your rest.”

“Considering the fact that you look and sound like you’re about to drop out from exhaustion, I’m going to vote ‘no’ on that idea. Anyway, I’m the nursemaid…and all of this is my fault. I’ll stay with her. It’s my responsibility.”

“Why would you say such a thing?” he asked. And she thought how strangely he spoke to her, always with perfect grammar in the most quiet, cramped diction. As if he thought she would be grading him on it. He never spoke that way to anyone else. Spike never spoke that way, at all.

Confused by his question, she said slowly, “Well…for one thing…you’re paying me…”

“No…” He shook his head, as if to gather his scattered thoughts. “I’m sorry...I’m afraid I wasn’t clear, and you misunderstood the question. What I meant to say was: Why would you think Mother’s illness is your fault?”

She looked down at her bandaged hand, slightly ashamed. She didn’t want to spell it out for him, but she knew he would eventually make the connection anyway.

“I was the one who pushed for you to take her to the play. And while I don’t buy the doctor’s claim that night air can kill you, obviously something at the playhouse aggravated her condition, because all of this started after we got home. Since I’m the one who insisted she go…that makes it my fault.”

He looked at her thoughtfully. “I’m afraid that I still don’t see an association.”

Am I supposed to draw you a picture? Buffy wondered. She opened her mouth to clarify, but he spoke instead.

“My mother has consumption, a disease of the lungs that is progressive. These…episodes…will grow more frequent as her illness advances; the doctor told us that, at the first. Nothing you did or could do will change that. Her sick spells are not your fault.”

“Yeah. But I shouldn’t have told you to take her out. That made it worse. Maybe the cold air—”

“But don’t you see, Miss Summers? You were right.”

“I was?” she asked blankly.

“Yes! You told me that it was better to allow her to live the time she has left, rather than wrap her in cotton wool. Hobbling her, in a sense. And making her miserable. Everything you said was—” He paused, then, his face relaxing into a smile that Buffy knew was not meant for her. He was thinking of something else, though she had no idea what. Or, whom.

“What?”

“Did you not note her expression, as she watched the play? She looked so…happy.”

“So, this”—Buffy motioned to Anne’s sleeping form—“was worth it? Just to see her happy for two hours?” She didn't ask him this because she thought differently; she merely wanted some reassurance that her decisions weren’t wrong, or harmful to the woman who had been so kind to her.

He was standing opposite her, facing her. But presently he turned slightly, so that his left shoulder was out and his head in profile. Despite this, his stance seemed anything but aloof, and she knew that this time, the small smile on his lips was for her…even if he did not want her to see it.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I rather think that it was.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~





The late night took its toll on them all, and as a result, breakfast was served rather late the following morning. Buffy had not thought that Anne would be well enough to take her meal in the dining room, but Anne insisted upon it. She still looked a little wan, but she had rested well, after the doctor's visit, and assured Buffy that she felt fine.

Oddly enough, William seemed to have faired far worse in the ordeal than his mother, but perhaps this was because she had slept, as he had not. Nothing Buffy had said early that morning would persuade him to let her watch over Anne, so eventually she had given up and gone to bed. Apparently, William had spent several uncomfortable hours trying to nap on an armchair. He had left the moment Buffy arrived in Anne’s room. Not to sleep, but to change his clothes and freshen up. Both women had suggested that he try to catch up on the sleep he had missed, but he refused to admit he needed this and arrived in the dining room just after they did. The coffee had already been served, the food wheeled out on a little wooden cart, when he sat down across the table from Buffy.

“Are you all right, dear?” Anne’s question mirrored the one he had just asked her. Her brow was drawn with worry, but William smiled at her reassuringly.

“Quite all right, Mother. Only a little tired. I’m sure I shall perk up after a bit of breakfast.” He looked like a corpse someone had forgotten to bury. Though now as immaculately dressed and groomed as ever, his weary, frayed look of the night before remained. He was probably somewhere around his late twenties, but this morning he looked much older. When the footman displayed all the delicacies offered for breakfast, he only shook his head and asked for a little toast and some tea.

Buffy tried to follow suit. The etiquette guide Anne had given her said that women should appear utterly without appetite when in the presence of men and that they should never eat more than a man. However, after only picking at her meals for the past two days, she was starving, and all the etiquette in the world couldn’t have turned her from the crisp rashers of bacon, the poached eggs and grilled tomatoes. Still, she asked for only half the amount she actually wanted and managed not to cram it all down her throat at one time, when the footman put it on her plate. Trying to nibble elegantly, she half-listened to William and Anne as they discussed the upcoming holidays.

William’s voice was still a little hoarse, and Buffy felt an unexpected wave of pity for him. Aside from the weariness for which she still felt guiltily responsible, he seemed so depressed that morning. Small wonder, that. His mother had a terminal illness; essentially, she was dying a little every minute. And he was destined to die sometime in the next year, so that a demon with poor fashion sense could take up residence in his corpse. Things weren’t exactly coming up roses for the guy. Of course, she’d feel pity for him. That was all. Just pity.

As if sensing her thoughts, William suddenly turned his eyes toward Buffy. He caught her staring at him and blushed a little bit, even though she looked away almost immediately.

“Forgive me, Miss Summers,” he said awkwardly. “I forgot to inquire about your hand. Does it still pain you?”

“No. The doctor bandaged it really good, and he gave me an ointment. I’m—I’m cool,” she answered, still flustered at being caught staring.

But Anne and William seemed puzzled with her.

“Would you like to sit nearer to the fire, Elizabeth?” Anne asked finally.

Buffy stared at her blankly. “Huh?”

“You said you were cool, so I thought…”

“Oh.” Buffy laughed. “Oh! No. Not cool like cold. I mean cool like ‘fine’ or ‘all right’. It’s an American expression,” she added lamely.

“How very odd!” Anne looked at her son curiously. “You read books on America, William. Did you know that ‘cool’ is used in such a way there?”

He shook his head, and Buffy realized she had put her foot in it now. “Oh, well. It probably wouldn’t be in books. It’s not refined speech or anything…more like…uh…slang. So, I don’t think people would write it down.”

“Slang!” Horrified, Anne dropped her fork beside her plate. “Oh, Elizabeth! You mustn’t talk slang! You’re a lady…”

“Um, yeah. I know that. But it’s like…ladylike slang over there. It’s not bad.” She squirmed in her chair uneasily.

Anne started to say something else, but William interjected on Buffy’s behalf. “Now, Mother. You cannot judge Miss Summers’ behavior, when she is from a different country that our own. We might easily consider the edicts of decorum nothing more than a comprisal of the idiosyncrasies of each individual culture. As such, good etiquette would be a very subjective thing. What is improper here might be considered perfectly all right in America…and vice versa.”

Though she hadn’t the faintest idea of what he had just said, Buffy realized William was coming to her defense, and she flashed him a grateful smile. “Uh, sure. I mean yeah…that’s totally it,” she agreed. “But if talking like that is a British social no-no, then I’ll try to hold back. I mean…just because good manners are subjective doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t try to follow the rules as long as I’m here. Right?”

Anne nodded, evidently much relieved to hear that Buffy would attempt to improve her grammar, at least. But William frowned.

“I hardly think that would be in order. You are an American; I see no need to fault you for speaking as such.”

She had no idea what he was getting at.

“Oh, I don’t mind. As kind as Anne—both of you—have been, I would hate to think that my kooky American-speak caused you any embarrassment.”

William seemed very interested in his teacup all of a sudden; he was staring at the hand-painted rose pattern on the china intently. The spectacles were back in place, so she couldn’t really see his eyes. But if the dark blush staining his cheeks was any indication, whatever he was about to tell her was being divulged with the utmost difficulty.

“I think the way you speak is utterly charming,” he said, finally. His voice was so soft that, had she not been paying such close attention, she might not have heard him at all. And when she did hear him, she had no idea how to respond.

After an awkward moment of silence, William cleared his throat and added, “Oh, and I meant to tell you yesterday, Mother. I have some business to attend to today, so I will be gone most of the forenoon.”

“Oh, William!” Anne exclaimed, while Buffy sat back, relieved the moment of discomfort was over. “Surely, you cannot attend to business this morning! Why, you look tired to death.” Beneath the table, she prodded Buffy’s leg with her foot. “Doesn’t he, Elizabeth?”

“I’ve seen him look deader.” The sentence slipped out before Buffy could think about how it would sound to them.

William flushed, perhaps not unduly offended by this statement. He tossed his napkin onto his plate. “Yes. Well, on that note…”

If looks could kill, the glare Anne shot Buffy would have slain her in an instant. She reached out to touch her son’s hand. “Oh, William, you don’t mean to leave yet? You haven’t touched your breakfast.”

“It’s all right, Mother. I shall be back in time for luncheon.” He leaned to kiss Anne on the cheek and then favored Buffy with a short jerk of his head. “Miss Summers.”

Anne waited until he had left the room, and then she, too, pushed back her chair. “Oh, honestly, Elizabeth!” she said. “What has gotten into you lately? You’ve been such a sweet girl. Now, all of a sudden, this tactlessness…”

“I didn’t mean it that way…”

“Then, what way did you mean it, I would like to know?”

Buffy couldn’t answer that question, because she had seen William look deader. But only once he was dead.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~





Anne left the dining room in something of a huff, after that. Buffy started to follow her into the parlor, but suddenly she found herself making a ninety-degree turn down the hallway and into the foyer. Just as she thought, William was still there, waiting for the coachman to bring the carriage around. He was standing to one side of the door, shrugging into his greatcoat. Her approach seemed to startle him.

“Miss Summers, is something wrong? Is Mother—?”

“She’s fine. I just...I wanted to talk to you. You know…before you left.”

“Ah, I see.” He was buttoning his coat, but Buffy could tell, by the amount of time he was spending on the task, that what he was really doing was avoiding her gaze.

“What…ah…what was it you wished to say?”

“I wanted to—to apologize for what I said earlier. I didn’t mean it that way, I just…I was distracted. I didn’t know what I was saying. Just more of the kooky American-speak, I guess,” she added lightly. But he didn’t return her smile.

“Don’t concern yourself. It was nothing.” He started to turn away, but Buffy put a hand on his arm.

“It’s not all right if I hurt your feelings. I didn’t mean to. I mean…I wouldn’t want to…” She could feel the muscles in his arm twitching beneath her fingers; she could see the way his shoulders drew up as he tensed at the contact. He inclined his head, staring at her hand on his sleeve with something akin to shock; but he didn’t pull away, and she didn’t remove it. It seemed a long time before he answered.

“Oh, no...I…it’s all right,” he breathed. “That is to say—”

The front door opened, then, and he pulled away from her with a speed worthy of his vampire counterpart. Both of them turned to find that the intruder was Matthew, the head groom and coachman, come to say that the carriage was waiting at the block if Master William was ready for it.

William’s face was bright red; Buffy thought in bewilderment that he looked more as though she had grabbed a handful of his ass, rather than barely touched his sleeve. He thanked the coachman and then turned back to Buffy. Rather, he turned back in the direction of Buffy. His eyes, however, were focused on the gleaming boards of the hardwood floor.

“I’m sorry. I’m afraid I must…” His voice trailed away.

Buffy nodded in assent (odd that he should wait for this), and William pulled open the door, letting in a blast of cold air. He glanced back at her, touched a hand to the brim of his hat, and then stepped out into the winter morning.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~