Tempesta di Amore by Holly

Chapter 2

Although sudden, there was strangely no surprise when Mrs. Kendall reported that she had taken ill the next morning. While the woman very much thought it unfair that she should be sick while vacationing, there was some deranged sort of satisfaction at being at the center of attention by the full of one’s staff. Not that Mrs. Kendall needed to look if attention was what she sought; it was simply nice to have an excuse to order the hotel’s staff around aside for the call of vanity.

Buffy was certainly not in the same league with the maids and personnel that Mrs. Kendall had fluttering around her. She was a hired traveling companion and had little to do with her employer’s health. She was dismissed from her duties for the day in a matter that was overly dramatic but no less valid, and set out immediately to enjoy herself. There was so much of Monte Carlo that she wanted to see—explore for herself—and Mrs. Kendall’s illness at such time came as the granted wish to a forbidden prayer.

To ease her conscience of any wrongdoing, she called up a doctor before taking her leave. He confirmed that she was not dying but similarly in no condition to go out, and Buffy could have sworn Mrs. Kendall found the news of her not dying to be at some inconvenience. The thought of dragging out the even closer attention of the hotel’s staff was appealing if one ignored the unpleasant mortality issue tagged at the end of such affairs.

She was slightly surprised to see Mr. de Winter in the dining room, eating by himself in some secluded corner. She had thought he was going to Sospel, but quickly concluded that he was likely eating early so he might leave before he ran into her and Mrs. Kendall. And in that, Buffy did not blame him. If she had been put through such a charade that her employer had put on the day before, she would be doing everything to avoid her as well.

Instead, Buffy took a seat at one of the only vacant tables left and smiled as one of the servers across the room eyed her and began in her direction. She felt relaxed and independent for the first time in a long time—the sort of sensation that was notably artificial in nature, but no less appreciated. She knew it wouldn’t last. She could not afford for it to last, and would not know what to do with herself if she was suddenly permitted complete sovereignty. She was a girl on the verge of turning twenty in a world that was much older than she, if not in age then certainly in knowledge.

Almost against her will, she stole a glance at Mr. de Winter and felt her heart leap. He was studying her closely, most curiously. As though trying to figure her out or place her in a long line of memory.

That she should be of any interest to this man was disconcerting enough and that vague sense of self began to wane. She was out of her element, bare and uncomfortable. But at the same time, behind the haunted, stricken look in his eyes was kindness and sincerity. Still, she didn’t like being at the focus of anyone’s attention, least of all strangers that had seen her associating with a woman that was unspeakably rude and of no relation aside from the opposing ends of a paycheck.

She ordered lunch and released a long breath of relief when she was left to herself once more. She sat in silence for a few seconds, inspecting a spot at the corner of her snowy napkin and thinking of how Mrs. Kendall would raise such a fuss if anything of hers came up blemished. The vacant seat across from her was a breath of fresh air, and she made a silent toast once more to her temporary liberation. No matter that she felt certain those with companions today were watching her curiously, wondering what a girl her age was doing dining alone in Monte Carlo. Wondering where her family was; if she had family. Wondering if perhaps she was the young wife of a much older man, and had opted to leave him to his own devices and dine by herself.

There were always angles. She felt certain of that. It was the one absolute in a world of endless questions.

Her small hand trembled under the weight of the scrutiny she felt certain everyone was paying her, and she watched with a dismayed gasp as the glass wavered and tumbled, running long streaks of ice water down the tablecloth. It was not as loud as it sounded to her horrified ears, and her eyes turned automatically downward, scrambling to stem the spill with her spotted napkin.

The server that had taken her order was suddenly attentive and at her side. “Is everything quite all right?”

“Oh yes. I’m so sorry.”

“Nothing to worry about at all.”

She was sure that wasn’t true. Everyone was still staring at her. She was a wandering girl who did not belong in such places. “I am such a clumsy—”

“Excuse me.”

That calm, familiar voice both completed her embarrassment and inspired her with relief. Her skin was hot and her heart was thundering, and Mr. de Winter was there to see it all.

“Mr. de Winter?” the server asked, forgetting Buffy completely in the presence of influential money. “Is there something wrong?”

“No. Ms. Summers will be dining with me.”

Her eyes went wide. “What?”

“Unless there are any objections?” At that, he raised a coy brow, his blue eyes twinkling for the first time. And she knew then that she was lost. No matter her objection, there was something about a man that looked so boyish, so free, that made her acutely aware of herself but in a way that was almost as natural as it was disarming.

“I-it’s not necessary, Mr. de Winter—”

“Of course not. That’s why I insist.”

“The tablecloth will dry—”

“I am sure it will, but it does not require your supervision.” Mr. de Winter extended his hand and waited patiently until she took it, her skin tingling at the warmth of his touch. “There, now. That wasn’t too hard, was it?”

“Mr. de Winter, I am very grateful, but I do not wish to be an inconvenience.”

“Good. Because I bloody hate being put at one. You’re no inconvenience whatsoever, though I do find this conversation to be entirely inconvenient as we could both be at my table, enjoying one another’s company rather than standing beside a damp tablecloth.” The warmth in his eyes did not dwindle, but his countenance became more serious and he abruptly tugged her to her feet. “We do not have to speak, if you like. But I would very much like your company.”

There was no good way to refuse the offer when dressed up so nicely. She agreed awkwardly and felt a strange rush of adrenaline as Mr. de Winter led her to his table, never once releasing her hand.

“What happened to your friend?” he asked once she was settled across from him. “Did she decide she didn’t like Monte Carlo as much as she was boasting yesterday?”

“Oh, no. She was taken ill.”

He frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“The doctor says it’s nothing serious. She should be well within a few days.”

“All will be well with the world then, I suppose?” he retorted, taking a long drink of whatever it was he was drinking. “How do you know each other? I would assume some relation, but for the way she treated you yesterday—”

“She is my employer, Mr. de Winter.”

“Employer.” He repeated the word so that it was not a question, rather a statement of fact, and raised one cool brow to tag along with it. “How interesting. What is it that you do for Mrs. Kendall?”

“I am her companion while she travels.”

“That’s all?”

“That is all she has asked of me,” Buffy agreed with a nod, taking a self-conscious sip of her water, thankful when her clumsy hands did not fail her again. “I travel with her.”

“How well does she pay?”

“Ninety pounds a year.” The amount was great to one who had no wealth, but Buffy wagered money was something that Mr. de Winter never had to worry about. She felt rather foolish, naming the sum as though it was something to be proud of. Something to aspire to. Something that wasn’t nothing at all when she was sitting with a man who could likely own the world if he wanted.

However, if Mr. de Winter was astonished or thought ill of her for her lack of prosperity, he did not say so, or even allow the slightest hint of emotion to creep into his eyes. He remained as he ever was: quiet and kind, nodding once to confirm he had heard her. “I did not think companionship of that nature,” he said carefully, smiling a smile she didn’t quite understand, but felt prone to share nonetheless, “was something one offered for a price.”

“When one has no family, one’s prospects are considerably limited.”

“Very true.” A pause. “You have no family?”

“None.”

The smile on his lips tugged with amusement. “I don’t suppose you’re the product of an immaculate conception. What happened?” Another pause at that; the smile dissolved into a self-aimed frown, and he shot her a worried look. “Stop me if I’m being too brash.”

“Not at all,” Buffy assured him, settling comfortably against her seat. She was feeling surer of herself, though the reason for his seeking her out for companionship was still somewhat beyond her. Perhaps it was as Mrs. Kendall had suggested the day before, though the thought of the woman was not one she wanted surfacing now. “My parents died,” she continued. “I haven’t anyone.”

“Aside from Mrs. Kendall.”

“Yes, aside from her.”

“And I’m sure she’s more company than a person could want to have.” A strange look crossed his eyes, and he took another taste of whatever it was that he was drinking. “You got my note, I hope, apologizing for my behavior yesterday?”

“Yes. Mr. de Winter—”

“I had hoped so. I was unforgivably rude.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” he argued, the smile returning. “I did not mean to take my temper out on you, Ms. Summers. You have an unfortunate relation, and I hope you don’t mind my saying so.”

She didn’t mind. She agreed. Mrs. Kendall was appallingly tasteless at times, and the woman either didn’t notice her own behavior or didn’t care. Either way, what had been said yesterday was nearly unforgivable. The fact that Mr. de Winter wanted anything to do with her at all was as astounding as it was a relief. The offense had not spread, despite its leave to do so, and he had invited her to lunch with him when he had absolutely no reason to grant her even a passing glance.

“I cannot afford to be picky,” she countered, “despite however much I might agree with you. My options are not boundless.”

“You handle yourself well,” Mr. de Winter replied ambiguously, not responding fully one way or another.

“Thank you.”

He arched a brow. “You don’t agree?”

“I think you are very kind for saying so.”

“But you don’t think I am being sincere.”

She had no answer, her eyes turning to the tablecloth. To her napkin that had no spot. Her hands folded promptly in her lap. Sitting there under his scrutiny, feeling awkward and misplaced.

She finally glanced up when she heard him sigh, his attention turning to the lunch that was suddenly placed in front of them. “There is much life ahead of you,” he said. “You will find there are many people who don’t handle themselves at all. Others who do so poorly. And you discover almost immediately how to distinguish the various sorts of people from others. Believe me, Ms. Summers, when you place yourself at a table beside Mrs. Kendall, the line between you is so prominent a blind man could see it.”

Buffy felt her body go very still with the weight of unspoken responsibility, and she met his gaze slowly. “Thank you,” she said again when there was nothing else to say, swallowing hard.

Mr. de Winter’s smile returned and he took a bite of broiled chicken. “Why do you suppose I attracted Mrs. Kendall’s attention?” he asked, deftly switching the topic.

“She does it with everyone she considers important,” she replied honestly. “She meant no offense.”

“But she considers me important?” He appeared amused by the insinuation. “I suppose I ought to be flattered. Any idea why?”

Buffy hesitated. “I think because of Manderley,” she said a second later, and instantly regretted the words. The easy look behind Mr. de Winter’s eyes faded, as though someone had extinguished his flame, and she was suddenly exploring forbidden territory. She didn’t know whether or not it was appropriate to withdraw her observation or apologize for being so brash, but could not help but feel that it would only make what she said worse. Instead, she opted to allow the uncomfortable air to pass, sipping at her water. Listening to the bustle of people around them.

When he spoke again, it nearly startled her out of her skin.

“You left me rather abruptly yesterday.”

She thought of the look in his eyes the day before when she stumbled over him on the woodland path. That worried sheen to coincide with his puzzlement as to her presence there, and likely anger buried somewhere deep that even he had not yet acknowledged.

“I thought I was interrupting you.”

He arched a teasing brow. “I was standing in the middle of nothing,” he countered. “Hardly anything to interrupt.”

“You looked—”

“Frightening you away was my last intention.”

Buffy licked her lips. “I only thought—”

“It’s all right.” He smiled. “Would you indulge me after we’re finished?”

“Indulge you?”

“Take a drive with me.”

Her eyes went wide. “A drive? I thought you were going to Sospel.”

“I think I would rather take a drive.” He took another bite of his chicken, grinning. “What I have to do in Sospel is nothing more than some personal affairs. None that really require immediate attention.”

“But if—”

“That’s a polite way of saying I don’t want to go. Give me a reason not to?”

At that, she could do nothing but smile at his insistence. There was a boyish charm about him that wore classically in his experienced eyes. That sort of knowledge that only age could bring, polished with just enough youth to make her feel completely comfortable with him when she was otherwise clunky and discomfited. An extension of that false sense of security that independence bought. The same that would dissolve just as easily when she was placed back in her element.

“If you’re sure it would not be an inconvenience…” she said.

“I believe I have already told you what I think of inconveniences,” he replied. “You are not an inconvenience, Ms. Summers, no matter what your employer might have you believe. And I would not be so persistent if I thought you were. I find you pleasant and your company more than agreeable.”

“I am not—”

He held up a hand. “If you’re about to make some objection about me or some diluted observation on your perception of your own character, I would prefer you not. You have succeeded in bringing me out of myself. Taking me away from the person I was just yesterday.”

“I don’t understand.”

A grim smile drew across his lips, and his eyes distanced in that way that she was already beginning to dread. That look of remembrance, the stirring of a memory he was trying to forget. The life he had come to Monte Carlo to put behind him. “No. I don’t suppose you would.”

They didn’t speak again until they left the hotel. An awkward distance between them, Buffy feeling little more than a hired hand in an extent of her duties, though for someone she liked a great deal more than Mrs. Kendall. Despite how Mr. de Winter tried to guise his intent, she simply could not see why he would select her to accompany him when there were many women present in want of a companion who ran in his circle.

“Has your opinion of Monte Carlo improved since yesterday?” he asked when they were in the car. “Or was that another part of Mrs. Kendall’s exaggeration?”

“I find Monte Carlo pleasant,” she replied honestly.

“More so than yesterday?”

This seemed important to him.

She smiled. “I am enjoying myself much more today.”

It was not a lie; it was a dangerous truth. She didn’t want to enjoy the day because it would end, and the dreary reality of her life would return. Mr. de Winter was one of the nicest men she had ever met, and that in itself was a terrible folly. She was a young girl, easily impressionable, and his attentions even since that first day on the bluff were doing much to make her head spin in confusion.

Mr. de Winter was lonely. His wife was dead. He needed companionship.

As long as her heart didn’t decide to get foolish, Buffy supposed there was no danger in giving him what he craved.

She stole a glance in his direction and felt an unfamiliar sensation swell in her chest. Perhaps it was too late to ask her heart to refrain from involvement. The man was a dashing bit of mystery. The sort of man she wanted to get to know better. She thought again of all the women he could have chosen to share himself with. The sort that would admittedly be after him for his money while similarly providing what he needed. A passing as he recovered from the one woman in his life that could not be replaced by all the agreeable company in the world.

“How long have you been employed by Mrs. Kendall?” Mr. de Winter asked once they were a comfortable distance from the hotel.

“It hasn’t been long,” Buffy replied. “Really, I lose track of the months.”

“Just months?”

“I prefer to count by months when in bad company. It makes the time go quicker.”

His rich laughter startled her and brought upon an odd sense of accomplishment, but he said nothing more. Just settled in his own sense of superior amusement that was as natural as it was appealing, and she turned her attention back to the flourishing scenery around her.

To think, she was out here with Mr. de Winter, providing something he needed much more than Mrs. Kendall did. Granting some form of comfort when there was nothing else. Aside from her brief mention of Manderley, he seemed years away from the man he had been just two days ago. The man that overlooked the bluff with cold, lost eyes. Stormed, tormented by the loss of someone he had thought to spend his life with. Buffy was with him now, helping in a way that was still beyond her. Helping him when she would otherwise be playing tennis or sketching some poor depiction of nature’s various anomalies.

He tossed her a meaningless glance that warmed her heart for everything that was dangerous in the world of a young girl. When she first met him, she would have guessed his age to be upwards of forty. Now he looked barely ten years of that. As though a large weight had been lifted, and he could begin to live once more.

That thought fed poison to the tranquility surrounding them. The car came to a sudden halt, the casualness about the air drowning just as quickly, a storm settling in his previously clear eyes. Buffy watched him for a long troubled minute, then turned her attention to the road that stretched ahead of them. She did not see what he saw. Saw nothing aside the woods that cushioned the street and the hint of wildlife that curled around the pavement. There was nothing.

“Mr. de Winter?”

He did not respond. She studied him a moment longer before realizing that he wasn’t looking at the street itself, rather a small brush to the side. Something barely noticeable to anyone who was not searching for it. It had the outward show of being manmade for the purpose of appearing natural. Some quaint bit of forestry she could imagine being used for a number of things, though why he should be so troubled by it…

It was then that she remembered that he had been to Monte Carlo once before. With Mrs. de Winter. The wife he had lost. The woman who should be with him now. The one he was using her to forget.

Buffy drew a steady breath and placed a cautious hand on his arm. “Mr. de Winter?”

She didn’t know if it was the touch or the sound of his name that jarred him back to her. Perhaps it was the combination. The dual jolts of remembrance that he was not alone, and that it was not his wife that sat next to him. No, she imagined herself a great disappointment when he glanced back to her. Drew himself back to the place he had been at just a second before. Back to the girl that was not Mrs. de Winter. Back to a wide-eyed, awkward girl of such a lesser status.

A girl of no money. No family. No connections. Nothing whatsoever. A girl that he would forget just as easily when she was gone. A girl whose name would perhaps cross his mind once every twenty years. He would wonder about her absently, she imagined, when he thought of her at all. Wonder where she was. Try to remember her name. Wonder if she had married and had children. And then, as all passing things, all thought of her would abandon him again until something brought her memory back to him. That was the way it would be. The way things would always be between them.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. de Winter said, his tone distant. He ignited the engine and the car was moving again within a few easy seconds, much faster than before.

Buffy licked her lips self-consciously and settled back. She edged her feet back under her seat until they brushed against something nestled beneath the cushion. Curious, and looking for anything to distract her from the haunted look in the man’s eyes, she leaned forward and felt around until she had a good grasp on the object. Good enough to dislodge it with a tug.

Mr. de Winter tossed her a brief glance. “Find something?”

“A book.”

“Ah,” he mused, nodding. “Poetry anthology.”

“Poetry?”

“Yes. Are you a fan?”

“I don’t read much poetry.”

He looked at her, his eyes twinkling once more. “You’re free to take it, if you like.”

“Take it?”

“Sure. There are some poems in there every young woman should read.”

That perplexed her for a few seconds until she hazarded a guess at his meaning and flushed with the implication. Either way, she thanked him and settled the anthology on her lap, her gaze returning to the scenery before her.

It wouldn’t be until later that she understood why he kept it with him at all times. The inside was inscribed in graceful penmanship: Spike—from Drusilla. The level of trust he placed in her to hand over something so priceless humbled her girlish sentiment. And she noted to take special care of the book until it was safely back in his hands.

Honor was one of two emotions the message inspired, and the second troubled her greatly. There were many things in the world she didn’t understand. The jealousy the note spurred was one of them. Mr. de Winter was kind to her, but that was as far as it went. She was a passing whimsy. He would forget her as easily as he had met her. And life would return.

Buffy would never forget him, though. That much she knew.

These few days with him would remain with her for the rest of her life.

She simply had yet to understand why.



TBC

Submit a Review!

Name:

Email (req. but not shown):

Comments: