Tempesta di Amore by Holly

Chapter 12

The girl standing in the middle of the room could have been Buffy. Her hair was drawn back but still managed to look a little sloppy. Her eyes darted nervously from one corner of the room to the next, her trembling hands wringing the apron tied around her waist, her skin so pale she was practically transparent. She was standing in a room so much larger than herself—in a way only one who lived in true luxury could have identified. She was lost. She was in a world far removed from her true element.

She could have been Buffy.

“May I present,” Mrs. Hart said stoically, gesturing to the woman, “Winifred Burkle.”

Winifred curtsied awkwardly. Buffy had to wonder if she’d ever done it before.

“Hello,” Buffy said, her heart going out to the girl. It truly was like looking in the mirror. Not much time had passed—so little time had passed. Her life with Mrs. Kendall wasn’t even a half a year behind her. And had William not stormed into her world, her station wouldn’t have changed. Were it not for William, the girl standing in Winifred’s place could have been her.

William had changed everything. And now she was a woman who lived in a house with servants. She was standing behind the desk in the Morning Room with Mrs. Hart and the young girl standing across from her. Mrs. Hart stood rigid, barely moving to breathe, her stance as frighteningly fierce as ever. There was no compassion in her voice when she spoke. She stood with her hands crossed, all in black, not much livelier than a statue. Nothing about her insinuated she possessed human feeling.

“Since you arrived without a personal maid,” Mrs. Hart continued, “I took it upon myself to hire Winifred. I believe you will find her a most capable employee.”

“I-I’ll do what I-I can,” Winifred agreed, nodding eagerly, her voice trembling. “I-I—”

Mrs. Hart speared her with an icy glare but said nothing. Nothing needed to be said; one frozen frown from the old woman and the rambling girl’s mouth fell shut, heat flushing her cheeks and her eyes darting downward.

A pang of empathy struck Buffy’s heart. One glower from Mrs. Hart was worth a thousand condemnations. And while she wasn’t eager to find herself on the receiving end of any such glare, she couldn’t abide for the woman to make a young, nervous girl even more self-conscious. In the pretense of knowing what she was doing, Buffy cleared her throat and stepped around the desk, wiping her suddenly perspiring palms against her linen trousers. “Thank you, Mrs. Hart,” she said, forcing a smile to her face and doing her best not to tremble when the woman’s arctic eyes turned to her. “I can…show Winifred around.”

“Is there anything else, madam?”

Buffy shivered, her nerve failing her as her eyes hit the ground. “No,” she replied softly. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Hart nodded briskly and turned. “I will dispose of Winifred should you not find her to your liking.” She spoke so callously Buffy feared the girl in question might collapse. “Dinner is at seven.”

The air thinned when the woman left the room. Buffy didn’t realize she was holding her breath until the weight on her chest lifted in splendid reprieve. She turned to Winifred and favored the girl with what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “She can be a little frightening,” she said, “can she not?”

Winifred worried a lip between her teeth and nodded miserably. “I’m s-sorry, madam,” she replied nervously, “i-if I do anything to upset you. This is my first…I mean, I’ve never worked for…I’ve never—”

Buffy held up a hand, feeling both a sense of calm appreciation as well as terribly out of place. She wasn’t one to apologize to; she hadn’t been born into this lifestyle so much as haphazardly selected for it. Should circumstances be different, she could very well be in Winifred’s shoes. This world had been given to her—she hadn’t earned it. It was enough she felt as much simply waking in William’s arms every morning. In walking the halls of Manderley with the whispers of the staff on her heels and the eyes of the familial paintings judging her every step. There wasn’t a minute she wasn’t reminded that she didn’t belong—that she was here because of a hand dealt by fate.

She found herself wondering, taking in Winifred’s nervous stature and obvious self-consciousness, if she truly was William’s wife because he wanted her to be his wife or if she just happened to be the best option. How it was that she caught his eye in Monte Carlo was beyond her. She’d screamed at him to keep from jumping off a cliff, and amazingly, even in the face of everything he’d lost, he hadn’t begrudged her from denying him the serenity of death. No, he’d taken an interest in her. He’d spoken with her, educated her, glanced over her drawings and treated her to lunches. He’d saved her from the life she’d lived—the life she’d been born into. Perhaps her inexperience in worldly affairs was why he’d chosen her. He wanted someone who could never replicate what he’d lost.

He’d wanted someone.

Would he have just as easily married a girl like Winifred? What if Winifred had been at the resort in Monte Carlo? Perhaps Winifred would be standing where Buffy was now, meeting her own personal maid for the first time. Perhaps.

The thought sent cold shivers down her back and made her stomach knot. It wasn’t enough she lived in the shadow of Drusilla’s ghost; she couldn’t chase jealous flights of fancy around as though they were true. And yet, given everything that had passed and everything which remained unsaid, she couldn’t help but wonder.

“Madam?” Winifred asked timidly, blinking her large brown eyes and looking as though a gale of wind would send her to the ground. “I…I’ll do m-my best, madam. I mean Mrs. de Winter. I—”

“Winifred, it’s all right.” Buffy attempted another disarming smile and hoped her unspoken message conveyed. “I’m rather new at this as well, you see.”

The girl’s eyes shifted uncertainly. “At…being a maid?”

“Being…no. At being…married. And…” Buffy stopped and sighed, certain she was supposed to sound more confident and less foolish. The mistress of Manderley ought not to stutter or find herself at a lack of words. She was more than certain Drusilla never had. “Mr. de Winter and I have only been wed for a few months,” she continued, wondering idly if talk about the private life she shared with William was proper, and immediately knowing without a doubt it was not. “I was a traveling companion before we met.”

Winifred’s eyes went wide. “Oh. Oh! You…” She trailed off just as quickly and resumed her nervous stature, hands once again twisting the apron around her waist until Buffy was certain the cloth would tear completely. “He must…love you very much,” she said.

The assertion took Buffy completely aback. She was about to question how or why Winifred had arrived at such a conclusion before realizing how foolish it would sound for the lady of the manor to question one of her maids in such things. Instead, she pursed her lips and smiled. She didn’t want to nod—not when William’s love was the last thing she could attest to owning. William liked her. He found her charming, in an odd and funny sort of way. He talked with her whenever he could and often accompanied her to the Happy Valley. But at night when they made love, he fell asleep with his dead wife’s name on his lips.

His eyes still refused to meet hers when he was inside her. He would bury his face in her throat and kiss her skin. He would hold her tightly in the quiet following their lovemaking, no longer silently demanding distance between them as he had their first night together. He never called her by any other name until his mind was far from her. Until he was deep in sleep. Then his arm would tighten around her middle and he would whimper for the woman buried in the family cemetery. The woman Buffy could never be.

William didn’t love her. He might appreciate her, but he didn’t love her. And he never would.

Buffy waved dismissively at Winifred when she realized she’d been silent much longer than she’d intended. The smallest observation could send her mind spiraling down paths she longed to never again travel. “I only meant to say,” she continued softly, “that you haven’t any reason to fret about your employment here on account of inexperience. You need not be so formal around me.”

There was a pause and the girl’s eyes flashed with uncertainty. Then, realizing Buffy was sincere, her face blossomed with relief and a sigh rolled off her chest. “Oh, thank you,” she said, pressing her lips to the back of her hand. “I don’t want to be a disappointment, but I am…I’m so nervous.”

“Don’t be. Not around me.”

“Thank you, Mrs. de Winter.”

Buffy flinched inwardly. The title seemed so wrong. So misplaced. She wasn’t Mrs. de Winter; Mrs. de Winter was dead. She was merely the woman looking after her mansion and her husband in her absence. “When we’re alone you’re free to call me Buffy,” she said. “I don’t…as I said, this is all so new to me as well. I’m not accustomed to being addressed by my surname.”

Winifred’s nose wrinkled as she considered the matter. “Yes, it would be a little jarring.” She paused. “Thank you, Missus…Buffy.”

The second the name touched the air, the girl froze in terror, her eyes shooting to Buffy’s face to gage her reaction. As though fearing she was on the receiving end of a cruel joke.

Buffy liked Winifred. She reminded her of a friend she’d had in childhood. A girl of similar means—a girl most likely in a similar line of occupation. They had promised to keep in touch when they parted ways more than ten years ago, and while a few letters had crossed paths, it had been years since Buffy even thought about her, let alone wondered where she was and where life had taken her.

“If you have any questions, feel free to come to me,” Buffy told Winifred. “Has Mrs. Hart shown you to your quarters?”

The girl nodded, her eyes brightening. “Oh yes. They’re so large! I’ve never had such lovely living quarters in all my life.”

Buffy smiled softly. “Well…if Mrs. Hart has no other duties for you, I encourage you to walk around the manor. You won’t get a good grasp on how large it is today, but…well…” She thought about mentioning the number of times she’d gotten lost in the labyrinth that was Manderley, and decided against it. Ladies of the household weren’t to discuss such matters. Mrs. Hart certainly wouldn’t approve. The sentence died on a prolonged beat of awkward silence, which was almost as bad as admittance to one’s shortcomings. Buffy quickly cleared her throat and shook her head, deciding to change the conversation. “Have you ever been someone’s personal maid before?”

Winifred shook her head miserably. The poor girl looked doomed.

“I’ve never had a personal maid, so this will be a first for both of us. I do hope we can be friends.”

And just as quickly, the look on her face brightened. “Oh, me too, Mrs. de Winter. I mean Buffy. I mean—”

“Buffy.”

Winifred nodded. “Buffy. I would like that very much.”

“I would, too. But for now, you best get to your quarters.” She paused, contemplating her words. “Mrs. Hart likes to run the house in a certain fashion, you see. I don’t want her cross if she finds I have monopolized all of your time, should she need you for something. But if she doesn’t need you, I do recommend walking around a bit. It will help.”

As much as it could.

The girl smiled brightly. “Thank you. I’ll do my best for you, madam. I mean Buffy. I…” She paled. It was quite interesting how many moods Winifred could assume in a matter of seconds. Had Buffy not empathized with her, she might be tempted to find her amusing. “I’ll just…excuse me.”

Buffy watched Winifred scurry through doors and into the hallway, then returned to her position behind the desk. She’d hidden her sketchbook when Mrs. Hart knocked on the door, though she doubted she’d managed to hide her dirty hands. But Mrs. Hart never looked at her hands—not that she needed to. Enough time had passed to establish a sort of tacit understanding. If Buffy occupied the Morning Room, it wasn’t to answer mail or make calls, as the first Mrs. de Winter had; it was to draw. Days when the weather prevented her from venturing down to the Happy Valley typically found her concealed within the Morning Room. It was the only room besides her bed chambers which she felt comfortable entering without William at her side. Neither room belonged to her, of course, but familiarity provided a sense of comfort.

She would draw until six o’clock when Mrs. Hart rang to remind her supper was in an hour. Then she would pad to her room and wash her hands and face before changing into a suitable evening garment.

Evening was her favorite time of day. Evening commenced the time she was allowed with William. When he would return home or emerge from whatever project he was buried under, kiss her softly, and spend hours in her company and hers alone. Buffy lived for evenings. She lived for her time with him.

She couldn’t help but wonder if William knew it, and if he didn’t, what he would think if he did.

*~*~*

The figurine was likely priceless. A family heirloom of some sort, or perhaps a wedding present. It had been, after all, situated on a bookcase belonging to Drusilla in a room Buffy had never before toured. The room was closed off and nearer the west wing than she’d ever dared to venture. The wing Drusilla had shared with William remained perpetually off limits. Not so much in words or action—rather stern implication.

And not from William. William never said anything one way or another. Buffy knew, however, that Mrs. Hart would very much disapprove of her being anywhere near Drusilla’s things. It was for such a reason Buffy had declined to wander in any of the rooms that veered in the westward direction on the upper level of the mansion. She knew she’d have another maze of halls to brave before stumbling into something as private as the master bedroom, but she always felt like a criminal if she allowed herself to step over the invisible boundary. The west side of Manderley belonged to Drusilla. It had in life and it did in death. She supposed it always would.

Buffy didn’t know why she’d chosen today to brave the unknown side of the house. She hadn’t made it very far, ducking into the first open doorway when she heard footsteps ahead of her. She didn’t want to be caught sneaking around. She didn’t want Mrs. Hart’s cold eyes sizing her up more so than they currently did. But curiosity could only be ignored for so long, and now with a few months between her arrival at Manderley and the present, Buffy’s inquisitiveness could no longer go unquenched. She wanted to see the part of the house that belonged to Drusilla.

She supposed it was a fitting punishment. The figurine had sat untouched for months, perhaps years. It was a lovely piece, fragile as a cobweb, and now lying in several pieces on the floor.

All because of Buffy’s intrusion. Because she’d been curious.

Oh God. What was there to do? Something in the home was broken. One of Drusilla’s figurines—a piece of undoubtedly invaluable craftsmanship shattered because of her clumsiness. She couldn’t show Mrs. Hart. What would the woman think of her? She couldn’t show William; he would wonder why she was wandering around in that part of the house in the first place, especially since he’d made it abundantly clear—with action if not words—he preferred that she stay in the eastern side of the mansion. If he’d wanted her in the west wing, he would have moved Drusilla’s things out completely. The west wing, though, was off limits. And she’d broken the rules.

The broken angel at her feet sang up at her mournfully as though offering its sympathy.

She couldn’t bear to show anyone. She wouldn’t show this to anyone. Buffy hurriedly gathered the pieces together and rushed to the nearest piece of furniture—a bookcase in the far corner—and buried the glass remains in the bottom drawer. No sooner had she locked the case when she flee from the room. She never cared to venture into the west wing again.

Buffy occupied the rest of the afternoon in the secure seclusion of her bedroom, pacing frantically as her mind attempted to calm her thundering heart. To have broken one of Drusilla’s things…it was like tearing pages out of the Bible. Would William find out? Did he even venture into the west wing anymore? She didn’t know, and she truly didn’t want to think about it. Drusilla’s shadow darkened every corner of Manderley enough as it was—she didn’t want to consider the implications of William retreating to the quarters he’d shared with his first wife.

Then again, his refusal to even mention Drusilla’s name and the way he closed himself off if ever a hint of her was mentioned did not indicate a man who would wander through the quarters where they’d lived together. William seemed intent to forget his life with Drusilla altogether, or at least categorically separate it with the life he was living now. If he forgot what he’d had, there was no way to mourn what he’d lost. He wouldn’t go to the west wing unless it was absolutely required of him. He wouldn’t go into the room Buffy had ventured into. He wouldn’t find the broken angel.

Buffy jumped a mile in the air when the phone rang. It was Mrs. Hart, alerting her supper would be ready within the hour. While the woman’s voice wasn’t exactly the sort of thing which inspired comfort, it was a nice break back into normality. As though the day had been like any other. She submerged herself into routine and hoped her face wouldn’t betray her when she sat down with William tonight.

There was nothing in his mannerisms to indicate displeasure. Buffy met him downstairs at seven o’clock as she did every night. He smiled at her and kissed her softly, then directed her to the smaller dining quarters—the place where they ate when it was just the two of them.

“I received a call from Anya today,” William said, holding out her chair for her. He brushed her hair over her neck as she sat, and the touch sent shivers all through her body. She lived for his simple caresses. For the things he did without thought—things which meant the world to her. “She’s going to drive up tomorrow and try to persuade you onto a saddle.”

Anya’s campaign to educate Buffy in the art of horseback riding picked up in spurts. There were times when weeks would pass without hearing a word from her; other times when she’d receive two or three calls within two days to arrange an agreeable time to meet. Most often, Anya would phone to cancel an hour before she was set to arrive, and while Buffy was always disappointed, she understood the other woman had obligations. Anya was an assertive, modern woman—almost a businesswoman—and she couldn’t very well take time out of her day on a whim to entertain her brother’s mousy, timid wife.

Whenever Anya did manage a trip to Manderley, the visits were always brief but fulfilling. Buffy liked Anya very much. She only wished she could be more like her sister-in-law. That she could be more aggressive. More courageous. More confident.

“She promises she’ll actually make it this time,” William continued as he took his seat. He uncorked the bottle of wine on the table and poured her a half-glass, then favored his own glass with the same amount.

“Will Xander accompany her?”

“I rather doubt it.”

“I wonder how he approves of her driving such a long distance alone.”

William met her eyes and smiled a little. “I reckon his philosophy is much the same as mine when it comes to my sister. We pity anyone who tries to take advantage of Anya.”

“But she—”

“She keeps a pistol in the car, love. And she’s a dead shot. Don’t worry over her safety.”

Buffy frowned and nodded as though she understood. She didn’t. Growing up in the world as she had, it was a universal understanding that women weren’t to travel alone. Perhaps it was just what she’d been taught and nothing more—a fallacy in her education, or a lack of understanding of how truly modern the world was becoming. Buffy only knew what she’d been taught growing up. The world William had brought her into was so amazingly novel and exciting. It would be a wonder if she could ever reconcile the differences separating her upbringing and the life she now led.

Perhaps women of power and wealth didn’t have the same concerns as women of no means and little consequence. Buffy didn’t know, and she never left Manderley so it was impossible to investigate.

“Mrs. Hart informed me there’s an addition to our staff,” William said, causing her to jump at the woman’s name. For a terrible second, Buffy feared the broken angel had been discovered. But it had not, as William clarified a second later. “A personal maid?”

“Oh. Yes. A young girl by the name of Winifred. She’s lovely.”

And she could have been Buffy. Perhaps in a different world, Winifred would be the one seated across from William, discussing a new maid and an impending visit from his sister.

Buffy shivered hard.

William offered a non-committal nod and dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “There’s something I need to tell you,” he said without preamble, leaving her insides cold with sudden apprehension. “Next week I’ll be away for a day or so. A friend is hosting a public dinner in London, and he requested my attendance.” He paused thoughtfully. “I would insist that you come with me, love, but from what I understand, the invitation is rather exclusive. I believe you’d be left bored in the hotel all evening.”

“Exclusive?” Buffy echoed, her throat suddenly dry. “I don’t understand.”

“I don’t believe any of the attendees will be bringing their wives along.”

Oh. A gentleman’s only night. She flushed brightly, both with jealousy and self-consciousness. Buffy wouldn’t pretend to know what went on at certain get-togethers, but she did know that men in William’s circle weren’t bound to the same honor code as women were. Perhaps he was going—

“Not on your life.”

Buffy blinked and glanced up sharply. “What?”

“I know what you’re thinking, pet. It’s all over that gorgeous little face of yours.” He grinned and her skin flushed again, though this time with self-awareness rather than jealousy. “I won’t lie to you, Buffy. These things aren’t exactly the sort of event I enjoy attending, but I owe my friend a favor and he requested my presence. I can’t say everything will…well, I’ll likely be the only one with any sort of scruples present.”

“Oh.”

“Whenever I’m away, you have my bloody word I’ll be sleeping alone. I don’t want…” He willed his eyes closed for a minute as though grappling for control before meeting her gaze again. And the depth of resolution she saw there took her breath away. “When I’m away, my thoughts will always be with you. Always. No matter what, you’re the only woman who accompanies me to bed. Do you understand?”

Buffy held his gaze for a minute longer, then smiled softly and nodded. Of course he would remain faithful to her. Of course he would. William was a man of his word. He’d married her—he’d promised himself to her. If he wanted to chase other women, there would have been no point in marrying her in the first place.

William returned her smile, his eyes lightening with relief. He took her hand in his and raised it to his mouth, caressing her palm with a gentle kiss. “That is one thing,” he murmured gently, “you will never have to worry about.”

“Never?”

“Better bloody believe it.” He brushed his lips against her palm again before lowering her hand to the table, resting his atop hers and gently caressing her skin with his thumb. “As I said, I don’t really fancy attending these events, but I owe this particular friend a favor and am hoping to settle all debts with an appearance.”

Buffy nodded and pursed her lips. She tried very hard not to focus on the small strokes of his thumb against her flesh. The smallest touch made every corner of her body burn. “You’ll be gone for a day?”

William nodded and reached for his wine with his free hand. “Presuming no other business arises while I’m away, you’ll only be alone one night.” He paused thoughtfully. “Will that be all right? I know we’ve been home for a while now and you’ve had time to acquaint yourself with the manor, but Manderley…” He trailed off, searching for words. “Sometimes…it feels as though it has a life of its own.”

The prospect was admittedly terrifying and immediately left her feeling hollow and alone. Buffy honestly didn’t know how to respond; her mind hadn’t progressed that far ahead in what he’d told her. And now faced with sleeping alone in their frighteningly large bedroom, even for one night, she found herself shivering even as a fake smile stretched her lips and her head nodded in affirmation.

It felt as though years had passed since she’d slept alone. To not have William beside her in the haunting air of Manderley would make her feel truly alone. Beyond the halls which stretched forever, beyond the whispers nipping at her heels, beyond the eyes of the paintings which judged her every turn, she would be left for the first time completely to herself. No William. No William to comfort her in the night with his presence, even whimpering as he did for his first wife.

It’s just for a night, she told herself sternly, though the self-admonition did little to ease her suddenly panicked nerves.

“Would you feel better if Anya stayed with you?”

Buffy blinked and glanced up, not realizing she’d been staring hard at the tablecloth. “Stayed?”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

The proposal warmed her with consideration, but she shot it down almost immediately. The last thing she wanted was Anya thinking William’s timid little wife couldn’t handle a night to herself. Her logical mind knew above her highly illogical heart that nothing would go wrong. It would be, after all, simply a night. One night. Terrifying as it might be on paper, she couldn’t ask for a babysitter. She couldn’t expect people to watch over her as though she were nothing more than living porcelain.

A trembling, however convicted sigh rolled past her lips. “I’ll be fine.”

William perked a brow. “You sure, sweetheart? I’m sure it wouldn’t be any trouble.”

She nodded before her nerve failed her. “I’m sure.”

He didn’t look convinced and was about to rebuke her with another reassurance and likely a reprisal of his offer when three sharp, concise knocks reverberated through the room. William glanced to the door with barely concealed annoyance which somehow did not convey in his voice when he said, “Yes, you may come in.”

The second the door opened, the air filled with the pitiful sounds of a sobbing young woman, the cries sounding almost foreign against the calm, ethereal atmosphere Buffy had grown so accustomed to at Manderley. Inward came Mrs. Hart, followed by a girl she barely recognized as Winifred with Giles at the heel, his hand gently clamping Winifred’s upper arm as though to keep her from running. The pitiful girl looked completely unlike the jittery, albeit friendly hopeful that Buffy had met that afternoon. Her long brown hair was in her face rather than pulled back, her pale cheeks a swollen red mess of tears. She was hunched over and clutching her gut as though every sob wracking through her body had the effect of a crippling sucker-punch.

Dread seeped inside Buffy’s veins. The brutally cold expression on Mrs. Hart’s face and the compassionate, however distant look on Giles’s made every nerve in her body scream with apprehension. She glanced sharply to William, whose eyes were wide with curious alarm but set with a calm sense of control she envied unlike anything. How he could demonstrate such authority and empathy in one simple look was beyond her, and though the moment was entirely wrong, she found her heart swelling with love.

“Mrs. Hart,” he said evenly. “Is there a problem?”

The woman nodded icily, her eyes locked with William’s. For this, Buffy might as well not exist. “I was doing my normal inventory of the Sun Room,” she said, her voice hard, “and one of our more valued pieces is missing.”

William arched a brow and nodded his understanding. He didn’t so much as look to Winifred. It wasn’t needed. The girl was obviously the alleged culprit.

Only she wasn’t. Buffy’s stomach knotted with dread and her insides flushed cold. She felt for a second like she was falling a great distance. The Sun Room had to be the room she investigated earlier that evening. It had to be. Even though the sun was dipping below the horizon, the golden streams of light pouring through the bay windows had made a play of pure radiance along the elegant wallpaper. There was no other room it could be but the sun room. And she’d broken the angel. She’d broken the angel and hidden it, and now Winifred was crying because Mrs. Hart believed she was responsible.

“I see,” he replied with a nod, turning his eyes at last to the sobbing girl in Giles’s hold. “And who is this?”

“Winifred Burkle. She was hired this morning as Mrs. de Winter’s personal maid.”

“And you have so deduced that she’s the one responsible?”

“She was seen in the hall just before my inventory, Mr. de Winter. The Turning Angel was accounted for as early as this afternoon. It was gone this evening.”

Buffy’s throat ran dry. She’d told Winifred to feel free and wander the halls. Dear Lord, this was her punishment. She should have come to William immediately upon breaking Drusilla’s angel. She should never have hidden it. She never should have crossed the invisible boundary separating the rest of the home from the west wing. Her eyes soaked in Winifred’s broken appearance and her heart ached.

She had to get Mrs. Hart and the others out of here. Confessing as much would be difficult enough without Drusilla’s prized servant indulging every second of her humiliation.

“I-I didn’t steal anything,” Winifred whimpered miserably, her eyes shooting up without warning and finding Buffy’s, imploring her for compassion. “Please, Buf…I mean Mrs. de Winter. Y-you…I didn’t steal. I don’t steal. P-p-please believe me. I—”

William held up a hand and all movement ceased. “Mrs. Hart, would you please escort…”

“Winifred,” Buffy supplied, then shrank back when she realized she’d spoken.

He nodded. “Winifred to my study. Get her a glass of water and try not to terrify her too horribly. I’ll be in after supper to ask her what she knows about the missing angel.”

Mrs. Hart inclined her head properly, and the three filed out without another word. The pitiful echoes of Winifred’s sobs lingered in the halls for painfully long minutes; it wasn’t until sound died out entirely that Buffy turned to William, her heart in her throat.

“William…”

He glanced up from where he’d been focusing on the remainder of his supper. “Love?”

“The angel…the one…I know what happened to it.”

He nodded and waited, expression unreadable.

“I broke it,” she explained hurriedly, heat and shame flooding her cheeks. “I was…I didn’t mean to, but I was wandering around and I was in that room even…I was just in that room and it broke.”

She waited for anger or hostility, but William didn’t show her any. She waited for the cold, dead look that she hated so much to fill his eyes—the one that was always present whenever he was reminded of Drusilla—but it never arrived. Instead, he sat back, a little baffled, and furrowed his brow as though trying to reconcile two entirely different trains of thought.

It seemed forever past before he spoke. “Well…forgive me, but why didn’t you tell someone?”

“What?”

“You broke the angel. Did you alert anyone?” He nodded at the door. “Mrs. Hart takes rigid inventory of all our belongings. We don’t get many thefts, but it has happened once or twice over the years.”

“I didn’t know what to do. I…I hid it in the bookcase—”

William sputtered suddenly with something that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “You hid the bloody thing? Buffy…why didn’t you just ring up Mrs. Hart and tell her you’d broken something and see if she could get it fixed? If not—”

Buffy shrank back in her seat, feeling small and insignificant. “I didn’t want you to know I’d broken the angel.”

“I don’t care about the angel. I—”

“She said it was valuable.”

His eyes narrowed. “Well, if you admired it so much, we can always buy another one. Just don’t hide something when you break it, all right? I don’t understand why you didn’t just—”

An alien surge of hurt indignation filled her whole, and she shook her head hard to stave off the rattling of her bones. “Can’t you understand?” she demanded, then realizing how harsh her tone was, she lowered her voice by degrees. “Please? I’ve never…when I broke something, I was always…never in my life have I not had to…”

He sighed and glanced down, a sort of comprehension washing over him again. She didn’t finish her sentence. She didn’t need to; he seemed to understand what she was saying without needing further explanation. “Buffy, the angel is yours. You can’t upset me or anyone by breaking something that belongs to you. I don’t care if the bloody thing was once in the royal family, I honestly don’t even remember what it looked like. It doesn’t matter to me. It does, however, matter to those on our staff. There’s a grave difference between thievery and the lady of the house breaking something. I’ll have to call Mrs. Hart back in here and—”

Alarm speared her body. “Oh William, please. Can it wait? I don’t want her to see—”

William was already up and reaching for the phone. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

His quick rebuttal effectively killed whatever else she might have said in protest. There was nothing for Buffy to do. She nodded and waited, then did the same when Mrs. Hart reentered the room. William reiterated what she’d told him, and though Mrs. Hart betrayed nothing, there was a grim sense of satisfaction in her stature. She asked Buffy, though it sounded like anything but a request, to please come to her in the future with matters such as these.

Buffy wondered if perhaps Mrs. Hart had known all along that Winifred hadn’t broken anything. Perhaps she’d paraded everyone inward just to invoke such a confession. Now she would inform Winifred that she’d been falsely accused due to Mrs. de Winter’s foolishness, and another wave of rumors and jeers would spread through the manor. How foolish she was. How awkward. How clumsy.

“Don’t worry, love,” William murmured when it was all over, reaching for her hand once again. “It was only a misunderstanding.”

It was this sort of misunderstanding that was beginning to define their marriage. Be it the words she couldn’t say or the mannerisms she couldn’t perfect. The conversation they shared was always crisp and defined by the day’s events. She could never talk about what she truly wished to discuss.

She couldn’t ask him for what she truly wanted.

Their marriage couldn’t survive like this. She knew it couldn’t.

Perhaps, then, it wasn’t meant to survive at all.

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