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





The months of February and March slowly crept by. The weather warmed considerably, although it was by no means warm to Buffy, the California girl. Still, there was a stretch of good weather, the promise of spring in the bright sunshine and newly-melted snow. There was a stretch of peace, as well. Of intense, short-lived happiness. Life, once again, slipped into its comfortable routine. This time, nothing intruded on the easiness of it, because she was careful not to let it. Her manners were so impeccable, not even Anne could complain. In view of other people, she was really quite the lady, prim and Victorian. Alone, with William, it was quite different. With him, she could be herself.

Of course, despite her newfound propriety, there was still gossip among the servants. Gossip about Master William’s bruises, which were by now gone. Gossip about Buffy, as well, because everyone knew by now that she was the reason William left so abruptly for the estate; also that she was the reason he returned in such haste. Naturally, they were curious about it. However, because they were so fond of William, they were discreet and said nothing within his hearing or Anne’s. The more malicious gossip of the city, Buffy never even heard anymore. William was careful to protect her from it. For himself, he merely ignored it. The estimation of his class meant nothing to him now, less than nothing.

Still, life was not quite so easy for William, although naturally, he did not let on. And if his face sometimes looked white and strained, guilt etching lines into the skin around his eyes and brow, then Buffy never noticed it. She was deliriously happy, and he was happy enough. It was only that he could not possess all of her, that he could not take his fill of her, which burdened him. He could never fully possess her except in his fantasies, but then fantasies seemed something sordid, and he felt guilty for it.

Yet his struggle, like the cold weather, was drawing to its close.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




William celebrated his birthday in late March. Actually, he did not particularly want to celebrate it. Being a man such things held little interest for him. Yet he had a doting mother who refused to let such a momentous occasion pass by unmarked. On that last day of the month, she ordered the kitchen to prepare all of his favorite dishes for dinner. She sent Buffy (properly chaperoned, of course) out to the shops to buy all manner of gifts for him. These gifts were from Anne but for one; Buffy used almost all of her little hoard of cash to buy him a first addition of The Song of Hiawatha. Already almost fifty years old, the leather-bound, gold-tooled book was in almost pristine condition. He already had a new edition copy, of course, as he had a copy of all volumes of poetry. But this was antique, beautiful, and she knew he would appreciate the thought put into the gift.

She gave it to him last of all. After the dinner, after the cake, after Anne had lavished him with gifts of ink stones and fountain pens, cravats and jackets, a pocket watch…after all this, Buffy gave him the book. It was unwrapped, the glinting gold leaf decorative enough in the flickering candlelight. He turned it over in his hands, stroked it lovingly with his fingertips like a mother caressing her child. When he finally looked up at Buffy, his eyes were wet.

“You—you purchased—” Soft, hoarse voice, blue eyes staring at her from across the floral centerpiece. So overcome by a single gift from her, when he had given her dozens.

“Do you like it?” she asked anxiously. “I thought—”

“Like it,” he echoed in disbelief. “My sweetheart, it is lovely—wonderful. The nicest gift I ever—”

He shot a glance to his mother and fell into an abrupt silence. However, far from feeling hurt by the insinuation that her gifts did not measure up to Buffy’s, Anne seemed touched by it. She patted Buffy’s arm.

“Indeed, it is lovely. Beautiful. And first editions are so difficult to come by.”

“That’s what the man in the book shop said. He’d only gotten it in the day before, at some estate sale in Bath. There was another customer in the shop that could’ve paid more, but the owner gave it to me when I told him why I wanted it. He was very nice; he said ‘who puts money before love?’ Then, he told the man it had already been sold.”

She looked over at William, grinning, expecting a comment on the pleasantness of the story. Instead, she saw him staring at the table, the book that lay on it. His eyes were full almost to the point of spilling over, and his brow was furrowed. He did not answer her, and Buffy knew he had not been paying attention.

Anne knew it, too, and when she saw the expression on her son’s face, she cleared her throat softly. “You know…I am feeling rather tired. I hope the two of you will forgive me if I retire early this evening.”

“Of course, we will. Good night,” Buffy said. A trifle absently, because she was watching William. He was looking at the book.

Anne rose—“Good night”—and quietly let herself out of the dining room, closing the door after her.

The moment she was gone, Buffy was out of her chair. She passed around the side of the table to where he sat, quiet and unmoving. She put her arms around his shoulders.

“Hey,” she whispered into his ear. “Don’t be upset. It’s all right.”

“I am not upset,” he answered hoarsely. “It is only that—”

“I know.”

She kissed his cheek, stroked his hair. He had gotten his new spectacles a few weeks before; she pulled them off his face and laid them on the table so that she could wipe his eyes. Then, she merely stood there, slightly stooped and holding him.

“Look at you, all thirty-oneish,” she murmured against his neck. “How does it feel?”

He smiled a little at that.

“Quite a venerable age, is it not? To play suitor to one such as yourself. I suppose I ought to be ashamed.”

“Are you ashamed?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Good.”

Again, she kissed his cheek. Only this time, he turned his head, met her lips with his own. It was a soft kiss, brief. Her arms tightened around him once it was over, and she kissed his ear before whispering into it.

“Was it a nice birthday?”

“Must you ask? You were here. Whenever I am with you…everything is perfect.”

She blushed, flattered and pleased by this assessment. Still, she felt unworthy of such high esteem, not equal to it. To cover her awkwardness, she said lightly, “Did you get everything you wanted?”

To her shock, his answer was not in the affirmative.

“No,” he said instead. “Not quite everything.”

She laughed, gave him a little hug. “What more do you want?”

“You.”

“But you already have me!”

He twisted in his chair so that he could look at her, and he took one of her wrists gently into his grasp.

“No,” he whispered. His voice was low, husky and oddly intense. “No. I mean that I want you be with me always. I want you to be my wife.”

“What?” She pulled her hand back in alarm. “What—?”

Quickly, he stood. His eyes had the same anxious look they held the night in the Underwood garden almost three months before. A lifetime before.

“Marry me,” he said.

Buffy was in shock. She had no idea what to say. She knew this day was coming; she would have been blind not to see that it was coming. It was only that she had not expected it so soon. He moved closer, reaching for one of her hands and folding it gently between both of his own.

“I—I haven’t a ring, but I shall get one. Any ring you want—anything you want—”

“William—”

“Please, I—I will be good to you. My love, you must know I will be good to you. I shall endeavor to be the perfect spouse; you will never want for anything—”

She wanted so badly to say yes. It was on the tip of her tongue to say yes, in her heart to say it. Then, her brain—her stupid, know-it-all brain that knew nothing—spoke up and dashed her happiness like so much dandelion fluff, leaving it to float away, ghostlike, in the breeze.

How can you promise him your life? How, when you don’t know if you will be here for your entire life? How, when at any moment Willow might call you home?

The odds of that are so slim, she argued with herself. If she hasn’t brought me home in three months—

The voice in her head was shrill and as unrelenting as a dentist’s drill.

But she could. She could. Then, you would be a liar as well as a heartbreaker.

Other arguments as well, other good reasons that seemed not really good to her but practical. She was so young. A marriage meant children and responsibilities; she wasn’t sure if she was ready for either. And she didn’t know how to be a wife. She had never seen a successful marriage, not one, in her twenty years of life. How could she know how to create a happy marriage if she had never even seen one?

The arguments seemed, at the time, hatefully concrete. Unwillingly, the words spilled from her mouth: “William, I know you would be good to me. How could I not know that? It’s only that—that things are going so well now. Why change them? Why bother tempting Fate?”

His eyes were so beautiful, the very color of the Atlantic on an overcast day, and they were hopeful. They were still so very hopeful if no longer certain of her answer.

“I want you to marry me,” he said. Simply, pleadingly, as if he had already guessed her decision and was struggling against it.

“I know, William. But—”

“You don’t want to.”

Hurt then, such hurt it made her hurt as well. He dropped her hand, and the look on his face was the exact same look Angel had when she stabbed him through the chest.

“It isn’t that I don’t want to,” she began, perfectly aware of just how lame that sounded. He cut her off before she could continue.

“You are saying no.”

She could not bear to look in his eyes; she looked at the floor instead.

“Yes, sweetheart, I—I think I am. I—I think I have to—”

He closed his eyes, a man steeling himself against the blow. “She said no,” he whispered to himself. Very softly, but she heard. She reached out to touch his arm.

“Please, please don’t be upset. You don’t understand—”

He swallowed and when a few seconds later he opened his eyes, they were blank. His specialty, of course: hiding hurt, suppressing everything. “I understand,” he said.

“You don’t, really. If you’ll just let me explain—”

“Thank you for the gift,” he interrupted. His voice was blank, too. Dead. She made a grab for his sleeve as he abruptly turned away, but he was too swift. When he walked out of the room just a moment later, it was without a word and without his book.

Buffy sat down in his abandoned chair, put her head onto the glossy wooden tabletop, and cried. So much for things being perfect.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~





I don’t care anymore. I don’t care.

Hours later, when her tears dried and her senses returned, Buffy rose from her chair on trembling legs and stumbled from the dining room, gnawing the inside of her cheek and talking to herself.

What a stupid fool she had been. She did want to marry him. She wanted it so badly that now, thinking of how breezily she had thrown it away, made her feel like vomiting. How could she throw it away, that chance for happiness? Fuck responsibility. She didn’t care anymore.

But she had thrown it away, that chance. Maybe for good.

If only she could tell him. If only she could make him see. It was not rejection. Her refusal had not been prompted by a lack of love or desire. It was only her stupid fear. She could stand up and face a vampire or a hell god without blinking an eye, but since Angel had broken her heart, commitment was terrifying to her. More than terrifying, it was almost impossible to contemplate.

But I want it with you. I want it as I have never wanted it with anyone.

More than anything, she wanted to take it all back, to say yes in spite of all those practical reasons not to. To say yes—to make him happy—to be happy, no matter what the price—

Oh, why could she not tell him that to his face when he asked her? How could she look into those worshipful eyes and tell him no? She, who knew better than anyone else, the effort, the courage, it had taken him to propose.

She staggered up the stairs and then down the hallway, determined to find him, to set things right. The library door was shut, as usual, but she knew that this time it was shut against her. She knew that he was inside. She paused before it, tapped lightly on the heavy dark wood. When there was no response, she reached for the doorknob. It wouldn’t turn; he had barred it against her. Locked himself inside alone to nurse his grief. Maybe he was punishing her as well as hiding from her. If he was, she did not blame him in the least. She wanted to punish herself. She wanted to hurt herself, and for the first time she understood how girls could cut themselves, and why they did it. It was punishment for stupidity, she thought. Punishment for not being good enough, worthy enough. It was a way to release the horrible, killing pain inside, to make it external and therefore bearable.

She knocked again, louder this time. She called his name, pleaded with him to open the door. But he wouldn’t. He didn’t even answer her. Eventually, she gave up. She told herself that it was not that bad. It was not so bad that she couldn’t fix it. He just needed time to calm down. He just needed time—

~*~ ~*~ ~*~





William slumped against the back of the battered sofa, listening to her knock, her call. They were strident, painful. Yet he had a tumbler in his hand. He had been drinking since he left her. The alcohol masked the pain, wrapped the sharp corners of the sounds with cotton wool, so that they were muffled and almost bearable. Almost.

Things were so perfect now, she had said. Why change them?

“Why?” he asked the air around him. His tone was bitter, directed at a woman who did not stand before him. “Why change them?” He chuckled drunkenly, his hand shaking so that a little wave of cognac splashed out onto his trousers. He did not even notice it.

Why change things? Because things were not perfect, because he lived constantly in a state of unsatisfied want, because he felt guilty for even wanting it. If she were his wife it would be all right, not shameful at all. If she were his wife he could finally, blissfully, possess her wholly. Not only in the bedroom, but also in his heart, his life. She would be forever his own; no one could take her away from him. He would never again lie awake in the dark, shivering with the thought of her loving another man.

And she did not want him.

He could not fathom it. She loved him. Many times, she said she loved him, and he believed her. Why didn’t she want him? What had he done? What had he failed to do, to make her refuse him? To refuse his proposal when, only a moment before, she had been embracing him and touching her soft mouth to his flesh. It would have been better never to own her at all, if he could not own her completely. Not if she was unwilling to own him.

He had never been one for drink, rarely taking more than a glass of wine at dinner and never spirits. Now he picked up the cut crystal decanter and sloshed more brandy into it, drank deep. It burned like fire going down, vaguely sweet on the back of his tongue, mercifully numbing. For the first time in his life, he wanted to be drunk. He wanted to be so intoxicated that he could blot out that scene entirely, push it from his mind if only for a brief time, so that he could find peace. So far, it was not working.

I love you. Do you know I love you?

Not enough, he thought despairingly. Not enough.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




Evening became a black and starless night, as Buffy lay in her bed and waited for his step in the hall. It did not come for a long while, and she began to wonder if it would ever come. Then it did come: shuffling and clumsy, too slow. His bedroom closed behind him with a bang, and she knew then that he was drunk.

In bare feet, she tiptoed out of her room and down the hall. Not to his bedroom—not yet—but instead into the library. As she guessed they would be, the beautiful decanters on the sideboard were greatly diminished of their contents. One was completely empty. Used glasses were scattered everywhere: tumblers and snifters, cordial and highball glasses. Only one small resevoir glass still had the tiniest bit of liquor in it. Absinthe. He had taken it without diluting it, without sugar, and she shuddered to think what that must have tasted like. How desperate he must have been for relief, if he were willing to do that.

Quietly, she picked up the glasses and put them on a tray. If Anne were to find them, if the servants were to tell her, she would plague him with well-meaning questions. Buffy took them down to the kitchen herself, padding silently across the stone floor so she wouldn’t wake the footmen, who slept nearby. There was a big stone sink, a pump to draw water. She pumped enough to fill a bucket, then washed the glasses and dried them. She stacked them back on the tray carefully and carried it upstairs to the library, arranging each glass just as it should be on the ledge of the sideboard.

On a sudden whim, she ran back down. Through the foyer and into the dining room to where his birthday gift still sat, untouched, on the table. She tucked it underneath her arm and took it upstairs with her.

There was no sound from William’s room now. None at all except the sound of his slow, even breathing. Buffy tried the knob and it turned easily. She pushed open the door just a crack, enough to peep inside. William was stretched out across the big bed, deep asleep but not passed out. Not that drunk, then. He was still wearing his rumpled shirt, his trousers. Nothing else. Even in repose, his expression looked wounded.

I can fix it, William. I’ll make it better.

She pushed open the door a little wider and stepped inside.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

 
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