Tempesta di Amore by Holly

Chapter 3

It was the third morning following Mrs. Kendall’s sickness that Buffy realized she was falling in love. For the first time in her young life, she was falling in love. It started as a fear; a knowledge that love like hers could never be rekindled. A sickening realization that these few days with Mr. de Winter would be the only ones she would have. The sensation inspired an odd combination of anxiousness and regret with every wake. It was another day to spend in his company, and another day closer to leaving him forever. To becoming that shadowed, nameless memory that he would associate with her in years to come.

Perhaps it would have been easier had he not treated her with more kindness than anyone ever had. It wasn’t that she felt older with him; rather, the full weight of their difference in age seemed the most prominent when they were together. She learned through one of their longer discussions that he had about ten years on her, which was surprising because he pulled off a variety of different ages. There were some days when he looked like a schoolboy; other days when a memory struck him in just a way to bring the full of his age into his eyes.

Buffy found herself slipping into a frighteningly comfortable pattern. She was no longer surprised when she saw him waiting for her at breakfast. They had dined together at every chance since he had taken her on that initial drive. He joked with her, teased her, warmed her with his laughter, taught her things about life without seeming to realize it. And yet, despite his seemingly casual candor with her, there was never a time that she was far from the memory of his first wife. Never a time when his ghosts left him behind. Inevitably, she would say something without thinking and find herself overwhelmed with a growingly familiar sense of inferiority.

Knowing when he looked at her, he wished another pair of eyes would look back.

Wishing that she was someone else. That she wasn’t just the filler for the woman he had lost.

She was resigned, though. Mr. de Winter would never love her the way she loved him and that was simply the way it was. She would go on as would he. She would go on and carry these few days with her. Cherish what small joy she had found, however agonized it was with the realization of its mortality.

It was mid-afternoon and she was enjoying the calm warmth of the day in one of the wooded areas she had discovered earlier in the week. The grass around her was soft, slightly damp from the recent rainstorm. She had her notebook and her sketch pencils with her, though the page was blank. Her talents were amateur; she had no delusions of greatness. It was a passing whim. Something to fill her days when there was nothing else.

Today, though, her thoughts were elsewhere. She couldn’t focus. Couldn’t find that natural anomaly to immortalize in her sketchbook. Her insides were overwhelmed with conflicting feelings, thoughts of Mr. de Winter and the future haunting her for the life they would never have. Schoolgirl wiles and wishes that tortured most adolescent minds. She knew that her feelings were no greater than any other girl’s, and that they would pass just as easily.

She also knew that most girls likely received the same doting amount of attention from their unrequited loves, and they, like her, wanted to perceive it as something more. Something that was there when in fact there was nothing.

There was just nothing.

Buffy released a wistful sigh and turned her eyes once more to the blank sheet staring up at her. Her thoughts were locked away somewhere, what little talent she had captured in a torrent of apprehension. She knew she could not escape the day without seeing Mr. de Winter, which overwhelmed her for the knowledge that every second spent was another second lost. Being with him was unexplainable. Painful. She was too young to carry such a burden of emotion. To feel the things that were surging through her veins. The sensation welling inside that was so deep, so painful that it could only be love.

Love. It was unthinkable. It was wonderful. She had read a book once on love. Some forgotten novel picked up and left behind a year or two ago. She had such little time to herself, and Mrs. Kendall didn’t advocate reading as pastime. Men, she said, had very little esteem for a woman who thought the printed word was more important for the spoken one. Men liked women who were athletic when need be and obedient at all other intervals. Men did not like women like her. Women who were in that awkward stage between adolescence and adulthood. Women who were little girls trying to fit in larger shoes.

She mindlessly began sketching an oddly shaped leaf, Mr. de Winter’s face flooding her vision. The book she’d read had not described the swelling feeling clamoring her heart. The way she felt she couldn’t breathe if she stopped to think of it. The thought of seeing him again filled her with both the most unimaginable bliss and the worst pain of foreboding. It was difficult knowing that it was ending. Every second that passed brought her association with him closer to its finish.

She wondered if other young women who were unfortunate enough to fall in love with older men, men who could never love them back, knew enough to realize that every second was precious. Every second moved them closer to parting. And she would spend years cherishing these few days, and he would spend years living a life without giving her much thought at all.

That thought surfaced with disturbing regularity. She was sitting by herself in the middle of a secluded wood, outlining the veins of the awkward leaf into her sketchbook. It was nice here. Away from the hotel. Away from Mrs. Kendall. Sitting by herself, listening to nature unfold around her. As though she was miles away from the ordinary—whatever ordinary a girl like her could hope to find.

“Ms. Summers.” A familiar warm baritone touched the air, startling her from her reverie. “What a pleasant surprise.”

A gasp clawed at Buffy’s throat and she immediately leapt to her feet, her sketchbook tumbling to the grass as her hands instinctively began wiping dirt and greenery from her summer frock. “Mr. de Winter,” she said, heart racing. She felt for an instant that she was back at school and the instructor had caught her daydreaming during a lecture. How unfortunate that Mr. de Winter should wander upon her while her mind entertained sad thoughts of the lonely future without him. “I’m so sorry, I—”

There was an odd twist of amusement and perplexity behind his friendly, however burdened eyes. “Sorry?” he mused. “Yes, I suppose that is appropriate. After all, you were rather rudely sitting there, minding your own business before I happened upon you. An apology is definitely in order.”

She didn’t hear the tease in his voice. Her face flamed. “Oh, yes. I’m—”

Mr. de Winter chuckled disarmingly and held up a hand. “Please,” he said, “I didn’t mean to startle you. The weather isn’t so hot today, so I thought I’d go for a walk. I had thought to ask you to come with me, but you weren’t in the dining room or with the tennis instructor; I supposed you were busy with Mrs. Kendall and didn’t want to risk offense by asking for your company instead of hers.”

“She’s sick,” Buffy countered weakly.

“Still?”

He spoke it as though he didn’t already know it was the truth. As though they hadn’t spent the days together, driving and discussing little nothings that meant a world of something to her. Naturally, Buffy couldn’t expect a word she said to mean anything to him, but the thought hurt just the same.

Were Mrs. de Winter alive, she would entertain her husband in a number of ways, and he wouldn’t feel so charitable. He likely wouldn’t have given her a second glance.

“Yes. The doctor won’t let her out of her room.”

“How tragic,” he replied, though his tone betrayed a strain of apathy that was too strong to miss. “Well, now that I have found where you’ve been hiding, do you suppose I could talk you into accompanying me?”

“I haven’t been hiding.”

He arched a cool brow. “No?”

“I was drawing.”

“Ah yes. The infamous artist.” Her face flamed even more. He’d pestered her for two days for a glance at her work. She was too ashamed to show him any; her work was not to be seen. Unimpressive scribbles by her equally unimpressive hand. She didn’t want him to know that the length of her mediocrity traced all the way to the most mundane of pastimes. “Perhaps you’ll let me see your work today.”

“It’s not good,” she said quickly, bending over to collect her abandoned sketchbook, hastily drawing the cover over the images that flawed the formerly white parchment. “Just a hobby.”

“An artist rarely likes her own work, Ms. Summers. If they do, they’re either insipid or have mastered overusing some obscure technique to the point of redundancy. Besides, you’re so young.” He smiled almost hollowly. “Years await you to perfect your talent.”

Then, without warning, he snatched the book from her and opened it to the page she had been working on. The deformed leaf with the half-completed veins, surrounded almost absently in shrubbery that was blurred with smudge marks. Tattered and ugly. Nothing fitting for a man of Mr. de Winter’s taste. Her work was just a way to pass the time. She had no delusions of greatness, be it in artwork or any other of life’s venues.

Her eyes fell to the ground and settled on an anthill. A rather small, unimposing anthill with swarms of small insects venturing into a forest of grass blades. They were building it, she realized. A small colony constructing their home in the midst of this small forest. It wasn’t remarkable, she knew. There were thousands of anthills just like it—thousands more that were grandiose and others that were even less noticeable than the one at her feet.

Only there was only one of these. Only one of this particular anthill. There could only be one of anything, be it an insect or a person. Or a moment like the one she was trapped in. The memories building around these few days, fragmented into a series of moments. Moments captured atop cliffs when she thought she was saving a person from death. Moments captured while spilling a glass of water onto a spotted napkin. Moments composed of seconds. There would never be another moment like this one. Another moment where she studied an anthill with the hope of distracting herself from the reality of Mr. de Winter. Mr. de Winter standing before her now, studying her sketchbook as though it was something important. Treating her as though she was more than just an ordinary girl in an ordinary dress. As though these few days meant more to him than they did. More than they possibly could.

“You drew this?” he asked softly, snapping her back to herself.

“Yes.”

He was silent for a long minute. He closed the sketchbook and handed it back to her, his eyes never leaving her face.

“They’re just scribbles,” she said.

“They’re very good.”

Buffy frowned. Why did he insist on teasing her? “They are not, but I—”

“Don’t argue with me, Ms. Summers. I know good work when I see it. If they weren’t any good, I would tell you. You’ll find I’m not the type to stroke your ego to spare your feelings. I say things just as they are.” He paused a second as though waiting a response, but she had none to offer. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. Kinder. That warm sincerity she was beginning to cherish kindling his eyes. “Your drawings are very good. You have more talent at such an age than many find in an entire career. Don’t give this up, all right?”

The words were not harsh but they seemed it. Suddenly, she felt small. Small like the ants crawling at her feet. The ants that swarmed around their pedestrian creation and were somehow prouder of their accomplishments than she could ever be of hers. She envied them for a long minute. Life for them seemed so simple.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. de Winter said a second later, surprising her. “I shouldn’t have…I just hate seeing talent go to waste. There are so many people in this world that have none. You have it, Buffy. You really have it.”

She was so startled by his use of her given name that she nearly tripped, which would have destroyed the anthill that had suddenly become the basis of comparison for her own universe.

He sensed the change the minute that she did, and his eyes met hers with quiet severity. “Forgive me, Ms. Summers,” he continued somberly. As though the role of her name off his tongue was something dangerous and unspeakable. As though he had crossed some invisible threshold and committed a great sin against the dead. She immediately lamented the reassertion of formality. Her name on his tongue had the taste of honey. Something cherished. Something savored. It had not sounded like her name at all, rather something elegant and mysterious. Not the name of a girl with calloused hands of a would-be artist. A girl standing before him in her summer dress, her skin marred with dirt.

“Forgive you?”

He nodded. “My mouth has a way with running away from me. Obviously, what you do with your sketches is up to you. I just…you’re too good to not do something with it.” He released a deep breath, a note of resignation rolling off his shoulders. “I haven’t offended you to such a point that you would decline to join me, have I?”

The words didn’t register at first; Buffy’s eyes were fixed on the notebook in his grasp. Then slowly, the weight of his gaze on her holding her down until there was nothing to do but answer its call. “Join you?”

“Yes. I believe that I mentioned I was going to walk the path and back again.” He smiled softly and tucked the sketchbook under his arm. “Since I arrived here, I’ve fallen into a bad habit of lapsing on my exercise.”

She couldn’t imagine Mr. de Winter needing exercise, but found herself incapable of anything but compliance. With a tender nod, she curled a hand around his proffered arm, and they set about the trail side by side. Tacit. Their arms touching, her fingers rubbing the material of his jacket. She felt the warmth burning through his body. The very real presence of him beside her. This was as close as she would get.

As close as anyone could get to a man that had lost what he had lost.

“You said you go on walks often?”

Did that brave voice belong to her? Her heart was thundering.

Mr. de Winter drew in a long breath, his body language suddenly rigid. She felt, without any warning, that she had crossed an invisible line. “Yes,” he replied after a long minute. “Often. At Manderley.”

Manderley. That place of grand statute that kept secrets and memories hidden behind doorless rooms that had neither entrance nor exit. Manderley that harbored so much more than just furniture and grandeur. Manderley that had been his home with his wife. With his lost beloved.

His home with Drusilla.

And being the foolish child she was, Buffy couldn’t keep her mouth from imploring on its inquisitive venue. With as much as she understood Mr. de Winter’s need for privacy, her curiosity about Drusilla was in its first steps of a long road to discovery. The same notion, however, recognized and understood that trespassing on the man’s memories when she knew so little about him or what horrors resided in his past.

Despite being hopelessly in love with him.

“I’d imagine,” she said cautiously, “the grounds at Manderley to be quite—”

“They’re lovely,” he said shortly. Cut off from her. Warmth did not touch his voice. There was nothing but the note of finality that warned her clearly to desist her questions. This was something he was not ready to discuss.

Something that reminded him of home.

“The forest is lovely,” Buffy commented, feeling idle and imprudent. She needed very badly to swipe the path clean of the damage she had done. “I don’t suppose there is a place where you can feel more secluded.”

“Oh?” he replied, his voice non-committal. Unattached.

Buffy nodded. “I know it’s not so,” she said. “The hotel is so close. The roads. The city. Life just beyond the trees. But…” A long sigh escaped her lips. “It’s so simple to forget. Life here seems just here. No other world beyond the forest.”

A wry grin pressed to his mouth. “Our own little Garden of Eden, love?”

She frowned, her heart fluttering. His voice had seemed different just then. Rougher. Less proper. Like a man struggling through layers of skin, guarded by the eyes that watched her now.

Love?

“The Garden of Eden was paradise,” she replied.

“Yes,” Mr. de Winter agreed. His voice was again masked with poise. That isolated elegance that teetered so close to her heart. “Wouldn’t it be nice, though? A garden here where none could bother us. Where the world that you mentioned didn’t exist. I think I would like that very much.”

What he meant was, he would like to escape the knowledge of his hurt. The tattered scrapings of a slowly mending heart that only a full break could heal. That thin veil between reality and nonreality. Mr. de Winter needed to forget. And she could not forget that for one second. Could not mistake the warmth in his demeanor for anything but a longing for what he had lost.

“Mr. de Winter,” Buffy said suddenly, feeling an unexpected rush of bravado. “I do appreciate your…you’ve been so kind to me. Ever since that first day, you have shown me nothing but compassion, bearing in mind the societal barriers between us. I just hope you don’t…there is no need to be charitable simply because—”

A cold draft settled over them as the dreaded word escaped her lips. Mr. de Winter drew in a sharp, angry breath. “Charitable?”

The word was not spoken so much as barked.

Buffy froze. “Mr. de Winter—”

“You think I’m out here walking with you to be charitable?” He seized her arm, her sketchbook clamoring carelessly to the forest floor. “You think I spend my time with you just to reach out to those I think are beneath me? That you’re some sort of…what, hobby?”

“I don’t know. I—”

“You don’t know? Well, isn’t that rich.” His azure eyes flamed dangerously. “You’re the only reason I’m still here, Ms. Summers. The only reason I haven’t left Monte Carlo. I’ve been dead for months. I was dead, do you understand? I was dead, and now I’m not. You changed that. You make me feel something I haven’t felt since—” He cut off abruptly, his gaze widening with the realization of what treacherous words were about to cross his lips. Something heavy fell within him; something she could see simply for the hold he had her in. His fingers digging into her forearm, not quite enough to hurt, but she knew well that moving was not an option.

It wasn’t possible. She knew it wasn’t possible. Whatever he said now remained beyond his actual meaning. Beyond the full truth. It didn’t change the deadness of his demeanor even when he seemed relaxed. The dull softness around a spirit she saw once as being vibrant. Full of more life in a year than she would know what to do with in a thousand.

“Do you understand?” he rasped, shaking her once. He was angry. He was more than angry; he was enraged. And it frightened her. “Do you?”

She didn’t. She couldn’t, especially if he was not being honest with her. But this random bout of fury inspired fear that was stronger than her integrity, and she felt herself nodding before her voice could interfere.

He had a probe in her mind, she was certain. He could see everything she wasn’t saying. “I don’t believe you. But it’s a start.” He released her just as quickly, spinning on his heel and striding intently back for the hotel. “And stop this ‘Mr. de Winter’ nonsense.”

Buffy clamored awkwardly, gathering her sketchbook and running after him. “What?”

“It’s William, Buffy. That’s what you call me.” The world stopped turning. His heavy paces subsided the instant the words left his mouth, and he halted to look back at her. “Are we understood?”

Yes. Yes, they were quite understood.

There were certain things they would never talk about. Certain things about him that she would never know.

Another day was slowly melting away. Another day before she left him forever.

And until then, she was to call him William.

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