Tempesta di Amore by Holly

Chapter 7

The years had taught her little about human touch. She remembered her father’s arms around her, and how he would affectionately ruffle her hair with his large hands and call her his little Buffy. Buffy was such an unbecoming moniker for a girl, but it was what her father had called her, and she never wanted to be known by any other name. She recalled the way Mrs. Kendall had first looked at her when they were introduced; the way the old woman had repeated her name as though it was a disease, rather than something given to her with love and affection. And ever since that day, Buffy had learned to live in a world that did not traffic in the realm of human kindness. Touch was forfeit. Everything was forfeit.

Until last night. Until William de Winter marked her as his with his body, even if he could never give her his heart.

A hand was on her. A male hand. It roamed up her back and down her arm, paused to play idly with her hair, then slid down her side until his warm fingers settled on her hip. He was touching her. After so many years starved for human contact, William was touching her. His hand was on her naked skin.

Perhaps he was imagining that she was Drusilla.

“Buffy?”

At once, her heart was pounding. “William?”

There was nothing for a long minute, then his arm draped entirely around her middle, pulling her back against a sturdy male chest. Every nerve in her body exploded, and she found in seconds that she was shaking uncontrollably. She’d never felt anything like this. Not once. Not even last night, when he’d slipped inside her body. When he’d shown her how beautiful the stars were up close.

Until he’d whimpered Drusilla’s name in his sleep, and sent her crashing back to earth.

William hooked his chin over her shoulder and inhaled deeply. “Are you sore at all?”

Her cheeks rouged. The tenderness between her thighs was foreign, but it wasn’t bad. “A little,” she replied. “Only a little.”

“I didn’t hurt you last night?”

Buffy swallowed hard. He had, but the ache wasn’t physical, and it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t his fault that he missed his wife. It wasn’t his fault that he dreamed of her, and that he spoke to her in his sleep. And yet, even knowing that, it didn’t stop the hurt. Nothing could stop the hurt. She felt cold and exposed—a large wound in her chest open for anyone to see.

“It hurt a little at first,” she whispered when she became aware that she’d been quiet too long. “But I think…I think it was more…nerves than anything.”

He ran a hand down her arm. “Are you still nervous?”

“Yes.”

“You’re trembling.”

“Because I’m nervous,” she agreed, her eyes falling closed as she silently admonished herself. What an absolutely inane thing to say. Of course he was intelligent enough to deduce that she was trembling due to nerves. “Was it…”

She broke off again, feeling foolish and more than a little flustered. Mrs. Kendall had once laughed richly about how virgins are always so disappointing in bed due to their inexperience. Men, she’d said, were selfish creatures by nature and worked only to heighten their own pleasure. Virginal men had no concept of giving, therefore bedding them was a wasted effort. If they were considerate, or at least reasonably intelligent, they’d learn to satisfy their bedmates to ensure that they didn’t have to come home alone. However, from her lewd conversations with assorted male companions, Mrs. Kendall had deduced that women were worse. They were so timid and frigid and didn’t know how to respond, so they would lie like boards and do nothing to help themselves reach what Mrs. Kendall had called fruition.

Had she moved at all last night? Buffy honestly couldn’t remember. She was certain that she was worthless as a lover, but the knowledge did nothing to alleviate the pain that she was again going to fall short to Drusilla. She imagined that Drusilla was a wonderful lover that never left her husband unsatisfied.

William’s lips brushed against her shoulder, shaking her back to the present. “You’re warm,” he murmured. “I’ve been without warmth for so long.”

The world around her stopped, and for a second, she felt a spark of anticipation. Of hope. But William released her the next second and rolled away from her, leaving her cold and detached. Her skin ached for his where he had touched her. The place where his arm had been draped over her waist jerked in the sharp sting of rejection.

Warmth. She gave him warmth.

Not enough.

She didn’t give him enough warmth to fill the void. If she did, he wouldn’t turn away from her. He wouldn’t whimper for Drusilla in his sleep.

“What would you like for breakfast, love?” William asked. “We can have anything you like.”

Buffy remained where she’d been, on her side, her back to him. She listened as he moved about the room, her heart pounding furiously. Soon, the honeymoon would come to an end, and then she would have to step into the role of Mrs. de Winter. She would go to Manderley.

She couldn’t shake the feeling that it was temporary. That she was going to Manderley for a little while, but that her life would resume as it had been once the failed fairytale was over.

A few minutes later, William was on the bed again, draping a now-clothed arm across her stomach. The stiff material of his dress-shirt didn’t make her shiver as his bare skin had, but Buffy couldn’t help but draw in an excited breath. If nothing else, she loved him with all she was. She loved him, and she was the one sharing his bed.

She just wished she knew how to kick Drusilla’s memory out altogether.

“Buffy, love? Are you feeling all right?”

No, she wasn’t, but that was hardly his fault. He couldn’t be blamed because she was less than perfect.

“I’m fine,” she said, turning to glance at him over her shoulder, forcing a smile to her face. “Just tired.”

William’s eyes softened. “Do you want to sleep a little while longer?” he asked gently, rubbing her back. “Or, perhaps, I could draw you a hot bath.”

That sounded heavenly. “I would like that.”

“Yeah?” He kissed her brow, and again, her heart swelled with hope. “Anything you want, sweet. I’ll draw a bath for you, and when you’re ready, we can order breakfast. What would you like?”

Perhaps her life would be filled with this. Little bits of affection, given through small touches and gentle, unexpected kisses. It wasn’t what she wanted, but it would be enough. In time, she would learn to convince herself that it was better than love. Better than anything he could give her. After all, she loved him with everything she had, and as long as she was in his life, whatever he gave her would be enough.

“I don’t know. Whatever you order will be fine.”

William frowned, not satisfied. “What would you like, Buffy?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“You say that now, but if I guess, you’ll be stuck with whatever I order.” His fingers played idly with her hair. “All those mornings in Monte Carlo, and you never ate anything but toast and eggs. There must be something that I can treat you to.” He paused. “Would you like pancakes? Crêpes?”

Buffy wondered if he felt like pampering her because they were now husband and wife in name and body. He had made love to her the night before, and now everything was different. Everything had changed.

“Crêpes?” she asked.

“Have you ever had one?”

“No.”

He smiled gently. “I’ll send in the order.”

“And run the bath?” She felt foolish the second the words crossed her lips. As though she needed someone to wait on her hand and foot. She was perfectly capable of running her own bath. However, the idea of William doing it for her struck her as romantic, and she wanted as much romance as he would give her.

Even if it was something small. Even if it was a bath.

He didn’t object. Instead, a smile crossed his face, and he graced her with a nod. “Of course. And run the bath.” He began to turn, paused, and turned back to her. “Would you like a robe, love?”

At once, Buffy became painfully aware that she was still naked beneath the sheets, and the blush in her cheeks deepened. “Yes, please.”

Another instance of utter foolishness. Again, William said nothing. He did not reprimand her as he had the night before. He did not say that she shouldn’t hide from him. Rather, he nodded again and made his way to the wardrobe.

One day, perhaps, she would be the sort of woman that could toss modesty aside. But that wasn’t who she was now, and if she was entirely honest with herself, she doubted she would ever be. She and William might have shared intimacy beyond intimacy, and she might love him with all her heart, but there were times when she was painfully aware that they were, in many ways, still strangers. And though he had seen her without clothing the night before—though he had touched her where no man ever had, where no other man would—she wasn’t the sort of girl who could throw off a blanket and walk across a room naked. Not even with her husband. She was a creature made of self-awareness, one not comfortable with her own body. Becoming comfortable with nakedness with someone else was going to take time.

And William, wordlessly, seemed to understand that.

He understood her.

That wasn’t love, but it was more than she’d ever had.

And she would treasure whatever he had to give.

*~*~*

She remembered looking at photos of Stonehenge and feeling so small, so thoroughly insignificant at the awing knowledge that something so great existed somewhere in the world. That somewhere out there, outside the world of photos and reports, existed something so meaningful. The same feeling had encompassed her when she’d stumbled across a snapshot of the Pyramids of Giza in some forgotten textbook. It always shook her that the pictures were mere representation of something that actually existed. Somewhere in the world stood actual pyramids, reaching for the heavens themselves. Similarly, Stonehenge stood somewhere in England. It stood, and perhaps someday she would see how it looked outside the world of photos and textbooks. Perhaps.

Manderley, in that respect, had been the same. When she’d acquired the postcard that had attempted to capture Manderley’s grandeur, she’d never imagined seeing it. In her wildest fantasies, she’d never envisioned a time when she would be stepping outside a car, holding William’s hand, dwarfed in the shadow of such regality.

“Do you like it?” he’d whispered as the car turned up the drive. As her first view of Manderley came to life. “It’s yours, you know. Everything is yours.”

Buffy felt her heart was weak. Manderley was without question the greatest house she’d ever seen. He lived in a realized model of Mr. Darcy’s Pemberley. It wasn’t a house at all. It was a castle. A great, looming castle that rose from the earth through columns of trees. Immediately, her hand itched with the need to sketch. Manderley. This was Manderley.

Two great wings branched to either side of what she assumed was the main hall. The steps that led to the entrance seemed enormous, and startlingly aged. As though the home itself had been built around them.

“I’m sure Mrs. Hart will be happy to give you the tour,” William said, grinning at her.

Knowing that Manderley was her home now didn’t make drawing her eyes away from its majesty any easier. Buffy nodded numbly, barely hearing the words. “Mrs. Hart?”

“My housekeeper.” Then he grew silent and clenched his jaw. “Bugger.”

“What?”

“She’s orchestrated something, that devil. I told her you wouldn’t want this.”

It was only then that Buffy realized that a group of strangers had congregated uniformly on Manderley’s steps. Had they been there the entire time? She didn’t know. Manderley itself had been her prime focus. And now there was a staff full of people. People whose station had been her own just a little while ago. Just a week ago.

Anxiety seized her heart. These people, these house servants, were people who had known Drusilla. People who were accustomed to Drusilla. People who had never dreamed that William would return with a new wife. A new Mrs. de Winter. A Mrs. de Winter that could never hope to fill Drusilla’s shoes.

“William,” Buffy gasped, reaching for his hand. “What is this?”

“I’m sorry, love. I told her.”

“Told her?”

“Mrs. Hart. I told her not to do this.” A long, resigned sigh rolled off his shoulders. “I swear, the woman makes it difficult to remember who’s serving whom.”

“I can’t face these people, William.” Panic was a frightening sensation. Her bones stiffened. Her gut pierced with cold. Her joints locked and her heart thundered. “Please. I can’t do this. I’m not ready to do this. Please.”

William raised her hand to his lips and brushed a kiss across her white knuckles. “It will be all right.”

She shook her head rapidly. “No.”

“Buffy—”

“I can’t…I’m not…this isn’t me.” The words sounded ridiculous, but she had nothing else to say. Similarly, they had the added benefit of being true. It wasn’t her. None of this was her. Not the car. Not the dress. Not the hat on her head, or the bag at her side. Not the suitcases of expensive clothes that William had happily bought her on their honeymoon. She was a child in a grown-up’s dress. She wasn’t a woman of class or value. She wasn’t the sort of woman that could run a household.

Why was he asking this of her? He knew what she was. She was a paid companion. It was all she knew. It was all she’d ever been.

His fingers slid under her chin, tilting her head up until their eyes locked.

“Buffy, do this for me?”

A trembling breath rushed past her lips. “It’s not me.”

“I know, love. But if you start off your life here by allowing yourself to be frightened by the staff…” He broke off, his brow furrowing. “Let’s just leave it at this…you can dismiss anyone. Anyone you want gone will be gone.”

That sort of power was truly terrifying.

“Come on,” he said kindly, encouragingly. “It’s yours. Everything is yours.”

Those words didn’t register.

A soft smile crossed his lips. “They’re only curious. And they’ll want to impress you.”

“Impress me?”

“Of course.” He spoke as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Why would they not want to impress you? Their continued employment at Manderley rests in your hands.”

The idea of firing anyone was simply beyond her imagination. They were going to compare her to Drusilla. They were going to look at her and see how plain she was. How thoroughly unremarkable. How young and imprudent. Perhaps they would regard her as Mrs. Kendall had. Perhaps they would say what a great mistake she’d made, trying to take the place of a woman greater than her. Greater than any woman William could have brought home. This wasn’t her staff: it was Drusilla’s. It was all Drusilla’s.

Every inch of the property belonged to Drusilla. Buffy was a fool to think otherwise.

Buffy didn’t remember ever leaving the car. William’s hand was around hers, leading her further into Manderley’s shadow. A sea of blank, unsmiling faces surrounded her. People in matching, black and white outfits. People looking at her. Judging her. Thinking how brazen she was for being here. How presumptuous. How thoughtless that she could even consider marrying a man like William de Winter. She, a girl of no money or importance, stood at the side of, formerly, the most eligible bachelor in the country. She had managed to win a ring on her finger. She was the new Mrs. de Winter.

These people didn’t believe it anymore than she did. She was a wanderer in a strange land. She stood where she didn’t belong.

It was a pair of cold, unblinking eyes that drew her attention from the semi-circle. The woman stood in the middle—an elderly, stone façade of prestige and self-importance. She was undeniably the most frightening creature that Buffy had ever seen. Sharp cheekbones emphasized the harsh contours of her face, making her eyes look larger than they were. She was thin, her frame near skeletal, her hair pulled back in a tight bun. Every detail of her countenance was incontrovertibly intentional. There wasn’t a flaw to be had, and the effect was nearly inhuman.

This was the sort of woman that would make Lucifer cower.

“Mrs. Hart,” William said, his pleasant voice shaking Buffy back to herself. She relaxed minutely at the reminder that he was with her—that she wasn’t alone—and took some measure of solace in his presence. “I believe I told you that all this wasn’t necessary.”

“Apologies, Mr. de Winter,” the woman replied, her cold eyes never wavering from her employer, her tone betraying no such regret. “I merely thought it best that the staff become acquainted with Mrs. de Winter immediately.”

The corners of William’s mouth drew into a tight smile. “Perhaps this is a good example, then,” he said, turning to Buffy. “You needn’t lift a finger. Mrs. Hart takes care of everything. She runs the house like a well-oiled machine.” He glanced up again. “I’m sure you two will make fast friends.”

Mrs. Hart nodded stoically. “Yes, Mr. de Winter.”

A shiver raced down Buffy’s back, but before she could stop herself, she found her feet carrying her forward and her hand falling from William’s reassuring grasp and reaching out in salutation. Where the sudden rush of courage had originated, she did not know. Only, for whatever reason, she sensed that her life would be much easier if she could rely on Mrs. Hart for friendship. The shrewd coldness in her eyes was, perhaps, imagined. Buffy’s nerves were running far too high to trust every vibration that rang through her body.

“Mrs. Hart,” she said, cursing her trembling voice. “I am Bu—my name is Elizabeth.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptivity, and she cast a condescending glance to the proffered hand. “You are the lady of the house,” she said, and though it wasn’t blatant, the derision in Mrs. Hart’s tone couldn’t have been imagined. “It is not proper to engage in such greetings with servants.”

“Oh.” Buffy’s arm fell heavily to her side once again. “Of course.”

“Mrs. Hart can show you around, if you like,” William offered. “I’ll have the mail to sort through.”

“Mail?”

“One of the less-pleasant side-effects of a lengthy absence. We’ll eat together tonight, of course.” He kissed her cheek, but it was quick, and left her feeling colder than ever. Then, to Mrs. Hart, he said, “You’ll show her around.”

It wasn’t a question, but somehow it sounded like one.

“Yes, Mr. de Winter.”

And just like that, he was gone. William was gone from her side. He was gone. And Buffy was left standing in the shadow of Manderley. In the shadow of something so much greater than she could ever be.

“Whenever you’re ready, Mrs. de Winter.”

Mrs. de Winter.

The title was a formality, nothing more.

She was using someone else’s name, living in someone else’s house, sleeping in someone else’s bed with someone else’s husband, and surrounded by strangers.

In all her life, Buffy had never felt so alone.

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