Tempesta di Amore by Holly

Chapter 9

Author's Notes: LOOK! An update! I figured, as I wait for two of my betas to get my It Came Upon The Midnight Clear chapter back to me, I might as well make good on my promise. Here’s more Tempesta…over a month since my last update. The good news is, rereading this has my muse revv’d so I can dive into it after It Came Upon The Midnight Clear is good and over.

Just a note…the dog in the book Rebecca was named Jasper. The dog in this story is named Jasper as well…only he’s a daschund instead of whatever he was in the book. I named him for my father’s dog…the one we put to sleep. For whatever reason, it was important that I make that distinction.

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It was early. So early that the sun had yet to rise, but the house was alive. The house, it seemed, never slept.

Buffy crept into the Morning Room like a criminal, her sketchpad tucked firmly under her arm. Waking in William’s arms hadn’t quelled any of her fears. Rather, the instant she remembered she was to meet his sister and friend, she’d found herself woozy with trepidation. Buffy had no idea how much time she had before they arrived. She had no idea how long they would stay. William had mentioned that Anya spoke in great length on the phone, thus Buffy could only assume that the woman liked to talk.

What would she want to talk about? William? Their marriage? Drusilla?

No. No, Drusilla was definitely off-limits. No one in the manor spoke her name. No one, that is, except Mrs. Hart. Chances were Anya would spend the entire afternoon talking about Buffy, and the wonder it was that she’d managed to snag William away from more proper women. Women of higher class and social standing. Women more suited for William. Women deserving of Manderley.

Or perhaps Anya wouldn’t find her interesting at all. She would smile and nod pleasantly, but otherwise remain disengaged.

Buffy didn’t know. All she knew right now, was that William had kissed her brow before leaving their bed-chamber that morning and she likely would not see him again until his sister arrived. There was no housework to do, because it was imprudent for the lady of Manderley to lift a finger when there was a staff full of maids to do the job for her. Maids and servants and all things foreign to her. Just a short while ago, she had shared their station. She had been what they were now, only she hadn’t enjoyed the luxury of living in a grand estate. Mrs. Kendall had dragged her everywhere but a place to call home.

Not that Manderley was home. Manderley whispered behind her with every unwelcome step she dared to take down its grand halls, reminding her how very much she didn’t belong.

The Morning Room, like every other inch of the manor, felt like a painting come to life. There was a grandiose desk centered between two bay windows, each adorned with exquisite drapery that pooled from ceiling to floor. The walls were aligned with anthologies—everything from dictionaries to various translations of the Bible. The desk was mahogany and, unsurprisingly, looked positively regal—just like everything else in the immaculately decorated room. Carefully situated atop the wood finish was a stack of letters, accompanied with stationary and the most elegant looking pen that Buffy had ever seen.

Mrs. Hart had undoubtedly set it out for her, as she’d mentioned that the former Mrs. de Winter answered her correspondents in the Morning Room. But Buffy had no correspondents. She had no one to write to, and no one who would be writing to her.

The letters weren’t for her, then. They were for the new Mrs. de Winter. They were for the woman she had yet to become—the title that had been handed to her overnight.

It was just as well. Buffy didn’t want to disrupt the ghostlike serenity of the Morning Room by rustling papers and fumbling with mail that wasn’t really for her. Nothing in the room was hers. Everything was pristine. Everything had a place. Everything was just as it had been, undoubtedly, when the room belonged to Drusilla.

Buffy shivered, clutching her sketchpad to her breast.

It’s still Drusilla’s.

There was no need for the voice that kept reminding her. She lived under no delusions of belonging. And yet, the voice persisted. She could not hide from it.

She stayed in the Morning Room long after the sun rose. She sat inelegantly at Drusilla’s mahogany desk, sketching mindlessly. She drew whatever came to mind. She drew until the underside of her arm was marred with pencil rubbings, and perhaps had she been less absorbed in what she was doing, she would have been mortified to sit at such a grand desk, dirty as she was. But she couldn’t stop drawing. A thousand times, she outlined William’s face. A thousand times, she drew the ocean in his eyes. A thousand times, while sketching his lips, she thought of the way that he’d looked at her the day they met.

Not the day with Mrs. Kendall; the day on the bluff. Perhaps William would think they truly met when Mrs. Kendall had ushered him over. He would be wrong. Though no words were shared between them on the bluff—no true words, other than her erratic screaming to prevent him from jumping into the stormy sea—she’d seen him then. The image of himself that he’d given her could not be forfeit for anything.

A broken, haunted man.

How little more she knew of him now.

Around ten that morning, the telephone on the desk shrilled to life, slicing through the deafening silence that was slowly becoming comfortable. Buffy froze and glanced up in a panic, her large eyes swallowing the phone as her pencil tumbled from her fingertips. Who would think to call her here?

They’re not calling for you.

She answered on the fifth ring, when it became evident that staring at the phone wouldn’t do anything to discourage the caller.

“Yes?” she answered timidly.

“Mrs. de Winter,” a voice answered.

“Oh no,” she replied hurriedly, her heart pounding so hard that she was sure her chest would break. “There must be some mistake. Mrs. de Winter has been dead for nearly a year.”

The silence that answered her was long and meaningful. Long enough for Buffy to realize her mistake.

Mrs. de Winter is dead.

“It’s Mrs. Hart,” came the cool reply. Icy, as if she knew the effect her tone had on Buffy. Haughty, as though she had just won a battle. “Mr. de Winter thought you might want to know that Mister and Mrs. Harris will arrive within the hour.”

Buffy felt like seeping through the cracks in the floor. “Yes,” she said, her voice small. “Yes, of course. Thank you.”

Mrs. Hart didn’t say anything in acknowledgement—she merely went on to recite the day’s menu, and hung up when she met no objection.

Buffy was careful to leave the Morning Room just as she had found it. Not a book out of place. Not a flower wilted. Not a stain on the desk. The warm glow of sunlight made the room look even larger, but provided no more warmth than the cold dark that it had chased away.

The floorboards creaked with her every step. She was sure the maids could hear her coming from miles away, though, as William had told her the previous night, an ideal staff was never seen. Thus the looks and the jeers and everything else remained imagined but real. She knew it was happening. She could feel it happening.

And she’d only been here a day.

Buffy dressed quickly and didn’t allow herself much time to wonder about her wardrobe. Panicked as she was at how William’s sister would see her, she knew that rifling through her belongings wasn’t about to help matters. Nothing looked right on her. Not the dresses she’d worn in Monte Carlo, and not what William had bought her on their all-too-brief honeymoon. Thus she selected something modest and simple. Something that would pass for accommodating, but never assume to be glamorous.

It was just as well. She wasn’t about to pretend that she was someone she wasn’t, especially when it was already so blatantly obvious.

She truly hadn’t had the first idea of what to expect of William’s sister. She hadn’t even given any thought to what the woman might look like, or how old she might be. However, she was still somehow surprised when she obtained her first view of Anya Harris. They were in the foyer. All of them: William, his sister, and the two men—and the woman’s voice carried through every inch of Manderley.

It was impossible to tell if she was younger than William or not. William so often looked older than he was. And from first glance, Anya hardly appeared to be a day over twenty-five.

“Oh, Buffy,” William said, jarring slightly when he noticed her on the staircase. “There you are, love. I was beginning to wonder if I ought to send a search party.”

“I keep telling you this place is too large,” Anya agreed rapidly, her large eyes trailing to the ceiling. “A wonder anyone gets anywhere at all.” She paused then and met Buffy’s eyes, a warm smile brightening her face. “And you,” she said, taking a step forward, “must be the little spitfire that snatched my brother up.”

Buffy blinked. “Spitfire?”

“Oh, well, you know what I mean.” Anya grabbed her arm eagerly and dragged her across the floor until she was staring into chocolate brown eyes that belonged to a face she’d never seen. “This is Alexander,” she said, gesturing in the manner of a salesman. “My husband.”

“It’s Xander,” the man replied, taking Buffy’s hand before she could offer it. “Just Xander.”

“Oh.” She swallowed hard. “Hello.”

“And it’s Buffy, is it?” Anya asked, arching a brow. “I’m sorry; I’m afraid my louse of a brother has told me very little about you, aside from your name, of course, and that you met in Monte Carlo. I kept trying to pry information from him last night, but he insisted that I come up and meet you myself.”

Buffy glanced to William, who smiled softly. There was a look in his eyes that she hadn’t seen before. “She has a rather liberal definition of the word ‘insist,’” he replied. “I mentioned we were home, and she announced that she would be stopping by today to size you up.”

Anya rolled her eyes, tightening her grip on Buffy’s arm. “Oh, pish, Will,” she retorted. “You know damn well that you phoned me just to get me up here.”

“Yes, yes. You saw through my clever ruse. Now, if you would kindly stop manhandling my wife, I’d like to introduce her to Wesley.”

Buffy froze again, but she didn’t have time to mull over his choice of words. Logically, she knew that she was his wife. It just sounded odd to her ears—hearing that she was anyone’s wife, let alone William’s.

But she was William’s wife. She was. Title and all.

Wesley, whom had remained courteously silent through the awkward familial introductions, smiled at her warmly when their eyes locked. He had kind eyes.

“Is it Buffy?” he asked, taking her hand. “Or Elizabeth?”

“Buffy,” she replied.

“I thought ‘Buffy’ might be something that only Will gets to call you.”

“Oh. No.” She shook her head and met William’s eyes again, relaxing when he grinned. It was so rare to see a grin on his face that it took a second to recover. She loved the way his eyes brightened. In that second, he was more alive than he had been in the entirety of their acquaintance. “No,” she said again. “I’ve been Buffy all my life.”

“I’m Wesley Wyndam Pryce, William’s estate manager.” The way he spoke made her aware that he was saying it for her behalf—a courtesy for someone meeting so many people at once. He knew that she knew who he was. He was giving her time to adjust simply by stating the obvious. “It is lovely to meet you, Buffy.”

She couldn’t imagine that was true, but it was nice to hear, all the same.

“Thank you,” she replied, her voice sounding small to her ears. “I…ummm…”

Buffy moaned inwardly as everything around her froze. Why was it that she didn’t have the good sense to keep her mouth shut when she wasn’t sure what to say? She was in the company of strangers; people who had known the woman she was replacing. The woman that, only a year ago, stood where she was standing.

She imagined Drusilla greeting her guests with nothing short of eloquence and grace. What a disappointment Buffy had to be, in that respect. They were perhaps wondering what, if anything, William saw in her. What bade him to select her, of all women, to be his wife. What a sad replacement she was. Nothing at all like Drusilla.

Anya’s voice sliced through her musings, and in seconds, Buffy found herself being tugged by the arm again. “Gentlemen, please,” the woman said, shooing William and Wesley aside and leading her intently toward the parlor. “Give the poor girl some room. What are we having for lunch, Will? I’m famished.”

“I imagine we’ll have whatever Mrs. Hart put on the day’s menu,” William replied, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Unless Buffy had it changed.”

Tell Mrs. Hart to change the menu? In her own house?

“I didn’t,” Buffy replied anxiously, as though needing to clear her name of slander. “I haven’t even glanced over the menus today.”

“Oh, you poor dear.” Anya sighed. “You really need to get a handle on that woman.”

“What?”

There was a brief silence as Anya considered her, but she shook her head dismissively before she could say anything else. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk when the men start gabbing about business,” she explained, throwing in an eye-roll for good measure. “Not that I mind business. William’s much better at managing the finances—and the more money Xander makes, the more he is free to spoil me shamelessly.”

“And Lord knows I don’t do that enough,” her husband’s amused voice chimed in behind.

“We must remember that Anya is a special case,” William added. “What is suitable for others is, by her standards, sloppy and thoughtless.”

Buffy barely recognized his voice—he sounded lighter than he had in weeks. He sounded lighter than he had in the entirety of their relationship. Was it his family that brought this out? She wished she knew. She never wanted to spoil this moment for him—to shut out the light and bring back the darkness.

The previous day, Buffy had wandered rather aimlessly through the labyrinth of Manderley, stumbling in and out of rooms clumsily and making a general spectacle of herself. She hadn’t found William’s office, but she had found the parlor. And it looked no less grand now than it had yesterday. Like the Morning Room, the windows were dressed with curtains that dragged the length of the wall—so much that surplus fabric pooled elegantly at the floor. There was a desk and a vase with two blood-red roses, and a small table for tea and socializing. In the middle of the room, situated atop the most exquisite carpet that Buffy had ever seen, were two settees and a gentleman’s chair. The walls were adorned with paintings that were so powerful it made her self-actualization all the more potent. Each portrayed a different scene from Biblical narrative, but somehow, even though these were stories she knew by heart, Buffy couldn’t quite remember church ever moving her so deeply.

At the far end of the room—the end that faced the front of Manderley—was a quaint bay window. A place that would be ideal to sit while drawing, though she couldn’t imagine feeling comfortable sketching in this room. In this room of artistry beyond her comprehension.

“Are we eating in here, Will?” Anya asked, tugging Buffy toward the tea table without waiting for a response. “This room is so much friendlier than the Taj Mahal that you call a dining room. Here at least, I won’t panic if I spill crumbs on the carpet.”

“I wasn’t aware that it weighed on your conscience one way or another.”

“Please. Mrs. Hart always makes me feel like I’m one bite away from the gallows.”

“She has that effect on people,” Wesley agreed. “But she does seem to keep this place in order.”

William didn’t say anything to that, but he was at Buffy’s side the next second, gently prying her loose from his sister’s grip. “Honestly, Anya,” he admonished softly, “you’re going to scar her for life if you don’t stop dragging her all over the bloody house.”

Anya rolled her eyes again. “I escorted her from the foyer to the parlor. That hardly constitutes the whole bloody house.” She snickered playfully and met Buffy’s gaze. “Men. They exaggerate everything.”

Xander’s voice assumed a warning note. “Ahn—”

“And I mean everything.”

“Anya!”

Buffy might have been naïve, but she was also no longer of a virginal mind, thus it didn’t take much to guess what the woman was hinting at. Her skin reddened and she determinately refused to look anyone in the eye, lest she betray her unease.

William’s warm voice tickled her ear, nearly startling her out of her skin for his nearness. “I suppose I didn’t give you adequate warning,” he mused, pulling out a chair for her. “Are you all right, love?”

She nodded breathlessly and plopped into the proffered seat. “Oh. Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”

“Back off, Will. You’re suffocating the poor girl.”

William cocked a brow and burned his sister with a glare. “Anya, do you remember when I asked you to please try to be civilized company?”

“Sure she does,” Wesley chimed in cheerily, assuming the seat next to Buffy with a broad, amused grin. “Just as she remembers promptly discarding any such request.”

William chuckled appreciatively and quickly slid into the chair on Buffy’s other side before Anya could box her in. Then he turned and nodded to a man standing at a door that Buffy hadn’t noticed. It blended into the wall with the aid of the paintings that decorated either side. “Giles,” he said. “Could you please tell Cook that we will be dining in here?”

Giles. That was the man that Mrs. Hart had said was William’s butler. Buffy strained to see him, but he disappeared into the next room before she could catch a glance.

“Where’s Jasper?” Anya asked loudly.

“Wandering around here, undoubtedly,” William replied. “I haven’t seen him since we arrived.”

Buffy swallowed hard, frowning. “Jasper?”

“The dog,” Anya replied.

Had William mentioned a dog? She didn’t remember.

He met her eyes. “Our daschund,” he explained gently. “Long-haired fellow. Friendliest animal you’ve ever come across. And after four years, he still tends to get a tad turned around.”

“Oh.”

She didn’t know if she’d ever grow accustomed to thinking of anything in Manderley as hers. She was sitting in a room that was hers. The paintings on the walls were hers. The table. The carpet. The books. Everything in Manderley was now shared between them.

Only it wasn’t. Not really. The air whispered and the floors moaned, and she knew with every breath that she was an unwelcome foreigner to Manderley and everything it encompassed. Everything and everyone.

Everyone except William. William her husband. William, the man that moaned his dead wife’s name at night but could laugh with his family the next day. William, who rarely smiled for her.

“I’d imagine Jasper’s having trouble adjusting,” Anya observed, but did not elaborate. There was no need to.

That statement was met with the threat of an uncomfortable silence. Buffy knew why without requiring direction. The dog would have trouble adjusting, of course, because the wing that had been lived in while Drusilla was alive was now closed. Drusilla’s dog was having trouble adjusting because his mistress was no longer around to pet and coddle him. Jasper couldn’t understand why Drusilla was gone. He was, after all, only a dog.

The threat of silence was interrupted when Giles, now in plain view, reentered the room with a tea-tray. Buffy thanked him when he provided her serving, which seemed to both startle and please him. He was gone in a blink. Silent. The floors did not creak beneath his feet as they did hers.

Had she broken protocol by acknowledging that he was in the room? She glanced to William for a verdict, but he offered nothing but an encouraging smile which only furthered her confusion.

“You’re fine, love,” he whispered, taking her hand in his under the table, and caressing the back with his thumb. “Giles doesn’t mind being addressed.”

Her skin sparked to life where he touched her, and Buffy had nothing to return but an abrupt nod.

Wesley cleared his throat, effectively silencing her discomfort. “You met William at Monte Carlo?” he asked. It was another thing said to steer her toward something she knew. He was providing familiar ground, just as he had earlier, when he reiterated his name and job title. He was providing her with something that required very little.

Buffy liked Wesley already.

“Yes,” she replied, exhaling slowly. “Monte Carlo.”

“How did you like Monte Carlo?” Xander asked, sipping at his tea. “Anya and I were there right after we were married.”

“I wasn’t too impressed,” Anya added, as though giving her consent to admit the same.

Of course, Anya had been married when she visited Monte Carlo. Buffy had met the man she loved in Monte Carlo. There was the difference. Without Monte Carlo, she never would be here. She wouldn’t be at William’s side, with her hand in his. With his thumb gently caressing her skin. Without Monte Carlo, she would still be with Mrs. Kendall.

“I liked it quite a bit, actually,” Buffy replied, swallowing hard. “Though my experience with such places is rather limited. I have never been to a resort like that…as a vacationer.”

“Oh, right,” Anya replied with interest. “William mentioned that you were the traveling companion of some horrid woman.”

“I can’t imagine anyone being less than horrid if they have to hire out friends,” Wesley observed, shooting Buffy a look of pure compassion that shook her to the bone. “But it’s an honest living.”

“And anyone with resolve enough to tolerate the incessant blabbering of Harmony Kendall is some sort of woman,” William said, grinning almost proudly. “God, that woman was a blathering lunatic.”

“William abhors socialites,” Wesley murmured. “Absolutely abhors them.”

Buffy nodded as though she understood, but didn’t say anything.

“Have you written anything, Will?” Anya asked, stirring her tea lazily with a long spoon. “It’s been ages since you’ve shown me anything new.”

“No,” he replied, his tone clipped. The message was clear: his writing was not up for discussion.

Buffy swallowed hard and sipped at her tea. Of course he hadn’t written anything new. His muse was dead, and she had been for nearly a year.

“And what do you do for fun?” Anya continued, turning her eyes once more to Buffy and ignoring her brother’s discomfort as though it was nothing at all. “Do you have any hobbies? I, for one, love horseback riding. Do you ride at all?”

She smiled apologetically. “No. I’m afraid I don’t.”

“We simply must see about getting you on a horse.”

“Anya,” William chimed warningly.

“Oh get off it, Will. The girl has to have a hobby.”

“She does; just not yours. She’s an artist.” He paused as though searching for words. “A rather gifted one at that.”

Buffy’s eyes went wide. “William,” she admonished, her heart in her throat. “No.”

“Well, you are, love. Surely, you don’t expect me to lie to my family.”

Wesley chuckled. “It seems you two share the same modesty,” he observed. “Will likes to think that his poetry is rubbish.”

William smirked, and the look was so foreign that Buffy had to clamp down on her chair before she toppled out in astonishment. “There is a great amount of difference between opinion and fact, Wes,” he replied.

“Apples and oranges, I say.”

“Well,” Anya interjected, “there is plenty to do here. Plenty aside from sitting inside, I mean. There are so many walking paths. You simply must explore the walking paths, Buffy. On a good day, you can hear the sea from any inch of the property.”

“I would like to see the bay,” Buffy admitted. “Is the water suitable for swimming?”

The words crashed the second that they escaped her lips, and suddenly the air around her was taut and thick. Every nerve in her body was on fire, burning wildly around her fear-frozen heart. And just like that, she was made painfully aware of everything. The sudden stillness of William’s thumb on her skin—worse, somehow, than if he’d released her hand completely. It was as though he stopped living in that moment. Just as Anya’s eyes widened with horror and Xander became enamored with the tablecloth. Only Wesley could meet her eyes, and there she saw sympathy. Sympathy and understanding, and it only served to make her feel sicker than she already did.

It was much like the silence that had poisoned her supper with William the night before, only so much worse.

Swim in the bay.

Swim in the bay where Drusilla had drowned.

She’d destroyed their afternoon without blinking. Without thinking. In an instant, everything was ruined.

Oh William.

Though silence didn’t last forever, it certainly felt like it. But eventually, Anya cleared her throat and flashed an all-too-bright smile, asking loudly, “Shall we see about getting something to eat?”

Buffy nodded, but her heart wasn’t in it. Her appetite had abandoned her.

And though her eyes remained on William, he did not look back.

*~*~*

She didn’t feel any better after lunch, despite Anya’s rather whimsical attempts to raise her spirits. Her mind remained with William. Her hand tingled from where it had rested in his for so long. And though she could see him across the lawn, discussing something with Xander and Wesley, she felt as though she hadn’t touched him in years.

“You really ought to reconsider horseback-riding,” Anya remarked. “You have an athletic build—or you would, with a little help.”

“I don’t know the first thing about horses,” Buffy replied absently.

“Well, no one does at first. That’s why I’m here.” Anya placed a hand on her shoulder. “It can get rather isolating out here. William travels to town often to attend conferences, and he helps out with the business more than Xander would like me to know.”

Buffy nodded. “Oh. I see…”

“Textiles.”

“What?”

“That’s the business. Textiles. Nothing glamorous.” The woman shrugged with a small smile. “I’m sorry; you just looked lost there for a second. We have a tendency to brush over the fine print in my family. My point is that you need an activity that gets you out of the house—even if your outing extends only to the grounds.”

“Thank you. I will keep that in mind.”

There was a slight pause. Anya exhaled deeply and kicked at a patch of earth. “If you don’t mind my saying so,” she began slowly, “I take it that you and Mrs. Hart aren’t on good terms.”

The woman’s name sent a shiver down her spine. “You do?”

Anya snickered appreciatively. “Quite a character, isn’t she? I wouldn’t let her bother you too much. As long as you’re not afraid to stand up to her, there shouldn’t be much trouble. You just need to let her know who is serving whom.” She paused again. “I only say it because of the way you looked when William asked if you had changed the menu.”

She blinked in surprise. “How I looked?”

“Terrified. The woman’s harmless, really, but if you let her get under your skin…” Anya sighed. “You see, Buffy, she simply adored Drusilla.”

It nearly startled her out of her skin to hear the name given life. Not William’s first wife; not the first Mrs. de Winter. Anya had said her name.

The ground seemed to rumble beneath her feet. And if she listened very carefully, she could almost hear Manderley’s shadow sighing happily just to have the name of its old mistress in the air once more.

“Oh,” Buffy said numbly. Her eyes again went to William. A small dog was at his feet, now. A gorgeous red-haired dachshund with hair that touched the grass. That had to be Jasper.

Jasper.

Drusilla’s dog.

“I think you’ll be good for him,” Anya said, breaking her reverie. “For William.”

The words sounded empty, but she appreciated them nonetheless.

“Thank you.”

The woman nodded, continuing, “I do have to say, though, that you surprised me. I didn’t know what to expect from you, but you still managed to surprise me.”

Buffy blinked. “Did I?”

“Oh yes. You’re not at all what I thought you’d be. Not at all the sort of woman that William…” Anya frowned, sighing and shaking her head. “That’s not what I mean. I mean that…well, you’re different.” She paused. “You’re nothing like Drusilla.”

Manderley’s shadow hummed in pleasure as Buffy drowned in cold.

She didn’t know how to reply, so she didn’t say anything at all.


TBC

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