Chapter 25
Author's Notes: I know the excitement insofar as William and Buffy’s relationship in
this story has died, but I do thank everyone who’s stuck with me for
the remainder. It’s a ride I never thought I’d actually see to the
finish, and the support from you guys makes it all the more worthwhile.
For
those of you familiar with the book, you’ll notice I’m taking a slight
detour from the way du Maurier wrote her conclusion. It’s not a break
from what happened, per se, but I am cutting back a significant portion
from the inquest to the final chapter, and I’m doing so for the
following reasons:
1.) That section, while I love it, drags a bit.
2.) This is my story, modeled admittedly after du Maurier’s, but I don’t feel a need to do everything exactly as she did.
3.)
I’ve been working on this story now for over two years, and I admit I’m
suffering from “senioritis.” I really want to see it finished, not
because I’m tired of it or no longer care for the story, but rather I
promised myself I wouldn’t start another HUGE project again until it
was finished and I’m dying to get to the other saga that’s been in my head since October.
As I said, the minor alterations don’t really affect the storyline. Or if they do, hopefully not too drastically. ^_~
Thanks again to my betas and my readers!
Were it not for Anya at her left and
Wesley at her right, Buffy was certain she would have collapsed the
second William left her side. He held her with a long, meaningful gaze,
promising all he could without uttering a word, then moved away from
her and to the heart of the large, daunting room. A room full of
reporters, lawyers, and an eager sea of spectators, taken with reports
of the unfeeling widower who hadn’t even waited for the sheets to cool
before taking a second wife.
The past few days had been
nothing but onslaught after onslaught—the bay exploded with excitement.
With scandal. With whispers and speculation and heated debates as to
what might have actually happened to Drusilla, all of which eventually
led some to demonize William. He was a monster, it was said, for
marrying so quickly after the untimely death of his beloved Drusilla.
He’d rushed out to identify her body, too eager to forget, too
desperate for fresh thighs to part. It didn’t help matters when Mrs.
Hart disappeared three days following the discovery of Drusilla’s body,
nor did it help when one of Manderley’s staffers leaked that tidbit to
a hungry reporter. One of England’s more widely read papers reported
that William’s most trusted confidant, Erzsebet Hart, whom had
allegedly begged to remain on staff following Drusilla’s death, now
found herself at such odds with what she believed to have been her
mistress’s demise and what might have actually transpired that she fled
the grounds in fear of her life.
Where the story developed,
neither Buffy nor William had any idea. Despite Mrs. Hart’s sadism, it
wasn’t like her to forgo propriety in favor of scandal. If anything,
the old woman would likely keep a low profile and resented being at the
center of any such gossip.
“That cowardly old hag!” William had
screamed before thrusting his fist through the nearest wall three
nights prior. “I bloody tell you, she better have fled the bloody
country. If I ever get my hands on her—”
“William, please…”
“No, Buffy. No. Not after what she did. Not after the way she’s treated you.” He’d
centered his gaze on her and held. “She knows. She knows I know how
she’s…she knows…”
Buffy had enveloped William in her arms to
cease his outcries and held him as he trembled. He was afraid; she was,
too. Only a few days of paradise and the real world was again breaking
through their wall. Now they were out of Eden and unsure of what lay
ahead.
“Are you all right?” Wesley whispered.
Buffy’s
eyes were trained on William. He was on the other side of the room, a
horde of people separating them. He might as well have been across the
universe. “Yes.”
“I did apologize for not making lunch the other day, didn’t I?”
“Yes,
Wesley. Several times, in fact.” She turned to him with a soft smile.
“You’ve been very good. Thank you…but…I understand things now as I
hadn’t before. As I couldn’t.”
There was a long pause. “Do you?” he asked softly, his eyes wide.
“Yes.” Buffy turned to face him completely. “And do you, Wesley?”
“Do I…?”
“William
and I have discussed…many things in the past few days.” She worried a
lip between her teeth, unsure of how much to divulge while
simultaneously needing so badly to know she wasn’t the only one in her
husband’s corner. She needed to know that Wesley knew what was at
stake. What could happen between now and the day’s end. And if William
was correct, if Wesley did know, then Buffy could take solace in the
knowledge she wasn’t alone.
Wesley nodded, his face unreadable. “Have you?” he asked. Then clarified, “Discussed things?”
“Yes. There’s…there’s little I don’t know.”
Another long pause. He nodded. “Then you’re on the inside.”
“Of what?”
Wesley directed his gaze to William. “Of whatever he told you. In this room, Buffy, you know more than the lot of us.”
“More than you?”
A
simple smile crossed his face. “I only speculate. William is my friend
and always will be. You are one of the best women I’ve ever known, and
if you’re here for him, I can only assume he deserves it. From the look
in your eyes and the way you two have gazed at each other today, I
believe the problems you discussed with me are a thing of the past.”
She
thought of the phone call. The morning she rang Wesley after the masque
when she was so certain she and William would never reconcile; that
things were so broken no amount of healing would ever lead them into
new light. “That day…Wesley, you must understand—”
“What he said to you was—”
“It’s in the past.”
Wesley smiled wryly. “You made him grovel, I hope.”
“He made it up to me.”
Whatever
retort waited on Wesley’s lips rode off into oblivion with the sudden
jab of Anya’s elbow. “Whatever are you two murmuring about?” she
demanded in a loud whisper. Then, without awaiting a response, she
brusquely turned her attention back to the crowded room. “I really
don’t understand what the fuss is all about. So Drusilla died in the
boat rather than out of the boat. Does anyone really look like
themselves after months under water? How was William supposed to know
the woman he identified was—”
“Anya,” Wesley said sharply, his eyes narrowing. “Must you be so crass?”
“Wesley,” she retorted in the same manner, “must you act so shocked?”
Buffy
bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. Again, she looked
back across the room and met William’s eyes. While betraying nothing,
his ocean blue eyes sparkled in such a manner she could have believed,
if she tried hard enough, that he was beside her instead of a world
away. As though they were anywhere else, exchanging a silent private
joke over Anya’s flamboyance and Wesley’s quiet etiquette.
‘I love you,’ she mouthed, at first without thinking, then again with conviction.
William smiled softly. ‘Love you,’ he replied.
It
was another few minutes before the room quieted. Buffy wasn’t familiar
enough with the legal system to know whether or not the man leading the
proceedings was a judge or not, but once her eyes settled on his, she
found it didn’t matter. He held power over William, therefore power
over her, and that alone made him intimidating.
“Leonardo McGarry,” Wesley whispered. “We’re fortunate.”
Buffy blinked. “Fortunate?”
“He
was one of William’s favorite professors before he became a judge, and
William has likewise written Leo several glowing endorsements in local
papers.” He tossed her a small smile. “This is to our advantage.”
“Is it?”
Anya nodded, leaning over. “It’s always better to have a judge who likes you rather than one who’d just as soon see you hang.”
The image that flashed before Buffy’s eyes was something she never wanted to relive. “Yes,” she agreed quickly. “Oh yes.”
A
stilled hush fell over the room as McGarry took his seat. He wasn’t
wearing robes or anything that would otherwise identify him by his
position, but he did have an expression of fixed importance that
couldn’t be ignored. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentleman,” he said,
propping glasses on the bridge of his nose. “Hopefully this won’t take
much time. I know Mr. de Winter is eager to put this ugly matter behind
him.”
William inclined his head but didn’t say anything.
“We’re
here to decide upon the cause of death for the late Drusilla de Winter,
survived by her husband, William de Winter. Previous cause of death
thought to be drowning at sea.” McGarry sighed and rustled what
appeared to be a stack of papers. “Though Mr. de Winter identified
another woman as his wife, I think it safe to conclude that traumatic
events, such as losing a loved one unexpectedly, can often result in
impaired judgment.” He nodded at William without really looking at him.
“I know this might be difficult, but for the purpose of declaring a
cause of death, it is imperative to go over previously recorded
testimony.”
William nodded. “I understand.”
“You might
not remember everything. If something doesn’t match our records, it
might be necessary to go over it again at length to sort through
significant inconsistencies.”
Another nod. “Yes.”
“All right.”
McGarry removed his glasses and focused entirely on William. “Can you go through the last day again, for the record?”
William
nodded once more, his eyes shifting in Buffy’s direction but not
meeting her gaze. As though he couldn’t bear to look at her when he
told this version of his history. The false version—especially when she
knew exactly how it had happened.
“Buffy.”
She frowned
and turned to Wesley, whose eyes were fixed steadily to their left. And
when she saw what had his attention, her insides flushed cold.
“Oh God,” she whispered, her hands balling into fists. “What are they doing here?”
“William thought she might show up,” Wesley whispered. “It’s no surprise that she should be with Angelus.”
Seeing
Mrs. Hart outside the confines of Manderley was startling, but her
presence at the inquest, despite the improbability of her knowing
anymore than anyone else in the room, save Buffy, served as a damning
omen. The woman’s hatred for Buffy was very slight compared to how
desperately she resented William. It was William who had replaced
Drusilla with Buffy’s image—and while Buffy herself was an easy target,
everything Mrs. Hart had done to harm her had been an attempt to hurt
William.
“Do you think…” Buffy murmured, then immediately drew
silent before she inadvertently asked a question to which Wesley could
not possibly know the answer. She couldn’t ask her friend to speculate
if Mrs. Hart would interject without divulging the truth. And no matter
how much Buffy trusted Wesley, there was nothing in the world that
could coerce her into endangering William. Let the authorities lock her
up first.
“…arrived home late from my sister, Anya’s,” William
was saying, drawing her back to his testimony. “Drusilla was scheduled
to be in town all weekend, but our housekeeper, Mrs. Hart, told me upon
arrival that she had cut her trip short and had retired to the
boathouse. There was a fierce storm that night, but weather wasn’t the
sort of thing to temper Drusilla.”
A collective, appreciative
snicker rang through the room. As though everyone present had been
party to or at least aware of Drusilla’s wild streak.
“Did you see her that night?”
William
shook his head, still avoiding Buffy’s eyes. “No,” he replied softly.
“It was late and the weather was already treacherous. I thought I would
see her the next day. I spent the night in my study. The next day came
and the boat was gone. Dru was gone. No one had seen her. No one knew
where she was.”
“How many weeks passed before you identified the woman you thought to be your wife?”
He blinked hard. “I don’t…four, six. Time was…fuzzy.”
McGarry
nodded. He thanked William for his testimony, and invited him to take a
seat. For a second, Buffy thought that might be the end of it. She
thought—and then felt her heart crash against her chest when Mrs. Hart
was called forward.
“Oh great,” Anya drawled. “The old crone is going to talk.”
“You
don’t think she’ll say anything to hurt William, do you?” Buffy asked
hurriedly. William had tossed her a brief glance, not wandering far
from the front of the room. Not able to join her and Wesley in the
back. She knew why, of course; more questions might follow, and he
needed to be readily available should he be called up again.
“State your name,” McGarry instructed.
“Erzsebet Hart,” the woman provided in the same, cold tone to which Buffy was so accustomed.
“And your station?”
“I am head of staff at Manderley.”
McGarry nodded, his eyes glued to his notes. “Mhmm, yes. And who hired you?”
“I
have been in Mrs. de Winter’s employ since she was a girl,” Mrs. Hart
replied. “I was her nanny when she was young and her personal maid when
she was older. When she and Mr. de Winter married, I was named head of
staff at Manderley.”
“Uh huh,” McGarry replied, his tone
indicative of someone only half-listening, though there was sharp wit
about his eyes that told Buffy he was hanging attentively on every
word. “And do you corroborate with Mr. de Winter’s account?”
A
very long silence settled through the room. “Mr. de Winter arrived home
around sundown. Mrs. de Winter had been home for about an hour, and had
immediately retired to the boathouse. Mr. O’Malley—”
McGarry glanced up sharply and removed his glasses again. “Who?”
“Angelus O’Malley.” Mrs. Hart waved to Angelus. “Mrs. de Winter’s cousin and close confidant.”
William
turned in his seat at that, meeting Angelus’s smirk. There was a thick
beat during which Buffy witnessed a dangerous shadow cross her
husband’s face. It lasted longer than she would have liked, but she
soon found herself under his eyes, and watched with a breath of a
relief as he softened.
“All right,” McGarry said, putting his glasses back on and turning his head downward again. “Where does Mr. O’Malley come in?”
“He was scheduled to meet her at the boathouse that evening.”
The comment earned a few snickers. Several women shifted uncomfortably.
“Was Mr. de Winter aware?”
Mrs. Hart nodded. “Yes.”
“Okay. Continue.”
“Mr.
de Winter, to my knowledge, remained in the house all evening.” She
paused almost theatrically. “Very often, however, there will be days
when our paths do not cross. I remained in Mr. and Mrs. de Winter’s
bedroom all evening, awaiting Mrs. de Winter’s arrival. I heard Mr. de
Winter upstairs after the storm began to rage. He paced quite a bit all
evening with what I assumed was worry for Mrs. de Winter.”
McGarry perked a brow. “Assumed?”
“I do not presume to know every thought that goes through my employer’s head.”
The judge’s mouth twitched. “Fair enough. And what ensued afterward?”
“Mr.
de Winter lost his color and didn’t eat much. He was very quiet. Very
tense. When he received the call that Mrs. de Winter might have been
located, he became intensely distressed.”
It was difficult
compressing her reaction. The woman’s account, from where Buffy sat,
seemed to do more than merely corroborate William’s telling of
Drusilla’s disappearance; it gave credence to a man in mourning,
something she never would have expected from the icy housekeeper. Hope
was a fragile thing, especially when placed in the hands of someone who
was desperate to destroy everything Buffy held dear.
Buffy had no idea what to trust. Mrs. Hart wouldn’t lie—she was too proper—but she certainly wouldn’t do her any favors.
“How was Mr. de Winter the day he identified the woman he then believed to be Drusilla de Winter?”
“Very
vacant,” Mrs. Hart supplied. There was no emotion behind her account,
and thankfully, she didn’t meet Buffy’s eyes. “Very hollow.”
McGarry nodded briskly. “Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Hart. You may take your seat.”
No
one breathed as the woman moved back to Angelus’s side. The
anticlimactic nature of her testimony had seemingly stunned even those
Buffy couldn’t identify. And though her heart kept crashing against her
chest, a larger part of her, despite her relief, remained unmoved.
Unsurprised. There was no need to think Mrs. Hart would falsify her
account, or reveal knowledge she had previously kept to herself. Her
duty to Drusilla superceded everything else; if she’d ever suspected
William had anything to do with her mistress’s disappearance, she never
would have stayed. Not without action. Not without seeking some form of
revenge.
“All right. Colonel Finn.” McGarry glanced up,
motioning the man Buffy recognized as the one who had been in the room
before William revealed what had really happened the night Drusilla
disappeared. The man who had told her there was a body in the boat the
divers had uncovered.
Unlike William and Mrs. Hart, Colonel
Finn met her eyes when he was moved to the limelight, and smiled as
though to reassure her it was nearly over.
“Could you expand upon your findings of eight days ago?”
“Following
the crash of a local fishing boat, me and my crew discovered the boat
that had gone missing the night the first Mrs. de Winter disappeared.
Inside, to our great surprise, we found the lady herself.” He nodded to
William. “At first, we thought it was someone else in the boat with
her, but we were able to identify her based on various pieces of
jewelry…with the help of Mr. de Winter and Mrs. Hart.”
“Did you find anything to contrast the accounts as I have them?”
Colonel
Finn shook his head. “No sir. I firmly believe Mr. de Winter was under
great duress the first time he was asked to identify his wife. Other
than the other body, I have no reason to believe anything other than
what has been described here is the full truth.”
Wesley squeezed her hand. “It’s almost over,” he whispered. “It will be over soon.”
Buffy
nodded shortly. She could scarcely believe it. This thing she had
dreaded so wretchedly—the thing she and William had both believed could
rob him of the future they both desperately deserved—was nearing its
end. In a few moments—perhaps seconds—she would be in her love’s arms,
and the past wouldn’t be able to catch them anywhere.
“Well,” McGarry said, nodding shortly, “if there’s nothing else—”
Somewhere
to the far left, a throat cleared, and the warm sphere of hope that had
begun to swell dissipated. Heads turned and bodies shifted as a man
Buffy didn’t recognize slowly climbed to his feet. He was dressed
informally, denoting his station as working class, and his personality
as one who didn’t care to be seen in official settings wearing attire
most would consider inappropriate.
“Yessir, I got a question.”
McGarry peered over the rim of his glasses. “Okay. State your name?”
“Name’s Doyle. Allen Francis Doyle.”
“All right. What’s your interest?”
“I
was commissioned by the late Mrs. de Winter to craft the boat that
sank,” Doyle explained, belatedly removing the hat from his head and
slapping it across his chest as though preparing to pray. “She had me
work on several different models before she was satisfied, so when it
was brought to town earlier in the week, I made a point to take a look
at it to find out how it might’ve capsized. Mrs. de Winter was the sort
to raise a fuss, see.” He frowned, then nodded at William. “My
apologies.”
Buffy watched the corner of William’s mouth tug upward. “Quite all right.”
“I
put in a lot of time on that boat, your honor,” Doyle continued
earnestly. “There’s not a person on this island who doesn’t know how
much time I put on that boat. None of my clients, at least. I was
concerned, see, when I found out the boat wasn’t lost in the storm. It
wasn’t lost. It sank pretty close to the shoreline. Too close. I don’t
give a bloody damn how powerful the wind was or how high the water
came…I knew if I got a look at that boat, I could give an answer as to
what happened that night. And here’s where I have concern…”
Buffy didn’t realize she wasn’t breathing until Anya inhaled sharply and seized her hand.
“From
what I understand, Mrs. de Winter was found in the lower cabin of the
boat. The latch was sealed. The entire cabin was sealed. I don’t
understand why Mrs. de Winter would retreat to the lower cabin in the
middle of a storm like that and lock herself in.” Doyle shifted.
“Understood, she could’ve knocked her head on somethin’. The wind
could’ve sealed her in. I’ve been on the water a long time, your honor,
and I’ve seen wind do funny things. That could’ve happened.” He paused.
“But what I wanna know is who drilled the holes in the bottom of the
boat.”
Silence stronger than any storm washed over the room.
Then there was buzzing. Horrible buzzing. It rose from the floorboards
and spilled into the air like toxin. Air clamored angrily against her
chest, demanding to be heard over the steadily rising voices of the
eager multitude. Her seat shifted. The walls began to spin.
“Quiet!”
McGarry snapped. It didn’t help. People were talking loudly now. Openly
speculating. Gawking. Peering over seats to catch a closer glimpse of
William.
William.
“Those holes shouldn’t have
been there!” Doyle yelled, excited now. The sound of a man eager to be
at the center of attention. “Someone put those holes there! Someone
sank that boat!”
McGarry fidgeted uncomfortably, tossing William
an almost rueful glance. “Mr. de Winter,” he said, his soft voice
somehow louder than the foray of debate swelling around him. “I think,
under the circumstances, it might be necessary to ask you…were things
perfectly well in your marriage?”
Oh God.
William’s
jaw tightened and his eyes hardened. And Buffy was so far from him. She
couldn’t touch him. Couldn’t calm him. Couldn’t reassure him. Couldn’t
remind him wordlessly that she was here—she was with him. Couldn’t
whisper to keep his temper in line or remind him what was at stake.
She couldn’t touch him. She needed to touch him, but he was so far away.
She couldn’t do anything but call out to him, even if her voice was muted.
“William.”
Though
it was nothing but a whisper, her throat ached as if she’d been
screaming for hours. And before she could blink, Wesley was holding her
up, and she heard William. William’s voice ringing over the eager sea
of spectators.
“You must excuse me. My wife looks ill.”
McGarry
nodded a quick, wordless consent, and then William was rushing over.
The floor moved. Her head spun. She found herself propped against a
strong, familiar chest, and then they were out in the open.
Away from the voices. Away from the stares.
The future slipped through her fingers and she could do nothing to stop it.
Nothing at all.
*~*~*
“I really think Wesley should take you home.”
Buffy
shook her head again. The cooler air helped clear her thoughts, though
she couldn’t detach herself from the growing hum wafting from the
halted inquest. It was better, now. Now with William’s eyes locked on
hers. With William’s hands steadying her. With William’s lips cooling
the rage in her head with soft, tender kisses.
“No,” she whispered, wrapping her hands around his wrists. “No, please. I’ll go crazy if I’m not here.”
“I can’t think if I’m worrying about you.”
“William…”
“Will.”
Wesley materialized out of nowhere, favoring Buffy with an apologetic
nod. “I’m so sorry, but I think McGarry is ready to commence.” He
paused, his gaze flickering between them. “Am I taking Buffy home?”
William nodded. “I would really prefer it.”
“No,” Buffy protested with another hard shake of her head. “William, please. Let me go back in. I can’t—”
“You don’t look well, darling.”
“I won’t look any better if you send me home.”
A
soft smile crossed his lips, and though he looked resigned, the relief
in his eyes—the part which told her how much he wanted her near
him—filled her insides with warmth. “All right,” he replied, kissing
her gently. “All right. But out here. I don’t want you in there…where
they can see you.” He paused. “I mean, I don’t want you to become a
part of the spectacle.”
Buffy’s eyes widened. “Could they make me a part of it?”
“I’m sure, if they tried hard enough.”
“My
guess,” Wesley interjected calmly, “is that Mr. Doyle’s observation
will open a new line of questioning…but given Drusilla’s erratic
behavior, it might be concluded rather easily that she committed
suicide.”
“Suicide?” Buffy asked, wincing when she realized how
far her voice carried. “You really think…” A beat. She caught herself.
“You think Drusilla…committed suicide?”
A different voice stole
the retort off Wesley’s lips. A voice which had her stomach curling
with disgust; a voice which initiated a renaissance of the sickly heat
that had nearly caused her to lose consciousness.
A voice which inspired William to anchor her to his side.
“Hate
to interrupt such a tender moment,” Angelus drawled with a snicker,
crossing his arms. “Goddamn, Spike, you sure know how to snag the
pretty ones.”
“Angelus,” William practically snarled. “Anything I can help you with?”
“No
thanks, old boy. Think I got everything under control.” He smiled
unpleasantly, reaching into his coat jacket and retrieving a single
piece of worn parchment. “See, if Doyle hadn’t done me a jolly by
bringing it up first, this might not pack quite the punch it will in
there. Gotta say, I can’t wait to see your face.”
William didn’t blink. He merely inclined his head with false civility. “Is that so?”
“Suicide?
Oh Spike, we both know better than that, don’t we?” Angelus smiled
unpleasantly and tapped the parchment against his teeth. “I think it’s
time we let the lady herself do the talking, don’t you?”
He disappeared into the room without waiting another instant, leaving Buffy frozen in William’s arms.
“What does he mean?” she asked, her voice hard, her heart thundering. “What was that all about?”
“Nothing good,” Wesley murmured.
William
stared for empty seconds at the place where Angelus disappeared, then
turned back to Buffy. “Darling, are you sure you won’t go home?”
“I’m not leaving,” she said firmly. “Please don’t ask me again.”
“If he has something from Dru…something of hers he kept…”
“Don’t ask me to leave you.”
William was quiet for another second, searching her eyes, then broke off with a nod. “All right,” he murmured. “But out here.”
“No.”
“Buffy—”
“If you go in there, I will follow.”
Wesley smiled grimly. “I wouldn’t cross her, Will,” he advised. “Women are unmovable when they have their minds settled.”
Though
she had never quite heard herself applied in such a context, Buffy felt
no need to object. Rather, she crossed her arms and nodded, trying to
appear braver than she was. Whether or not she succeeded due to her
determination or William’s lack of conviction in fighting her was in
the air; all she knew was he caved with a nod, a kiss to her brow, and
before she could gather her thoughts, they were moving again.
Back
toward the voices. Back to where Angelus waited with his piece of
parchment. A piece of parchment which might have been from Drusilla. A
piece of parchment which might take William away from her.
Back into the lion’s den.
![[info]](http://stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
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.