full 3/4 1/2   skin light dark       
 
Forward to Time Past by Unbridled_Brunette
 
Chapter Sixteen
 
<<     >>
 
Chapter Sixteen





How quiet the house was, that morning after the ball. How utterly still. Buffy navigated the dimly lit corridors with a sense of unease that grew with each step she took. Why weren’t the lamps lit? She paused at the top of the stairs, one hand resting lightly on the banister. From below, there was only that odd silence, none of the usual clatter of breakfast preparations and squabbling of servants. In fact, other than Livvy, she had not even seen any of the servants. And even Livvy had acted oddly. She had not spoken a word as she helped Buffy dress, and she had disappeared the moment the task was completed. Now she—as well as the rest of the staff—was nowhere to be found. A small shiver of fear skated down her spine, but Buffy quickly shook it off. After all, this was not the Hellmouth; there was no reason to read anything into the quiet. It was Sunday. Maybe they were all just being pious.


She lifted the hem of her skirts and started down the staircase, but before she could clear even the first step, someone suddenly seized her from behind.

Vampire! Her mind screamed, and she instinctively drew her arm back to elbow it in the gut. But there was something familiar about the long-fingered hand that closed around her upper arm, and she hesitated, allowing her captor enough time to draw her into the small, recessed alcove off the landing. He pulled her around gently so that she might face him.

“Did I startle you?” William asked. His forehead was creased with worry.

“Only just a little,” Buffy reassured him. She laughed a little at her own paranoia and added, “Actually, I think maybe it was the quiet that got to me…my imagination was coming up with all kinds of reasons why the servants weren’t making their usual ruckus. Usually, it sounds like a convention of banshees in the morning. Why are they so quiet?”

“I ordered them to be so,” he answered candidly. “I—I thought that after the late night, perhaps you would like to rest. I told them to be quiet and not to disturb you…that a formal breakfast would not be required.” He looked suddenly anxious. “I hope I did right. They saw to Mother, but for us—” He hesitated.

Buffy cocked her head at him curiously. He looked as if he had not slept well, his eyes red-rimmed and etched with lines. Yet, despite this, there was an air of nervous energy about him, as if he were bubbling with some barely contained sense of excitement. “What about us?” she asked gently.

His voice dropped low and husky. “Come away with me.” He was still holding onto her arm, but it was with the lightest of touches, and when he spoke, his words were like that too. Not a demand or a request. Just a statement. A given. And so gently persuasive that even had Buffy been inclined to refuse, she didn’t think she would have been able to.

“I got your note,” she told him. She stroked a finger down his closely-shaven cheek and asked, “Where are we going?”

A pleased light came into his eyes at the question, although he did fidget slightly, distracted by the caress of her hand on his cheek. “We will go anywhere you wish to go,” he replied. “All you need do is tell me your desire, and I shall make it happen.”

For a moment, all kinds of interesting possibilities fluttered across Buffy’s consciousness. Then she gave herself a mental smack—No, pervert! That isn’t what he meant!—and tried to turn her thoughts to more chaste modes of entertainment. The problem was that it was such a broad ranging question. She didn’t know London well enough yet to know what her options were.

As if reading her mind, William suddenly began offering all kinds of suggestions. Would she like to see a concert or a play? Would she like a tour of London by carriage? Would she like to take in the museums, the zoo, or the shops? There were games rooms, ballrooms, stables where she might learn to ride. There were—

She reached up with her free hand to touch his mouth. Ostensibly, this was to quiet his stammering; however, she continued to trace the contours of his lips with her fingertips long after he had lapsed into a confused silence. “Anything I want?” she asked him. Because there was one thing, and if it wasn’t exactly proper, it wasn’t perverted either.

“Anything,” William repeated, mouthing the word almost silently against the tips of her fingers. He made her smile with his earnestness, with the shy quiver in his voice. She wanted to see his eyes, but his spectacles were like a mirror reflecting the dim light. Impulsively, she reached up and pulled them off his face, tucking them into the pocket of his jacket. He looked naked without them. Vulnerable. She leaned up and kissed him on the very edge of his mouth.

“I want to be alone with you,” she whispered.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~





William had informed Matthew earlier in the morning that his services would be needed and that it was an important occasion. What the special occasion was, he did not say, although the coachman thought he could guess easily enough. And it was with a mixture of amusement and great fondness, that he told his master that, yes, he would be ready by the allotted time and that everything would be perfect. He spent the better part of an hour that morning dressing. He oiled his boots and brushed his best driving suit, even polished the little brass buttons on the front of the coat. He was to be outside the front of the house at half past nine, and no one told him any differently. So, at nine o’clock on the button, he stepped out from his little apartment beside the stable, ready to prepare the horses for their journey. And there he met with something of a surprise.

William was hitching up the horses in the yard.

Matthew’s first thought was that perhaps he was running late, and this was his employer’s way of expressing displeasure. However, a quick glance at his pocket watch told him he was not late, and on further scrutiny, he realized that William was not even looking at him as he approached. In fact, he seemed to be making a pointed effort not to look at him. Naturally, he could not help being a little puzzled by all this, but the surprised questioning that followed was met with none too good a temper.

“I shall be driving myself this morning,” said William shortly. “Your services are not needed.”

Matthew’s eyes followed the movements of his master’s hands buckling up the traces. In the seven years he had been under their employment, he had never known William to drive himself anywhere. Ride, yes, but not drive. Presumably, he knew how (most gentlemen did), but Matthew fancied that, being a bit out of practice, he might not be capable of handling the spirited horses.

“Sir, if you don’t mind. May I make mention—”

“I do mind,” William replied with uncommon rudeness. “And I am busy, so I ask that you apply yourself to your work and leave me now.”

Buffy, standing some distance away in the stable yard, heard the tail end of this discussion, and she smiled, knowing that his irritability was an indication of how badly he did want this. To be alone with her.

“Temper, temper,” she murmured, drawing up behind him a moment after Matthew disappeared. “You’ll get the reputation as a tyrant if you aren’t careful.”

William smiled as he bent over the harness leather. “After all…one must be firm with one’s servants. Otherwise, you will lose their respect.”

“You were never firm with me,” she pointed out, amused by the idea of William being firm with anyone. He was very soft hearted, and all of the servants knew that and took advantage of it.

“You were never a servant,” he answered.

“What was I?”

“A blessing.”

Buffy felt so flattered by this that, for a moment, she didn’t know how to respond. Finally, she decided to be flippant.

“You’d better watch out, Mr. Hartley. You’re going to spoil me with all the sweet talk.”

“I want to,” William said. He gave the harness a couple of experimental tugs to be sure everything was adequately fastened, and his eyes never left the horse’s back as he added, “I love you.”

There seemed to be an expectant pause, then. Or perhaps it was just Buffy, trying hard to work up the courage to find some answer for him. She failed miserably, at any rate, and after a small silence that she perceived as disappointment, William carried on as if nothing had happened. In fact, when he turned to face her, his expression was studiedly cheerful.

He doffed his hat and bowed deeply, as if in the presence of someone profoundly superior to himself. “Step right up, my lady.” He made a grand, sweeping gesture towards the coach. “Just two bits will get you anywhere in London.”

He was aping the working-class accent of most hackney drivers, and at first, Buffy was startled; he sounded almost exactly like Spike. Then, she caught on to the joke and laughed. She pulled out two copper coins and handed them to him.

“Here you are, driver. And be sure you keep those nags at a fair pace; I’m not paying to arrive late.”

“And these the fastest horses in all London town!” he cried with mock indignation. He flung open the carriage door and offered her his hand. “Don’t worry,” he added, as she settled herself into the seat. “I’ll see to it you get there safely and in good time.”

“Now, if only I knew where I was going we’d be all set,” laughed Buffy.

William smiled.

“That,” he said, “is a surprise.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~





That morning, he showed her London.

Not the real London, not the part he despised, but that other part—that beautiful, fairy-tale part of it that wealthy men could unlock and briefly escape into. They went, first, for brunch in the Palace Hotel, and the place was like an aesthetic dream: glossy woods and slick marble, glittering chandeliers and gleaming silver; brightly colored fresh fruits arranged like still life on china platters. It was altogether lovely, like a painting or an old movie, and she was the centerpiece. The star. The waiters all wore crisp, bright livery, and they spoke French. The menus were in French, too, and their server waited patiently as William quietly translated each item for her.

“Pardonnez ma hardiesse,” he murmured over her head. “Votre épouse est très belle.”

“Est elle pas?” William responded proudly, not bothering to correct the misconception. He looked at Buffy and reiterated, “Mon épouse est exquise.”

“What are you saying about me?” Buffy asked, laughing, as she looked up from her menu to find both William and the waiter staring at her. The former grinned at her in a most mysterious manner, but all he would say was this:

“Only that you are very beautiful to look at, my treasure.”

That was a lovely breakfast.

What amazed her most was not his joviality—after all, he had claimed his love. What man would not be deliriously happy about that? But there was his utter lack of concern over what might be said of their rendezvous. It was odd, after all of those admonishments he had given her about preserving reputations. They were breaking all the rules, yet he was not ashamed of it; he was not trying to hide it. In fact, he seemed almost to flaunt her in front of the nameless, faceless upper class that filled the restaurant. His love. He was proud of her. He thought they all must be jealous.

After the meal (of which she ate far too much for a lady), William took her to an early afternoon matinee concert at St. James’ Hall. That venue (not to be confused with St. James’ Theatre) was large and very elegant, although not more than half full at this time of day. They arrived early, and waiters served them orange juice and champagne in the lobby, while all the fashionably dressed men and women milled about, talking to each other. A few of them greeted William, though only briefly. Most said nothing at all. One group of women that Buffy recognized from Cecily Underwood’s regime was decidedly cold. They cut him outright when he nodded a greeting, but William did not seem bothered by this. Rather, he hardly seemed to notice it. He had her on his arm, and he was proud of it, the rest of the world be damned.

Although he had bought their tickets at almost the last minute, William had paid a good deal of money and secured seats right up in the balcony, overlooking the orchestra. It had a separate entrance to it, and no one else was there, so they had a plenty of privacy. He left her once she was seated--was gone only a moment--and returned in time for the overture. There was something of a self-satisfied look on his face. He gave her no explanation of where he had been, and Buffy did not ask. By now, she had grown accustomed to his disappearing-reappearing act. It was just one of his many eccentricities, and she was not bothered by it. Besides this, he brought her a white gardenia that he had bought off a vendor in the lobby, and he said all manner of agreeable things about her while he pinned it on. Therefore, she was not much in the way to be disturbed by a few minutes’ absence.

“Wow, these guys aren’t half bad,” she whispered a few minutes into the concert. It was rather rude of her, since the audience was supposed to stay quiet during the performance. Another man might have frowned ominously to discourage further disturbance, but not William. He encouraged all her behaviors, good, bad and otherwise, and he seemed to take delight in all she did. At any rate, he spent much more time watching her, during the concert, than paying attention to what was going on below them.

Buffy, however, was rapt. Back home, she had never been one for classical music, but this was a completely different experience. Heretofore, she had heard Mozart and Beethoven only through the tinny speakers of a stereo system, or in the off-tune renditions of the high school marching band, which made even the most beautiful masterpiece seem boring, or even (in the case of the marching band, at least), downright unpleasant. An orchestra that actually knew what it was doing played this music, however. And in their skilled hands, the compositions were powerful and beautiful, the way they were meant to be. At times throughout the show, a female singer accompanied the music, and her voice was almost like an instrument in itself. Buffy was completely spellbound.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” William asked her at Intermission. Far below them, everyone else began rising from their seats and wandering about. A low murmur of voices filled the room, and he had to lean a little inward to hear her answer.

“I love it. This was a wonderful idea,” she told him. She added a moment later, “Thank you so much.”

He shrugged off the thanks with an awkward but still somehow affecting silence. She wanted to put her hand on his arm or to lace her fingers through his, but she was afraid of making him uncomfortable. Already, he was breaking so many rules for her; she could not very well ask him for more. Not now. So, she kept her hands folded demurely in her lap and listened attentively for the music to begin again. Yet she would not realize what lengths he had gone to in order to impress her, until the very end of the concert.

The last song in the program was comprised mainly of string instruments, although there was one young woman playing a piano that was placed almost in the middle of the stage. She was also the vocalist of the group, and she had a beautiful soprano voice. It complemented the instruments so perfectly it made Buffy’s skin tingle as she sang:

Leise flehen meine Lieder
durch die Nacht zu dir
in den stillen Hain hernieder,
Liebchen, komm zu mir


And it was just a second after this, that Buffy sat bolt upright in her chair in sudden realization. “Hey! Isn’t that—” She turned to William, but something in his face made her pause. It was a shy, satisfied sort of expression, as if he were nervous, pleased and expectant all at the same time. Still, he brushed it off as if it were nothing.

“Ständchen.” He said it in a whisper.

“You asked her to sing it?”

“Yes. Well, not the lady herself. Rather, the gentleman in charge of the production. It was not difficult; the musicians were already familiar with the piece. And I thought—I hoped—perhaps you might enjoy it. That night I played it for you, it seemed that you were quite taken with it.”

He paused, and his gaze slid away from hers shyly.

“I hope you aren’t upset with me.”

“Upset with you!” She kept her voice low, so as not to attract too much attention from the rest of the audience. “William! Why on earth would I be upset with you?”

He shrugged helplessly, unable to put his concern into words. After a moment of awkward silence, he asked, “So, then…it pleases you?”

“Of course it does!” This time, she did reach for his hand, forgetting--for the moment at least--her concerns about embarrassing him. However, he seemed more pleased than embarrassed by the gesture. When she squeezed his fingers, he looked over at her and smiled.

“But I think it’s prettier when you play it,” she whispered. And then she kissed his cheek.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~





After the concert ended, there was the usual swarming to the exits. When they first arrived at the Hall, attendants had taken their outer garments and handed to them, in exchange, small pink cloakroom tickets. Now, they had to wait in the crowd to reclaim William’s coat and Buffy’s cloak, and by virtue of the fact they had been seated in the balcony farthest from the entrance hall, they were practically at the back of the line.

William looked at the congested lobby doubtfully. “I could see you to the coach,” he suggested to Buffy, “and you might wait there while I return for our garments.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” she asked archly, raising her eyebrows. He looked surprised.

“Of course I am not, my love.”

She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “Then, I think I’d rather stay here with you, if that’s okay.”

They waited in comfortable silence in the slow-moving crowd. And Buffy honestly had no idea that anyone was paying attention to them, until suddenly a deep and painfully familiar voice broke out above the din.

“Well, as I live and breathe,” it said.

Buffy’s head whipped around. Charles Archer was standing some distance away from them, his mustached mouth twisted into an unpleasant smirk. She could not help but notice the red weal that marred his left cheekbone. Her handiwork, of course.

The blood drained out of her own face, and there was a small, sick knot in her stomach. It had never occurred to her that they might run into him or that he would speak to them if they did. Now, looking at his self-satisfied smirk, she railed at her own stupidity. Of course, he would confront them if they met. And of course, they would meet. After all, weren’t several of Cecily’s other friends here as well? This was probably one of the bigger events happening around town this afternoon; all the society idiots would be here.

She put a light pressure on William’s sleeve, hoping to pull him forward and out of the range of fire. Of course, he had no idea of the specifics of her confrontation with Archer, and he could not foresee what lay ahead. He managed a tight, polite smile at the man who had caused him such embarrassment only the night before.

“Charles,” he said briefly.

“William,” answered Archer. His eyes swept over Buffy in a most disagreeable, ungentlemanly fashion, as he added, “Miss Summers.”

She said nothing.

After a moment’s silence, William cleared his throat uneasily. “Well—” He started to draw Buffy forward with the rest of the group, but again Archer’s voice stopped them.

“I must say, I am surprised at you, old boy.”

William paused, throwing a puzzled frown over his shoulder. “I beg your pardon?”

“You surprise me by bringing Miss Summers to such an affair, of course.”

Buffy gnashed her teeth; she could already divine where this conversation was heading. The bastard, she could kill him. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, and she did take a step forward. But William stepped slightly in front of her to block her path. He did so not as if he were trying to prevent her from embarrassing him, but more as a protective gesture, as though he wanted to shield her from some unpleasantness.

“And why would such a thing surprise you?” he asked. There was a note of suspicion in his voice and something harder that was not suspicion.

Archer drew a little closer. “Well, you always struck me as such a proper one. Never in my born days, would I suspect you to take a woman. Certainly, I would not have suspected you to take one beneath your own position…and then shepherd her about society as if she were one of us.”

William took a step forward, his face coloring with embarrassment and anger. “I cannot say I appreciate your implication, Charles.”

“Implication!” Archer feigned surprise, though there was obvious venom in his voice as he continued, low: “My dear William, I imply nothing! No. I am telling you, quite plainly, that it is downright offensive to me that you should parade your concubine out amongst decent ladies…and behave most indecorously during a public concert, too. If you have no care for your own reputation, then that is your business. But to expose our innocent young society maids to such licentious—”

“Enough!” snapped William angrily. “I will not hear another word! If you have complaint against me, then that is your business. But to bring Miss Summers into the conversation—to slight her and make question of her integrity—is too much!”

“Integrity!” Archer laughed and shook his head ever so slightly. “Ah, yes. I suppose you still hold to the illusion that this is a lady of substance. A woman of good family, fallen on hard times? Yet even a blind idiot could tell you, William, that what you have here is nothing more than a piece of filthy gutter trash. God only knows how many she’s consorted with, before she found an easy target in you.”

He leaned in slightly to William, and his voice dropped to a poisonous whisper, as he added, “She’s with you for your money, you stupid fellow, and nothing more. So, you take that home to bed with you, and take your whore as well. Then, you tell me where the integrity lies.”

He started to turn away, then, trailing his sarcastic laugh behind him like a banner. Yet he had not taken more than a single step when William suddenly lunged forward, grabbing Archer by the lapels of his expensive wool jacket and slamming him up against the wall. Hard.

“QUIET!” he snarled. And for that moment, he looked and sounded so much like Spike that Buffy felt a shiver of shock. She made a grab for his sleeve, hoping to avoid the ugliness she knew was coming, but he shook her off.

There was an apprehensive look to Archer’s eye now, though he would not own it. He reached to throw off William’s hands, but the other man’s grip was too strong. He spat: “What will you do, Hartley? Strike me? I should not be surprised. One can certainly be judged by the company he keeps, and I daresay that wanton creature you consort with is rubbing off on you!”

CRACK

William’s fist connected with the bridge of Archer’s nose with such violence that even Buffy winced. Blood spurted from both nostrils as Archer cried out in obvious pain and shock. He flailed almost blindly at his assailant, but his fists found nothing more than empty air. William slammed him into the wall again, and for a moment, he held him there as if he might throttle him.

“Let that be a lesson to you!” he said, breathing heavily. “Not to talk badly of a lady in my presence!” He spun around and marched off to reclaim his place in line. Unsurprisingly, Archer did not follow.

Buffy hurried after him. All around them, people were staring and talking, but she barely noticed them. She grabbed hold of William’s jacket, so that he pulled up abruptly and looked at her.

“I can’t believe you did that!” Her eyes were wide with shock.

William stared down at his own cracked and bleeding knuckles then. “I don’t care!” he breathed, nostrils still distended with anger. “He deserved it! To even suggest that you would—that you—” He broke off, blushing furiously.

She touched his arm. “I really appreciate your defending me. But William, doing that in front of so many people…won’t they think…”

“I do not care what they think,” he muttered. They were next in line, and he shoved their claim tickets at the cloakroom attendant wordlessly. “I don’t care for any of them.” Quickly, he shrugged into his overcoat, so that he could assist Buffy in putting on her cloak. “Let us leave this place; these people are not fit to associate with.”

They made their way through the mob with William’s arm possessively linked through hers. There was something overtly hostile and very Spike-ish in his manner as he stared down the crowd ahead, daring anyone to speak to them. None of them did. Although there were a lot of stares and whispers as they passed, no one risked a comment to either of them. Still, it was not until they reached the windy sidewalk in front of the building that William seemed able to relax, the anger seeping slowly out of him. In just a moment, his voice sounded almost normal.

“I am so terribly sorry you had to witness that scene, Miss Elizabeth.”

“Just Elizabeth,” she reminded him. “And don’t be sorry, it wasn’t your fault.” She laughed, then. “Actually, this makes two of us who let Archer have what he deserved. He was saying the same sorts of things last night, and I gave him a good smack. Not hard enough, apparently. But—”

William’s jaw clenched. “How dare he even suggest—? I ought to have killed him! I should return to the Hall and—and—”

“Stop,” Buffy whispered, soothingly. “Stop...” She reached up to gently stroke the tension lines between his eyes, rubbing them with her thumbs until he sighed softly, and they smoothed away.

“I wanted this to be a perfect day for you.”

“It has been,” she insisted. “Being with you made it perfect. Archer didn’t change that.”

“Elizabeth, I assure you, I never said anything to indicate—I never once insinuated to anyone that you and I—that you were anything less than the proper lady that you are.”

“I know that. Do you think I don’t know that?”

He flushed. “Yet…I was unforgivably rude,” he whispered.

Buffy was startled.

“What? When—?”

He looked down, the words coming slowly and with difficulty. “Last night. To be so forward as to—to kiss you, when we aren’t even intended. I was not a gentleman. No wonder, then, that people should think—”

“Don’t say that. There was nothing rude or ungentlemanly about it. It was wonderful and tender, and—and beautiful—”

“You are beautiful,” he interrupted in a tight sort of serious voice that, for some unaccountable reason, made her want to cry. Mindless of the people around them, she stood on her toes and pressed a soft kiss to his temple. His lashes covered his eyes, and she could feel the jump of his pulse beneath his skin. Then, somehow—without her even having to maneuver it at all—his arms were around her shoulders, pulling her against the warm wall of his chest.

He buried his face in her upswept hair. “Oh, my dear girl. My sweetheart. I love you so.”

He said it breathlessly, shyly, and without any expectation of a response. But she responded anyway, whispering soundlessly into his shoulder what it would take her several long weeks to tell him to his face.

“I love you, too.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~



 
<<     >>