Tempesta di Amore by Holly

Chapter 19

Golden sunshine splattered across the carpet, stretching over the vanilla bedspread until it was impossible to ignore that morning had arrived. Buffy didn’t want to open her eyes. She didn’t want to look over and confirm William had not joined her last night. Her sleep had been tumultuous at best, wrought with images of balls and gowns and laughing strangers. Of a painting in the foyer come to life. Of Mrs. Hart’s frozen smile, grim satisfaction sparkling her eyes in ways which made her look positively inhuman.

William had not come to bed last night. Jasper lay faithfully in his place, favoring Buffy’s palm with affectionate licks every time he arose on his stubby legs and resituated his warm, furry body for a more comfortable position. She envied the dog so much. He knew nothing of heartache or despair. Knew nothing of the hollow cold claiming every facet of her insides, or the tears crusting against her cheeks. How it ached every time her lungs fought for air. How four little words could render her thoroughly gutted.

She doesn’t know me.

Buffy squeezed her eyes shut and choked back tears. Her head swirled; her skin was cold and clammy but she felt—at the same time—she was burning from the inside. The very fabric of her being was jerked and pulled in every which direction, allowing her no reprieve no matter how hard she screamed. Sleep so often provided a new spin on hopeless situations, but daylight refused to give her amnesty. There was nothing this morning to comfort her in what she had learned the night before.

Her marriage was over.

The ache in her chest exploded, a hard, raucous sob clawing for freedom. Her marriage was over. William wasn’t hers. He never had been and she’d been such a blind fool to think otherwise. To think she could make anything between them work when he so obviously wished to remain with Drusilla. Drusilla, who was dead but never gone; whose ghost provided him more comfort than any living woman ever could. He was trapped in grief but too in love with his lost wife to move onto the one with whom he’d replaced her.

William would never be Buffy’s. He remained forever Drusilla’s husband. He couldn’t belong to anyone else.

He’d never done anything to make Buffy believe he would love her, of course. His marriage proposal had been more a business arrangement. His methodical manner over the course of their honeymoon—the way his eyes would warm slightly upon meeting hers, even if that warmth never reached his face. There was always something about him which betrayed his thoughts; she could never read them, of course, but she’d always known they weren’t with her. Always.

William only exhibited passion when reminded of Drusilla. The boathouse. The visit from her cousin. Last night. God, last night. His eyes had been dead and empty, but the fire remained thoroughly undeniable.

He’d seen Drusilla, only she hadn’t been Drusilla. She’d been Buffy, and he’d known once and for all that no matter how hard he tried, he would never get his beloved back. It was why Buffy could never know him, as he’d told Wesley. There was a part of him which belonged eternally to his former wife, and he wished it to remain that way forever. He didn’t want to let anyone else inside. He didn’t want Buffy—he just wanted companionship.

He didn’t want to be alone.

It was why he’d married her. To keep from being alone. To keep the space beside him warm.

Only Buffy couldn’t do this anymore. She couldn’t love him like this—her love for him was ripping her apart. She was too much his to belong to anyone else, but if she stayed here only to be reminded of how very little he cared for her in turn, it would destroy her. It would utterly destroy her.

As it was, loving William would be easier if she didn’t have to see him. If her mind constructed a narrative around their tragic almost-love story through which to live vicariously through the rest of her days, rather than let Manderley erode her soul away until nothing was left. Until she was as hollow and cold as the manor itself.

She couldn’t do this anymore.

But she couldn’t leave. She couldn’t do this and she couldn’t leave. No matter what she knew, no matter what had happened last night, the thought of walking away from William devastated her all over again. It was the price of loving, she supposed. Staying would kill her and leaving would kill her. Leaving with nothing but his face immortalized in her sketchbooks and the few fond memories they’d made here together.

The fond memories which had provided her with some hope. He’d smile and whisper and squeeze her hand, and make her feel, in some small way, loved. Not a creature of passion or romance, by any means, but she’d felt he cared for her. She knew he cared for her.

Or he had until last night.

Until she’d dressed up like the woman he truly wanted. Until she’d thrown the pivotal stone at their glass house and stood frozen as the world shattered around her.

Jasper whined and rose up on all fours again, his warm eyes taking in her sobbing body with compassion which nearly destroyed her. He sniffed sympathetically and licked her face. A pathetic, humored rumble overtook the sobs wracking her throat; Buffy reeled back and ran a thankful hand through his red fur, her nose scrunching when he favored her finger with his tongue. The dog truly was the most affectionate animal she’d ever known. He offered comfort in the only way he knew because he knew she was sad. He knew she was sad, and he wanted to console her.

“Thank you, Jasper,” she whispered, pressing a kiss atop his warm head.

He whined again in response.

“I’ll be all right.”

It felt positively criminal, at that instant, to lie to a dog.

Buffy sat up completely, rubbing her sore eyes and tossing a glance to the clock on the nightstand. It was just after nine in the morning. She wondered idly if the phone in the Morning Room had rung; if Mrs. Hart was continuing her routine as though nothing extraordinary had occurred. If William was in his study or working on poetry or whatever it was he did to occupy his days when he wasn’t in London.

She wondered where he’d slept all night, but the ache in her gut whispered she already knew.

The west wing. Undoubtedly, of all the spare rooms, the one he’d shared with Drusilla would be the one he selected. The place where it looked as though the dead woman could walk through the door at any minute, pick up one of her brushes and run it through her hair. The nightgowns on the bed were still warm; Mrs. Hart saw to that. Mrs. Hart did her best to keep Drusilla alive, if only in that room.

Only Drusilla had been alive throughout all of Manderley last night. More so than ever before. More so than the whispers from the servants or the hint of fabric rustling around a corner—the ghost had manifested entirely; she had consumed every inch of the manor. Every stroke of the musician’s bows against the strings, every chord blown through a finely-tuned woodwind, every champagne toast, every consumed hors d’oeuvre—it was the party Mrs. Hart had planned. It was the party she would have wanted for Drusilla.

After all, it was Drusilla she had resurrected. The party was all for her. All of it.

Buffy forced her feet to the floor and carried herself to the vanity. Her hair was in a state and her face was lined with tear-stained makeup. She hadn’t bothered to wash before bed, too exhausted and too torn to trust her body to carry her further than necessary. This wasn’t the face the mistress of Manderley should show around the halls. And though it astonished her that she was able to care, the part of her concerned with propriety burned hot enough to force her to clean herself appropriately. She took as long as she could, though with each passing second it became more and more difficult to ignore William’s absence. No matter how difficult the confrontation might be, she knew it would only grow worse with time. She needed to speak with him—explain what had happened last night while simultaneously swallowing her pride at the secret she hadn’t meant to overhear.

A part of her hoped he’d spoken out of hurt. The rest of her was too wise, too jaded, to allow for much hope.

Perhaps it would be easier to speak with William if she spoke with Wesley first.

Her instincts, however, couldn’t be denied. When she felt suitably dressed to wander around the house, Buffy made her way instinctively for William’s office. It was empty. The parlors were empty, too, as was the Day Room where they took their meals in the morning, and the Sun Room, where she’d broken a figurine a thousand years before. The hammering in her chest foretold she was just stalling—she knew where she would find him—but she wasn’t yet ready for the final blow. For the image of him sitting alone and desolate in his empty bed-chamber. The place where his heart had been ever since he first brought Buffy to Manderley.

Desperate to avoid the west wing, Buffy called for Jasper and walked with him down the familiar pathway to the Happy Valley. The place where William had never brought Drusilla, but loved more than any other part of Manderley. The terrain here was relatively undisturbed, appearing no different than it had when she last visited with her sketchbook.

Buffy didn’t know when Jasper had ceased attempting to take the path to the bay, or if he simply sensed her mood well enough to keep to her as he had this morning. He remained steadfastly at her side and licked her hand whenever they broke stride for more than a few seconds.

“Well,” she said breathlessly, attempting to ignore the way her heart fell. William wasn’t here. Of course he wasn’t here. She’d known he wouldn’t be here. And it was foolish looking for him when she was certain she knew where he was.

But a part of her knew the soft, near-dead glow of dim hope that they could talk things through would die completely if she walked through those doors and saw him sitting in Drusilla’s room.

Jasper huffed and sniffed at a suspicious clump of grass.

“Come on.” A defeated sigh rolling off her shoulders, Buffy turned and began the slow march back to Manderley.

There was one stop to make before she swallowed what was left of her pride and investigated the west wing. The Morning Room. She would stop there and phone Wesley. If there was any grace left in the world, he would have news pertaining to William. Perhaps there was more to the conversation she’d overheard the night before. Perhaps he would explain something she hadn’t considered, or at least offer some idea as to William’s whereabouts—an idea which didn’t conclude with a journey to a dead woman’s room.

And even if Wesley had nothing, there was nothing wrong with seeking the counsel of a friend. The comfort of a friend, especially after the night she’d had.

Her mind flashed to the image of him entwined in Winifred’s arms, their mouths locked heatedly, and a rush of warmth tickled her cheeks. Though perhaps he wouldn’t want interruption this morning. Though Wesley was a gentleman, there was something about his devotion to the maid which ignored the sense of decorum. It was similarly difficult to ignore Winifred’s absence from her routine this morning, though it might have been at Mrs. Hart’s discretion. Perhaps Mrs. Hart wanted Buffy to feel completely isolated, therefore ordered the staff to avoid her today.

Then again, Mrs. Hart cared about rule and rank almost as much as she cared about destroying Buffy. Either possibility seemed logical.

Jasper took to rolling on his back in the middle of the great room. He very rarely followed Buffy around so loyally, rather took to minding his dog-business and catching up with her whenever their paths crossed or whenever she beckoned him for a walk. Today, he seemed determined to keep her in his sight, and while she didn’t pretend to understand it, she couldn’t deny she appreciated the company.

She didn’t have to wait long before Wesley picked up the line. Unlike Manderley, there wasn’t a staff through which to filter the call. It rang one and a half times before he answered.

“This is Wesley Wyndam Pryce.”

“Wesley, this is—”

“Buffy,” he said with no need of elaboration, though his tone was sharp and wary. It surprised her; she didn’t realize she had such a recognizable voice. “Are you feeling better? Anya mentioned you were taken to bed early last night.”

Hearing him voice any acknowledgment of the night before hardened a lump in her throat. It made it tangible, and with it, the reality it had cemented. Buffy distantly recalled being told she had a headache and to retire. Of course, Anya would have spread word to preserve her dignity. Anya was reliable like that.

“My head is fine,” Buffy replied; she couldn’t say she was feeling better when she knew she could crack at the slightest turn. “I was wondering…have you spoken with William today? I can’t seem to find him.”

There was a short pause. “No, Buffy,” Wesley replied, and the pity in his voice nearly killed her. “I’m afraid I have not. Did he speak with you last night?”

“No.”

“Not at all? That pompous git—”

“Wesley,” she said slowly, her voice tempered, careful to betray nothing. “It’s all right. I understand now.”

“You understand?” he repeated, his voice awash in confusion.

“It’s Drusilla. It’s always Drusilla, isn’t it?” Without warning, tears swarmed behind her eyes again. “It’s always her. She’s here. And last night…I heard you two speaking last night. You and William—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to listen, but I was in the foyer and—”

There was a mortified gasp. “Oh God…”

“I understand. It’s all right, Wesley. You’ve done everything you can but…” A tempered sigh. “He wishes to be left alone. With Drusilla. He still loves her, you see. He will always…love her. And he can’t love me because of it. Because she’s still here.”

“Oh God, Buffy. Let me come and speak with you. I—”

“No. Please don’t. I just wanted to thank you for your kindness. You’ve been extraordinarily kind to me, Wesley. But I understand now.”

“I’ll be there in a half hour. Do you hear? A half hour. I—”

Buffy slammed the receiver down before he could finish his thought, her eyes immediately lifting to the doorway. There was only one place to go now. One place she hadn’t yet explored.

The place she knew she would find him.

“Jasper,” she told the dog as he rolled onto his belly, prepared again to follow her. “Stay here.”

Jasper whimpered in protest.

“No. You must stay here.”

There were some things, after all, one must do alone.

*~*~*

The first time she’d crossed the threshold into Drusilla’s room, it had nearly been a mistake. Hot off the unnerving encounter with Angelus O’Malley and desperate for William to return from London, she’d found herself carried in a twist of corridors, wandering in a daze through the forbidden wing. Though she knew logically she’d broached the area with intent, her mind recalled her apprehension. Her hesitance. The very real part of her which had protested unlocking any more of Drusilla’s secrets, despite however much it was needed for her peace of mind.

The thought of William wasting away in the living museum was crippling.

Only it wasn’t William Buffy found.

It was Mrs. Hart.

The rush of relief crashing over her shoulders was so potent it nearly knocked her off her feet. William wasn’t here. He wasn’t in Drusilla’s room, and from the look of things, he hadn’t been all night. The bed was as Buffy remembered—turned down with Drusilla’s nightdress spread across the bedspread, but there was no indention in the mattress. The pillows were immaculately fluffed and hadn’t known a head in over a year. The room, more or less, appeared untouched. All except for Mrs. Hart, who stood at the vanity, hunched over, her hands grasping the marble surface.

Mrs. Hart had been here all night. Not William.

Not William.

Instead it was the woman who had sought to destroy her. Destroy her and William.

All for the love of Drusilla.

And suddenly, without warning, a dam within broke and words came spilling out. Words she barely recognized. Words she only heard after they touched the air.

“Are you satisfied?”

Mrs. Hart stiffened almost imperceptibly but did not answer.

“I understand you don’t like me,” Buffy said, doing her best to keep her voice level and tempered. “But you did it to him, too. You hurt William. You knew seeing me in that dress would hurt him as much as it hurt me.” She paused, swallowing hard. “How could you? How could you do that to him?”

Her voice fell unceremoniously and silence stretched between them. Howling wind crashed against the shutters. The air smelled of lilac and cinnamon. Buffy was only aware, however, of the ache in her chest and the heat flaming her cheeks. There was no turning around after this.

“William didn’t deserve—”

“He did,” Mrs. Hart said softly, and the air around them froze. Buffy didn’t know what she’d expected—denial, evasion, any of the above—but the words couldn’t be ignored for what they were or what they meant. “He tried to replace her. You tried to replace her.” The old woman paused, shuddering so violently it seemed she might collapse; she did not. Instead, Mrs. Hart inhaled sharply and turned around, her usually-emotionless eyes filled with the blackest hate Buffy had ever seen. “You tried to replace Drusilla.”

The words had hung between them for months, unspoken but implicit in every move. Every condescending nod of the woman’s head, every time her lips curled around Buffy’s name, every time their gazes clashed, every time they occupied the same room—every time except recently. Recently, Mrs. Hart had forced herself to be friendly, if only for she knew it would go further in securing Buffy’s fall.

“You knew you never could, though, didn’t you?” Mrs. Hart continued heartlessly, the loathing in her eyes growing deeper by the second. “From the moment you arrived here, you knew he could never love you as he loved her. Never worship you as he worshipped her. He needed someone to take up the time, and you thought you were enough for it. You thought you could make him forget her. Forget my Drusilla—you tried, didn’t you? You tried and what became of it? Can you not see the truth now?”

Words choked in Buffy’s throat. Oxygen fought to fill her lungs, only they had forgotten how to work. All she saw was Mrs. Hart—the endless black of Mrs. Hart’s eyes, Mrs. Hart’s skeletal face contorted in revulsion, Mrs. Hart’s words drowning out the wind and the creaks until there was nothing left but a silent, hysterical shriek.

“I had to show him, you see,” the old woman continued. “I had to show him you would never be enough. Not to take my Drusilla’s place. Not to walk through her house, touch her things, and pretend it all belongs to you. Nothing here belongs to you…you see that now. Of course you see it now. He showed you last night. He loves her. He wants to be alone with her again.”

“She’s gone,” Buffy gasped, her chest sore from the thunderous booms of her heart. At the moment, it didn’t seem to matter that she had been thinking, even telling Wesley the same thing less than a half hour ago; the confirmation of her worst fears rolled her into a new reckoning, and dead as the dream might be, she wasn’t ready to relinquish her hold. Not yet, and definitely not like this. “She’s gone. Does he not deserve—”

“She is not gone. Surely you feel that she is not gone?” Mrs. Hart stepped forward, her eyes widening with malice. “You feel her as I do. She lives all around us. She watches you and Mr. de Winter together, watches as you touch her things and pretend to be even a shadow of the woman she was. Do you ever wonder why Mr. de Winter chose you? You, when Drusilla was bold, beautiful, adventurous…when she was the envy of every woman and adored by every man? Mr. de Winter was enraptured with her. Your confidant, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce? He was taken with her, as well. He hated himself for loving her, but he did. There was no end to the men who loved her. Angelus O’Malley, Alexander Harris…they all fell under her charm. Why do you think you feel her even now?” Mrs. Hart positively shook. “She’s still here, of course. She’s in everything. She wants her home back…and Mr. de Winter wants it, too. He wants to be alone. He wants to live with her…he wants Manderley as it was. He doesn’t want you—he never did. Certainly you can feel it? You can feel how much he misses her? How very much she remains…in Manderley.”

The fire in Buffy’s veins chilled, her stomach churning. Nausea settled deep in her skin. She was going to be sick.

“Drusilla could temper the ocean,” Mrs. Hart continued. And then she was moving—oh God—she was moving so quickly, her icy hand closing around Buffy’s wrist. The next thing she knew, she was standing at the window. The open window. Fresh air touched her face and filled her closing throat. The scent of the sea washed away the hint of Drusilla’s perfume, but the relief which should have been imminent never came. “She should be the one standing here. Not you. You should be where she is—you should be gone.”

Bile rose in Buffy’s throat, her eyes taking in the distance from the window to the ground. The heat caressing her face trickled down her skin, spreading into her belly and thinning the air around her head to such a point where even the breeze billowing into the room couldn’t ease her.

“Do you think he would miss you?” Mrs. Hart whispered, behind her now, her hands clamped tightly around Buffy’s upper arms. Her voice was everywhere. It manifested in Drusilla’s perfume, assaulting every sense with strength no mere breeze could ever hope to defeat. “You could leave, but you won’t, will you? Not even with what happened last night. No, you will never leave him. You will stay…to torment him with the memory of what he cannot have.”

Buffy’s head spun. The ground was so far. So incredibly far away. She felt herself falling even if her feet remained firmly planted. The hard, jagged planes below would rip her body to shreds, and she felt it. She felt every tear against her skin. Every bounce. She felt it. She was on at the window, looking down, Mrs. Hart pressing her minutely closer to the threshold, and she felt it.

God, she needed to get out of there.

“Let me…let me go,” Buffy protested, her voice weak even to her ears. “Mrs. Hart…you have to…let me go…”

“Why don’t you jump?”

The suggestion, though anticipated, still startled her out of her skin. “What? No!” Strengthened now—Buffy jerked away, forcing her eyes back to the room. The walls around her twisted and curved but the daunting height presented by the window’s view no longer tormented her. “No…I most certainly will not—”

Thunder cracked through the air, stealing her words, her heat—only it wasn’t thunder. A raucous roar arose from the bay, drawing Buffy’s eyes back to the window.

“What was that?” she gasped, not expecting a reply.

There wasn’t one. There was nothing but silence—silence and then, from below, the sight of William sprinting across the terrace. Toward the path which they had walked day after day. The path to the Happy Valley.

Only his feet didn’t guide him to the Happy Valley; he took the forbidden turn and ran for the bay.

Directly into the thunder.

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