Tempesta di Amore by Holly

Chapter 1

She had a picture of a great house—a mansion, really—captured in time on the face of a postcard. She didn’t know why she carried it everywhere; it was gorgeous, yes, but only a house. A place she would never see. Never know aside from the face on a postcard. She imagined it with wondrous character. A haunting beauty amidst its grace that promised great things should one let its secrets out.

It was one of the few things that she had openly asked Mrs. Harmony Kendall for on their tour of Europe. It had sung to her, whispered from the back corner of some forgotten shop. And granted, while adding a two-cent postcard to her expenses hardly put her employer at a disadvantage, she was still surprised that she had complied. Mrs. Kendall was not a friendly woman, by any definition. She was rather rude and brash, loud-mouthed and far from the place society would prefer to keep her. An elitist snob in a world that was already full of them. And unlike many others, Mrs. Kendall was not the sort of woman one would expect to be entitled to such a stature.

She was the benefactor of Buffy’s paycheck, however; unlike her employer, good manners kept the young girl’s tongue well inside her mouth. She brought Mrs. Kendall her tea every morning, played cards with her when she didn’t feel like venturing out, and read her the morning paper when she said her eyes were too sore to focus. She did everything she was asked to do with quiet poise and grace, or at least as much as a girl of nineteen could. There were times when she felt the world mocked her for her age, and purposefully thrust her into situations where her judgment was intentionally skewed, and she saw things the way a straggler would rather than a person with any sort of sense.

They had been at Monte Carlo for a week now, and Buffy loved it. Despite her duties to her employer, the hotel provided a false sense of freedom that their previous stops had lacked. She enjoyed tennis in the morning and read leisurely in her free time. There was also a swimming pool, and though Buffy had no suit and not the first idea on how to swim, she enjoyed watching the others when the afternoons began to cool. The sort of fascination a child has with a fish bowl, and wondering how it must feel to glide, even for a few seconds.

Most of all, she enjoyed watching the lives of others unfold in a twist of love and scandal that no book could provide. Meals with Mrs. Kendall always proved to be interesting, for it seemed the old woman knew absolutely everything about everyone around her. She explained the love triangle between Mr. and Mrs. Van Buren and the younger busboy that, according to Mrs. Kendall, “Only wants the old bat for her money.” She told tale of the elderly Mr. Scottsdale, and how he came to Monte Carlo every year during this season in search of a poor, heartbroken girl that he could marry and spend the rest of his lonely life with. Similarly, she went on to say that he had nearly been successful twice, only to lose his chance at love when the young ladies discovered his fortune was already willed and divided between his three sons, and nothing anyone could say would tempt him to change that.

It was a Thursday morning that Buffy’s happy little routine was shaken, and she remembered that because the previous day had been Wednesday, and she had seen him on the cliff prior to Mrs. Kendall’s take of midweek communion. The face was familiar, though she didn’t know if she merely knew him from the eerie way he had longingly studied the angry sea, or if she had seen him in the dining room every morning. He seemed out of place as he walked inside. He was alone, which did not surprise her.

His eyes found hers almost immediately, which did.

“My dear,” Mrs. Kendall said in her fat old way, “do you know who that is? That is William de Winter. They say he can’t get over the death of his wife.”

It was strange how much knowledge one could gain from one simple sentence. Buffy felt something rush through her veins, but she did not know what. It was unlike any feeling she had ever endured. An emotion to match his haunted eyes. A feeling. One out of a thousand, and she had it. The reason he had wanted to become one with the sea. It made sense now.

“He owns a great estate, you know,” Mrs. Kendall continued, merrily ignoring the fact that Buffy was not in her circle, and had no way of knowing such things. “The one on your picture. That postcard you wanted me to buy.”

“He owns Manderley?”

“Oh yes. That’s what he calls it. Manderley. What a proud name, don’t you think? I’d imagine he came here to get away from it. His wife died just last year. Horrible tragedy, that was.” And then, to Buffy’s utter horror, Mrs. Kendall raised her voice and waved the poor man over. “Oh, William!”

The man had not looked away from her. His eyes remained trained and focused. The last thing Buffy needed was a report on her horribly embarrassing display the day before. What a fool he must think her. After all, she had never lost anyone close to her. Perhaps death was the more pleasant alternative. Perhaps he hated her for stopping him.

The only thing that made Mrs. Kendall’s display more appalling was the fact that Mr. de Winter seemed prone to listen to her. With a tight, forced smile, he began walking in their direction. His eyes never left Buffy’s face.

“William,” Mrs. Kendall gushed. “I’m not sure if you remember me. I’m Harmony Kendall. I was a dear fan of your late wife. We met after a ball, remember? Mrs. de Winter invited your guests to town for a nightcap, as she thought remaining at Manderley would be uncomfortable after such a party. I did not get to go to the actual ball, of course, but Drusilla was kind enough to make an introduction between us. I don’t suppose you remember.”

Buffy stared at Mrs. Kendall in horror before drawing her eyes away to gauge Mr. de Winter’s reaction. His mouth was drawn, tight and unpleasant. That haunted look in his eyes more prominent than the day before when he had sought death.

“On the contrary, I remember quite well,” he replied, cold but disturbingly polite. “There have been many balls.”

“Oh, yes! Some of the very best balls, I believe. She was quite a show woman, your wife. Terrible thing about her passing. I felt simply dreadful. I swear, it shocked the country!” She took an exaggerated sip of her tea. “I have always wanted to see Manderley, if I may be frank. The photographs that I have seen are positively delightful. Like some sort of fantasy world. I wonder how it is that you can leave it at all.”

There was a curious sort of hostility to him. Hostility masking a pain that had not yet mended; had not the time to mend. His silence was deafening.

“Of course, you Englishmen are quite proud of your manors.”

“Yes,” Mr. de Winter agreed grimly, eyes narrowing at her through his detachment, composed but more troubled than ever. Perhaps Mrs. Kendall lacked experience in reading a person’s eyes, but Buffy knew enough to know when a conversation was bothering someone. Imagine dragging the poor man over to the table to do nothing more than speak of his late wife. The very same that he reportedly could not get over, and had come all the way to Monte Carlo to put behind him. How he remained polite, Buffy would never know. Only that he glanced to the ground once, shaken, and shook his head. “I don’t want to keep you from your tea.”

“Oh no!” Mrs. Kendall practically plowed Buffy over as she noisily shifted the seats to accommodate room for him. “I insist you join us, Mr. de Winter. You simply must tell us about Manderley. Who is running the house now, with you gone and Mrs. de Winter dead? I’d hate to think of the estate falling into a state of disrepair as a result of this mess. What a waste.”

Mr. de Winter’s eyes turned cold at that. Cold but troubled, and Buffy couldn’t blame him. She tried to convey her apologies, silent but heartfelt; he did not spare her a look. From where he had watched her from across the room to now, being unable to look at her at all. Yes, it was expected. She didn’t suppose he would ever look at her again.

“Manderley will survive just as well without balls,” he informed Mrs. Kendall. “Or constant supervision. I assure you, my staff is very much accustomed to the extents I take in preserving the house. Though your concern is noted, and touching in its endeavor.” Buffy bit the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning at that. His voice was drenched in hurt sarcasm, biting with the full extent of what her employer deserved. However, he nodded brusquely and took the proffered seat, much to Mrs. Kendall’s astonishment.

Flustered, Mrs. Kendall’s lapse did not last as long as it could have. She cleared her throat and nodded, resituating appropriately. “And how have you found Monte Carlo?”

“I have only just arrived,” he replied, pouring himself some coffee. “The people seem friendly enough.”

There was a point at the end of that statement. A very fine point that Mrs. Kendall missed completely.

Buffy didn’t.

“And you?” he asked kindly in turn, seemingly directed at Mrs. Kendall, though his eyes had once more settled on Buffy’s flaming face. “How do you find Monte Carlo?”

“Oh, lovely!”

Mr. de Winter nodded dismissively, his gaze not abandoning Buffy. “And you?”

Her throat ran dry at that. She was sure he would find her out, now. That hint of girlish inexperience that the wealthy could spot miles off. However, before she could reply, Mrs. Kendall released a long, haughty laugh and waved her hand frivolously. “Young girls never know if they’re truly enjoying anything, as I’m sure you know,” she said. “She’s spoiled, you see. Quite terribly.”

“Is that so?” His tone was deeply cynical, and Buffy felt she was at the pun of a hurtful joke. Then, softer, he turned to her again and said gently, “I haven’t decided if I like it, either.”

“Haven’t you?” Mrs. Kendall interrupted.

“No. I left in a hurry and have only just arrived, as I said.”

“You mean you haven’t been here before?”

Mr. de Winter withdrew again, that ghostly, detached look overwhelming him once more. His body quivering slightly with the weight of emotion that Buffy could not imagine. Once again, she knew immediately where his thoughts had gone, and who with. It wasn’t difficult to see. Buffy might have been a naïve girl, but she was intelligent enough to recognize when one was deep in mourning. And if Mrs. de Winter’s death was not even a full year in the past, the wealth of loss he had endured had to be intolerable.

“I was here once,” he replied after a moment. “About ten years ago.”

He said it as though it was highly significant. Ten years. What could have happened ten years ago to bring him to Monte Carlo? A birthday, perhaps. An anniversary. Or a wedding. His wedding to the late Mrs. de Winter. Drusilla, as Mrs. Kendall called her.

Another thing that her ruthless employer failed to recognize.

“Well, I am certainly glad you decided to return,” Mrs. Kendall said. “Would you care to join us for lunch tomorrow?”

“I don’t believe so, thank you. I intend to drive to Sospel tomorrow, and don’t know when I’ll be back.” He would not elaborate, and Buffy was glad. It was nice to meet someone who did not bow to Mrs. Kendall’s every whim. Mr. de Winter saw everything just as it was, and appeared cruelly humored by the entire matter.

“I do hope you have found your room to be agreeable,” the old woman continued. “I suppose you have enough money to rent out the best of them. Did they have a valet unpack for you? Wonderful thing…valets.”

“I do not require a valet.”

“They did not assign one to you?”

Mr. de Winter grinned wryly. “I think myself capable enough to tend to my matters without asking for the aid of others.”

“Ah, a self-reliant man. Well, if you need anything, I’m sure Buffy would be glad to help.” At that, Mrs. Kendall turned rather roughly to Buffy. “You are to make yourself available to Mr. de Winter if he requires any assistance.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” he objected.

“Nonsense. I insist.”

“I appreciate the thought, Mrs. Kendall,” Mr. de Winter said, standing slowly. “But I do tend to adhere to my family motto. ‘He who travels fastest travels alone.’ Perhaps you have not heard of it.” A cold sort of pause. “I must be going now.” He turned to Buffy shortly and nodded. “It was nice seeing you again.”

Very purposefully, he did not say whether it was nice to see Mrs. Kendall again. Nor did he give her the opportunity to extend the same compliments. Rather, he turned and was off the next instant, moving quickly through the dining room. Leaving the old woman flustered and embarrassed, and Buffy’s face flaming from the intentional attention he had given her as opposed to the calm coolness with which he had regarded her employer.

“Well,” Mrs. Kendall said, drawing her tea to her mouth. “That was rather rash, don’t you think?”

Buffy licked her lips and nodded, though there was no way she could disagree with her more. It amazed her that Mr. de Winter could keep his head as well as he had while under such shameless questioning.

“Men can be that way,” the older woman reasoned. “Though, and don’t think me forward, dear, but your attempts to master the conversation while he was with us did not go unnoticed. Men hate that sort of thing, you know.”

She bit her lip and said nothing. There was nothing to say.

“Oh, don’t look so glum. I’m sure he just brushed it off as something highly trivial. After all, young girls are hardly of any consequence to men of his age.” She chuckled as though she had said something highly amusing and batted a flippant hand. “Well, I suppose you’ll want the afternoon off, won’t you?”

“I—”

“That’s perfectly all right, dear. Off with you. I promised you yesterday, didn’t I? No one will ever say I don’t live up to my promises.” Mrs. Kendall fished out her cigarettes. “Go on. Be back by three for tea.”

Buffy nodded absently, not fool enough to object to random bouts of kindness from her employer. She wiped her mouth on her napkin and stood, leaving the dining room through the same door that Mr. de Winter had exited. She didn’t particularly know where she wanted to go, but even an hour of freedom was more than she had thought to be allowed, with or without Mrs. Kendall’s promise.

Her mind went back to Mr. de Winter almost reluctantly as she set down a woodland path just outside the hotel. There was something about a man suffering so much that touched her heart. Not in the way people would typically express their sorrow; not an obligatory but sincere, “Oh, I’m so sorry,” before moving on to the next thing. She had seen grief before. Her years were not great, but she felt she had grieved sufficiently. Two parents in the ground, leaving her to the employment of Mrs. Kendall. She supposed she should be grateful, and she was in many ways. There was a certain kindness demanded in people who took in orphans and offered them work.

What Mr. de Winter was feeling was beyond grief. She knew that simply by looking at him. The haunted look in his eyes left her feeling as though a part of her had been ripped away. She couldn’t imagine what it was like; loving someone for so long only to have them die when you were still young. She didn’t know Mr. de Winter’s age, of course, and she couldn’t imagine why she ever would. Only that he couldn’t be too old or too young. The young never loved like that, at least not the men her age that she had met over her traveling companionship with Mrs. Kendall. Men her age were flashy and constantly attempting to show off. They knew nothing of the sort of love that could wound a person as Mrs. de Winter’s death had her husband.

All of that simply by looking at him. It made her soul weep.

Buffy released a long sigh and shook her head against the wind, smiling gently at a squirrel as it scurried across the path in front of her. She wondered if there was a niche or a comfortable place to sit. If there was, a secret place of sorts that she could claim for herself during Mrs. Kendall’s stay, she could seek refuge out here with a book or some of her sketches. She didn’t suppose her clumsy hands could do the peaceful serenity justice, but she wanted something with which to remember this place, even if it ended up on a loose scrap of paper.

Another deep breath clamored for freedom, touching the air with soft grace that twisted into a gasp when she realized she was not alone. Right ahead of her, hidden slightly by the turn of the path and growth around it stood Mr. de Winter, a natural statue made around unnatural surroundings, and focused on something buried in the woods. She didn’t know if he heard her or simply sensed he was no longer alone, for he broke his golden stillness and turned until his eyes were on her face, a quaint surprise about him at seeing her again. She felt treasonous for being there, suddenly. For interrupting whatever peace he had been searching for by her own awkward clumsiness.

“I-I…” Buffy shook her head, shuddering. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…I’m sorry.”

Before he could respond, she turned to hurry off, practically bolting down the pathway. Ignoring the shouted request that she should stop. Leaving behind the place she had discovered with the knowledge that one could not discover a place that was owned by a lodge.

She had not meant to interrupt. It had simply happened.

Like she had simply run into him the day before. What he must think of her, given the past twenty-four hours. Shouting at him on the ledge. Her awkward behavior today at tea, and now this. Interrupting a private moment. Interrupting his remembering his wife.

Private moments like that could be broken so easily.

What he must think of her now.

If he thought of her at all.

*~*~*

It was a half hour past sundown when the note came. Mrs. Kendall was playing cards with a couple she had somehow befriended that afternoon, leaving Buffy by herself in the bedroom. The boy delivering the note appeared to be all of twelve years old, shiny faced and expectant. The note itself had her name written elegantly across the envelope in an unfamiliar penmanship. The message it carried was brief and bloodless, but it made her heart stop nonetheless.

Forgive me. I was very rude this afternoon.

There was no name on the note. No beginning or signature. However, her name was on the envelope. It was very obviously meant for her.

“Is there a reply, ma’am?” the boy asked.

“No. No reply, thank you.” Buffy licked her lips and tipped him appropriately, taking the note back into the secluded sanctuary of her bedroom. There she read it again, half expecting her name to have disappeared or the message to have changed. But no, it was the same. Still to her, not to Mrs. Kendall.

Forgive me. I was very rude this afternoon.

Mr. de Winter had written her.

For whatever reason, it seemed a better affair if she kept this to herself. Mrs. Kendall would not be pleased if she found out.

A secret between her and Mr. de Winter.

That thought, for whatever reason, was rather pleasing.

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