Tempesta di Amore by Holly

Chapter 17

Author's Notes: The rumors of this fic’s death have been greatly exaggerated. It’s NOT dead, nor will it be. I’m a good ways through the next chapter and, time-willing, will be working nothing but this and Strawberry Fields until one is complete.

I do, however, have eighteen hours of coursework ahead of me and betas who have very strenuous schedules. Not to mention my actual job. I beg your patience and thank your understanding. I know this fic has been a long-time coming, but I assure you, I am not letting it go. It will not remain unfinished.

Thanks to everyone who’s still reading/reviewing. To everyone who hasn’t given up on me. I appreciate your understanding and support more than I could ever hope to put into words. Thank you.

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The transformation of Manderley was unlike anything Buffy had ever witnessed. The once-rigidly elegant walls now emulated a sense of majesty which made every detail in the manor, down to the cracks in the floor, seem royal. It happened overnight; she’d gone to sleep in William’s arms in the bed she’d known for months, and had awakened in a revitalized version of the place which had become her home. The same place which so often felt like a living museum—to be admired from a distance, but never touched. The vases, the paintings, the statues, the classically graceful furniture—everything was decorated, yet somehow managed to exude an element of everyday negligence, as though this was the Manderley in which people lived. As though Manderley sat like this always, simply waiting for guests to arrive.

In all honesty, Buffy hadn’t given much thought to decoration. There hadn’t been much in her eyes to change or alter, or dress-up for public consumption. Manderley was, after all, intimidating enough without even trying. It judged without speaking, condemned without moving, and made her feel small with every outlandishly large step her clumsy feet dared to steal across the floor. No amount of living here could change the effect it had over her—every time she thought she was growing accustomed to the home’s secrets, she would turn a corner and find herself overwhelmed in a world hitherto unexplored.

“They’re going to love you, darling,” William assured her over breakfast. It was the morning before the masque, and judging by his perception, her anxiety had drawn lines across her face.

Buffy glanced up from where she’d been gazing at the rendering of Gethsemane that Darla Manners had admired upon her last visit, lost in her thoughts. “I’m not what they’re coming to see,” she replied. “It’s Manderley—”

“Piffle.”

She blinked dazedly. “William?”

“The house they’ve seen a thousand times. I’m bloody convinced there’s a handful of invitees who know the corridors even better than I.” William smiled and reached across the table to refill her morning coffee. “If you think this party’s for anyone but you, you’re completely off your bird.”

Her cheeks reddened and she sipped her drink, her mind wandering to the dress Mrs. Hart had ordered for her last week. The one sitting in her private wardrobe—the one she hadn’t allowed William to see for the desire to surprise him. “I hope they don’t find themselves too disappointed,” she noted quietly.

“Buffy…”

“Well, honestly. You say such things…it’s a party, isn’t it? You honestly believe I’m the star attraction?”

“And you honestly suppose you aren’t?”

“Who would come so far and go to such trouble to see me?”

William’s head tilted as he considered her, the soft glow in his eyes lighting a fire in her belly. The words between them hung thick and heavy, but otherwise remained unspoken.

“The house will look lovely,” Buffy observed after a few heated beats. There were times when silence deafened her, filling her head with thoughts which poisoned her heart for yearning too much. When William looked at her like that, it was almost hard to believe there had ever been anyone else in his life. It was almost hard to believe Drusilla wasn’t the phantom in his head just as much as she was the name on his lips at night. It was almost enough to make a girl hope, and hope was a dangerous thing. She couldn’t stomach her hope to provide her with falsities about the reality around her.

William glanced down and focused on his eggs. “Right,” he agreed shortly, nodding. Then, on an afterthought, he looked up again. “I don’t suppose you’ll let me peek at the dress before the guests arrive?”

“I’ve already told you that you can. You and Anya—”

“I meant privately, love.”

“It’s a surprise.”

His eyes twinkled with amusement. “Mmm. Yes. You’d think after living with women as long as I have that I’d become immune to the variety of surprises to which I’m constantly subjected.”

“You have not?”

“With you? Hardly ever.”

Her face warmed again. “I’m not very surprising. It’s only a dress.”

William’s brow drew up, and she received the impression she’d either said something highly amusing or highly insulting; perhaps a combination of the two. Either way, his soft reply of, “Not surprising?” had her bones rattling. “Buffy,” he continued gently, “there’s nothing about you that has failed to surprise me.”

The heat in her belly roared to full fire. “It’s only a dress,” she repeated.

He shrugged and attacked his eggs again. “If you say so.”

And it was only a dress, but it was also the perfect dress. A dress fitting for Manderley. It was all Mrs. Hart’s doing, of course, thus Buffy couldn’t take the credit. It had been her idea, her help, her special input which had placed the dress in Buffy’s hands, in Buffy’s closet, and very soon on Buffy’s body. In all honesty, the old woman had proven herself to be a godsend in the past week. Mrs. Hart’s attitude had completely revolutionized since they announced the masque. Her temperament was bright, her manner friendly, her suggestions helpful and her work-performance, if possible, became even more proficient. She chatted eagerly whenever the chance arose, seemingly forgetting her self-imposed rule about the relationship between a home’s mistress and her employees. She wanted to speak of Manderley as it was in her memory—in the golden years, as she called them. Manderley and its former grandeur. Manderley and its life before Buffy.

Buffy was determined not to take this kindness for granted. Perhaps she wouldn’t be as elegant or glamorous as Drusilla, but she wouldn’t shame Manderley or its reputation. Not at the masque.

She would make Manderley proud.

She would make William proud.

This one thing…she would do this right.

*~*~*

On their honeymoon, Buffy hadn’t had the luxury of a private maid to help her into designer gowns, assist her in jewelry selection, or laugh with her in a girlish fit of nerves as the clock ticked onward and the sun dipped lower in the sky. She’d only then come from a world wherein she was the companion to the wealthy woman, not the wealthy woman herself, and thus nothing of value had looked right on her small, awkward form. And while Buffy maintained she would never physically embody the royal elegance of Drusilla or any woman born into wealth, she was beginning to appreciate how thoroughly tiring it was to prepare for a function such as a masque.

She was fortunate to have Winifred, who made her laugh when she thought her nerves were doomed to reduce her to nothing more than messy tears.

“Oh Buffy,” the girl gushed, having long-since abandoned the need for formalities. They were more friends now than anything—the closest thing to a friend Buffy had enjoyed since she was a child. “You look gorgeous.”

Buffy blushed, tearing her eyes away from her reflection long enough to favor Winifred with a grateful smile. But for the first time in her life, she found the girl in the mirror to be a vision. She barely recognized herself. Where Buffy de Winter stood, someone else had taken over. Someone whose bronzed skin wasn’t rough and barbaric, rather bold and beautiful. Whose hands weren’t calloused and rough, but seasoned with knowledge. Her hazel eyes appeared almost completely emerald against the black curls which made up her wig. The white straps of her dress molded nicely around her shoulders, exhibiting more skin than she’d ever revealed in public but making her so richly aware of herself as a woman that instead of embarrassed, she was thoroughly empowered. The fabric of the dress was silky and tailored, embroidery ribboning down the sides in the pattern of small, graceful white roses. The sunhat had the same design, and though Buffy knew she wouldn’t be able to fit it atop her head, especially with the wig, she similarly knew the costume would be incomplete without it.

“Do you see anything I should change?” Buffy asked, twirling, though more for the benefit of feeling the material caress her legs than locating an imperfection. She felt positively radiant. Even the wig, which she’d studied skeptically for several minutes before fitting it on her head, felt as though it belonged. Had she not known herself, she would never suspect the dark curls spilling over her shoulders were not her own.

Winifred shook her head, rocking eagerly on her heels. “No! No, it’s all perfect. Oh, they’re gonna love it! I can’t wait.”

Buffy giggled girlishly, then started with a gasp at the swift knock on the door. It seemed, in her haste to get dressed, she’d completely lost track of the hour. It was now approaching six o’clock, and the first guests were scheduled to arrive.

Granted, the first guests were made of Anya, Xander, and Wesley, but they were the only people, aside from William, whose opinion she truly desired. If William loved it, everyone else would. Or they would not—it didn’t matter. As long as William loved it.

“Mrs. de Winter,” came Mrs. Hart’s rigid voice—rigid, but lukewarm as opposed to frosty. It was as close to cordial as they would ever be, Buffy supposed, but it was this same disposition which had accompanied her in preparing for the masque. Mrs. Hart had been friendly, and Buffy was more than grateful for it. “Mrs. de Winter,” the woman said again, “I am to inform you that Mr. and Mrs. Harris have arrived along with Mr. Wyndam-Pryce. Mr. de Winter wonders when you might join them.”

Heart hammering, Buffy managed to squeak, “In a moment, thank you!” before turning back to Winifred, wide-eyed.

“It’s time,” she said breathlessly, but the girl wasn’t with her anymore. Winifred was staring at something on the wall, a glassy, dreamy look on her face.

“Winifred?”

“Wesley’s here,” she whispered. “Oh…”

Buffy’s brows arched and she somehow managed to keep from smiling. The furtive glances Wesley had exchanged with Winifred had gone far from unnoticed by anyone in this household, but until now, she hadn’t been entirely sure if the girl was aware of his interest. But the look was undeniable, and it took her back to the days at Monte Carlo. Days when she’d watched William from across a crowded room as he focused on his meal, unaccompanied by anyone, looking so miserably alone that no one could ever touch him. William had never stared at Buffy the way Wesley stared at Winifred, of course—not with the same heat, at least. But months had passed and now Buffy stood in the bedroom she shared with William. In a dress she’d had made for a masque they were throwing.

Still, even as she turned and collected her nerves, reaching for the door handle, she couldn’t help but twinge in jealousy over what Winifred and Wesley did have, whether or not it was known to them. Wesley was clearly infatuated with Winifred; were she to become his wife, he would love her unconditionally, without hesitation, without doubt. Winifred wouldn’t be the one taking the place of a woman left behind. Winifred would be Wesley’s everything.

The way Buffy wanted to be William’s everything.

“I’ll make sure you see him,” Buffy said absently before departing into the hall. Whether or not Winifred heard her was another matter altogether. If she allowed her mind to embark down that road, she would find herself in a sea of self-examination wrapped in doubt, and she couldn’t allow that tonight.

The walk down the hall was endless. A journey she’d made a thousand times—daily, inevitably. One step, two steps, three, four…beyond the familiar turn to the Morning Room, where she sketched until breakfast. Mindful of the eyes of the de Winter ancestors, the same which sized her up upon every venture into the manor. Every step she stole which belonged to someone else. Buffy swallowed hard and wondered what, if anything, they thought of her now. If the wig upon her head and the dress hugging her body made her any more worthy of her name and stature in their eyes. Her excitement ebbed with anxiety; she knew William could hear her heart thundering, even above the muffled conversation drifting up the stairway and leaking into the corridor. She caught the casual boldness of Anya’s confident voice, accompanied by Xander, who said something which made everyone around him laugh. Then Wesley replied, earning a deep chuckle from William, whose rejoinder came in the same cool timber which never failed in sending shivers down Buffy’s spine, even from afar.

Then she rounded the corner and appeared at the top of the stairs, and began her slow descent.

It was strange the way perfectly obvious things took an eternity to realize. She didn’t read anything as she should have. Not the widening of Anya’s eyes or the gasp clawing at Wesley’s throat. Not the rigid stance of Xander’s usually lax form. Not the way all conversation ceased the second her presence became known. Not even the frozen, unreadable look on William’s face. The light in his eyes blinked out and she didn’t notice—she always noticed, and this time she didn’t. Warning bells shrieked in her head but her brain refused to connect alarms with knowledge, and thus her feet never received the message to stop walking. To realize—to understand—that something was horribly wrong. That this wasn’t the way people should look at the lady of the house. But no one said anything, so she kept walking. She kept walking until William drew up and held up a hand. There was no smile on his face. No warmth. No radiant, “You look lovely,” or anything which had played in her numerous fantasies. There was nothing but cold detachment.

“Oh Buffy,” Anya cried pitifully, shaking her head.

William stepped forward. It took him a few seconds to gather himself. To meet her eyes. And when he did, she all but collapsed. She couldn’t collapse; every cell in her body froze and finally her feet cemented on the stairs. The wall barricading her from understanding finally caved, and she realized what she was seeing. William was pale, spooked, and so incredibly cold. He looked at her as though she was a stranger—anyone but the woman whom he slept beside every night. The blue of eyes turned stormy gray, and she knew.

But this wasn’t anger. This wasn’t the same color he’d worn that day she’d followed Jasper to the bay. This wasn’t the outrage she’d seen then. This was something different.

This was heartache.

“Buffy,” he said slowly, his voice hard, “go upstairs and change. Now.”

Every breath she took made her chest ache. “William, I—”

“They can’t see you in that dress. No one can. I don’t care what you put on, just take that bloody thing off. Before anyone else gets here. Before anyone…sees you. Do it now. You hear me?” His eyes flashed with a sudden rush of angered hurt. “I don’t know what…I don’t…just get rid of it.”

It wasn’t a matter of misunderstanding the words or questioning his seriousness; Buffy honestly didn’t know what it was. Her instincts were split, raw and open. She wanted to launch herself into his arms. She wanted to break down. She wanted to run until there was nothing around her but open air and the cold comfort of the earth beneath her fingertips. But she was locked, completely railroaded, standing there at the scrutiny of those she’d come to consider friends; none of whom could look at her.

And William, who she loved with every aching beat of her heart, looking for all the world as though she’d just ripped out his. The hurt etching the agonizingly familiar contours of his face served as the proverbial knife. She stood gutted, naked, and she couldn’t move.

Then, without warning, the hurt shifted to anger.

“Do you think I’m joking?” he rasped, eyes shining. “Don’t just stand there, you daft child, go take it off. You hear me? Get out—get out. Get out before—”

Her screaming mind didn’t hear the rest. She was running too hard, her bloodless legs pumping her upstairs much too slowly. Her lungs collapsed and her head swelled and then everything around her dissolved. She was halfway down the corridor to her room before the shouting began—shouting from Anya and Wesley, shouting not at her, but at William, their words colliding and crashing and making no sense except for a unified front of outrage.

The tears in her eyes didn’t fall until she was safely on the other side of her bedroom door. She distantly heard herself barking at Winifred, ordering her out, before throwing herself onto the bed with a heart-wrenching sob.

And at the first crack, she finally broke. Everything came down around her, and all she could do was cry.

*~*~*

She didn’t remember opening the door, nor did she remember walking numbly back to the bed. Noise fell into a dull buzzing around her, and though she understood the words falling from Anya’s lips, they failed to connect into any recognizable pattern. Buffy remained on her side, curled on the mattress, her red, swollen eyes fixated on the tiny imperfections lining the bedroom wall. She hadn’t energy left for tears. No matter how hard she shattered every time she thought of William’s eyes or how often her cruel mind replayed his callous words. She couldn’t cry. There was nothing left in her.

Whatever they’d been working toward was over. The casual glances. The furtive smiles. The way he sometimes looked at her, softness lining his eyes and warmth burning his lips. The few heated kisses they’d shared, always after the climax of a firestorm. The Happy Valley. The day he returned home from London. Heat and anger brought passion out of them, and brief as it was, she’d found herself fixating on those isolated moments—those stolen kisses—more than even she had realized until tonight.

Until she realized that after the empty betrayal with which he’d regarded her, there would be no more kisses. Tonight she’d crossed a bridge and it had collapsed behind her. There was no going back. No way to make this right. No answer to give him.

“You can’t stay up here all night,” Anya said softly, stroking Buffy’s hair as one might to console a grieving child. “People will talk. It’ll be worse.”

There was no way this could possibly be worse.

“He’s an idiot,” the woman continued. “He’s so blind and stubborn and—”

“It’s not his fault,” Buffy murmured, her voice muffled in the bed-sheets and weighted with tears. “I should’ve known.”

“How in the world would you know?” Anya demanded.

She had no answer; none she would voice. She felt foolish enough as it was.

Apparently, the other woman took her silence as accord with the theory that there was nothing she could have known and nodded. “I say again, he’s an idiot. He’s an idiot for thinking you would ever do anything like this on purpose, and he’s a ruthless bastard for—”

On purpose?

Buffy sat up, bleary-eyed. “He thinks I did this on purpose?”

Anya blinked. “Well, yes. The dress is what Drusilla wore, you see. To the last masque. The last one she ever attended. You were so secretive in designing the costume, he’s thinking—”

“I would never do that on purpose! How could he—”

The woman nodded, her eyes bland and heartily unimpressed. “We’re back to the point where my brother is the world’s largest dolt. And truthfully, Buffy, he knows you wouldn’t. You couldn’t. There was no way for you to know anything of what Drusilla wore to the last ball.” She fell silent, contemplative. “It’s the shock. You looked exactly like her. The hair. The dress. There was even this…funny look on your face, the sort she used to get. For a moment, it was as though she…he saw you, and he thought—”

“He thought of her.”

Anya nodded, unknowingly willing away the last of Buffy’s broken heart.

There was no recovery from this. It truly was over. The happy picture she’d tried so hard to sketch around Manderley, no matter that it always fell short, had disintegrated. The promise she’d made to herself—the whisper that her love would be enough to sustain their marriage, even if William never loved her in return. She thought distantly of Mrs. Kendall, and wondered how the woman would react if she could see Buffy now. If she could see the fruition of her prophecy. The thing she’d told her in Monte Carlo.

The sort of darkness William lived in was nothing from which she could ever rescue him. He’d seen Drusilla tonight and he couldn’t have her. He couldn’t touch her. He’d seen at last that no new wife could replace the hole left by his love’s death. She could dress the part but it wouldn’t be anything but an act. And no matter how hard he whimpered for Drusilla in his sleep, she would never be the woman with whom he awoke.

“I don’t want to go downstairs,” Buffy whispered. “Can’t you tell the guests I’m not feeling well?”

“They’ll know something’s wrong.”

“I don’t care.”

“Buffy, please. For William…I know he’s an absolute ass and if I were you, I’d refrain from giving him any sort of physical gratification for the next twenty years, but he didn’t mean what he said.” Anya paused and wet her lips. “Not really. He wasn’t thinking.”

No. He was thinking. And that was the problem. For the first time since he met Buffy, he was thinking clearly.

He was at last seeing what everyone else saw.

The illusion might be fun, but it was still an illusion.

And no amount of wishful thinking could make it otherwise.

*~*~*

The dress Anya selected was the one William had peeled off Buffy the night they first made love. The night after the opera, when he’d undressed before her as though her life hadn’t just changed. Buffy could barely stand to look at it, but she didn’t fight. She cooperated. She allowed her sister-in-law to pick out her jewelry and adjust her hair. She attempted to smile when Anya assured her she looked radiant, but there was no feeling behind it. What was left of her innards was strewn across the floor, invisible to the naked eye but undeniably felt by everyone in the house.

“The best revenge is always to have a good time,” Anya said shortly, leading her into the corridor. “You’re going to have a wonderful time.”

There was little chance of that.

“I say you and Wesley tear up the floor dancing. You should have seen him—I’ve never seen him lose his temper, and certainly not with Will. He was livid.”

The thought was an odd one. Wesley and anger were not factors she would put together.

Buffy swallowed hard. “I told Winifred that she and Wesley—”

“Buffy,” Anya said shortly, “in case you haven’t noticed, Wesley considers you about as close to family as his own siblings. He doesn’t stand for it when people he cares about are hurting, especially over something so ridiculous.”

Anya guided Buffy around the corner, and suddenly they were at the head of the stairs where she’d stood just an hour before. Just an hour before when everything had suddenly changed forever. Guests were arriving. William was in the foyer. And everything had changed.

“I haven’t done anything to earn Wesley’s favor.”

The woman turned to her then, and the compassion in her eyes nearly brought the tears Buffy had thought to have banished back to roaring life.

“You’ve loved my brother,” she said. “You’ve loved him well when he needed it. Wesley loves William. I do, too. So does Xander. And so do you. You love William, we love you. That’s the way it works. And since we have the benefit of being family, our love isn’t blind. When he gets stupid, we notice. Your love for him isn’t family—it’s…what I feel for Xander. He’s awkward and clumsy and he doesn’t go with any of my things, but I love him so I don’t see it.” She paused and grinned sheepishly. “That often, anyway. You don’t see how stupid William is—fine. But we do. That’s why Wesley’s angry with him. That’s why I’m angry with him. He hurt you over something you had no control over. So yes, you have Wesley’s favor. You have mine, too…which is why I say you go downstairs and have a fabulous time.”

Buffy was grateful when Anya stopped speaking; her body was too broken to cry anymore.

Still, words came when she didn’t want words. They came against her will. “But he doesn’t love me.”

To that, Anya had no reply, which was more crushing than anything else.

It wasn’t until they began to descend the stairs that she caught a glance of Mrs. Hart, standing in the shadows which led to the west wing of the manor. And perhaps it was Buffy’s imagination, but she could have sworn there was a self-satisfied smirk on the old woman’s face.

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