Forward to Time Past by Unbridled Brunette

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Chapter 54

William was later at his business than he intended, and it was early evening before he climbed into the coach for the home journey. He dropped his head back against the leather seat and sighed, expelling a puff of mist into the cold air. It was odd how draining business matters were. He could spend a full day on horseback, riding over fences at a hunt; he could walk six or eight miles to look over his country estate and never grow tired. Yet a few bare hours in the city, seeing to accounts and inventories, discussing sales and purchases, stocks and bonds, left him feeling exhausted. His head ached; he felt dull and stupid, somewhat depressed. Sometimes, he felt as if he would like to sell it all just to be done with it. His money would certainly last him his own lifetime, and, circumstances being what they were, it was unlikely he would ever have an heir to consider. Of course, he knew he could never actually do such a thing. The businesses had belonged to his father; it would break his mother’s heart for him to sell them. But it was something to think about on the ride home, something about which he often fantasized.

Although it had yet to snow, the streets were full of slush and ice—the result of a recent rain that had frozen in the night. Matthew didn’t hurry the horses; he was always conscientious of them, and even though their shoes had been roughed, it was a terrible strain on an animal to keep its balance on the slick cobblestones. The slow creak of the carriage wheels and muted clop of the horses’ feet was lulling, and William closed his eyes.

It was impossible to tell just how long ago he had dozed off, but he was awakened by a sudden, violent lurch. He had to put out his hands to keep from being slung against the seat opposite him, and when he peered out the window, he was just in time to see the horses thrown back almost to their very haunches as Matthew savagely sawed at the bridle bits. William had the glass down in an instant.

“Do you find it necessary to break their jaws?” he snapped, feeling angry and more than a bit shocked. He was very fond of horses, and to see the beasts mistreated by someone they trusted was more than he could bear.

Matthew touched his hat apologetically. “Sorry, sir, but a young lady has just stepped into the road, and I had to pull them in so as not to do her an injury.”

William sat back, still much annoyed. These city dwellers seemed to have no regard or respect for others. Did they think it funny to risk being run over just to torment people? He stared out the window morosely.

It was at that point that he saw her, the young woman who had stepped in front of the coach just moments before. A small sort of girl, too thin and not very tall. She was pale and tearful, dressed in clothes that must have come out of a church barrel. Clearly, she was poor, but she did not have the look of the low class about her. At least, not to him. To him, she looked…well, rather beautiful. She was carrying a bulging sack that appeared quite heavy, and he supposed that she had just come from the marketplace. After she crossed the road, he expected her to keep walking south in the direction of the slums. Instead, she stepped through the garden gate of a rather fine house that was obviously in a state of some disrepair. She went straight up the walkway to the door, opened it without knocking, and then stepped inside. William was perplexed until he noticed the small wooden sign planted beside the garden path: The Chapman Institute for Women and Children.

Then, he understood. The Institute was supported by various charities, and sometimes there were men about the city who took up collections for it. They housed women without means but not without skills, as the gentlemen sometimes said. Poor women, mostly widows and orphans. The Institute trained them so that they might enter into servitude to the wealthy. That lovely girl was in there, probably feeling lost and alone. She was available to anyone who had the means to pay her a wage, and there were so many unscrupulous men in London who might take advantage of her vulnerability. The thought of it hurt him, but only briefly. There were so many pressing matters at his own home that he hadn’t time to worry about anyone else.

It was several days later before he was to think of her again. For some time Sarah Fitzpatrick had urged him to hire a nurse to care for his mother. He had been unwilling because it seemed so callous and unfeeling, leaving her to the tender mercies of a stranger. Yet, with the trip drawing nearer and his mother’s coughing spells growing more frequent, William was reluctant to leave her alone while he was away, for the servants were worthless in that regard. For a little while, he remained undecided. Then, Sarah introduced the possibility of the Chapman Institute. They took in only decent Christian girls, she assured him, and they trained them for most any position. She was certain he could get a trustworthy nursemaid there.

As though some dormant beast had just awoken, William’s mind feverishly returned to the blond-haired girl, although, at that time, he had little thought of bringing her home. Yet, at least he might see her, see if she was all right. She had looked so sad before…

It was not his responsibility to hire new help; that task fell to Mr. Edward. However, he insisted upon going to see the place himself; he said he wanted to be absolutely certain that the girls there would make adequate nurses. They would be taking care of his mother, after all.

They were very kind at the Institute and quite attuned to his wishes. In keeping with his position, he did not desire to speak to any of the women—that, he left to Edward. For himself, he merely observed them from a little distance. The head of house showed him around, pointing out likely candidates as they passed them. And lo, if she wasn’t one of the first women they saw. Not the first—that distinction went to a sunburned, barefooted woman in her thirties. But, certainly, the young blonde made her appearance not more than five minutes afterward. That had to mean something, surely. That had to be a sign.

Casually, he asked about her history.

They were honest in explaining that she had no real experience at…well…anything. She was an American who had lost her parents and her wealth in rapid succession, although the details of this were not made clear. At any rate, the promise of a job had brought her to London, where she managed to get herself robbed of all her possessions the moment she stepped off the ship. A constable with whom Mr. Chapman was friendly had brought her here.

If she had no training or experience, then why did Dorothea feel she would be a good nurse? William asked. He was watching the girl as she lifted a kettle onto the stove. She looked fatigued, downtrodden, and completely unaware that they were in the room and watching her. When Edward spoke to her, her answers were soft and very brief. Her eyes, while not tearful this time, looked just as desperate as he remembered them.

I could take away that look.

The thought came unbidden, and it shocked him so much his heart skipped a beat. A stupid thought; it made no sense at all. He was looking for a servant, nothing more. He hardly heard the voice of the older woman who stood beside him.

Though her professional experience and training were decidedly lacking, Dorothea insisted that Miss Summers had some good practical experience to her credit. Her mother had been ill for quite some time, and Elizabeth had taken care of her during the duration. While not capable of any serious healthcare, she was certainly adequate for what he needed. Of course, if he wished for a young lady with a more extensive medical background, they had Miss Olivia Dawson—

Without even looking in Dorothea’s direction, William held up his hand and shook his head. “I want Miss Summers,” he said.

I’m going to take care of her.

The salt from her tears was still on his lips as Spike strode through the deserted streets. It was only a couple of hours until dawn, and he carried his tattered blanket with him, knowing that if he didn’t, he’d be stuck in Willie’s Place until nightfall.

Goddamn them.

It was a mantra in his head, a burning in his gut. He could have killed them all for hurting her, for not taking care of her. Where the hell was her Watcher in all this? In some manner of speaking, she worked for him. Where was the bloody paycheck? How could those poncy bastards expect her to walk the graveyards all night and then hold down a full-time job during the day? How did they expect her to live? Sodding spite was what it was. They were punishing her for being different from the others, for being independent and unwilling to follow their rules. They didn’t give a shit if she lived or died. They had another slayer—the real slayer—and whether the bint was psychotic or not, it seemed to make no difference. Their loyalties to the girl who’d slaved for them for six years were practically nonexistent.

Aside from the Watcher, Spike didn’t allow himself to think of her friends. He knew that if he did, he would be tempted to kill them. Bloody bitches staying in her house, eating her food and using her electricity, emptying her bank account to pay for it all while they got the education she deserved. He might have a chip in his head, but it wouldn’t have stopped him from throwing a Molotov cocktail into their lecture hall. It wouldn’t have stopped him from doing anything, even snapping their necks, if he had not forced his mind away from it. They had made her cry, and he could have slaughtered them for it.

He could still feel her in his arms, trembling and so small. He’d thrown his duster across the sarcophagus so that she could lie down; she was in no state to use the stairs. She wanted him to lie with her; she wanted to bury her head in his shoulder. Even after she exhausted her tears, she wouldn’t stop shaking. His sweetheart. His pet. He would have lain down in the sun for her; he would have cut out his own heart.

Instead, after she left, he made a deliberate—if somewhat desperate—march across town.

Willie’s Place was always full of employment opportunities if you knew where to look for them. Spike had never bothered before; he preferred to make his money from poker. But most vampires didn’t carry cash—they didn’t need to—and his poker buddies rarely had anything beyond what they pulled out of the wallets of dead men. It was enough money for him to buy blood with, but it would be nowhere near what he needed to help Buffy.

The air inside the bar was thick with the smells of blood and liquor. Since daylight was approaching, there were few vampires in sight, but that was fine with Spike. Vampires weren’t what he was looking for; vampires weren’t businessmen. He sat down at the bar and waited.

“Half and half,” he told Willie when the man finally reached him. In any other establishment that would have meant Guinness and lager; in Willie’s Place, it was Guinness and kittens’ blood.

“Haven’t seen you in a few days,” Willie said as he set the glass before him. “Still owing money?”

“Took care of that already,” answered Spike.

Willie let loose his nervous bark of a laugh. “I’ll bet you did. With a stake, no doubt.”

“Mm,” Spike murmured, taking a drink. After he swallowed, he said as casually as he could, “Actually, I’m looking for work. You know of anyone who could help me with that?”

“What? A good-looking vampire like you? There’s probably a ton of it.”

“Not that kind,” snapped Spike. He picked up his glass again, but before he could drink, the hackles on his neck rose. Someone was watching him.

He turned to see a man standing a little distance away, staring at him. He was clearly human and clearly out of place, but there was something about him, something cold, something that kept the bar’s regulars from coming too close to him.

“You make a habit of listening in on private conversations?” Spike asked.

The man merely smiled.

“I couldn’t help overhearing. It’s a bit unusual, isn’t it? A vampire looking for a job. Why does a vampire need money?”

“None of your goddamn business,” answered Spike. “Bugger off.”

“But I have a business proposition for you. You need money, don’t you? I have money; I just need someone strong who can keep his mouth shut.”

“Stronger than a human, you mean.”

The man nodded. “Much stronger than myself,” he replied, drawing nearer. “This isn’t hard work, but it isn’t child’s play either. I need someone who can take care of himself if things get…complicated. Workplace accidents are so tedious, you know.”

Spike raised his eyebrows, intrigued.

“Does it pay well?”

The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a stack of bills more than a finger’s-width thick, bound with a rubber band. He tossed it onto the bar next to Spike’s glass. “Is this well enough?” he asked.

Spike’s eyes drifted down to the money—all one hundred dollar bills. He put one booted foot onto the rung of the barstool next to him and pushed the stool out for the stranger to sit on.

“Step into my office.”

“I have a business proposition for you.”

Buffy, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, applying makeup, startled at the sound of Giles’ voice. Her liner pencil skidded across her eyelid, leaving a streak of black.

“Look what you made me do!” she exclaimed as she turned toward the open doorway. “I’m trying to get ready for the job interview.”

Giles frowned.

“I am terribly sorry for interrupting the grooming session; I was under the impression that your interview wasn’t for two hours yet.”

Buffy leaned closer to the mirror, carefully dabbing at her face with a damp Q-tip, trying to remove the black streak without destroying the rest of her makeup.

“It isn’t for two hours yet,” she told him. “I’m just so nervous I had to do something or go crazy. It’s not like I’m used to interviewing for jobs, you know.” She paused. “So…what is it you want?”

Giles stepped back from the threshold and motioned toward the hallway in an indication she should follow him. With a sigh and a final, unhappy glance at the mirror, Buffy did.

He led her down to the kitchen and waited until they were both seated at the table before he spoke. “I would like to discuss your financial situation, if I may.”

She shrugged. “It’s not like it’s any big secret that I’m broke.”

“Yes, well…I should tell you that I have been in touch with the Council this week. Once it became clear just how serious the problem was, I thought it might be prudent to inform them of your needs.”

“My needs?” she echoed.

“Your financial needs,” he clarified.

Buffy’s eyes widened.

“What’re you telling me? Are you saying they’ll give me money?”

“Perhaps. It is something we have been talking about at length.”

“So, why haven’t they been giving me money before?” she demanded indignantly. “I mean, even when my mom was alive, once I turned eighteen shouldn’t I have been paid something for all my trouble? Did they expect me to live off my mother forever?”

“If you had been the only slayer, no doubt they would have compensated you,” Giles explained calmly. “Yet, there was Faith to consider. Once you died, you ceased to be the official slayer.”

“Oh, really? Why don’t you tell me what the hell I’ve been doing for the past six years, then. Faith was less than useless—I mean, my God, she even worked against us—and you’re telling me that she was entitled to money and I wasn’t?”

“It was never my decision. Had it been up to me, you would have received some sort of salary once you came of age. They were…less than receptive to the idea. In their minds, you were functioning well without it, so they saw no reason to bother. Now, however, they grow concerned about your ability to do an adequate job. If you are distracted by some sort of daytime employment, they fear you might allow your dedication to your calling to falter.”

“Why not let Faith pick up the slack then?” asked Buffy snidely. He sighed.

“Clearly, they understand that isn’t an option—I’ve told them as much myself—and while they aren’t exactly sympathetic to your situation, they are businessmen. From that standpoint, I think it is obvious what they must do.”

Buffy sat back against her chair, relief momentarily overwhelming her resentment. “Then, I don’t have to worry about getting a job. That’s what you’re saying, right?”

Giles hesitated.

“In manner of speaking,” he said slowly. “There is, however, one stipulation.”

“What’s that?” She was ready to agree to anything.

“Spike.”

His eyes were suddenly hard, colder than she ever imagined Giles’ eyes could be. Then, she knew. Her secret wasn’t a secret anymore.

“Spike…” she echoed softly. “I…I don’t understand.”

“Buffy, for God’s sake, it’s obvious!” Giles snapped. He pounded his fist against the tabletop, making her jump. “You go to Los Angeles with no warning whatsoever; you ask Angel if the loss of a soul means the loss of the man, and then you disappear again, not to be seen for over a day. When you come home you’re covered in—” He paused, and Buffy pulled at her collar in an attempt to hide the mark on her neck; she hadn’t thought anyone had noticed it.

“I don’t think I have to tell you how disappointed I am in you,” Giles continued, his voice suddenly weary. “To think that you would have so little sense…even Angel was better than this! Spike is amoral, cruel…he has never done anything to help us unless it was for his own personal gain. If it weren’t for that chip in his head, heaven knows what he would be doing now. My God, Buffy, the last contact you had with him before you went back in time, he chained you to a wall and threatened to kill you! That, alone, should certainly be proof of his intentions. He might profess love for you now, but a bare six months ago he would have killed you if the chance presented itself—”

“You don’t understand!” she burst out. “He’s—he’s different than Angel—than Angelus. If I had been there when he was turned, he never would have done those things—”

“Don’t be a fool,” Giles snapped. “I’m sure he has no end of pretty stories to appease your conscience, but the fact remains that he is a killer without a soul. He has no guilt—no shame—”

He suddenly shoved something across the table at her, a plastic folder that she had not noticed before.

“I want you to look at that!” he gritted out. “You look and then tell me you could have stopped him; that you would even have known what to do. Tell me he’s still a man inside.”

“Look, I don’t need to look at pictures,” she answered dismissively. “I know exactly what he’s capable of. You said it yourself—my past experiences with him were—”

“Open it!” he barked.

Intent on proving him wrong, Buffy flung back the binding of the folder, pulling from it a thin stack of photographs. They were photocopies obviously printed from a fax machine, and the black-and-white images were grainy. Nonetheless, when she looked at the first one, her stomach heaved.

Charles Archer’s face stared back at her, mottled and blurred. He was obviously dead, lying on his back, his mouth gaping wide. Only his face and upper body were visible, but that was enough to show what he had suffered. His nose was broken and one cheekbone was dented, as if from a blow with something very heavy. There was an iron spike driven through one of his eye sockets, another one through his chest.

Buffy felt sick. She had known, of course, that this was how Spike had earned his nickname; but somehow that was easy to ignore when it was only words. Seeing it was something else altogether. Better that he should break necks and drink blood than do this.

“That…that was a long time ago,” she whispered. She was trying to convince herself more than Giles. For days now, she had been pushing away this very thought with both hands, telling herself that he was going to behave and that past evils no longer mattered. The problem was that she had never once stopped to consider just how horrible the past evils were.

“Yes, it was a long time ago,” Giles agreed. “Does that make this man’s suffering any less important? Keep looking.”

She didn’t want to, but somehow she couldn’t stop herself. Page after page of photographs, and after the first, not one of them was of a man. They were all young women.

They were all blonde.

The very last one was dated August 1997, less than a month before he had arrived in Sunnydale. Buffy scrunched the paper in her hand and stared at Giles almost accusingly.

“You never showed me these before. Where did you get them?”

“The Council compiled them for me at my request. Most of these were pulled from London newspaper archives. For a long time, our books held little information about Spike’s early years, and while they were searching for information for me, the Council discovered that it was because no one—not even the Watchers—knew that he was a vampire. Not until just before he left London, and, after that, he dropped out of sight for several years. We knew about the fixation with young blonde women, of course, but—”

“Then why the hell didn’t you tell me?” Buffy demanded.

“Because, we felt it wouldn’t matter. Buffy, you are a slayer and that would be a far greater cause for obsession from him than your appearance.”

He paused and then continued in a kinder tone. “Look what he did to them, Buffy. You say that you could have kept him from it, but look at his victims of choice; they all resemble you. He killed them in the most heinous manners possible; he mutilated their corpses. What does that tell you of his capacity for good?”

She didn’t have an answer for him, and after a moment, he stood up.

“The Council is most willing to assist you financially, Buffy, but only if you cut your ties to Spike. It is entirely up to you. I only hope that you make the right decision.”

Still silent, Buffy watched him walk out the door. Then, she looked back down at the sheets of paper strewn across her table.

Those were not the actions of a sane person.

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