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Forward to Time Past by Unbridled_Brunette
 
Chapter Six
 
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Chapter Six





The following morning, Buffy was late to breakfast. She hadn’t slept well the night before and had snored right through her first wake-up call. Actually, she might have slept right through the second wake-up call too, if Livvy, the ladies' maid, had not insisted that the breakfast schedule would be disrupted by her tardiness. By the time she rolled out of bed, she was already ten minutes late, and it wasn’t as if she could just throw on a pair of jeans and head downstairs. The Victorian dress combinations were about as complicated as an electrical schematic; she couldn’t very well be expected to remember exactly where to put each bit of underwear when she was still sleepy. Nor could she fully dress herself without the help of at least one other person, because of the stupid corsets. A couple of weeks before, she’d tried leaving off the corset; but Anne had noticed it and lectured her for what seemed like hours on the importance of dressing like a lady. At any rate, the new dresses would not fit her without her waist being cinched up, so she really had no choice. By the time she’d finished dressing and combing her hair, Anne and William were already seated at the table—and if appearances were anything to go on, they seemed to be having some kind of argument.

“William, please don’t be so stodgy,” Anne was wheedling him. “I haven’t had an evening out in so long—”

“Well, and isn’t there reason enough for that?” he asked. “You know the doctor said that the night air is most aggravating to your condition…”

Embarrassed to have walked in on such a personal scene, Buffy purposely kicked the doorframe with the side of her shoe as she entered the room, so that they would notice her. She didn’t want it to appear that she was trying to eavesdrop on them.

When they saw her, the argument ceased immediately, and William stood up. The first time he had done this, the night before, Buffy had been startled. The footman was there to pull out her chair and arrange her napkin; she didn’t understand why William would have to get up when she came in. However, a quick glance at the etiquette guide Anne had given her explained that it was merely another meaningless gesture of politeness and respect that 19th century men showed women, and this morning, it ceased to bother her. Instead, she returned their wishes for a good morning and slid into her chair. William waited until the footman had positioned her chair and placed her napkin in her lap, and then he sat down, too.

“Good morning, dear,” Anne greeted her. “I trust you had a good night?”

“Yes, thank you.” Buffy took a sip from her water goblet and then indicated the windows. “It stopped raining.”

“Not a moment too soon, either. I have a very specific reason for wanting fine weather this evening.” William shot her a disappointed look from across the table, but Anne ignored it completely, focusing instead on winning Buffy to her side. “There is a show tonight at St. James’ Theatre. A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Just the thing to warm us on a dreary winter evening. Doesn’t it sound lovely?”

Buffy had the uncomfortable feeling she had just been dragged into their argument. She glanced over at William, who was staring at her. “I—I guess it sounds all right.”

“And since the rain has stopped, there should be no additional problems with my cough, so long as I take my syrups and bundle up well?” Anne coaxed.

Buffy understood where she was coming from. It was bad enough to be ill, downright unbearable to be ill and a prisoner in her own house. Anyway, why would evening air be worse on her cough than air during the day? How was it different? It couldn’t be worse on her than the depressing, housebound feeling she had now. Buffy raised her chin and met William’s gaze.

“I think it would be perfectly all right,” she said staunchly.

There was a pause as the footman began filling plates, but as soon as he was finished, Anne spoke again.

“Well, then that is decided. I’ll send out someone to purchase the tickets—Matthew, possibly. There should be some left for sale yet. Usually, there are. And the curtain call is not until seven, so the three of us will have plenty of time to ready ourselves.”

Buffy dropped her rasher of bacon. “The three of us?”

“Of course, you shall go with us,” Anne said.

“Oh…of course.” Glumly, Buffy picked at her plate. She hated plays; she hated Shakespeare; and she wasn’t feeling too fond of William. What an evening it would be.

William, meanwhile, set down his water goblet with a most ungentlemanly thump. “I really don’t think this is a good idea, Mother.” He ignored Buffy completely, and for some reason this annoyed her, goading her into the argument in spite of herself.

“It’s a better idea than forcing her to sit in the parlor like she's already attending her own wake,” she snapped at him. “She’s sick, not dead.”

He blanched, as if the idea of her being dead was more than he could bear. “Walking about in the winter evening could make her more ill. The doctor was quite clear on this. We need to keep her out of the night air. We need to be careful—”

“But we are being careful,” Anne insisted. “William, we are in London, are we not? We rearranged our lives…we left our home. How much more careful must we be?”

“As careful as is necessary to keep you safe,” he insisted.

Her expression softened, though it was obvious Anne’s resolve was intact. She answered, “I am tired of being safe, William. I want to enjoy the time I have left.”

William nodded, his eyes cast down.

“All right,” he said thickly. “Do as you like.” Abruptly, he pushed his chair back from the table. “Excuse me, but I find that I am no longer hungry. Enjoy your meal.”

The two women were silent as they watched his departure. Buffy could tell that Anne was upset, in spite of the cheerful tone of voice she used when she said, “It is all right. He won’t be angry for long. He is just…concerned.”

Buffy nodded in agreement, but she didn’t speak. She picked up her bacon again and nibbled at it, but she didn’t feel so hungry now.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~






After breakfast, Buffy went looking for him.

She did not really want to talk to him; he still made her incredibly uncomfortable. Nor did she want to feel sorry for him, not when her mind still stubbornly linked him with the crazy vampire of the future. But she couldn’t help it, after the scene at the breakfast table, because she understood his reasoning behind wanting to keep Anne safe at home. When Joyce was sick, Buffy had felt pretty much the same way—follow the doctor’s orders; don’t take chances; stay inside; rest, rest, rest. And even if the doctor’s orders about night air were completely ludicrous, they were still doctor’s orders. After all, this was 1879…people had very limited knowledge about medicine and illness. She couldn’t really blame him for being worried, not when she had gone through almost the same thing recently. And while Spike might be a bloodsucking fiend, William had done nothing to suggest that he was anything but what Anne claimed: a gentle-natured, caring, and most dutiful son. Whatever her own suspicions about him were, Buffy knew it wasn’t fair to judge him for the crimes committed by Spike. Nor was it fair to attack him for having the same fears about his sick mother that she had about hers. She figured whether she wanted to or not, she probably needed to apologize for her behavior.

She didn’t have to spend a great deal of time looking for him; William was in the first place Buffy thought to check. The library. She figured that the Giles-like librarian look couldn’t be an accident. Must be a trait of British men. He probably spent all of his free time buried under books, too.

He wasn’t buried under books now, however. He was standing by the window, staring out onto the garden. It was only the presence of a maid raking the fireplace that allowed him to agree to her request for entry. Otherwise, they would have been alone and most improper. Of course, Buffy wasn’t aware of any of this. He turned from the window to face her, and she edged nervously into the room, taking care to keep a certain amount of distance between them.

“Yes, Miss Summers?” he asked, when she didn’t speak right away. His tone was low and gentle, a little sad. Buffy was surprised. She’d figured he would be angry with her.

“I—I just wanted to apologize,” she stammered uneasily. “I was completely out of line at breakfast…saying that to you. I’m sorry.”

“Oh…ah…pray don’t be. It is all right.” He looked straight into her eyes—but for just a second. “You were…quite right. I do behave rather like a jailor to Mother; I am overprotective. I simply…”

“Don’t want anything bad to happen to her?” Buffy suggested.

“Yes. I’m sure you are already aware of this, but h—her chances of surviving her illness are not good. I just…I want to keep her with me for as long as I can, and that means following the doctor’s instructions.”

“Well, yeah. In theory,” said Buffy.

He tilted his head at her, clearly confused. “Pardon me?”

“Well…you could keep her inside and feed her medicine and do everything the doctor tells you. But if she isn’t happy, it won’t help a bit. See, when my mom was sick, I read this article the doctor gave me…and it said that the more optimistic a patient’s attitude is, then the greater chance they have for recovery. Like, if they do nothing but lay around, thinking they’re going to die, then they probably will—and soon. But if they think ‘I’m going to fight this, and I’m going to live’ then their odds for living are much better. Maybe they’ll still die from the sickness…but not as soon. And their quality of life will be much better.”

Intrigued, William took a step closer to her. “I never heard of that,” he said softly.

“Well, it’s new. And an American thing, I think.”

“I see. And did your mother—?”

“She died, but not from her illness. She had can—an illness that required the doctors to operate on her brain. She died due to complications after surgery. Not much positive thinking could’ve done for her there, I guess.”

“I am sorry,” he told her. And he actually looked it.

“It’s all right—” Buffy caught herself and laughed bitterly. “Well, no it isn’t. But I’m surviving, so I guess that means I’m all right.”

Another step toward her.

“Mother wrote to me that you are very brave. I see now that it was an understatement.”

Buffy resisted the urge to back away from him. He wasn’t Spike. She knew he wasn’t Spike. But something in her just couldn’t allow her to trust him. Even if the suspicions about his character weren’t fair, she still had them. And there was something so strange about him, about the way he was looking at her. Something familiar in the way his head tilted to the right and his eyes narrowed as though he were trying to see something inside her—something she wanted to keep hidden. He wasn’t Spike, but the expression on his face was Spike all over—the same expression Spike had sported when he chained her up and commanded her to tell him that there was a chance. Really, it was kind of creepy.

She brushed back an errant lock of hair and smiled nervously. “No, not really. I just do what I’ve got to do.”

He looked down, red faced and seemingly flustered. “Still, if there is anything you need…anything I can do to make you more comfortable while you are with us—”

“Tell her you’ll take her to the play, Spi—Mr. Hartley. Please. She wants to go so much, just let her and help her to have a good time. I’d give anything for my mother to be alive, so that I could do things with her.”

He overlooked over her unintentional rudeness completely, choosing instead to see the sense in her words. “Of course I will,” he said. Almost as an afterthought, he added, “And you will come, too, I hope.”

After her lecture on doing what Anne wanted, Buffy didn’t really feel she could say no—after all, Anne wanted her to go with them. But her smile was a little stiff when she echoed, “Of course. Thank you.”

She nodded and left the room before he had a chance to say anything else.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~





That evening was clear but still very cold, and Buffy shivered inside her cloak as she assisted Anne to the carriage block. For that lady’s sake, Buffy was glad that the clouds had dispersed long before afternoon. Had there been even the slightest chance of rain, William would have canceled their outing. As it was, he was quietly fretting about the temperature, asking his mother over and over if she was quite sure she was warm enough and assuring her that if she did not feel up to the excursion, then the loss of the ticket price was nothing at all.

Anne squeezed Buffy’s arm as they settled into the plush bench-seat of the carriage. William sat opposite them. “Don’t vex yourself darling,” she admonished her son. “It is a lovely night. Cold, but I’m well bundled. And there isn’t the slightest hint of dampness. Is there, Elizabeth?”

Buffy shoved her numb hands deeper into her muff and tried to answer without her teeth chattering. “The weather seems fine to me.”

“I’m sure it will be fine,” William replied, sounding as though he thought anything but. He was staring out the carriage’s small window, though how he could see anything beyond the inky blackness of the night was a mystery. His right knee was twitching, and Buffy just knew he was dying to ask his mother, yet again, if she was warm enough. To his credit, he did manage to hold back this time.

Buffy had to admit he looked rather handsome—if somber—in his dark gray suit and long black overcoat. And gloves, of course. A gentleman wouldn’t be seen on the street without his kind of dark, expensive-looking gloves. His only concession to color was a dark green waistcoat that was sprinkled with little red flowers, and it was this—and only this—that kept his attire from looking completely funereal. Again, he was immaculately groomed, even down to his fingernails. Yet, somehow, the overall effect was not dandifying; Buffy just assumed that this was how men in 1879 presented themselves. It was oddly appealing, that attention to detail.

“So, tell me about the play,” Buffy said, struggling to break the awkward silence that had fallen over them. “Is it any good?”

“Haven’t you read any Shakespeare, dear?” Anne was surprised.

“Yes. Well, some. In school. But that was Hamlet and Macbeth and the sonnets. I never read A Summertime Dream before, or seen the play. What’s it about?”

A hint of a smile played around William’s lips as Anne answered Buffy’s question.

“It is called A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Elizabeth, and it is rather like a fantasy.”

“And a romance,” added William. Buffy looked over at him, but he was still staring out the window.

“Yes, it is a romance,” Anne agreed. “And it is a comedy, as well. But there are delightful creatures like fairies and nymphs and a faun; it’s really very colorful. Oh, I can’t describe it. You will have to see it for yourself to appreciate it—and the St. James’ players are top-rate. It should be wonderful.”

Buffy just hoped it would be warmer.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~






As it turned out, St. James’ Theatre was quite warm and comfortable. It was a beautiful building, not large but elegantly decorated. Though available for concerts and plays of all kinds, it catered mainly to the opera and was quite popular in the “season,” which did not commence for some four months yet. Since it was wintertime and quite cold, not all of the tickets for this performance had been sold, and no more than three-quarters of the seats were filled. The Hartleys had arranged for a private box, which meant that even though they arrived a bit late—right before curtain call—they did not have to worry about tripping over the legs of other patrons while reaching their seats.

Buffy was so busy studying the details of that beautifully decorated large room that she didn’t realize she was falling behind, until suddenly she felt a hand on her arm. Victorian England was a very no-touch establishment, so she was startled when William took her by the elbow and assisted her into the box beside his mother. Not that she needed assistance, but she supposed it was some kind of social rule that the man had to help the delicate little woman find her seat. So, she allowed him to do it. But it was a strange feeling: Spike’s—no, William's—fingers lightly closed over her elbow, gently guiding her into her chair. He sat down on the opposite side of the box, so that Anne was between them. They both sat up so straight that Buffy felt like a slob and immediately adjusted her own position.

The gaslights dimmed, and the velvet curtains opened to reveal a brightly lit stage with colorful, hand-painted scenery. Buffy leaned forward in her plush seat hopefully, because, so far, it did look somewhat promising. The male actor was handsome and richly costumed. And if his gestures and facial expressions were a little over the top, well, that was all part of the Victorian era, wasn’t it? Everything was over the top.

“Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour
Draws on apace—”


At this first bit of dialogue, Buffy sat back in disappointment. She remembered, suddenly, why Shakespeare had always seemed so appallingly boring to her: she couldn’t understand a single word he’d written. Apparently, hearing the language spoken aloud wasn’t a whole lot more clear than reading it on a page. If anything, it was even more difficult to understand, because the actors all had very thick Cambridge-type accents and no sound equipment to help their voices carry across the room.

Buffy amused herself by gazing around the theater at the other patrons. She tried not to gawk rudely and embarrass Anne (who was watching the stage raptly, as if in the presence of something grand), but it was difficult not to stare. Most of the people in the theater were clearly members of the elite, and they dressed as such. For a moment, Buffy felt almost embarrassed by her own attire. For while the cream-colored dress was pretty, it was far simpler than the rich evening gowns worn by the other women. Evening gowns that were every color (darker colors seemed “in” for evening wear, and Buffy saw a lot of scarlet, deep green and midnight blue). The fancy lace and silk trimmings alone probably cost as much as her whole dress. And the jewelry! Victorian women sure did know how to accessorize. Gorgeous jewels in heavy gold settings were clasped around almost every woman’s neck and hung from every small feminine ear.

It had been a long time since Buffy seriously cared about fashion. In Sunnydale, she always wore the latest styles and clothes that looked well on her, but in the back of her mind was always the thought of practicality. She couldn’t very well go slaying in a fancy dress, and a lot of heavy jewelry would just give a vampire or demon something to grab hold of and hurt her with. The sudden dart of envy she felt for these elegantly dressed women was something she had not felt in a very long time, something almost alien. And immediately afterward, she felt guilty. After all, she was a slayer. She had more important things to think about. Like how to get back to where she belonged.

She did not allow herself to think about how long it had been since she had actually slain anything. Not since Glory, therefore not since her arrival in London. Whenever shame pricked at her, late at night, she told herself that there had been no opportunities for such activity, that she had seen no vampires in London and perhaps there weren’t any here at all. But she knew that wasn’t true. The real reason was that she was tired of the game, tired of hunting and killing, tired of worrying about the end of the world. There was already a Slayer in 1879—there must be one. And Armageddon was not at hand, because she knew the world had survived far longer than that. So, was it her responsibility to prowl the streets, destroying demons? Of course not. Let the current slayer handle it. Buffy was too busy for that kind of thing now. And she was having a hard enough time fitting into this time period without having Anne walk in on her stabbing somebody with a wooden stake.

She pushed the thought out of her mind, as the first act ended and the curtains pulled closed for a scenery change. As they waited, the audience milled about, greeting people they knew and discussing the virtues of the play. The room was soon filled with a low hum of voices.

William did not leave his seat, nor did he acknowledge that he knew any of the well-dressed men and women who passed by their box. Buffy couldn’t help but wonder at that. He’d been in London long enough. Surely, he’d made some friends? And, according to Anne, they had used the London house for several weeks every year during the “social season," so it would seem that they must know many of the people in London’s high society. Yet, he didn’t seem inclined to approach any of his acquaintances, though some of them did glance at him as they went by, suggesting some kind of familiarity. Even during the longer break of Intermission, he remained in his seat, silent and thoughtful, talking only when his mother prodded him into conversation. Buffy guessed he was probably about as popular and socially adept as his vampire equivalent.

Intermission ended shortly, and then the second half of the play commenced. And, as boring as the story was to Buffy, the time went by fairly quickly. Almost before she knew it, the play was finished. The Hartleys remained seated until most of the audience had dispersed, for fear that Anne might be jostled or injured by the crowd as it hurried to the exits. When it was time to leave, William stood up first and helped his mother into the aisle. Then, he extended his hand to Buffy. She was already well on her way out of the box, but she took it, anyway, so that she wouldn’t look impolite. His hand was surprisingly hot; Buffy thought it trembled slightly as he assisted her over the small step into the aisle. But when she looked at his face, his expression was very composed, almost detached. He released her the moment she cleared the step, as was proper, and did not look at or speak to her again. Not even on the ride home.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~



 
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