Chapter 26
Author's Notes: I’m going to save the big author’s note for the
conclusive chapter. The next will be the end of this story—one nearly
four years in the making. All I have now is…my endless and utter thanks
to everyone who stuck by me with this. I know at times it seemed I’d
never finish it, but we’re in the final stretch now. Almost to the
finish line. Thanks to my readers and my betas.
William was adamant on keeping Buffy as far from the spotlight as
possible. He didn’t want people looking at her, pointing at her,
speculating about her. The inquest was to be about himself and his life
with Drusilla; he feared what might happen should Buffy take a seat
beside him. If she brought herself from the shadows and the whispers
and the rumors and place herself steadfast in the public eye.
It was this and only this that kept Buffy from sitting beside him as
the inquest resumed. Again, she found herself situated between Wesley
and Anya, doing her best to keep her chin held high and her eyes far
from Angelus. The steady breaths pressing her chest did not betray her
racing heart, even if she felt the thundering could be heard for miles.
The propriety which had so long guarded her thoughts and actions had
all but entirely melted away. She wanted to claw out Angelus’s
eyes—wanted to scream to the court the truth behind William’s marriage
if only to shove Drusilla into the ground. Paint her as the opposite of
people—the opposite of goodness, of gentility, of decency, of anything
resembling a life worth saving. A life worth anything at all. And
though she knew her views were shaped and skewered by what she knew of
William—by what she felt for William—she likewise understood her
husband to be the very best of men, and trusted his judgment in place
of all others.
One such as Angelus couldn’t be trusted. Surely McGarry would know
it—if he knew William, he would know not to trust Angelus. He would
recognize Angelus for what he was: monstrous, bitter, vile, incapable
of love. A beast that was here only to hurt William, his motive
protected under the disguise of avenging a woman who had truly been his
equal.
“I might need to speak,” Wesley murmured. “Angelus’s character is not
unknown, but if his evidence is as damning as he indicated, I might be
able to counter the blow with what I saw in William and Drusilla’s
marriage.”
“Yes, but what if Drusilla’s friends do the same?” Buffy asked, thinking of Darla Manners and Lilah Morgan.
Anya snickered. “To do so would defame Drusilla’s character, not William’s.”
“Not if they offer dishonest testimony.”
Wesley shook his head. “It would be unwise. Mrs. Hart would counter any
untruths. No matter how she feels about William, she wouldn’t lie for
the sake of seeing him hang. She’s too proper, and she believed William
to be as infatuated with Drusilla as every other man.”
Buffy nodded, feeling hollow and useless. Though the air was chilled,
she couldn’t stop burning. A hot, sticky sickness enveloped her gut,
threatening to climb higher by the second. She felt Angelus’s eyes on
her but didn’t dare return his stare. If she so much as blinked in his
direction, there was every chance she would truly get sick, and then
William would demand she remain outside as the proceedings continued.
Her eyes focused on the judge. McGarry resumed his seat, looking
uncomfortable and more than a little reluctant. He tossed William a
glance and mumbled a quick something. William nodded, replied in the
same manner. The trade seemed cordial, if not a little concerned.
“The good news,” Wesley said, jarring her back to herself, “is that
this is still rather informal. If Leo rules Drusilla’s death an
accident or suicide, that’s the end of it. However…if foul play is
suspected, it’s not the end. I promise you, Buffy. William will be home tonight.”
“It’s not tonight that worries me,” she replied. “Tomorrow is much more daunting.”
McGarry cleared his throat, an otherwise ordinary motion that, with
him, had the ability to quiet the noisy chattering consuming the room.
“All right,” he said in a manner indicating interruptions were
punishable by death. “Are we ready to resume?” The room was silent.
McGarry took this as a yes. “Okay. Mr. Doyle, could you repeat what you said before we broke?”
If Allen Francis Doyle were suddenly to drop dead of a heart attack,
Buffy wasn’t certain she could muster up the decency to care. As it
was, the man who had thrown her calming world into jeopardy without
allowing her a free breath rose dutifully to his feet. “Yessir,” he
said. “I said there were holes in the floorboard. Holes someone put
into the bottom of that boat with a mind for sinkin’ it.”
“That last part is speculation,” McGarry noted.
“Due respect, sir, no it’s not. No one puts holes in a boat, ‘specially
not the bottom. These cuts were too deep, too symmetrical to be done by
anythin’ but human hand. That boat met the bottom of the bay by
someone’s intent.” A beat. “Understand, I’m not accusing anyone of
anything. I’m not sure what happened…all I know is I know boats…that
boat, specifically, seein’ as I made it and all. That boat sank ‘cause
someone wanted it sunk.”
An excited murmur rang through the room. McGarry silenced it with
another throat clearing. “Yes, well,” he said, glancing downward.
“Thank you for your observation, Mr. Doyle.” There was another pause.
McGarry kept his eyes lowered for a few long seconds, during which no
one moved. “Now…I don’t want anyone making any accusations. This is not
a criminal trial. It’s an inquest, designed to pinpoint cause of death.
I’d like everyone to keep that in mind as we proceed with questioning.
Is that understood?”
No one spoke, but the warning had many nodding impatiently. A sea of
bobbing heads and eager eyes, and many wary glances cast in William’s
direction.
“Mr. de Winter,” McGarry continued a second later, “my apologies to you
and your wife for what I’m sure is going to be a very uncomfortable
afternoon, but given what Mr. Doyle has presented, we must venture down
a line of questioning that might be a little rough.”
William nodded. “Whatever is needed,” he agreed.
“Were things perfectly well in your marriage?”
“As well as could be expected,” came the reply. “Drusilla took pleasure
in many things, and I was happy to provide for her. Before these recent
events, I had not been aware of any such rumors that our marriage was
anything but a happy one. I know Drusilla had her secrets, and I
certainly had mine, but nothing that interfered, to my knowledge, with
the sanctity of our marriage.”
Again, William was very careful not to look at Buffy, though she saw
something in his face invisible to anyone who didn’t know him well. Who
didn’t know him as she did—perhaps, even, as Wesley and Anya did. It
was so subtle she wasn’t sure she could describe it if asked, but it
was there all the same. A small tell that told her how much he loathed
pampering the lie. How much he wished he could allow the truth of
Drusilla’s character to ring from the top of every hillside rather than
rely on the false history she had helped fabricate with her deceit.
“And to your knowledge,” McGarry continued, “your wife was alone at the boathouse?”
William nodded. “As Mrs. Hart said earlier, her cousin was due to meet her but was unable to make it to Manderley.”
“Can you describe your wife’s mannerisms?”
“Unpredictable,” William replied easily. “She loved challenging herself, and overcoming those challenges.”
A throat cleared from the far right cleared, belonging to a woman Buffy
recognized from the luncheon whereupon the masque was suggested.
Thankfully, it wasn’t Darla Manners or Lilah Morgan, rather the one
friendly face of Drusilla’s acquaintances. Cordelia Wright, wearing a
lovely cream-colored dress and a matching decoration in her chestnut
hair, rose to her feet. She paused only briefly to meet Buffy’s eyes
and cast her what appeared to be a reassuring smile. Then she turned to
McGarry and said, “I’d like to make an observation.”
McGarry’s brows flickered upward with interest. “Your name, please?”
“Cordelia Wright. I was a friend of Mrs. de Winter.” Cordelia drew in a
breath, nodding to William. “I would like to concur with what Mr. de
Winter has said thus far. Drusilla was very vivacious—very daring. She
enjoyed conquering aspects of life others found unconquerable. I
remember several incidents when we were younger wherein she faked her
own death…with great personal risk to herself, convinced of her
invincibility. She did it for her own amusement. I’m sure Mrs. Hart
remembers…once at the lake, we were terrified she’d drowned. We
searched for hours, but we couldn’t find her. When at last we returned
to the house, we found her in the drawing room, drinking tea and
smiling from ear-to-ear.”
“Wait,” Angelus objected suddenly, jumping to his feet. The sudden
explosion of his voice made the walls shake and sent another excited
murmur through the eager, crowded gossipmongers. “Wait a second there,
Cordy…”
Cordelia’s nose wrinkled with ostensible distaste. “Angelus.”
“I presume you have something to add, Mr. O’Malley?” McGarry drawled.
“I do,” he agreed, staring hard at the woman. “You’re not suggesting she killed herself, are you?”
“You knew Drusilla as well as I did, Angelus. Point of fact, I believe
you were the one who helped her fake her death during the
aforementioned incident.”
“Childhood pranks are one thing,” he barked. “You think Dru was
actually dumb enough to ruin her own damned boat and lock herself in
the lower cabin, knowing it’d sink all to prove a point?”
Cordelia shrugged. “If she thought you were on your way, why not?”
“She hasn’t tried anything like that in years.”
“I’m only saying it’s a possibility.” She turned back to McGarry.
“Likewise…while I can’t imagine a motive…yes, I could truly see
Drusilla simply…killing herself.”
“Horseshit,” Angelus growled, reaching into the lapels of his coat
jacket to retrieve the letter he’d waved in William’s face so
adamantly. “Drusilla pushed herself all the time, yeah, but she wasn’t
stupid about it. The storm would’ve stopped her—she tested her limits,
but she wasn’t an idiot.”
“Then perhaps she didn’t intend to fake her death,” Cordelia retorted. “As I said—”
“She killed herself?”
“It’s possible.”
Buffy held her breath, her eyes captivated by the verbal tennis match
though she couldn’t help but steal glances of her husband. He looked
riveted, if not a bit apprehensive. As though the notion of suicide
itself was novel to him. As though he didn’t already know the ending.
“Possible,” Angelus snorted, tearing open the letter. “Your honor,
Drusilla left this for me the day she disappeared. She’d been in town
that day and came by to visit me, but unfortunately I was otherwise
engaged. She left this, asking me to meet with her at Manderley. ‘Angelus,’ she writes, ‘I must speak with you. Meet me at the boathouse tonight. It’s a matter of extreme urgency.’ Now…” He flashed a smirk to William before continuing, “Tell me, does that sound like a woman hell-bent on killing herself?”
A gasp strangled the cry that tore at Buffy’s throat. Her head whipped
back to Cordelia, hoping against hope the woman had a feasible
explanation for this at the ready. However, her eyes were wide and her
face was blank with confusion. After a pregnant pause, the woman shook
her head and reclaimed her seat.
“Thanks for the try, Cordy,” Anya whispered, grasping Buffy’s hand.
“That’s a letter from Mrs. de Winter?” McGarry asked.
“Yessir.”
“Is there any particular reason you didn’t mention this before?”
“Waiting for the opportune moment,” Angelus replied, flashing what was supposed to be a charming smile.
To Buffy’s relief, McGarry looked intensely unimpressed. “I know you
might be confused with all the people,” he noted, “but this isn’t a
theatre. If you have pertinent information, you offer it up at the
beginning.”
“Sorry, your honor. Won’t happen again.”
McGarry’s eyes narrowed. “Let me see the letter,” he said, motioning
Angelus forward. Once it was in his possession, he read once, then
again, then folded it properly and turned to William. “Is there any
reason to believe your wife wouldn’t have corresponded with Mr.
O’Malley?”
“Oh right!” Angelus snapped. “Ask Spike. Ask—”
“I have every confidence the letter is genuine,” William replied
calmly, effectively silencing the protests. “Drusilla and Angelus were
quite close.”
“There’s a word for it,” Anya muttered.
There was another long silence during which McGarry and William shared
a meaningful look. “All right,” the judge said, drawing a deep breath.
“Mr. O’Malley…obviously you have some thoughts as to what this letter
means.”
It took a second for Angelus to collect himself. He kept staring at
William as though trying to see through his skull—as though trying to
understand why he hadn’t contested the letter’s authenticity.
However, Buffy understood. She understood everything. More than she
thought possible. There was no reason for William to contest—contesting
wouldn’t help him, as others could just as easily verify Drusilla’s
penmanship. Others such as Mrs. Hart, whose testimony had already bent
in his favor. His refusal to object gave him credibility. In that
alone, he appeared sincere. He appeared as a man with nothing to hide.
He appeared honorable.
“I think for sure it means she didn’t kill herself,” Angelus sneered.
“Does that sound like a woman who’s aiming to take her own life? She
said she had to speak with me about a matter of extreme urgency.”
McGarry nodded. “And I suppose you have a theory as to what the matter of extreme urgency involved?”
“Yes.” Angelus tossed William a smug glance. “I think Dru wanted to
tell me something that would’ve…well, let’s just say, put our boy Spike
here in a bit of a pickle. See, it was no secret to most of Dru’s
friends…hell, from the sound of things, most of the people in this
room, that Dru and I were…intimate.”
As expected, an excited rumble surfed through the crowd. Buffy’s other hand seized Wesley’s and squeezed hard.
“Spike knew,” Angelus continued. “Spike knew and he hated us for it.”
Anya huffed loudly enough to attract a few wary glances. William’s jaw tightened but he didn’t react beyond that.
“Way I see it, Dru came to town for a very specific purpose. My pal
Erzie can attest to that.” Angelus turned to wink at Mrs. Hart, who
didn’t so much as bat an eye. “Seems Dru had a doctor’s appointment.”
McGarry’s brows perked. “This true?” he asked, his question directed at Mrs. Hart.
There was a deathly still beat. “Yes,” the woman murmured. “Mrs. de
Winter had a standing appointment with Dr. Ethan Rayne. She went once
every other month. The day she disappeared, she was in town for one of
these appointments.”
“And this is relevant?”
“I think she found somethin’ out,” Angelus observed. “I think she discovered she was having a baby. My baby, to be specific. And I think that’s what she wanted to tell me the night she died. The night she…disappeared.”
A sick, familiar tightening pulled across Buffy’s chest, her
unforgiving mind pointing to a scene she’d tried so hard to banish,
lest knowledge betray her. The walls shifted in form and color, and she
suddenly saw herself in the boathouse. William was with her, but his
eyes were pointed forward, a shotgun coiled in his arms. It was a
startling visage of truth, only she existed as a ghost.
Every word William had related formed a picture forever locked in her
mind. It resurfaced on a whim, terrifying her, calling to
her…showcasing years of pain through which her husband had suffered.
Time she wished she could replace with her fully at his side—tangible,
rather than wisps and figments. Drusilla had dangled the threat of
Angelus’s child before William’s wounded eyes, knowing full well he
couldn’t prove any babe growing in the woman’s womb wasn’t his.
Drusilla had set everything in motion for the purpose of conquering
everything William held dear when he’d already been raped of his
identity, his freedom, his very self.
And now this.
“Erzie can tell you any child of Dru’s would be mine,” Angelus boasted
with a broad grin. “Dru and Spike didn’t…well, let’s just say he didn’t
know how to satisfy certain…itches.”
More excited, scandalized murmuring.
“We talked about what would happen,” he pressed forward. “If Dru had a
baby, that is. She and Spike were so good at playing up the lovey-dovey
no one would ever believe I was the father. And then, of course, the
kid would get the manor. Manderley. A child of mine would inherit Manderley. Spike’s pride and joy. And if Spike knew about this…if Dru told him…”
McGarry’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Are you suggesting—”
“Holes in the boat. Dru locked in the bottom cabin. Spike conveniently identifying another woman…”
“Hold on!” Cordelia Wright again leapt to her feet. “Where do you get off—”
“If you wanna know that, you should have taken me up on my offer, dollface,” Angelus interjected, tossing her a wink.
A look of pure distaste waved over the woman’s face. “You are the
absolute gutter of civilized society. Everyone who has ever met William
knows he wouldn’t harm a kitten, much less a woman he adored. I don’t
care what warped little game you played on Dru to get her to—”
“Warped little game? Dru worshipped me!”
Cordelia snorted. “In your equally warped little dreams.”
“Erzie!” Angelus had all the countenance of a toddler complaining to
his mommy. “Would you please tell everyone the truth of it? How Dru was
in love with me. How any child in her belly would be mine, not this
sorry excuse of a—”
“That’s quite enough, Mr. O’Malley,” McGarry said grimly. Another
ripple waved through the room. Eager patrons shifted in their seats,
craning their necks to catch a hint of William’s stoic reaction.
William didn’t move. Didn’t budge. Buffy wanted so much just to look
into his eyes, but he didn’t appease her. He couldn’t, and although she
knew why, she ached with loss.
It was a long minute before McGarry was able to calm the room down
enough to turn his attention to the old woman. His eyes were worn and
tired, incredulity stressed through his worry lines. No one had
anticipated the inquest taking so long or having so many turns, and it
was becoming more apparent of how twisted the uncovered truth would be.
“Mrs. Hart,” the judge said at long last, tiredly rubbing the bridge of
his nose. “Do you have anything you wish to add to Mr.
O’Malley’s…claims?”
“Tell them, Erzie,” Angelus goaded.
McGarry aimed him a nasty glare. “Is there something about that’s quite enough you didn’t understand?”
“I just want her to tell them. Tell the world. Tell them how Dru really loved me.”
“She didn’t.”
Two words. Strange how they were able to bring about dead silence
whispered from the lips of a woman who was little more than a ghost
herself. The smug arrogance on Angelus’s face melted in a flicker,
traded for astonishment. “What?” he demanded, whirling around. “What do
you mean she didn’t love me? Dru was crazy about me! She and I—”
“Mrs. de Winter didn’t love you,” Mrs. Hart said softly. “…my Drusilla didn’t love you. Or Mr. de Winter. Or any man. Love was a
game. Love…never played into it. She would laugh about it. Laugh so
righteously…no, Angelus, she didn’t love you. You didn’t know her. No
one knew my Drusilla. No one knew her at all. No one but me. She was
like the sea. Wild. Untamed. No one could tame her…she wouldn’t allow
it. She would play with men…play with love…and laugh about it when we
were alone. Life was a game, and she would be ageless. She is ageless.” It was startling to see the eyes of a woman who instilled so
much fear and intimidation well with tears. “She never wanted to age.
Never wanted her strength to fail or her willpower to be anything than
what it was. It was a game. It was all a game.”
Angelus looked thoroughly shaken. It seemed hours passed before his jaw
collected itself from the ground. He swallowed hard. “Well,” he said,
his voice desperately attempting to regain its edge. “Would you at
least agree that if Dru was pregnant, the kid would belong to me?”
Mrs. Hart nodded solemnly. “Yes.”
A long sigh rolled off his shoulders, and though not as strong as
before, the smirk returned. “Well, there you have it. If Dru was
pregnant, it would be with my kid. On the day she left me a note. The
night before she disappeared. In a boat with holes in the bottom.”
“You have nothing but speculation as to what the doctor’s appointment yielded,” McGarry observed.
“Speculation can become fact with a simple phone call,” Angelus
countered. “Dr. Rayne’s office is here in town. Call him in…and we’ll
separate the speculation from the non-speculation.”
Despair was crushing. There was nothing now. No other option but to wait.
No other option. Calling in the doctor was the only way to put the truth of Drusilla’s death to rest.
And he would tell all. Everything.
And Buffy could do nothing but watch as her life fell down around her.
*~*~*
It was as William said that day in the parlor. The day Drusilla’s body surfaced.
She had won. Drusilla had won. She achieved everything she wanted the
night William aimed the shotgun at her heart. Something had indeed been
growing inside her. Mrs. Hart said it herself, and Mrs. Hart knew her
better than anyone. Mrs. Hart knew she could not be tamed or weathered.
Mrs. Hart knew.
Just as Drusilla had known—known exactly what words to say, what
buttons to press, what would coax William from his shell and prompt
warning into action. Manderley was all he had left, and she’d
threatened to steal it as she’d stolen everything else. His freedom.
His happiness. The promise and chance at love. She’d threatened to take
it because she knew what he would do. The second her eyes landed on the
shotgun, she’d seen her way out.
Cancer was, after all, a disease which would rob her of her freedom. If
she persuaded William to destroy her before the illness did, she stood
the chance of bringing him down in the process.
She almost succeeded. Almost.
No one objected when McGarry ruled the cause of death as suicide. None
of her friends believed Drusilla would remain on the temporal plain
after discovering what her future months had in store. Not even Mrs.
Hart could fathom Drusilla bed-ridden and frail. She would want to
destroy the island with speculation—cause a storm the likes of which
had sunk her ship the night she drilled holes in its floor. Drusilla
would have known what her suicide looked like. She would have known the
chaos she would cause, even posthumously, with the mystery surrounding
her affairs, her husband and his purported jealousy, and what he might
do in a fit of rage.
Suicide, then. To spare herself a long, painful death. To torment William from the afterlife.
Only it wasn’t suicide. William knew that. Buffy knew that. But by the
end of the day, she could have believed otherwise. It seemed decades
had passed before she felt William’s arms around her again, his lips
peppering kisses across her face, uncaring of the onlookers or the loud
whispers. Uncaring of who saw them—two lovers distanced too long. Hours
that felt like years. Buffy hadn’t been beside him then, but it
wouldn’t be so ever again. Their future was now a lifetime. She would
never leave his side.
No one saw Drusilla’s blood on his hands.
No one, for Buffy had washed him clean.
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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.