Chapter 20
Author's Notes: My profuse apologies for the delay. I’ve been bogged down in school papers and exams. I hope to have the next chapter written by the end of the weekend, but no promises. My betas similarly have hectic schedules, therefore I’ve been waiting for their revisions.
As a small reminder, here’s where we left off…
Previously: After being tricked by Mrs. Hart into donning the very same costume worn by Drusilla at the masque, Buffy spent the night waiting for William to join her. A confrontation with Mrs. Hart confirms the woman’s previously-unspoken hatred for Manderley’s new mistress, resulting in an attempt at coerced suicide. Buffy and Mrs. Hart are interrupted by the sound of an explosion at the bay, and the sight of William running toward the scene.
Her feet crashed along the stony terrain, wind whipping across her face. Pillars of smoke billowed over treetops as though led by an invisible paint brush. The sky was practically on fire, the roar from the inlet piercing into the quiet solitude of the de Winter property. A shotgun blast through perfect silence, shattering the world into a thousand pieces. And no matter how fast she ran, how close she became, the bay seemed a thousand miles away.
There had never been such a congregation. People had materialized along the bay, stepping out of nothingness like they’d been waiting for something to watch. Manderley had a few neighbors, but the manors were separated by miles of wilderness. Not that separation meant anything when the earth rattled with an explosion.
William was nowhere to be seen. He’d come this way—watching him tear up the forbidden path would forever be engrained in her mind. Only he wasn’t here now. How could he have disappeared so quickly?
“Mrs. de Winter?”
Buffy blinked wearily and turned to her left. A young man she didn’t recognize was hurrying toward her, one hand steadying his hat on his head so the wind didn’t tear it away. A familiar pang of awkward guilt struck her heart when he met her eyes. Before she married William, she’d never found herself in the situation where strangers knew her name. She was so accustomed to being overlooked—there was no way, even if she lived the rest of her life as a lady of means, that she would ever become accustomed to this feeling.
“Hello,” she said inelegantly. “Have you seen my husband?”
The man nodded. “One of the sailors banged up his head pretty bad. Mr. de Winter and Mr. Wyndam-Pryce took him to town.”
Buffy inhaled sharply. “Wesley?” she repeated. “Wesley was here?”
“Yes, ma’am. He’d just arrived when it happened.” The man tossed a glance to the bay, and as though staring at an abstract painting, forms suddenly tugged together and molded into logical shapes. There was a fishing boat cast against the crystal water, one, maybe two miles from the shoreline. Smoke rose from its lower vessels, veiling over the sun but doing little to shield her eyes from the blinding white beach.
“Mr. Wyndam-Pryce came down here immediately,” the man continued. “He and Mr. de Winter should return later this afternoon.”
“What happened?” Buffy asked, unable to tear her eyes away from the scene.
“We’re not certain yet. The boat’s just stuck for the moment. Divers are going down to see what she ran into.” There was a pause. “Mrs. de Winter, this might be a while. If you’d like, I could have someone escort you back to the house.”
Buffy didn’t reply immediately. She stared fixedly at the boat. Manderley was a thousand miles away. Mrs. Hart couldn’t reach her here. The empty foyer stained with the footprints of a sea of faceless guests wouldn’t haunt her as long as she remained at the bay.
“Mrs. de Winter—”
“Yes. I mean, no. No, thank you.”
The man looked puzzled but ultimately left her to her own devices. Buffy wandered the pearly stretch of shore for what felt like hours, transfixed on the sight and struggle as men clamored to and from the boat in narrow canoes. The imposed seclusion of the bay had exploded, rendering it from an illicit place of which no one was supposed to speak into a breeding ground of chaos. This place where William’s wife had died—where his life had drained, where he’d stepped from the happy existence of a man in love into the hollowed shell with whom she’d been living. For as many months, the bay had served as a living tomb for Drusilla. An extension of the family crypt where her body rested and the faultless museum which had once been her bedroom. Here was death, a sharp contrast to the life Mrs. Hart tried desperately to keep thriving within the walls of the manor itself.
What had William thought when he heard the explosion? After last night—after what they’d been through: the silent torture of the party, the long agony of his failure to come to bed, the desperate search across the grounds—nothing seemed real anymore. Nothing. Not this morning. Not the walk to the Happy Valley. Not the encounter with Mrs. Hart. Had she really been in Drusilla’s bedroom less than an hour ago, her weary eyes absorbing the dizzying heights of a fifty-foot drop? Vertigo overwhelmed her senses.
The bay was no longer closed, no longer private. And William was gone. Not only from her bed; he’d left the grounds. He was with Wesley; would Wesley betray their phone call? Would he tell William everything Buffy couldn’t? How would she react if he did? Did she even want that? Was it better to suffer quietly or get everything in the open? God, she didn’t know anymore.
Buffy lost track of how long she lingered at the bay. Eventually, her exhausted body found its way to a smooth slab of rock protruding from the snowy sand. She sat, lost between worlds. Divided by realities. Watching the crowd of strangers and assorted divers went a long way in distracting her long-suffering mind from the harsher truth surrounding her. She wasn’t safe, of course. Nowhere on the grounds was safe from scrutiny. Every few minutes, her mind would inevitably crawl back to the life waiting for her within Manderley’s walls.
She doesn’t know me. A long shudder claimed her body. Those words would never stop haunting her. Though less than a day had passed since they broke into her sanctuary, she couldn’t imagine—sitting here, watching the fishing boat sway against the tide—she would ever emerge from the fog into which she’d so willingly wandered.
Do you think he would miss you? Mrs. Hart had whispered, pressing her closer to the ledge. She’d wanted Buffy gone—she’d wanted her to feel the weight of her isolation. For all her cruelty, Mrs. Hart’s motives were refreshingly unambiguous. Now, at least. Now in the harsh light of a new day. Buffy felt older now. So much older than she had a short twenty-four hours ago.
So much older.
But she had an answer for Mrs. Hart. Despite the heartache, despite her concerns, despite everything which had occurred, a part of Buffy knew William would miss her. The idea of her, at least. He might now realize she wasn’t what he wanted and never could be—he might know finally that Drusilla would never again walk down the stairs or dance or make love with him—but he was lonely, and he needed companionship.
She knew he would miss her because he hadn’t stayed in Drusilla’s room last night. The pinnacle of her worst fears never saw fruition. He
hadn’t stayed in Drusilla’s room.
He was lonely. He needed someone. He’d never love again, but he needed someone.
Perhaps he’d married Buffy because he’d known she was in love with him. Their breakfast at Monte Carlo had certainly alluded as much. He’d sat across from her, discussing the clock and offering her toast and speaking vainly as though all was right and natural. He’d been the one to mention her love for him before she even knew how to form the words. He’d known she was in love with him, therefore he knew she wouldn’t say no.
He cared for her just fine. As someone might care for a favored pet.
Buffy’s head dipped when she realized her eyes had filled with tears again. The wisps of black smoke clouding the sky seemed to her as poison seeping into a glass filled with clear water. The sun’s heat was suddenly intolerable. She couldn’t stay here anymore.
No one noticed when she slipped to her feet and took the turn to walk back to the manor. Not the crew, not the crowd, and not the nameless young man whom had been so keen to help her a short while ago. Buffy marched slowly up the barren path, her arms folded under her breasts, her heart seemingly determined to break free from her chest. The walk back seemed to stretch lifetimes, but eventually she made it to the familiar bend in the pathway where her feet would normally divert to the Happy Valley. It felt wrong viewing Manderley from this angle. While it was hardly the first time she’d ever braved a journey to the bay, the walk home nearly always coincided with a rush of guilt and abnormality. As though God and everyone knew she’d been where she was not welcome.
The dress she’d worn last night had ripped William apart. How would he react now? Now that there was an accident involving a boat in the very place where Drusilla had sailed away, never to be seen alive again? Would he even remember he had a living wife waiting for him at home?
Her mind drifted again to Wesley, piecing together elaborate stories as to what he would divulge and how William would react.
How William would feel if he knew she knew.
Buffy wandered through the entrance, lost in another world. The hall looked as it always did: large, beautiful, and achingly empty. The portrait which had inspired the disastrous evening had been removed. No lingering remnants of the night’s party remained. There were no crumbs, no spills, no empty glasses scattered across the furniture.
There was nothing. The house was full of ghosts and whispers, but nothing else.
Inhaling slowly, she turned to the left and drifted over the marble floor, dry, still air fanning her sweat-laced skin. Her feet carried her without direction to the parlor, shadows of dancing puppets dragging her eyes across the open room. The entire masque had been a play, and the actors had done their part to make sure the scene unfolded as Mrs. Hart had scripted.
Just as Mrs. Hart had scripted.
Buffy exhaled slowly and sank into the settee. The rustle of her linen slacks might as well have been a glass shattering for as silent as the room stood. She wondered idly if Mrs. Hart remained in Drusilla’s living sanctuary. If she had watched William tear toward the place where Drusilla had disappeared. If she knew anything of what happened at the bay.
Inevitably, however, Buffy’s thoughts returned to William. What he was thinking. God, after the night they’d had, the commotion at the bay could only serve as the proverbial pinch of salt. Would he even remember Buffy existed when he arrived home? Would he want to speak with her at all? The world around her had tumbled completely out of order, out of the quiet control on which she’d come to rely.
The silence around her had an intoxicating effect; within minutes, she found herself nodding off. Shadows of William, masked guests, haunted paintings danced behind her tired eyes. Her ears rang with the crash of waves, her nostrils filled with the scent of the sea. The black smoke curling from the fishing boat assaulted her senses. She was everywhere at once. At the top of the stairs in a white dress. At William’s side in the fabric he’d peeled off her body on their honeymoon. Lying in bed, waiting for him to join her. Standing at the bay, sand filling into her shoes, the sun bouncing off the water, watching as divers disappeared and surfaced again and again.
Waiting. Perpetually waiting for William.
“Mrs. de Winter?”
Buffy jerked upright. Giles stood in the doorway.
He nodded promptly, always the epitome of decorum. “Colonel Riley Finn,” he announced, turning to leave just as the words escaped his lips.
“Colonel Riley Finn?” she repeated, rising shakily to her feet. In a blink, a man she’d never before seen had pushed through the double-doors in Giles’s place. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and had the face of an infant. When he saw she was alone, the hat on his head was immediately rendered to his hand and pressed against his chest.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said courteously. “I’m here to see Mr. de Winter.”
Buffy swallowed hard. “I’m afraid Mr. de Winter is away from home at the moment,” she replied, wondering idly why Giles had failed to relate this. Then again, there was every chance Giles hadn’t known William had left the premises at all. Everything since last night had been so scattered and confused, as had been William’s departure to town. There was nothing in her universe right now which made any sense. “Is there something I can do for you?”
Finn shifted awkwardly, his eyes darting to the floor. “All due respect, ma’am, this is something I think I should discuss with your husband.”
There was something definitive in his tone Buffy didn’t like. And without warning, the thundering in her chest increased tenfold. The last thing William needed at present was another blow, no matter the form in which it came. After last night, what little hope for them remained was kept only alive by the promise of no more disasters. A promise dangerously close to breaking from the guilty flush of the Colonel’s cheeks. Whatever he was here to relate would do nothing but drive the wedge between her and William even further, and this was something she couldn’t allow. Not now. Not until she had the chance to explain herself to him. Not until she looked him in the eye and knew he didn’t blame her for what had happened, even if the realities it had produced couldn’t be ignored.
She couldn’t let it rain where it had already flooded. Not if she had the means by which to stop it.
“Colonel,” Buffy said softly. “My husband has had a very trying night…and this mess at the bay—”
“It’s why I’m here, ma’am. We’ve found something.”
A beat. Buffy swallowed hard, attempting and failing to digest the information. Her thoughts were entirely with William. “All right,” she replied. “Well, as I said, my husband is away from home right now, so whatever you need to say will have to be conveyed through me. I—”
Resolution hardened Finn’s face. He at last looked up again and shook his head. “Mr. de Winter needs to hear this from me. I’m sorry.”
“Needs to hear what?”
“What we found.”
The inclination in his voice was significant enough that the words penetrated the veneer surrounding William and stuck. Buffy exhaled deeply, locked her eyes on his, doing her best to ignore the sudden rush of heat attacking her face. “What…what did you find?”
“I shouldn’t—”
“He will tell me anyway.” It was a wild lie—a supposition based on hope—but she knew without a doubt she needed to hear what Finn had to say before William, and for reasons greater than their troubled marriage. This went beyond the party, beyond what Mrs. Hart had done with a mind to sabotage her, beyond everything in her grasp. This was something which could not only destroy Buffy, but William as well. And though she didn’t know how she knew it, there was no doubt in her mind. None at all. Everything had been shoved aside save for a rash need to protect the man she loved.
She didn’t know how to protect him from words, but at least she would have an idea of what she faced if Colonel Finn told her first.
Hesitance splattered Finn’s face. “Mrs. de Winter—”
“Just tell me what you found. William—”
“It was the boat.”
A heady pause. “The boat?”
“The boat Mrs. de Winter—your husband’s first wife—the one she was sailing the night she disappeared.” The corners of Finn’s mouth drew down almost apologetically, as though he sensed how Drusilla had plagued her these many months. “It was what caused the fishing boat to crash.”
The roar of the sea against the shoreline exploded across distance and glass, filling Buffy’s ears as cold permeated every nerve in her trembling body. She felt choked without reason, suddenly floored with the stench of Drusilla’s perfume. As though every hinted manifestation of the woman’s ghost took shape, rising from the ashes of her memory scattered across every corner of the great estate. The floorboards positively hummed, reassured with the presence of their old mistress. Risen from the watery depths of her clandestine tomb. No matter she was buried in the family cemetery, and had been ever since William identified her. This went beyond the physical—this was the resurrection of the thing which had killed her.
Not even a day since William caught a glimpse of his beloved late wife at the top of the stairs.
If he knew what had been uncovered, it would be worse than anything Buffy had ever dreamt up. The magnitude of the fall was inconceivable. Like trying to imagine eternity—a concept beyond grasp, beyond understanding, beyond any sort of conventional wisdom.
“Please,” Buffy gasped, barely aware she was speaking at all. “Please don’t tell him this now.
Please. She’s gone, isn’t she? Drusilla’s gone. We knew the boat was lost…what good can come from bringing it up now? I’ll…we can repay the damage done to the fishing boat. Anything. Just
please don’t do this to him now.”
The sympathy on Finn’s face was unbearable. He held up a hand. “Mrs. de Winter—”
“This doesn’t change anything,” she insisted erratically. “Anything. Just please don’t make him go through this again. Hasn’t he been through enough? Hasn’t—”
“Were it only a matter of the boat, I would gladly step out of here and never bother you again.” There was a significant pause. “But there’s more to what I told you…and we have to follow every lead from here on out to its logical conclusion.”
Buffy shook her head, unwinding. “I don’t understand.”
The Colonel studied her for a long, grueling moment, his mouth forming a perfect line. “We have reason to believe now that Mrs. de Winter—that is, the late Mrs. de Winter—wasn’t alone in the boat when it capsized.”
The words made no sense to her. She heard them, digested them, intellectually comprehended them, but found herself irrevocably lost in translation. “Not alone?” she repeated, doing her best to ignore her buzzing skin and her shaking hands. “I…I don’t…”
“This is why I need to speak with your husband,” Finn continued apologetically. “There was no report of anyone sailing with Mrs. de Winter that night—”
“Well, that’s because there wasn’t,” Buffy replied. “I don’t understand—”
“Mrs. de Winter…there’s a body.”
The air fell absolutely still. She felt suspended between realities. “A body?”
Finn nodded. “In the main compartment of Mrs. de Winter’s boat. We found a body.”
Buffy’s eyes fixed on a miniscule imperfection on the wall as sound dulled and shapes fell to a place she could not follow. There was no thought. No speech. No sound. There was nothing but absolute knowledge, and the ceaseless despair it brought in its wake. The endless awareness it was over. It was over. It was completely over. The stormy terrain of William’s troubled eyes would dominate him without end. The small steps they’d taken would be completely conquered by devastated, restless silence. Drusilla was resurrected—her boat was no longer submerged and forgotten, no longer an abstract thing of theoretical existence, as it had lived in Buffy’s mind these many months. This was more than seeing Drusilla in the flesh. This was utter loss. This was complete ruination.
“Someone was sailing with her,” Buffy heard herself say. Her legs crashed against the settee without her permission. There wasn’t room enough to breathe.
“Yes, ma’am,” Finn said softly. “This is why I need to talk with your husband. The boat was found on his property, which presents a problem. Moreover, we didn’t know of anyone else sailing with her that night. We need to—”
There was a sudden slam from the main hall. Buffy’s head jerked up.
And then she heard it. The soft baritone of his voice. The cooling lumber with which she’d fallen in love.
“Buffy?” he called softly, searchingly. “Are you down here?”
Her heart leapt into her throat.
William was 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.