Tempesta di Amore by Holly

Chapter 13

Author's Notes: While there was a delay between updates, it wasn’t quite as long. Heh. And this time, not due to working on other stories. It’s nearing the end of the semester for me and I’ve had about seven thousand school projects due all at once. Okay, so I exaggerate, but you get the idea. ^_~

My endless thanks to my betas, and, of course, all the lovely readers who are sticking this thing through with me. I appreciate you more than you will ever know.

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For years she’d slept alone, and in those years she’d never imagined herself sharing a bed with anyone. The concept that she would marry was always a distant fantasy; something she yearned to experience but never thought she would touch. It had been difficult, then, accommodating to sleeping beside a naked man. A man she loved, no less. There were nights in the beginning where sleep was impossible. Nights occupied by staring at her slumbering husband, wondering how on earth she’d managed to find a place at his side.

The adjustment, in reality, had only taken a few days. Only a few days. She remembered well their first night as husband and wife—lying beside him with miles of mattress in between. She remembered reflecting on the oddity that was sharing a bed with a man. How different bed sheets felt against naked skin when she was so used to sleeping clothed. How the foreign ache between her thighs seemed to leave a permanent mark. She hadn’t imagined it ever fading, then. Nor the knotted sensation of pleasure in her belly, remnant from their lovemaking though lacking the warmth she so desperately craved. She’d wondered then if she would ever sleep again, or if all her nights would be wrung with restless tension.

Buffy had her answer now. William had only been away for a few hours, and she couldn’t sleep. The bed felt empty without his comforting presence beside her; without the indention of his weight pressed into the mattress, wordlessly reassuring her that she wasn’t alone. Every position she twisted herself into lost any pretense of comfort within seconds. Restless, Buffy occupied the long nighttime hours turning over and over again, her eyes habitually falling with great reluctance to William’s empty side, and wondering how he was spending his night. Was he dozing peacefully or did he miss her company as desperately as she missed his?

William was sleeping alone. He’d promised her as much, and she believed him.

Buffy supposed she must have eventually fallen asleep, otherwise she could not have been so surprised upon awaking. Rather than watch the sun rise from the Morning Room, she jerked alert with the shrill of the phone at her bedside.

“Mrs. de Winter?”

Mrs. Hart’s wintry voice had the power to render anyone instantly awake.

“Yes?” Buffy replied, clearing her throat, her blurred vision taking in the sunlight which poured in through the thin veil of curtain, splashing the floor and brightening her bedroom in a manner she so seldom noticed. Her room was quite lovely in the morning.

“The time is eleven o’clock, madam. I trust you’re feeling well?”

She blinked stupidly and glanced about the bedroom again. Eleven o’clock? She’d never slept so late in her life. Her eyes turned immediately to William’s side of the bed, knowing, of course, he was miles away; nothing, however, could prevent the sinking sensation in her stomach upon remembering she was alone in the manor. A part of her had hoped blindly that William would return to her if she slept. It was a foolish desire, she knew, but she couldn’t help herself. She’d never realized with as little time as she got to spend with him during the day how much she felt his presence. No matter where she was in Manderley, she was comforted by knowing William was within reach. William was there if she needed him.

For months she’d felt like a foreigner in a strange land. Now, for the first time, isolation truly sank in.

“Mrs. de Winter?” Mrs. Hart pressed, her voice crisp and alert, though nothing could hide her apathy. “Do you wish me to send for the doctor?”

“No,” Buffy said immediately, throwing her legs over the side of the bed. “No thank you. I am feeling fine. I just…didn’t sleep much.”

“I see,” came the indifferent retort. “I have today’s menu prepared for your approval.”

“Mrs. Hart, whatever you have arranged is fine with me.”

The scoff was expected, as was the swift, almost robotic reprimand. Mrs. Hart argued again that Buffy was the lady of the house. These decisions—all household decisions—required her consent before anyone was allowed to make one step in advancement. Buffy again apologized and promised she would try and remember tomorrow, knowing full well this conversation would merely repeat itself tomorrow.

“Will you be dining in the Day Room this morning?”

Buffy paused, her mind immediately envisioning the small room where she and William dined every morning. She saw herself sitting at the table and the empty chair placed precariously across from her, and knew she couldn’t abide the thought of eating alone in a place where she was so accustomed to being with the man she loved. It would make the hours between now and William’s return seem endless.

A long sigh rushed through her body. How hopeless was she? William’s absence would barely cover the span of two days. She was moping around like a woman whose husband had been shipped off to war.

“No,” Buffy replied, realizing she’d been quiet a beat too long. “No, thank you.”

Mrs. Hart’s tone didn’t change. “I will have Winifred bring a tray to your room.”

“Thank you.”

There was a rough sound of acknowledgment and a click. Mrs. Hart rarely troubled herself with things such as formal goodbyes. Buffy pursed her lips and returned the phone to its cradle, turning her eyes to the warm glow brightening the walls and warming the floors. Even though little sunlight poured inward, the dichotomy separating the appearance of her room in the morning and at night was nearly enough to astound her. Buffy spent so little time in her bedroom. Like the Day Room, her bed chambers were a place usually restricted to her life with William. He was there when she awoke and he was the one she slept beside. However, the room she knew at night was a mere shadow of the room surrounding her now.

Her morning routine was already disturbed. There was no need to rush to the Morning Room and sketch. There truly wasn’t a need to do anything. Buffy stifled a yawn and flopped tiredly back onto the mattress, stretching out and feeling, for a blink, delightfully liberated.

The phone at her bedside shrilled again, and she snatched it up like a child caught in the middle of sneaking sweets from the kitchen.

“Hello?”

“Well, that was quick,” William purred into her ear, turning her insides into mush. “Don’t tell me you were waiting by the phone.”

Heat rushed to her face and without warning, her heart began to thunder. Buffy immediately admonished herself for such a childish reaction, though to little avail. “I—umm. Hello.”

He chuckled and her body filled with warmth. “I thought we’d already covered ‘hello.’”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for greeting me?”

It felt so good to hear him tease. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine him standing right across from her. “No,” she replied, smiling in spite of herself. “I didn’t expect you to call me, is all.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” William replied. “London’s a bore, and the bloody dinner has turned into quite the function. Moreover, I wanted to hear your voice.”

Buffy was grateful she was sitting, else her legs would have assuredly given way beneath her. He sounded so warm. So inviting. So unlike how he sounded at Manderley. Was he enjoying himself? Was he happy to be away?

London might be a bore, but it provided his voice with warmth she so rarely heard.

“You won’t be home tonight then?” she asked softly. “If the dinner has…become a large event?”

“Wild horses couldn’t keep me away,” William murmured. “What are your plans for the day, sweetheart?”

“I haven’t been awake long enough to set any plans,” Buffy confessed, casting a guilty glance downward to her nightgown. “I…sort of slept in.”

There was another chuckle. “You’re still in bed?”

“I had trouble sleeping.”

William made a small sound of agreement. “Me too,” he replied. “I’d wager you look adorable right now. Are you in your rose nightgown?”

Buffy blinked and glanced down again, her eyes soaking up the soft-pink fabric of her nightdress. She didn’t think he noticed what she wore to bed. Most of what occurred at night had more to do with removing her clothes rather than observing how she looked in them. “Yes,” she replied shyly, smoothing her hands along the fabric.

“Do me a favor, pet, and have Mrs. Hart launder it for you. I’d like to see you in it tonight.”

If her skin grew any hotter she was certain she would melt into a puddle on the bed. “Would you?”

“Very much.” William paused. “Have you missed me?”

“Oh yes.”

A long, nearly pleasurable sigh rushed through his lips. “I’ve only been away for a day.”

“I…”

“Feels longer, doesn’t it?” he replied gently, his voice dropping in degrees without warning. “For me too. It always feels that forever would pass between my leaving Manderley and coming home.”

Buffy’s heart sank a little. Reality had a way of chilling one’s bones, regardless how expected said reality was. He was merely homesick, and her presence was just another factor of home.

She was just glad to be here for him in whatever way he needed.

“I’ll be home this evening,” William assured her. “Wesley insists on dropping by for supper, but after we get rid of him, we’ll commence a homecoming celebration, yes?”

Her face flushed. “Celebration?”

His chuckle warmed her again. “Life is always best when you find reasons to celebrate, love.”

Several quick, albeit nervous knocks stole words from her lips. Buffy smiled and glanced up as Winifred timidly pushed the door open, her arms full with a large sliver tray which dwarfed her in size. The girl looked so hopelessly awkward that for a second Buffy could have sworn she was gazing into a mirror.

“What’s that?” William asked.

“Winifred has brought me breakfast,” Buffy replied, encouraging her forward with a friendly wave.

“You’re eating in the bedroom?”

She stiffened guiltily. “Is that all right?” she asked, hating how quickly her confidence abandoned her. How she could at once sound weak and unsure of herself. “It was Mrs. Hart’s suggestion.”

“Of course it’s all right,” William replied, his tone flippant. “Why on earth wouldn’t it be?”

There was no way he could see the color return to her face or the sigh which rolled off her shoulders. He would likely be appalled if he knew how often her heart stopped and started again within a day. How very little it took to paralyze her body entirely with fear. The softest spoken word, a soft draw of breath, a fleeting glance across a crowded room—anything and everything had the power to unmake her. William held her entirely in his hands.

If he knew it, he was too good to let her know.

“I-I don’t know,” she replied, wincing. “I just thought—”

William cut her off with a groan which nearly drowned out the sound of a knock echoing somewhere on his end of the line. “Bloody hell,” he all but growled. “Sweetheart, I’ve got to run. Have Mrs. Hart instruct Cook to make stuffed chicken tonight, if you would. With any luck, I’ll be home before nightfall. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, William. I love you.”

The line went dead too quickly—she didn’t know whether or not her words carried over. Buffy stared at the phone for several long, silent seconds, her heart predictably wedged in her throat once more. As quickly as it had come, the hum of his voice faded and the room fell still. She was left with silence.

But she wasn’t alone.

“I-is this all right, Mrs. de Winter?” Winifred asked nervously, brushing her hair over her shoulders. “I-I didn’t mean to interrupt your—”

Buffy smiled disarmingly and waved a dismissive hand. “This is fine, Winifred. Thank you.”

“Is there anything else I can do?”

She nodded, glancing downward. “Inform Mrs. Hart that Mr. Wyndam Pryce will be joining us for supper, and that William has requested stuffed chicken for the meal.”

“Yes ma’am.”

The formality made her flinch inwardly but Buffy did nothing to correct her. Nor did she bother to assure the girl that the use of her given name was more than all right since they were alone. Ever since the incident with the Turning Angel, Winifred had understandably withdrawn within herself, defining identifiable boundaries of what was and wasn’t acceptable. At some point, rules and station had once again become imperative. Winifred needed them, and if the use of formalities gave her any comfort, Buffy wasn’t about to deny her.

Especially since the mess with the Turning Angel had been entirely her fault.

Buffy occupied herself for the rest of the morning in her room, emerging a little after one o’clock in a pair of brown trousers and a cream blouse. She still wasn’t accustomed to what she regarded as informal wear. Living with Mrs. Kendall—and beforehand, growing up as she did—
had taught her that anything less than a skirt was ruled unacceptable. She didn’t know why, but she was becoming more and more convinced with every passing day that either her guardians growing up and her employers lived in a mindset not fashionable since the nineteenth century, or underclass girls were expected to dress a certain way else society make crude judgments.

Buffy found she preferred trousers. They were so much more practical. Especially on days like today. Lazy days. Days she wished to spend enjoying herself without worrying about visitors—the curious, never-ending parade of Drusilla’s friends who were interested in catching a glance at William’s new wife.

There would be no visitors today, and if there were, she wouldn’t be found in the house. It was too gorgeous outside to confine herself indoors. Days like this were made for the Happy Valley with her sketchpad at the ready. Thus, with Jasper at her side, Buffy took down the familiar path leading to the small, natural sanctuary.

A long sigh rushed through her lips. She tossed her head back and glanced up, enjoying the sun’s warm kiss and the way the breeze flirted with her hair. Her constant mental track back to William was unavoidable; she knew how foolish her dependence on him looked to those on the outside. People like Anya, Xander, Wesley, and Drusilla’s endless horde of curious friends. It was one of the reasons she’d been so adamant on being left alone. She didn’t need anyone witnessing her quiet despair, or her jollity at mere news of William’s return.

He’d only been gone two days and one night, but the void of his absence was so potent she knew she wouldn’t be able to breathe freely until he returned. The depth of her own reaction had her astonished; she couldn’t abide the thought of anyone she knew and liked seeing her in such a state. Though she rarely saw him between awaking and suppertime, she felt him with every move she made. He was there—his gentle touch guiding her through the day. Sheltering her. Veiling her in ways she hadn’t fathomed.

Without William here, she felt truly alone. Alone in a stranger’s house.

It was strange how little she had adapted to life at Manderley. Every time she felt she was making progress—that the whispers behind her were truly nothing more than figments of an overly active imagination—she found herself struggling for balance with every obstacle tossed at her. Real and imagined.

Buffy inhaled sharply and shook her head, rubbing her arms to generate heat. When she glanced up, she saw she was at the fork in the path. One path was familiar and friendly, canvassed in trees and shielded with a sense of inherent comfort. The other led to the bay. The place she’d only visited once. The place where she’d met Ben. The place where Drusilla had disappeared.

Another long sigh rolled off her shoulders. Jasper had expectedly hurried down the path with which he was most familiar. No matter how many times she walked with him to the Happy Valley, Jasper always attempted to lead her to the bay. He was such a happy creature—so warm and friendly. She almost felt bad for chastising him upon every walk for nothing more than mere instance. The dog could hardly help it if he preferred one path over the other. Familiarity bred comfort; Buffy felt she knew this better than anyone.

Nevertheless, it did not stop her from raising her voice to chastise him. “Jasper!” she called, jerking her chin toward the Happy Valley when he turned his small, red head in her direction. “This way.”

Jasper stared at her vacantly for a few seconds. There was a silent plea in his warm, loving eyes. One he issued upon every walk.

And Buffy, for the first time, hesitated a beat too long, allowing her thoughts to catch up with her. Thoughts which crossed her mind at least once every time she took him outside. Thoughts which, due to William’s absence, felt bolder today. More courageous.

There was nothing preventing her from venturing down to the bay. Nothing at all. William wouldn’t be back for hours. He wouldn’t be waiting for her in the Happy Valley as he had been the first day they walked together. He’d never know she’d gone to the bay.

He’d never know.

And the bay, of course, was on Manderley’s property. She wouldn’t be trespassing.

No. She’d just be standing in the place where Drusilla had last touched solid ground. The place where her life was forfeit. The place where William’s sorrow began.

Jasper wagged his tail expectantly. Buffy worried a lip between her teeth. Her mind was made up—it had been almost since the second she set foot out of the home. She just hadn’t realized it until reaching the fork. Until the happy dog glanced over his furry shoulder and beckoned her with his large, persuasive eyes.

“All right,” she whispered, her voice barely audible even to her. “All right, Jasper. Lead the way.”

How the creature heard her, she didn’t know. But the second the words left her lips, he emitted a joyous bark and bounded down the pathway.

Buffy cleared her throat and clutched her sketchpad closer to her breast. It felt heavy in her arms and she suddenly wished she hadn’t brought it along. She wasn’t going to use it today.

The path to the bay was a complete contrast from the path to the Happy Valley. There wasn’t a canopy of trees guarding her from the harsh sting of sunlight or small, seemingly insignificant gems of nature aligning the walkway. The air surrounding her seemed unnaturally heavy, and though it felt cool against her skin, the thickness had small beads of sweat dampening her brow. She didn’t know how the contrast of cool and heat failed to affect Jasper, who grew progressively cheerier the further they traveled.

How any creature, be it dog or human, could prefer this barren stretch to the quiet, heavenly solitude of the Happy Valley she didn’t know. The bay was everything the Happy Valley was not. Loud. Bright. Open. Harsh.

And here. Here was where Drusilla had taken her last steps.

It was just as she’d remembered it. The fathomless stretch of the gulf raced an eternity into the distance. She couldn’t tell where the ocean ended and the sky began. The warring blues clashed and blurred. She might as well have been at the edge of the world. At that moment, Buffy didn’t think she could have told the difference. This might have been where Poseidon and Zeus conferred. The heavens and sea merging. It was spectacular and terrifying at the same time. Here, she might as well have been the only person left on earth.

Here, she knew the true meaning of alone.

Jasper, of course, knew nothing of such solitude. As he had the first time she chased him to this lonely beach, the dog yelped cheerily and rolled in banks of sand. Oblivious as ever to the starkness of his surroundings. He couldn’t know this was where William had lost everything. This was where William’s nightmare began.

Buffy shivered again. How odd that she could be so warm and so cold at the same time.

“She don’t come here no more.”

A jerk commanded her heart but she forced herself not to jump. Instead, she swallowed hard and slowly turned around. A part of her had known Ben would be here, just as a part of her had known her feet wouldn’t carry her to the Happy Valley. Ben was as much a part of the mystery of the bay as Drusilla’s disappearance.

The vacancy in Ben’s eyes—the same which had followed her back to the Happy Valley the first time they met—told her that William was right in his summation weeks earlier of Ben’s mental faculties. There was nothing about Ben to frighten her. He looked at her dazedly, as though he was only half-aware she stood before him at all. He had the presence of an overgrown child and nothing more.

Still, even with such knowledge, she found herself trembling. Buffy swallowed hard and nodded encouragingly. Behind her, Jasper released a friendly yip. “Hello, Ben,” she said evenly, startled and pleased when her voice didn’t shake.

At the mention of his name, Ben’s eyes darted to his feet, his hands leaping to his shirt. He busied his fingers with a worn button which dangled from the ripped front pocket. “She don’t come here,” he repeated as though entranced. “The dark lady. She don’t come.”

“She doesn’t?”

He glanced up sharply and took an abrupt, jerky step backward. “You’re not gonna send me to the asylum, are you? Please don’t.”

“No, Ben.”

“I don’t want to go to the asylum.”

She shook her head. “I’m not going to send you to the asylum,” she assured him. “Who doesn’t come here anymore?”

“You’re not like her,” he replied, either not hearing her or ignoring the question. “Tall and dark. She said she’d send me to the asylum. She said it. She said—”

Buffy held up a hand to placate him. Waves crashed against the shoreline. Jasper barked joyously and dug himself a fort of sand. Ben stood a few feet away from her, trembling, nervous, afraid of her but in desperate need of something. Reassurance? What was there to say that she hadn’t already said?

There was little doubt in her mind that the dark lady was Drusilla. This man—this poor man—had known Drusilla. Had she frightened him?

Or had Ben frightened Drusilla? He was rather daunting on appearances alone. A vagrant wandering around the property, collecting seashells and looking perpetually lost—a lady like Drusilla would have been terrified. And rightfully so. Perhaps threats were made. Threats before William could explain Ben to her, as he had to Buffy. Before he could assure his beloved first wife that, while ostensibly intimidating, Ben was, indeed, as daft as a child.

“No one is going to the asylum,” Buffy said again.

“She don’t come here.”

A deep, resounding chill seized her bones. “Did she come here often?” she asked. “Drusilla, that is? Mrs. de Winter?”

Ben looked at her blankly and shook his head, not understanding.

Unfazed, Buffy pushed on. “Did Drusilla come here often, Ben? Was she down here—”

“She don’t come here no more.”

“I know she doesn’t. She won’t anymore. She won’t ever come here again.” Another current of cold crashed over her, sending rippling shock waves across her skin. “How often was she down here, Ben? How often was she in the boathouse?”

Buffy had no idea why the question was suddenly important; it simply was. Not that pressing did any good. Ben merely whimpered and shook his head, fat tears filling his fearful eyes. “Please don’t get mad,” he pleaded. “Nice lady. Won’t send me to the asylum. Nice lady won’t.”

A long tempered sigh crushed her chest. “I’m not angry, Ben. I just…”

Words failed her completely. There was no sense talking to Ben. He’d retreated within himself. His head was downcast now, his legs shuffling nervously from side-to-side. He was mumbling unintelligible words, and when she prompted him to look up again, he merely shook his head again and kept his eyes on the ground.

She’d frightened him. She didn’t know how, but she had frightened him.

At once, Buffy felt like a monster, and she didn’t know what to do. She wanted to apologize, but feared speaking would only exacerbate things. Ben was no longer with her—talking to him would make little difference. He wouldn’t hear her, and even if he did, he wouldn’t understand. How could he? She barely understood herself.

“Jasper,” Buffy said, patting her side. Immediately, the dog was at her feet, standing on his hind-legs and favoring her hand with several long, friendly licks. “We’ll head back now. It’s okay, Ben. It really is.”

Ben didn’t reply. He merely shuffled out of the way as she took up the path again.

Thoughts collided and warred on the way back, a thousand nameless presumptions floating around her head. Presumptions without guidance. Presumptions which wouldn’t provide answers.

Answers to what, Buffy didn’t know. She didn’t know anything.

Nothing beyond William’s return. Perhaps his absence was driving her mad.

Perhaps being alone in Manderley was driving her mad.

Perhaps Mrs. Kendall was right all along…

The thought was poisonous. She wouldn’t allow herself to think of such things. Not tonight. William was coming home.

The rush of comfort the persistent reminder provided was chased away the second Buffy glanced up.

There was an unfamiliar car in the drive.

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