Chapter Four

Compared to the Chapman Institute, the Hartley house was like living in the lap of luxury. In fact, if Buffy had been a normal girl—or, at least, a girl from that era—then it would have been the very height of opulence and pleasure. The Hartleys were, among other things, very rich. And in keeping with the customs of the day, they liked to invest their riches in expensive material possessions. Their home had every comfort of the day: featherbeds and gas lights, iceboxes and—best of all, in Buffy’s opinion—daily baths. Real, all over body baths taken in a real bathtub. (True the bathwater still had to be heated on the stove and then hauled to the tub, but now there were servants to do this for her.) And the soap was bought from the chemist’s shop, not homemade like at the Chapman house. It smelled like sandalwood instead of rancid fat, and it actually came in bar form, not a slimy brown pile.

Buffy had learned to appreciate things like this, but the new millennium was strong in her memory, and she missed too many modern conveniences to be able to appreciate her situation fully. After all, no matter how wealthy the Hartleys were, there were many, many things that were simply not accessible in 1879—they hadn’t been invented yet. Things like microwaves, hot running water, flushing toilets, television, tampons, and a thousand other things Buffy had once taken for granted. Her familiarity with such luxuries kept her from being truly satisfied in what was for the Victorian age an excellent house.

Of course, Buffy felt that she could live without anything—even tampons—so long as she had kindness. Kindness was something she had come to treasure, not having found an overabundance of it since her arrival in this place. And Anne Hartley was very kind. Although Buffy had technically been hired as a nurse by virtue of her experience with Joyce, it soon became quite clear that a nurse was not what the lady of the house truly required. She was sick; there was no doubt about that. But she was an uncomplaining sort of patient, loath to lie abed and have others wait on her. Most days she felt well enough to knit or work needlepoint, and sometimes they even went out for the day—shopping and then to lunch at a restaurant, sometimes to a play. These outings had a heavy cost afterward, as Anne’s cough was very much aggravated by the cold air. But they were wonderful while they lasted. And Anne swore they did her good in the long run.

Nighttime was more difficult because she often fell to fits of coughing when she lay down. The first time this happened Buffy fell to pieces. She had never heard anyone cough that way: gasping and choking, sometimes spitting up blood. It was frightening. But the doctor had prescribed a syrup to help soothe the worst of it, and she would eventually learn to watch for the symptoms of an attack early on so that she could catch it before it became too severe.

Though she was in no way clingy or needy, Anne was clearly a woman who enjoyed company, and Buffy’s main role in the Hartley household was to supply her with the companionship she craved. Since she became ill, the amount of callers at the house had dwindled to a paltry few, as did the invitations. And she was often not well enough to go out to the dinners and parties she did get invited to. It was obvious that she was hungry for conversation, particularly female conversation. Even though Buffy was her nurse and technically a servant, Anne treated her as more of a friend. She even wanted Buffy to eat with her in the beautiful dining room, not in the servants’ kitchen “down below,” which would be her customary place. Buffy was too ignorant of the time period to understand the significance of this, but it was cause for a great deal of gossip amongst the other servants.

Anne never complained about her condition, or the inexorable fate that was cutting her life short in such a torturous way—well and women did not, in that day and age, bore their friends with the paltry details of impending death. But she did, just once and in a moment of great weakness, confide to Buffy that life had become a little tedious since her diagnoses. William was away much of the day, and he didn’t like to go out even when he could for fear that she would be struck ill. On the few occasions he consented to accompany her to a concert or dinner, he worried about her too much for either of them really to enjoy it. It was a hard thing, getting used to a life of confinement—she who had once been so active in society. It was, she admitted, harder even than the thought of dying.

But more than even this she missed her house—her real house—the house at the country estate. It had been more of a home to her than the London house, which before they had used only during the London social season. The estate was beautiful, she assured her young nurse. Fields of golden wheat and long stretches of green pasture punctuated here and there by clumps of trees and shrubs. The house was not quite as luxurious as this one…more of a large house than a mansion. But it was comfortable amid the fresh air and quiet of the countryside. Had the doctor not been so insistent—and had William not been so quick to obey him—Anne said she felt she would never have left.

“Why did you have to leave?” Buffy asked, thereby surprising Anne with the ignorance of her nurse.

“The southern end of the estate was a bog,” she explained. “And the night air that rose from the wetland aggravated my condition. The doctor said a warmer, drier climate would suit much better—he suggested we sell out and go to another country, of all things! However, that was out of the question. It is quite hard enough on poor William to leave the countryside and live in London…but to uproot him to a new country! I should never allow that. Therefore, the doctor suggested we move to this house, so we could be closer to the hospital and away from the marsh. It has been quite hard on us both, I’m afraid. But William is such a dear; he has never once complained or hinted that he is unhappy here.”

Anne talked a lot about William, the son Buffy had not yet met. It was obvious that she was incredibly fond of him and that they were very close. Which begged the question, why had he left her here, all alone, to attend to business “back home” on the country estate? Buffy knew she would never have left Joyce alone while she was ill, not for that long. And she certainly would not have put her mother under the care of a nurse she had never met. William had hired her, as Anne had explained. But he had hired her through conversations with the vicar, a detailed explanation of what he wanted. He had never so much as asked to speak to her.

It seemed heartless, but Buffy didn’t say so. For all that she missed him, Anne seemed relieved her son had gone to the country. Apparently, it was the first time he had gone in several months; he was that worried about her condition he was loath to go as often as he should. And had it not been for the problems on the estate, he would not have gone this time, Anne said. She seemed anxious about him, afraid that her illness was robbing him of his freedom, his youth. It seemed unfair that she spent such a great portion of her time worrying about him when she was the one who was ill.

Buffy felt very protective of Anne, even though she had known her just a short time. But the lady reminded her of Joyce, so gentle and sensitive. And generous. On Buffy’s third day at the Hartley house Anne called a dressmaker in to make new dresses for her nurse. Pretty dresses. Dresses that fit properly, unlike the ones that had come from the constable’s wife and out of the charity bin at Chapman’s. And they would be ready in just a few weeks, because Anne had ordered them to rush. Buffy was delighted by the prospect of new, better-fitting clothing, but she felt a little guilty that Anne was paying so much money for them. It seemed enough to be living here for free, eating her food and being paid for the small things she did to help. But twelve new dresses from a fashionable dressmaker seemed too much; it made her feel like she was taking advantage of her new employer.

Anne brushed the concerns away with a wave of her thin hand. “Don’t be silly, Elizabeth. It isn’t as though I’m buying you silk ball gowns. But a young lady should dress becomingly, particularly if she working in a home of this caliber. It is nothing, a trifle.”

But the other servants of the house all wore uniforms.


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The following day, the telegraph came.

Buffy was in the process of being fitted for her new dresses—an achingly long and surprisingly intimate procedure that made her wonder if looking good was actually worth all the trouble. It didn’t help that, so far, the dresses looked more like sheets held together with straight pins than real garments. She fidgeted and sighed until the seamstress scolded her, and hit her with the measuring tape.

“I can’t very well finish the dresses in such a short time if you don’t help me,” she complained. “Now, we’ve done with this one—off with it and on with the next. There’re four more before we’re done for the afternoon.”

Dutifully, Buffy stripped off the makeshift dress, mindful of the pins around the hem, and reached for the next one. She was just pulling it over her head when Anne rushed in, a sheet of paper clutched in one pale hand.

“Look!” she said, waving the paper. Pink spots of excitement stained her cheeks. “I’ve had a telegraph from William today!”

William. The phantom son. Buffy was growing more comfortable to the idea of him—a man who existed and commanded his mother’s love, but had yet to appear in the house. He did write faithfully, every day it seemed, for a letter arrived almost that frequently. Yet Buffy felt that a truly loving son would not have left his sick mother in the care of strangers. She certainly would not have left Joyce alone with someone she didn’t know—certainly for not as long a period as this.

Not that she said any of this to Anne. Whatever his shortcomings, it was obvious Mrs. Hartley adored her son and that he could do no wrong in her eyes. Buffy knew her employer would certainly not thank her for any criticism to William. So, she bit her tongue and smiled at Anne from the glass as the dressmaker poked and prodded about her person, raising hems and tucking seams.

“A telegraph,” she said, trying to infuse some genuine interest into her tone. “Is everything all right?” By now, she had been here long enough to know that telegraphy was expensive and generally saved for important occasions.

“He’s splendid; thank you for asking. He was simply afraid a letter by post might not reach us in time.”

“In time for what?”

“Why his arrival, of course.” Anne’s eyes were sparkling. He is coming home! And in just two days’ time. We have so much to do to prepare. He is taking the train and shall arrive at six o’clock, if it isn’t late. Just in time for a nice dinner—and he writes he wants to have dinner with us, Elizabeth. He wants to meet the young lady of whom I speak so highly. We will have beef Wellington; it is his favorite. Oh, and I do wish your dresses could be done by then. Mrs. Simms, do you think, perhaps, you could have just one—?”

Buffy's false smile felt like it was cracking her face. She didn’t want William to come home, beef Wellington or not. She had fallen into a comfortable routine here; she knew everyone and knew what was expected of her. A new person would spoil the even tenor of her days. And she had been having such a good time with Anne; it was almost like having her own mother back. She didn’t want some guy she didn’t know to come in and spoiling everything. He’d take up all of Anne’s time, maybe resent the money she’d spent on Buffy’s new clothes. And he was unmarried. She’d heard some gruesome tales from the girls at the job house about what some of the bachelor masters would try to force on their female servants. Even some of the married ones. If this William came in expecting to use her for a playmate, he’d better think again.

The last thought made her blanch. The idea of him attempting to force himself on her was nothing; she could fight off any mortal man without so much as breaking a sweat. But greater was the fear that he would resent her for denying him. Suppose he threw her out? He was the one who ran the house, after all. Anne had said that much. And he had hired her. If he became angry, or even if he simply just didn’t like her, he had the power to make her leave. And if she left, where would she go? Would the job house take her back, if she failed to make this one work? Even if it did, there were no guarantees her next job would be different. London was probably filled with loser men using maids as concubines, and she’d seen firsthand while running errands for Anne how cruelly some mistresses treated their servants. The last thing she wanted was to be slaving after some horny old man and his bitchy wife.

As if reading her thoughts, Anne leaned up to touch Buffy’s arm—infuriating the seamstress, who was trying to pin that sleeve. She pulled back hastily, smiling an apology to Mrs. Simms while at the same time trying to reassure Buffy.

“Don’t be afraid, Elizabeth. William will love you, I am sure of it.” She leaned on her cane and smiled with some inner, secret pleasure, adding again, “He will just love you.”


~*~ ~*~ ~*~



Buffy had heard the term “lord of the manor” before, but she had never fully understood it until now. It was obvious from everything she had seen so far that William Hartley was lord of the manor, the head of Hartley house and a most important person. This had been suggested to her by Anne’s frequent mention of him and emphasized by the painstaking preparations made for his arrival. Everything was done for his pleasure and everything must be perfect upon his return.

The first of Buffy’s dresses was hurriedly completed and delivered on Thursday morning, and Anne told Buffy—tactfully but in no uncertain terms—that she was to wear it that afternoon for William’s homecoming. She was told, as well, to “take extra special preparations in her toilette." Just as if she wasn’t always careful to look decent.

Still, the new dress was very becoming. It was cream-colored, trimmed in blue ruffle. The collar was low enough to see the barest hint of her breast, the waist was tight, and the skirt flowed beautifully over a small bustle flounced with ribbons. And beneath it was the loveliest petticoat trimmed in delicate handmade Irish lace. The layers of clothes were hot and, truth be told, very uncomfortable. And the corsets were torture devices, making it almost impossible to draw a breath. But in spite of this—and the nervous butterflies that seemed to be taking flight in her stomach—Buffy couldn’t help but feel pleased with the overall result. If she had to live in this God-forsaken place, at least she could look this nice.

She had combed her hair, and used curl papers and hot tongs to make little ringlets around her face while she pulled the rest up in a chignon at the back of her head. Heavy make-up wasn’t allowed in Victorian high society—only whores and “loose” women wore it—but Buffy did put on a little rose-scented cologne and a touch of colored salve on her lips. By the time she finished, it was almost two o’clock and Anne was calling her.

They sat in the parlor, side by side on the divan, awaiting his arrival. Anne had been ill the night before and still looked very pale and drawn, yet her eyes betrayed no trace of weariness. Buffy noticed that her gaze kept shifting to the mantle clock, as if impatient for the minutes to pass. Her thin, cold hand grasped Buffy’s comfortingly.

“It’s all right, dear. Don’t be nervous.”

Buffy smiled back wanly, but in truth her uneasy shifting had less to do with nerves and more to do with the whalebone stay that was stabbing directly into the left side of her ribcage. Because her new dresses were “fitted,” she had to lace up her stays tighter with them than with the castoffs she had once worn, and after hours of not being able to draw a proper breath or breathe without excruciating pain, her delight in the new frocks was beginning to fade. She flopped back and sighed heavily, wishing for blue jeans and T-shirts.

There was a sudden scuffling sound out in the foyer accompanied by men's voices, and before Mr. Edward could even announce William’s arrival, Anne was out of her seat and rushing to meet her son. Buffy followed behind, somewhat less enthusiastically, and waited off to one side as Anne clasped the well dressed, not-too-tall man in her arms and welcomed him home.

“I missed you, too, Mother,” he said, hugging her lightly. “And has everything been fine here while I was away?”

“Oh, lovely. Dr. Gull is most surprised at how well I’m handling the cold season.” Anne drew away from him, turning slightly so that she could motion Buffy forward. “And now, William, you must meet the most recent addition to our household: Miss Elizabeth Summers.”

The man—no longer blocked from view by his mother—offered Buffy a rather tentative smile. “Of course,” he said a trifle shyly. “Mother has been most complimentary of you in her letters. I am pleased to finally meet you.”

It was Buffy’s cue to incline her head with ladylike timidity and say something kind in return. Instead, she gave him a gaping and very unladylike stare. It took her brain a moment to process what she was seeing and then, when it did, she was left devoid of speech. William Hartley—Lord of the Manor, King of the Castle, pride of his mother’s heart—was not the stranger that she had thought he would be. He was more than familiar to her: he was the killer, the torturer, the bane of her existence.

He was Spike.


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