Chapter 16
Author's Notes:
Buffy didn’t enjoy spending time with Drusilla’s friends, and from the look on William’s face, hers was a shared sentiment. However, it was typically Mrs. Hart who scheduled the appointments and made arrangements. The woman would, of course, confirm the luncheons with her employer, but William would acquiesce to nearly every proposal unless he was otherwise engaged. There was no rhyme or reason to his constant and unfailing accord—and it meant, more or less, that whenever Drusilla’s friends contacted Mrs. Hart, William and Buffy were subjected to their company.
Today was one such day.
“You know how I’ve always admired that portraiture,” Darla Manners crooned, indicating one of Buffy’s favorite oil paintings. “It’s deliciously…gothic.”
The artwork to which she referred depicted Christ at Gethsemane, the sky graced with the whispers of morning and the ground freckled with the temptations of the earth. Buffy herself wasn’t overtly religious—Mrs. Kendall had never taken her to church and though she’d provided Buffy with a Bible, she hadn’t demanded she read it. And yet, her own lack of religiosity notwithstanding, the image of Gethsemane, of true torment, of being torn between the spiritual and the temporal, was one she found moving beyond words.
It seemed an odd painting for Darla to admire. Perhaps she liked seeing pure beings inflicted with pain and temptation.
“Yes, it’s lovely,” William agreed absently, taking a sip of wine and meeting Buffy’s gaze. His face wasn’t smiling, but his eyes were—as though inviting her to enjoy a private joke. “Though rather gloomy for the Day Room, isn’t it?”
Darla batted a hand and turned back to the party. The small room wherein Buffy and William normally took their meals was composed of a modest group of relative strangers. Anya and Xander were with them, but Anya’s customary bluntness was seemingly fastened on a rather short leash. She would occasionally get a gleam in her eye which demanded vocalization, but would use a forkful of food to quickly dismiss what she wanted to say. Likewise, the familiar and welcome face of Wesley also graced the table; he kept shooting Buffy reassuring glances when he wasn’t following Winifred’s progression from the kitchen into the main hall.
The remainder of the party consisted of people whom Buffy had met before but didn’t particularly care to know beyond what was expected of her. There was Darla Manners, allegedly one of Drusilla’s favorite confidantes, and her husband, an older man named Holland. Sitting beside Darla was Lilah Morgan, a wealthy widow whose husband had passed away under circumstances which some might construe as suspicious. Lastly, there were Francis and Cordelia Doyle, who, of all Drusilla’s friends, seemed to be the nicest people present. Neither spoke much, but when they did, their words were always kind and without the hint of malice Buffy heard in Darla’s questions or sensed in Lilah’s seemingly innocuous observations.
“I must say, Will,” Darla said, sighing heavily. “It is a shame not to see the place living up to its reputation.”
“Easy for you to say,” William retorted. “You’re never left with the clean-up.”
“I believe what Darla means,” Lilah interjected coolly, “is that Manderley—”
“I assure you, there’s nothing you can tell me about Manderley that I do not already know.”
“It seems criminal to hold such great artwork hostage,” Darla continued, indicating Gethsemane again.
“If you like, I could provide you with the phone number and address of the artist in question. I’m sure he sells duplicates.”
Holland Manners chuckled as though something outrageously funny had been suggested. “Don’t give her any ideas, my good man,” he said thickly. “My darling wife is already rather savage on my pocketbook.”
“The price one pays for having exquisite taste,” Lilah noted.
“And no virtue,” Anya mumbled. Xander and Buffy glanced up at the same minute; Xander seizing his wife’s wrist as though to scold her as Buffy stifled a laugh. Anya met her eyes and winked, then tossed her husband’s hand away and glanced up, the mock-picture of innocence.
“My sister’s a bad influence,” William muttered, startling her. “But a bloody entertaining one.”
Buffy looked at him curiously. “Anya’s a bad influence on me?” she whispered.
“On everyone with a pulse. On you, though, my love, she could stand to be a little worse.”
“Ahhh,” Darla said loudly, forcing them apart like guilty lovers. “The newlyweds are whispering again. Should we be concerned?”
“Not so newly,” Wesley observed.
“Still, we haven’t gotten a chance to get to know the new Mrs. de Winter. Not really.” Darla tilted her head and tsked, her eyes forming two perfect slits as they sized up Buffy. “You ought to call me sometime, dear. I can’t imagine how dreadfully dull it must be…trapped within these walls day after day…not a shop in sight. Do you ever go to town?”
“On occasion,” Buffy said politely. It was a stretch. William had taken her for dinner and a show two weeks back, following his own return from London, and Anya had once dragged her along to shop for hats. Her life, otherwise, was indeed confined within Manderley. And though Manderley itself seemed to be an entity determined to bring about her end, Buffy found herself oddly defensive at Darla’s casual insinuation: as though her life had little to no value if she wasn’t entertaining herself in the city day after day.
Thankfully, Cordelia Doyle spoke before she could. “I think if I lived in a home as vast as this one,” she said, “I would find wandering its corridors to be adventure enough. The paintings themselves, Darla…you were admiring the Gethsemane. Imagine living in a museum such as this house. I could lose myself for hours simply admiring the walls.”
The smile on Darla’s face was one of forced civility. “From you, we could expect no less.”
“That begs the question, then,” Lilah said. “Buffy…have you selected a favorite painting? I’m sure you’ve had
more than enough time to sort through the finalists.”
“It’s a good thing this conversation isn’t dull,” Anya said loudly, completely ignoring her wide-eyed husband.
Wesley snorted into his glass. William bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. Buffy squeezed his hand under the table.
“Your tact has improved, I see,” Darla said acidly.
William chuckled. “I wouldn’t goad her. There’s plenty she
hasn’t said.”
“I haven’t,” Buffy told Lilah, forcing her attention away from Darla and Anya, who were now glaring at each other. “I haven’t chosen a favorite…though I do like the one in the main hall. The girl in the white dress.”
“Our great-grandmother’s portrait? The girl who’s holding the sun hat?” Anya asked with sudden interest.
“That’s the one,” Buffy agreed.
“Oh yes. That one has always been wildly popular.”
William’s hand fell from hers without warning, and when she glanced up, the far-away look he often adapted had seized his stormy eyes. The cold detachment. The pained seas of some coveted memory. The fall was so swift, Buffy barely had any time to recover.
“Oh
yes,” Darla said. “That portrait is
gorgeous.” Buffy hurriedly turned her attention back to Lilah and Darla, who shared a significant look.
“Do you have a favorite, William?” Lilah asked.
There was nothing for a cold second. It was as though he hadn’t heard her.
Wesley coughed into his hand and nudged him gently. “Will?”
William blinked, shaking his head hard and coming back to himself. He glanced from Buffy to Lilah, and answered before she could repeat her question, “Favorite work of art? Nothing that’s on the walls.”
“I always thought you might hide your more…risqué pieces away from public viewing,” Darla practically purred.
Cordelia rolled her eyes and muttered something to her husband.
For his part, William did little more than offer a thin, somewhat amused smile and politely incline his head. “Your imagination humbles me, Mrs. Manners,” he said, his tone polite but accented with a cool undertone which could not be interpreted as anything other than a fine warning. The flicker in Darla’s eyes whispered that she’d received the message loud and clear. “I don’t have any artwork in storage…that I’m aware of, anyway. As it is, the house decorations aren’t by my design.”
“That’s right,” Lilah said. “Didn’t Drusilla pick these out?”
Buffy clenched a fist beneath the table, willing herself not to meet Anya’s, Xander’s, or even Wesley’s eyes. She didn’t even wish to glance up to see how William would react; her mind provided enough detail as it was.
“Most,” came the clipped reply.
“And you do not have a favorite among her selection?”
“The best artwork in the house is in my wife’s possession,” William asserted.
Buffy glanced up sharply. “What? I don’t own—”
“He means your drawings, dear,” Wesley said gently. “Your sketchbook?”
William met her eyes and smiled, offering a soft nod to confirm his friend’s clarification.
“Oh, you
draw?” Darla patronizingly crooned, clasping her hands together, an unkind light filling her near-inhuman eyes. “How…delightful.”
“Yes, very quaint,” Lilah supplied. “You simply
must share them with us.”
The thought of showing either of Drusilla’s friends something as personal and private as her drawings, the many sketches she’d done of William, the scenery of the Happy Valley, the few drawings of Jasper, and just recently, Manderley itself, was repulsive. Couldn’t bear the image forced upon her by her unforgiving mind of Darla and Lilah dropping saccharine words of false sincerity over every page, sharing those damned secret looks only to convene far away, laughing about what an utter failure she was. How she was nothing like Drusilla. How William’s loss had obviously made him addle-minded, should he believe her an adequate substitute for the one he truly loved.
Or perhaps it would confirm what they thought already; William had chosen Buffy to be his wife because she
was so different from Drusilla. So it would be impossible for him to touch what he once had—to besmirch her celebrated memory.
“I don’t think she
must do anything,” William said dryly. “The drawings are hers to share with whom she deems…worthy.”
The possessiveness in his voice was very humbling, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes again.
A laugh slithered through Darla’s lips, as though he’d said something highly amusing. “Down boy,” she drawled, “I don’t think Lilah was suggesting anything particularly sinister.”
William didn’t reply, but Buffy had the feeling he wasn’t entirely convinced.
“I still say you’re doing this house a shame,” Darla continued richly. “The costume balls, William! You’re depriving your lovely bride the image of how Manderley functioned in its prime.”
“It’s a house, not a steed,” Anya remarked.
Holland Manners chuckled as though the entire high-tempered conversation was a big joke. “You know these women and their parties,” he said, winking at Xander, who forced a polite smile and shuffled uncomfortably.
“If Buffy is interested in throwing a masque, I’m more than willing to stand aside,” William said coolly, at last meeting Buffy’s gaze.
Suddenly all eyes were on her. Her throat ran dry and her heart thundered.
“I…I don’t…I’ve never attended…”
It would be better if the words she spoke formed a coherent sentence or, at the very least, a non-fragmented thought. How thoroughly ridiculous she must look. To these people who were accustomed to seeing a woman of elegance and glamour at William’s side. To these people who looked at her as though she was a child who demanded their patience and soft, short-worded explanations.
Worst yet, her lack of verbosity seemed to only fuel Darla and Lilah, who traded what looked like a triumphant glance. “The poor girl’s never even
attended a masque?” the former demanded. “Good Lord, William, have you been keeping her locked in the attic?”
“Here now,” Wesley intervened, his brow furrowing. “That’s not—”
“We’ll discuss it,” William said abruptly, his tone indicating, in no uncertain terms: the conversation was over. “Believe me…if we decide to throw a masque, you’ll be the first to know.”
The light in Darla’s eyes refused to die out completely, but even she, it seemed, knew when to stop pushing.
Still, it didn’t stop her from trading significant glances with Lilah.
The sort of glances which screamed volumes through silence.
*~*~*
“That foul, contemptible, buck-tooth old hag!”
Xander met Wesley’s eyes, barely holding in his grin. “Please Anya,” he said, “tell us how you really feel.”
If she noticed the levity in her husband’s voice, she made no note of it. “I had a right mind to throw her out the window.” Her eyes narrowed as she took in Xander’s muffled snickering. “Are you saying I couldn’t? I have incredibly strong thighs, as you should know by now!”
That much shut Xander up. His skin became an interesting shade of red and his chuckles broke into harsh coughs.
“Anya, you have all the tact of a whore in church,” William mused dryly, though his eyes were warm with amusement. “Though for the sake of my bay windows, I admit I am relieved you restrained yourself.”
“She was purposefully goading you, Will!”
William bowed his head politely, resting a hand on Buffy’s knee. She hadn’t said anything since their less appealing company left. She hadn’t known what to say or even if there
was anything to say. Her mind was still racing, her heart cadencing steadily as she fought to grasp a hold of herself.
“You should throw a masque and keep her name off the guest-list, just to spite her,” Anya said, her voice hardened with conviction.
“My answer remains the same,” William replied reasonably. “If Buffy wants a masque, we will have a masque.”
“I’ve never attended a masque,” Buffy said, her voice soft, her eyes distant, her mind elsewhere. “I don’t…I don’t know…”
There was a long, heavily sympathetic pause. “They are quite fun,” Anya admitted begrudgingly. “And Manderley was certainly known for them. I say, Will, if you do it, you
really must make sure Darla and that horrid Lilah woman aren’t invited.”
“I daresay William wouldn’t go out of his way to subject himself to their tiresome company,” Wesley observed, flashing a brilliant smile in Winifred’s direction as she entered the room with the afternoon tea. “They weren’t great friends of his.”
The unspoken words made every follicle in the air freeze. It lasted for an eternity before offering anything resembling a reprieve. William cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, his grip on Buffy’s knee becoming discomfortingly tight. “Yes, well,” he replied, his tone evasive, “Mrs. Hart remains in close contact with…acquaintances I’ve made over the years and acts—”
“Like she owns the place,” Anya muttered, taking her tea with a polite, half-smile.
“Now—”
“Honest to God, I don’t understand why you don’t simply dismiss her.”
“On what grounds?” William returned, tilting his head. “She runs the manor most efficiently.”
“She runs it like it’s
her home.”
“Manderley
is her home. It’s home to all who are employed here.”
“But it’s—”
William held up a hand, and all conversation abruptly ceased. “I’ve had my…disagreements with Mrs. Hart,” he said gently, his eyes going distant again, leaving little doubt as to what he was recollecting. The incident just two weeks back; the one where he’d yelled at the old woman in the hallway. He hadn’t mentioned Angelus O’Malley or his displeasure with Mrs. Hart since, but there were times when his gaze would harden disapprovingly when she entered or exited a room that Buffy knew he was remembering.
“I’ve had my disagreements,” he said again, returning to himself. “Mrs. Hart is a woman from a different era. She is accustomed to things being handled in a certain way. I’ve had little trouble with her over the years, and it seems rather unnecessary to dismiss her without warrant. As it is…” William turned his attention to Buffy. “I don’t believe it would be my call.”
She blinked dumbly, realizing after a second what he was implying. “I’m sorry?”
“Well, love, you’re the one who has to deal with her day in and day out. I barely see her at all. If Mrs. Hart’s performance is disagreeable, it would be for you to decide.”
Buffy swallowed. “I…I don’t…she’s…” The walls spun around her. “This is
her home.”
William frowned and looked ready to correct her, even though he had just said the same; perhaps he would have, had Xander not chosen that second to interject:
“Besides, if you’re going to throw a masque, Mrs. Hart’s the one to call the shots, right?”
This seemed to placate whatever had been on William’s mind. The inquisitiveness died and he nodded wisely, leaning back. “Quite right.”
“Mrs. Hart would plan the masque?”
“Of course,” Anya remarked snidely. “It’s
her house, after all.”
“She has experience planning parties,” Wesley said, a bit softer. “They’re always great successes…the parties.”
“Well, if Buffy has never attended a masque, and if William’s willing, I don’t see why we shouldn’t follow Mrs. Manners’s suggestion.” A sly smile drew across Xander’s face. “Though I’m with Ahn on this…you should make sure she and Mrs. Morgan aren’t invited. They’ve never struck me as…oh, how to put it…
good people. And now that—errr, that is, it seems there’s little reason to continue associating with them.”
Buffy quite liked this idea. She would be very happy never to see Darla Manners or Lilah Morgan ever again.
“But Cordelia and Francis Doyle are lovely,” Anya said, her tone earnest. “Invite them.”
William chuckled. “Am I to understand we’ve decided? We’re throwing a masque?” He squeezed Buffy’s knee again. “Sweetheart?”
It struck her after a few blank seconds that she was expected to speak. Buffy shook her head and sat up, feeling very much like a student caught daydreaming in mid-lecture. “I—ohh, yes. A masque sounds like great fun.” She paused and cleared her throat. “I must admit my accord with Anya as well…as far as the guest-list goes.”
William smiled gently and nodded. “I believe that the vote is unanimous,” he said. “Unless Wesley harbors a secret affinity for the aforementioned that he doesn’t wish to share among dissenters?”
The look on Wesley’s face was so funny, Buffy had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.
“So now that we’re definitely having a masque, the task becomes deciding who or what to dress up as,” Anya declared, evidently proud of herself.
“D-dress up as?” Buffy repeated, her mirth fading to more familiar confusion.
Everyone looked at her. She shrank.
“Oh yes,” Anya said. “A masque, darling. A
masquerade. Costumes. Should be fun.”
“Most women love it,” William agreed, smiling kindly at her. “A sort of…come as you
aren’t night…or as you are but often pretend you aren’t.”
Anya snorted appreciatively.
It all was very much self-explanatory, but she still felt especially lost in a world beyond her measure. Still, the prospect held its fair share of appeal. To hide oneself in costume—to become someone else entirely. To take on a different personality. To be
different. Buffy could understand the allure. Hiding behind another face seemed, at times, the only way to survive.
“It’ll be brilliant,” Wesley said. “They’re great fun. You’ll enjoy yourself.”
“And God knows this place could stand some lively music and dancing,” Anya observed. She held up her hand at William’s expected objection. “I know, I know. Tact of a whore in church. Can’t blame a girl for speaking the truth.”
Buffy grinned at Anya, who sent her an answering wink. In very few places, she felt fate had smiled upon her; the gift of this particular sister-in-law was one of them. This woman had the ability to dismantle Manderley with her mere presence.
Buffy only wished her own bravado measured up.
*~*~*
The task of appropriating a costume for the masque had seemed, at first, an easy one. However, as the date of the masque approached, Buffy found herself running vastly out of ideas. It occurred to her—namely due to Mrs. Hart’s constant, however indirect reminders—that this would be her public debut as Mrs. William de Winter. She’d met most, if not all, of William’s friends and associates in private, but this would be her first time to step into a role expected of her. She needed to represent him, represent the home, represent the name.
She needed to be as alluring as Drusilla without
being Drusilla.
It all seemed near impossible.
“There are quite a few portraits in the home, as you might have noticed,” Mrs. Hart suggested one day upon her daily inventory of the Morning Room. “I have known women to draw inspiration from familial renderings. Perhaps there is something there that would suit you?”
Buffy frowned thoughtfully, leaning on her sketchpad and completely missing the disapproving glare Mrs. Hart directed at her arm as her white linen sleeve brushed against the lines of her drawing. “Yes…one of the family portraits…but…what sort of costume could I come up with in that amount of time? I don’t—”
“You have your drawings, of course.”
She sat up. “I’m sorry?”
“I know a special sort of tailor in town. I used to send him many of Mrs. de Winter’s orders. She used him most famously for Manderley’s various parties.” Mrs. Hart paused. “If you find a painting you most admire, I suggest you sketch it out. Winifred can take your measurements.” There was another short silence. “It’s the sort of thing Mrs. de Winter would have done.”
There was no rhyme or reason to this sudden breach of kindness in Mrs. Hart’s icy demeanor, but Buffy wasn’t about to question it. Perhaps, in the wake of everything, the woman was at last trying to reach out to her. Trying to be friendly. After all, Manderley was about to throw a masque, an event which gave Mrs. Hart a sense of regal power and a reason to feel whole and normal once more. Given her rate, continued disapproval of her new mistress seemed a futile effort.
Moreover, Mrs. Hart loved Manderley, even if she didn’t favor Buffy. She wouldn’t want the home’s reputation to suffer.
“Oh, thank you,” Buffy said eagerly, jumping to her feet. “Thank you. That is precisely what I’ll do.”
“Very good, madam,” Mrs. Hart replied. “And if…I might be so bold as to make one further suggestion?”
Eager to keep the sense of companionship thriving, Buffy nodded. “Yes, please.”
“The portrait in the main hall…I believe I heard you say you admired it?”
Buffy’s racing mind instantly summoned an image of the girl in the white dress, dark curls spilling to her shoulders, a sun hat in her hand. “Oh, that’s perfect,” she said, not waiting for Mrs. Hart to complete the thought. “That’s absolutely perfect. Thank you!”
Gathering up her sketchpad, Buffy bolted from the Morning Room without another word.
She would do Manderley proud. She would do William proud. She would.
And perhaps then,
perhaps, this place would at last feel more like home.
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ghostgirl13's prompting. Therefore, I lovingly dedicate this story to her. She kept me on my toes, even when I didn’t want to be kept.