Tempesta di Amore by Holly

Chapter 14

Buffy wandered the halls, feeling very much like a criminal in her own home. It wasn’t an unusual sensation, by any means. She was quite accustomed to feeling like a stranger. Like she belonged anywhere but where she was. It had never been like this, though. Never had she been reduced to actually tiptoeing around the house to avoid notice. She didn’t know who was here, but it was obvious enough they were welcome. Mrs. Hart wouldn’t allow someone who didn’t meet her approval inside. The person had to be a friend or colleague of William’s. One Buffy hadn’t met before.

One she wasn’t too eager to meet now. After her disastrous discussion with Ben, she would much rather just steal away to her room and wait until the evening brought William back home. Thus with Jasper at her side, she sneaked up the main stairwell, hoping the dog would remain quiet enough to elude attention.

A wordless conversation drifted through the still air; Buffy recognized the icy timber of Mrs. Hart’s voice immediately, her insides freezing as though caught under the woman’s unmovable glare. The guest was on the second floor, then. The guest was an intimate guest. One who knew the family well enough to proceed beyond the rooms below, which were designed, in part, to entertain visitors.

Only family and intimate friends were allowed upstairs.

And only friends of the family were allowed in the west wing. Buffy froze with the tenfold of that knowledge. The voices she heard were coming from the west wing. The place Drusilla had lived with William. The place William had closed off. The place no one but Mrs. Hart dared venture.

The guest had to be Mrs. Hart’s. There was no other explanation.

The man answered Mrs. Hart with a booming roar of a voice which bounced off the walls and carried down the corridor. It would be a wonder if the whole house didn’t hear him.

“That’s really all ol’ Spike is up to nowadays? I don’t even know why I’m surprised. Nothing quite like taking up a new one before the sheets get cold, though. What’s she like? The new one, I mean?”

Buffy’s eyes widened, her veins stiffening. It was appalling; the words themselves and imagining them being spoken to Mrs. Hart. The housekeeper’s answer, however, didn’t come with the hostility one might have imagined. Instead, her tone was quiet and reasonable, the words themselves an unintelligible murmur that might as well have meant nothing.

At her side, Jasper barked.

Buffy nearly jumped out of her skin, her eyes aiming a useless glare at her furry companion, whose tail was wagging with eager friendliness. Her heart pounded and her pulse raced. The last thing she wanted was to be caught eavesdropping by Mrs. Hart, thus before she could stop herself, her feet carried over the threshold of the nearest room. She took a quick glance around before resolutely placing herself behind the door, hoping Jasper wouldn’t follow her inside.

She cursed herself for hesitating at all before heading to her room. The situations she managed to get into around here were downright humiliating.

“What the devil was that?” the man’s voice carried over, seemingly louder than before.

“The dog,” Mrs. Hart replied obviously, her words now audible. They must be proceeding down the hallway. “It seems the mistress has returned home.”

Jasper barked a happy affirmation and panted.

“Spike’s new girl, right? Can’t wait to catch a glance of her.”

Buffy shuddered violently and prayed Jasper wouldn’t betray her. There was something about the man’s voice which made her insides recoil. Something undefined and beyond her sense of reasoning, but something very present nonetheless. She didn’t want to see his face, or know that he had seen hers. She didn’t want to be forced to shake his hand and paste on a smile for anyone’s benefit. The man was quite clearly Mrs. Hart’s guest. He was here to see Mrs. Hart.

Anyone here to see Mrs. Hart was someone Buffy wanted nothing to do with.

Her prayers, however, fell on deaf ears. Jasper bounded into the Morning Room a second later in search of her, bringing the mysterious visitor with him.

The mysterious visitor and Mrs. Hart.

“Well, well,” the man said, pulling the door back with a wide grin. “What have we got here?”

Seeing his face only furthered her discomfort. Buffy was paralyzed for long, endless seconds, her eyes soaking him in. He had dark hair and a generous build, and an expression which told her plainly he knew exactly how good looking he was. The sensation gripping her gut suddenly had her in an impossible choke-hold, and while she knew she should speak—should say something in hopes of alleviating this awkward moment—her mouth ran impossibly dry and all she could do was blink at him.

“May I present,” Mrs. Hart said behind him, her tone icier than ever. “Mrs. Elizabeth de Winter.”

“Elizabeth?” the man repeated, brows arched.

At any other point in introductions, Buffy would find it appropriate to correct whoever she was meeting with her preferred name. However, for whatever reason, she didn’t want this man to have any sort of intimate knowledge about her. Be it her name, which was powerless, or her relationship with William. Thus she swallowed hard and nodded, managing a tight, “Yes, I am Elizabeth de Winter.”

Mrs. Hart knew well enough which name she preferred. If she was surprised by Buffy’s reply, she did not show it.

“Wonderful to meet you at last,” the man said thickly, taking her hand before she could offer it. The feel of his skin against hers sent an unpleasant shiver down her spine. “I’m Angelus O’Malley.”

Buffy desperately wanted her hand back. “Charmed,” she replied.

“So…don’t tell me Spike’s already run off on you?” Angelus drawled, his black eyes twinkling as he rocked on his heels. “I hear he’s taken to London.”

She very much didn’t like the way he spoke. The words themselves were innocuous; his tone was very much not. And she certainly didn’t care for the name. The name she remembered seeing scribbled in a book William had given her ages ago. The name Drusilla had called him. However, betraying nothing, Buffy managed a mere nod and confirmed, “There was a public dinner.”

“Oh yes. A public dinner. There’s loads of those, I’m sure.” He shrugged and shot Mrs. Hart a wide grin. The woman did not grin back. “So…Elizabeth, is it? How’re you liking Manderley? Bit of a bore, I’d say, ‘specially when Spike’s away. Not that he’s good for much as far as entertainment goes whether he’s here or not.” Angelus laughed loudly as though he’d said something incredibly witty. “What do you do for fun?”

Buffy pursed her lips and shot a glance to Mrs. Hart, silently imploring her for help. There was none to be had.

“I sketch,” she replied politely.

“Can’t imagine I’d be driven away from a sweet little filly like you, were I in Spike’s shoes,” Angelus continued as though she hadn’t spoken, his eyes roaming over her in a predatory fashion which made her feel naked. “Spike told you much about me?”

She really wished he’d stop referring to William by that name. It painted her husband in a harsh, near unforgiving light. He was no longer William the Poet; William who walked with her to the Happy Valley, who petted Jasper when the dog jumped into his lap, who made her body sing with pleasure even if he kept the part of him she wanted most out of reach. William was a good man; calling him Spike stripped away inherent levels of propriety. It was degrading and disrespectful. It didn’t acknowledge him for the man he was.

“No. William hasn’t mentioned you,” Buffy replied coldly. She barely recognized her own voice.

Angelus didn’t acknowledge her one way or another. He didn’t nod apologetically or balk in offense. Her tone wasn’t ambiguous; the widening of Mrs. Hart’s eyes—imperceptible but existent—expressed a certain measure of surprise. It was justifiably surprising, as Buffy never spoke up. The day, it seemed, was one of many surprises.

“There’s a shocker,” he drawled. “Figured he’d have sprouted a load of warnings by now. No worries, though. I was just here to see ole Erzsie.” He tossed the living statue another glance. “We’re old friends, Hart and I.”

Buffy blinked. She turned her eyes to Mrs. Hart, who betrayed nothing. “Erzie?”

“Erzsebet,” Mrs. Hart with a slight inclination of her head. “My given name.”

She didn’t clarify, and Buffy was stunned. Never would she have expected Mrs. Hart to tolerate such blatant insolence to her face. This was the same woman who chastised Buffy every morning for telling her the day’s menu wasn’t a matter she gave much thought. Imagining Mrs. Hart and the man at her side as old friends was practically impossible. They were from two completely different worlds.

“Mr. O’Malley was Drusilla’s cousin,” Mrs. Hart said softly, as though reading her mind. “He visits occasionally when Mr. de Winter is away.”

The revelation nearly knocked Buffy off her feet, and perhaps would have had Jasper not barked loudly to remind everyone he was in the room. Her heart thundered and her pulse raced, a shrill deafening her ears for seemingly endless seconds before the world returned to her. Angelus was a relation of Drusilla’s?

Mrs. Hart’s eyes burned into hers, and Buffy felt at once as though she was the symptom of everything wrong in the world of Manderley.

This changed everything. This made everything relevant.

Angelus connected Mrs. Hart to Drusilla.

Buffy’s stomach turned. It suddenly became imperative that she put as much distance between Angelus and herself as possible. There was something in his eyes she didn’t trust. He looked like a thief on the verge of a truly amazing steal. As though this revelation should make him royalty in her eyes; as though she should feel privilege to stand with him, for his time was precious. He was a relative of Drusilla’s.

“I should like to take you driving sometime,” Angelus purred, his eyes raking over her again. “Did you see the Bentley in the drive? She’s a beaut, isn’t she?”

The air was very thick. Her skin was warm and slick. Buffy swallowed hard but didn’t reply. She needed to get away from him. From Mrs. Hart. She needed to get away right now.

“Next time Spike skips out, we’ll make a day of it.” The horrible man winked, turning at last to Mrs. Hart with a small nod. “Think I’ll be heading out, Erzsie. Be a love and see me out?”

Buffy didn’t breathe freely until she was again left alone. Until the weight burdening her shoulders finally allowed her a gasp of reprieve. She didn’t know what had just happened, and she wasn’t sure she wanted an answer. Her tired mind was exhausting itself into another endless race. She still had to muddle through how she could interpret Ben’s cryptic words. Faced now with someone who knew Drusilla—someone seemingly unconnected to William—it was too much for her. Too much for this moment.

William is coming home, she reminded herself, but the reassurance didn’t calm her nerves as it had all day. She wanted him home right now. She needed to talk to him about this—about the thoughts colliding with conscience and the ghosts constantly chasing her around corners. There was only so much a person could take.

Only so much…

Buffy sighed heavily, absently caressing Jasper’s head when the dog whined and arched on his hind-legs, his two front paws pressed against her thigh in search of attention. It was growing increasingly more difficult to ignore the pang in her chest. The way it hurt to breathe when she gazed upon William’s familial portraits. The way her reflection portrayed a girl far out of her element. The way the servants whispered. The way Mrs. Hart’s critical eye never gave her a single moment’s rest.

Mrs. Hart, who had loved Drusilla.

Jasper favored her hand with a parting lick before taking off down the stairs, leaving her completely alone. Buffy shivered, her eyes turning to the forbidden stretch of hallway which led to the west wing. Mrs. Hart and Angelus O’Malley had come from those quarters. The only place in Manderley she had yet to explore. What could be left in the west wing from William and Drusilla’s marriage?

Did she want to know?

The word want, of course, was relative. There was very little want about her living conditions. She didn’t want to hear tales of Drusilla, no more than she wanted to consider the endless emptiness which seized William’s eyes. She didn’t want to know how happy he’d been one time and she didn’t want any reminders of how he would never find such happiness with her.

Drusilla’s ghost couldn’t chase her forever. Either she would find rest or Buffy would go mad. She couldn’t continue like this.

She couldn’t continue half alive, hoping her love for William would be enough. And she couldn’t let her marriage fail. She loved him too much. Perhaps—perhaps—if Buffy found a way to consign Drusilla forever to the grave—if only for herself—she could learn how to live at Manderley. She could learn…

Before Buffy could stop herself, her feet were carrying her down a corridor of shadows and into a realm she’d never before ventured.

The halls of the west wing mirrored those of the east with unsurprising symmetry. For long, heavy seconds, she was aware of nothing but the sound of her thundering heart and the trembling breaths rolling off her shoulders. Many times she had envisioned what Drusilla’s end of the manor looked like—picturing drawn curtains, cob-webbed corners, and a tunnel of darkness before emerging in the once-master bedroom. Her imagination faltered in the wake of reality. Aside from a definitive lack of light, there was nothing out of place. Every corner was spotless. The walls, unsurprisingly, were decorated with portraits. There was nothing to suggest this wing of the house was uninhabited. Were Buffy to hold her breath, she could envision a woman in an immaculate dress—a woman of infamous charm and beauty—turning the corner, the fabric of her skirt whispering with every step.

Drusilla’s heart still beat in this hall. In the air Buffy breathed.

Then she turned again, her feet leading her to where she knew she would find the bedroom. And in the doorway, she froze solid.

Sunlight poured in through open windows, spilling onto flawless pearl carpet as though guided by God. The canopy bed against the wall was neatly made, save for the corner of the crimson spread, turned down as though waiting for its mistress. A white nightgown was strewn across the mattress with a pair of matching slippers waiting on the floor. Across from the bed sat a large mahogany armoire, one panel open, displaying an assortment of stylish clothing which knew no time period. In the far corner, complete with a waiting set of brushes and a selection of rich perfumes, was a vanity. The room itself was a snapshot of time. There was nothing dead about these walls.

Sickness churned in her gut. The air around her thinned. Her chest ached. Every nerve in her body trembled with awareness.

Drusilla had never left the room. She lived here still. Everything was waiting for her. Everything was set out. Her brushes. Her clothes. Her nightgown. The windows were unlocked so she could hear the ocean. Her armoire was open so she could riffle through her belongings. The bed was turned down in anticipation of her rest. The room breathed of her. Lilac fragranced the air.

“Oh my God,” Buffy breathed, her numb legs dragging her back. She needed to get out. She needed to get out now.

“You have wanted to see this room for some time, haven’t you, Mrs. de Winter?”

The intrusion nearly startled her out of her skin. Buffy jumped and turned, her heart crashing against her chest as the rest of her turned to stone. Mrs. Hart was in the doorway, her hands crossed properly in front of her, an odd look on her face. The tone of the question indicated she did not want a reply; it was the sort of thing one said when they wanted to provide their own answer.

“Of course you have,” she said, her voice firm with conviction.

“No,” Buffy replied immediately. “No, I want to return—”

“Here.” The woman’s icy fingers closed around her wrist, tugging her eagerly to the armoire. “Let me show you.”

This was a face of Mrs. Hart she had never seen before. The once-frozen façade had melted into an almost schoolgirl warmth. It was not reassuring—if anything, the absence of the tundra made Buffy even more aware of herself. But she didn’t know what to do. The woman’s grip was unmovable, dragging her into a subworld she should never have breeched.

“She had infamous taste,” Mrs. Hart said, throwing open the other panel of the armoire and selecting a sleeveless, ruby dress. “She was envied for it. Every event, every party, every celebration…people would rush in just to see what she was wearing. This she wore to the very last New Years party she and Mr. de Winter threw together.”

Buffy swallowed hard. She didn’t want to touch it. “It’s lovely.”

“And here,” Mrs. Hart continued, jerking Buffy’s reluctant feet to the vanity. “She used to sit here for hours as I brushed her hair. One hundred strokes at a time. No more. No less. She had the finest hair.” With her free hand, the woman selected the largest brush and held it up for Buffy’s inspection. “You can see her hair here. As though it had just been brushed last night.”

The admission had her feeling sick all over again, but fortunately, she didn’t get any time to react. In an instant, she was at the side of the bed, her eyes glued to the nightgown and the turned down bedspread.

“And this,” Mrs. Hart said, releasing Buffy’s wrist at last to admire the lacey white fabric with both hands. “Still warm. You’d think…she was still here. Still with us.”

“Mrs. Hart, please…”

“The night she went out and never came back, I sat in here. Waiting for her. Waiting to brush her hair. I could hear Mr. de Winter upstairs, of course. He spent the night in his study. He had no wish to sleep without her, you see.” Mrs. Hart nodded hard, as though only half aware Buffy existed at all. “I heard him pacing all night. He never stopped pacing. For weeks after, I would sit in here, waiting…and he would stay in the study. He never slept in here again.”

Buffy’s stomach curled again. She was too stunned to cry. Too stunned to react. Too stunned to register the many stabs the woman took at her heart and the way she was slowly bleeding from the inside. There was nothing about the night Drusilla disappeared that Buffy wanted to know. She wanted to keep Drusilla in the past. She wanted to keep her buried.

Mrs. Hart was intent on making sure she lived.

“Do you think,” the old woman continued wistfully, releasing the nightgown and turning back to Buffy with swift rapidity, “that the dead come back and watch over the living?”

The room spun wildly around her.

“I…I don’t know.”

Mrs. Hart came closer. “Do you think Drusilla watches you with Mr. de Winter? When you’re alone together?”

The manic note in the housekeeper’s voice sent a shiver of pure fear down Buffy’s spine. She was going to faint.

And yet, she was only aware of the cool air whipping her cheeks as she tore out of the room and raced down the hall, determined to get as far from Mrs. Hart and Drusilla’s room before consciousness evaded her completely. She ran without direction, without thought. She ran until her tired legs collapsed at the foot of the staircase, and waited there for the world to stop spinning.

*~*~*

Someone was shaking her shoulder.

“Buffy? Buffy, are you all right?”

Her eyes remained closed. Every inch of her ached. “William?”

There was a small pause. “I’m sorry, no,” came the soft reply. “It’s Wesley.”

Buffy blinked and sat up wearily. Colors blurred and shapes merged, but eventually she found she was lying on the settee in the downstairs drawing room. The cold cloth which had been pressed against her brow fell limply into her lap. “What…?”

“Mrs. Hart had you brought in here a little while ago,” Wesley said, waving Winifred over with a disarming, almost charismatic smile Buffy had never seen on his face before. He took the glass of water the young woman offered with a gracious nod, then turned back to Buffy and held it to her lips. “She said you weren’t feeling well.”

Mention of the woman had her stomach churning all over again. “Where’s William?” she asked instead, her tired muscles screaming for rest.

“He’s…Buffy, I’m so sorry. He won’t be making it tonight.”

“What?”

“He telephoned just after I arrived. The weather in London is dreadful. Not at all ideal for driving.” Wesley held the glass to her lips until she took it into her own hand, concern etched across every line of his face. “I’m so sorry, Buffy. You should have heard him…I don’t know if I’ve ever known him to be so distraught.” He paused shortly. “He’s going to phone again tonight. He needs to hear your voice.”

Buffy blinked again. Her mind was frozen around one reality. William wasn’t coming home tonight. “What?” she replied, chilled.

“I told him you’re ill. He’s very worried.”

“Oh.”

She wasn’t ill. She just wanted William.

She wanted William, and she wanted to forget Drusilla’s bedroom. She wanted to forget everything.

“William requested that I stay in one of the guest rooms. Is that all right?” Wesley paused, gauging her response. “He doesn’t…he doesn’t want you to be alone if you’re not feeling well. He did tell me, though, that the final word rests with you.”

There wasn’t an inch of her that wasn’t numb. “Will he be home tomorrow?”

“Oh yes. He’s leaving as soon as it’s light outside.” Another pause. “I’m so sorry, Buffy.”

She nodded, barely hearing him, and sipped her water. She knew she should say something; should tell him she was all right. She should tell him one of a thousand things.

But he wasn’t William. And she wanted William.

So instead, she said nothing at all.


TBC

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