Chapter Twenty




As usual, the train was late coming into the London station, and William was exhausted by the time he finally stepped out onto the platform. He had not slept at all the night before, although it was his concern for Elizabeth that accounted for that rather than the discomfort of the hard wooden benches in the waiting room. He felt unclean and disheveled, yet he hardly gave it a thought. Because it did not matter if he looked awful, it didn’t matter if she hated him for what he had done and would not see him when he arrived. Just to look at her, even from afar. Just to know that she was all right—

He could not account for his fear. There had been no dreams or visions, only the total and encompassing horror that had pulled him from his sleep. It was burned across his mind like a brand, that fear, the thought—the certainty—that she was in danger.

That she needed him.

He left his trunk with the porter (Matthew could fetch it in the morning) and wearily made his way down to the dirt yard and the row of shabby carriages parked before the cabstand. There was a rush, because several trains had arrived in rapid succession, and many of the cabs were engaged quickly. William waited his turn on the edge of the crowd, shifting from side to side on impatient feet. Longing to be home and yet unable to renounce that deeply ingrained sense of honor that prevented him from shoving others aside and claiming the first carriage he came across.

Perhaps, it was a mistake. One by one, the drivers backed their horses out of the stand and pulled out onto the dusty road, until eventually the place was deserted but for William and one of two other unfortunate travelers. There was nothing to do but wait for the drivers to return, and William did this resignedly. It seemed to him he would never get home, that he would never again see her face—

Footsteps crunched in the hard-packed dirt behind him, but he did not turn around or take any notice of it. Not until a hand touched his shoulder and a rasping, masculine spoke into his ear.

“Well, well, well.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




She hadn’t felt like this—truly terrified—since her mother had died.

It was a different type of fear, of course, and on a different level, but that made it no easier to deal with. It wasn’t only that she had been attacked; it was not only that he threatened to rape her. No, there was also the less tangible fear of being so completely helpless about it. She knew it was not only her lack of fitness that had done her in, because she would not have been able to kill him that first time…not that first time without Spike’s help. Not without Willow’s spell to return his soul and offer her, for a split second, the opportunity to put a sword through his chest. No matter how experienced she became, no matter how strong she was, she knew Angelus would always have the ability to bring her to her knees. Because she was afraid of him.

Although she had braced herself for his appearance, she realized now she had never actually expected it. London was a big city, and she felt easily lost in it, safe within the confines of Anne’s comfortable home. Her fears had been limited only to William, who in his daily treks out to work was vulnerable. She had never thought to be afraid for herself.

Now she lived with fear. She ate it for breakfast, and she took it to bed with her. That night, following the attack, she lay awake in her bed, jumping at small sounds and prowling the house at the least sign that something might be wrong, certain—always certain—that it would be him coming after her. It was silly of her, she knew. Angelus had no idea who she was or where she lived. He could not possibly come after her. But—

He knows I’m a slayer.

Would he hunt her down because she was a slayer? None of Giles’ books had ever indicated him to be a slayer killer; that distinction had always gone to Spike. Then again, he’d certainly not shied away from her last night. Her head ached with the possibilities.

Angelus made her fear for herself, but Drusilla made her fear for William. What was it that had her so convinced that Dru would have him even now? Hard to say. Maybe it was just her unwavering belief in destiny. Giles had so often spoken of Buffy’s own. Suppose it was William’s destiny to become Spike. Suppose she must spend her entire existence with him looking over her shoulder, waiting for something to leap out of the shadows and steal him away. It was a dismal thought and one that certainly did not help her to rest better.

Buffy had left her window ajar in order to hear any sounds of intruders approaching. It made the room very cold, and she shivered beneath the thick wrap of her quilts and blankets, yet she could not bear to shut it. Having it open so she could hear the sounds of the street below made her feel safer somehow, as if she had gained an advantage.

She was never more grateful for her forethought than when, a few minutes after the clock struck one, there came a sound of horses’ hooves clicking on the cobblestone down on the street. This would not have been much cause for concern, except that the sound stopped directly before the house. Buffy bolted upright, shivering with cold and fear. Her keen ears strained through the silence of the night, barely catching the faint sounds of the voices below.

“Well, ‘ere we are, sir.” It was a masculine voice with a thick, North London accent--obviously that of a hackney driver.

An indistinct answer from his passenger, then Buffy heard the soft sounds of shoes hitting stone as the man (she was sure by the sound of his step he was a man), exited the coach. There was a silence, then again the voice of the driver thanking his customer for the tip. Afterward, the coach pulled away.

For the tenth time that night, Buffy slipped out of bed and into her coat. That afternoon, while Anne was having her nap, she had slipped out to the back garden and snapped a thick branch off one of the decorative shrubs. She had no tools to make it into a real stake, but it was sharp on the end she had broken, and like the other makeshift stake she had carried, Buffy was sure it would do the trick. Now, she grabbed it off the nightstand and darted silently out into the corridor.

Down the stairs and through the foyer she went, stopping only when she reached the cold front walk. There her keen ears could detect the sound of his footsteps, and they were walking behind the garden wall toward the back gate. Her breath caught. No one came to the back gate except servants and deliverymen; now the servants were asleep and no deliveryman would be working at one o’clock in the morning. So who would be—? But her mind answered the question even before it was fully formed: Vampire.

She ran out to the side of the house and into the back garden, reaching it by the side gate just before the intruder reached the back one.

The wooden gate creaked softly on its hinges as someone pushed it open. Buffy waited for the corresponding click, but the intruder did not bother shutting it behind him. Footsteps drew closer, and she padded silently on the crust of fallen snow, silently around to where she could see him as he approached the door. She clutched her crude wooden stake to her side and waited for the prowler to show himself.

Buffy prepared herself for a fight, but she could not prepare herself for the blinding panic that followed. In the darkness, all she could see of the vampire was his silhouette, and in that silhouette—wide shoulders and sweeping dark coat, quick purposeful stride—she could read not only vampire, but also Angel.

No, not Angel. Angelus.

If she had been in her right mind, she would have realized that the rapidly advancing outline was both shorter and slighter than Angelus. Yet after so many nights of dreaming him, of envisioning her death and William’s turning, she could think of nothing but Angelus.

Still, she waited, trembling but resolute, until the figure pulled up abruptly and a hoarse voice said “Miss Summers—?”

Even in her immense relief, her heart could have broken at that. Miss Summers, he had said. Not Elizabeth.

“William.” It was all she could say. She dropped the stake that, thankfully, he had not noticed and pushed it beneath a shrub with her heel.

“Are you all right?” he asked, and she thought in bewilderment it almost sounded as if he had been crying. He took a step forward and asked again. “Are you quite all right?”

“I—I’m—” Her mind didn’t seem to want to work right, and instead of answering his question, she mumbled dazedly, “You were supposed to wire us before you came back.”

“I did not allow myself time to wire,” he answered in a choked tone. “I—my desire was such that I felt I must leave immediately.”

Buffy put a hand to her forehead and tried to pull together her scattered thoughts. His desire. What did she know about his desire?

He said again, “Are you quite sure you are all right?”

This time, she managed to answer him. “Yes.”

“What—what are you doing outside so late and in such dreadful weather? And—and wearing—”

She was wearing only her nightdress, her bedroom slippers, and the coat. It was odd that she had forgotten about it until now. She perceived the tightness in his tone as disapproval and wrapped her coat more closely around her body. She started to turn away. “Nothing,” she said. “I—I’m not doing anything. Just going inside.”

“Wait. Please wait. I—I want to speak with you.”

She felt bewildered by all that had happened and was happening. The sting of William’s defection was still upon her, and this, mixed with the stress of meeting Angelus—and worrying about meeting Angelus again—made her want to scream. For a moment, her temper goaded her, so that she was tempted to slap him and say this: You want to speak with me, you fucking bastard. Well, too bad! You had your chance and you left. However, it was a momentary anger, over before the words reached her lips.

After all, it was her fault he left. She knew that.

She also knew—or thought she knew—what it was he wanted to say, and because she wanted to prolong that moment, she was loath to answer his question. She tried to distract him with another topic.

“It’s late.”

He shifted, and although she could not see his face in the shadows, Buffy could feel his discomfort when he answered, “Yes.”

“The last train stops running at nine. Where have you been?”

His hand reached out again, hovering over--but not quite touching--her arm. “Miss Summers, please. May I…?”

Miss Summers. She thought she knew exactly what it was he wanted to say, and it hurt. She swallowed hard.

“Go ahead.”

“I—I want to apologize to you for leaving so suddenly; it was unkind. Yet my shame was such that I felt—I felt that I could not bear to face you—”

Although they were no more than she had expected, the words were like a slap in the face; Buffy winced.

“Look,” she interrupted. “You don’t have to say all that; you don’t have to explain. I know why you left. I know that you think I’m some kind of whore—uh, horrible person. But—”

He took another clumsy step forward, and this time she felt his fingertips brush her elbow. “Miss Summers—I don’t think you are a horrible person.”

Anger flared again. She shook off his grasping hand.

“Oh, yeah? What’s with the ‘Miss Summers’ then? As I recall, before you left you were calling me by my first name.”

She had always wondered if he really had a breaking point where she was concerned, now it seemed she had found it. He grabbed her upper arms with a force that surprised her and pushed her into the side of the summerhouse, pinned her there with his hands and the weight of his body. His grip was not painful, but it was surprisingly strong. Still, she could have shoved him off, but she did not. His face was in hers: hot breath and anger, something that was not anger. She was stunned.

“It is not you I am ashamed of!” he bit out. “It is myself!”

“Well what did you do? I’m the one who raped you in the library.”

He didn’t seem to hear her. His fingertips dug into her flesh.

“Don’t you understand? I despise myself! The very notion that I should have so used you. That I made you believe—that I made you—”

“You didn’t make me do anything,” said Buffy, shocked that he should even think he had. “You didn’t do anything, except make me believe that you loved me.”

“I do love you,” he breathed. “God help me, I love you to exclusion of everything and everyone else. Yet, I lie to you, and I use you—”

She could feel his nose pressing into her temple, his soft mouth at her jaw, and although he did not do it in a caressing way, Buffy felt a sudden sharp stab of arousal. To have him so close after weeks of separation made her dizzy, and she answered almost without conscious thought: “You don’t use me.”

“I do!” he argued, and his tone was violent even if his hands were not. “I do! You just don’t know it!”

“Then tell me.”

“I lied to you—I have lied to you since the beginning—”

“About what?” she asked. He made a sound almost like a sob and released her.

“Everything,” he whispered brokenly. “When first we met—”

“What?” She was bewildered.

“I had seen you before.”

Something in the way he said it—dully—made her heart stop beating.

“When did you see me?” she asked carefully.

“I own a number of warehouses where goods are shipped and stored. The accountant and I…we were doing the tally that day, making sure the inventory was correct. I was returning home, and suddenly Matthew pulled up the horses. At first, I was angry, because usually he was so gentle with them, and this time he used a force as if to break their jaws. Yet it was not his fault; it was a young woman who stepped into the road, in front of the coach, and he was afraid he might run her over and do her an injury.”

William paused a moment, and Buffy’s breath caught in her throat. “Me—?” she choked. He went on as if he had not heard.

“I watched out the glass as she crossed to the left, and I was angry at her carelessness. Then, I saw her, and—and she was weeping. She was carrying a basket that looked very heavy, and she was weeping as if her heart had broken. She was beautiful and ill dressed, and she looked so—so sad. And there was a building, a dilapidated house with a sign on the lawn—it was a job house. It was a lowly place, and the instant before she stepped onto the lawn, the young woman glanced toward me—not at me but in my direction. And her eyes—God, her eyes—”

Again, he stopped, but this time he took his breath and went on unprompted.

“Her eyes were lost and terribly sad. She disappeared through the gate and into the house. The coach went on, but I could not force my thoughts from her. I knew she had not seen me. Yet I felt in my heart she was calling for help, calling for me. Mother was in need of a nurse anyway, and the house was a job house. I could not stop thinking of it. I could not sleep for thinking of it...and of all those things I might do for her. I thought—I wanted to—h—help her—”

The words ended abruptly on a stutter, and Buffy could not fathom what he was thinking. She herself felt as if she might cry. She didn’t remember the incident he described, but she remembered often being sent to the market by Dorothea. She remembered those frightening, tiresome days of trudging through dirty streets, lugging the shopping basket. And how many days had she cried? Every day, every single day she had cried, until she arrived at the Hartleys.

A thousand questions she wanted to ask him, but only one could she give voice to.

“You—you told your mother to buy me those clothes.”

“Yes,” he admitted softly. “Although, I did not explain to her why. She was longing for another woman in the house—a daughter—anyway, and she did not ask.

She dresses very well for a servant.

Those words she had once believed disapproving. Now, she understood he had meant it for a joke to his mother. She felt a sudden twinge of sadness, because she had thought Anne loved her. She thought Anne was like Joyce. Instead, it seemed that all the kindness was because he had told Anne to be kind. It was William who had wanted to pamper her and make her feel welcome, not Anne.

As if sensing her doubts, William said suddenly, “She loved you from the first, Elizabeth. She wrote me of it. She said you were spirited and kind, all alone in the city and in need of a family as your own were gone. She never questioned the new clothing or anything else I asked her to do, because she wanted it as well. She wanted your happiness.”

“Why would you—” she began, but unshed tears clogged her throat, and she could not finish.

“I cannot explain it. Only that I felt as if I knew you, as if I had known you for years. When you looked at me thus, so terribly adrift, it was as if you were a friend, pleading with me for rescue. I could not bear to leave you in such misery.”

“Why are you telling me all this now?”

“Because, now, I find myself questioning my own motives! All along, I believed it was only for the safety and happiness of a vulnerable woman that I was doing these things. I even went away before you arrived, so you would not construe my presence as a threat. So many men are unscrupulous and take advantage of such things. Perhaps--perhaps I was lying to myself as well as to you…otherwise what happened between us would not have happened.”

“You didn’t force me to do it,” Buffy whispered.

“I made you believe it was necessary to do it. I confess that I—I had even thought about it before—thought about you—” He uttered a defeated sigh. “What you must think of me.”

What must she think of him? How could he even say that? He could he think—? He had pulled her out of poverty, of misery. He had given her a home and a mother, and—and his whole self. And he was afraid that she—

“Why would I think badly of you because you thought about touching me? William—” she gripped shoulders, forced him to look at her, although she could not see his face. “William, I thought about it, too. Why else do you think I would—and you never made believe I had to do it, not a single time. I did it because I—because I love you—because I wanted to show you how much I love you—”

“There are other ways!” he flared, angry, now, though not necessarily with her. “There are so many other ways you might have shown me—ways that would have offered you pleasure instead of disgrace. Yet my own behavior encouraged yours. I made you—”

Buffy’s head was spinning. God, how had things gotten so mixed up between them? How could she fix this?

“Do you think I would have done it if I didn’t feel pleasure?” she demanded wearily. “I wanted your hands on me! I wanted to touch you and make you feel good.”

“Women don’t—”

“Women do! Whether those pasty-faced preachers and buttoned-up society idiots believe it or not, women do feel pleasure! Maybe the reason they don’t realize that, is that their women don’t enjoy it! Because those men have no idea what they are doing—because they’re rough and fast, and—and—and because they act as if their wives are possessions or cattle!”

She was almost shouting at him, and he stepped back in confusion; but her arms, which had draped across his shoulders, were suddenly tight around his neck and holding him against her. Her next words were desperate but hushed, murmured into the warm, sweet-smelling folds of his overcoat. “Tell me that I’m some big wanton tramp! Tell me that I’m disgusting for doing what I did and that you don’t want me around anymore! But don’t tell me I don’t love you or that I didn’t enjoy making you feel good—or that you forced me! Don’t blame yourself for it!”

“No!” His voice was hoarse, as distressed as her own, but twice a soft. His arms went around her, one hand combing through her long hair as he repeated “No, no, no. You are not loose, or disgusting or unwanted. Please do not think I see you as such. I love you. I love everything about you. I love your impulsiveness and your spirit, your way of speech. I love all those other indescribable charms you possess. I feel as if I have loved you forever. All I have wanted—all I want—”

“Is what—?”

He nuzzled against her temple, breathing slowly, heavily into her ear. “Only to be worthy of you.”

She kissed him then, softly, gently, on the very edge of his jaw. “You already are worthy of me.”

But she knew he didn’t believe her.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




It was too cold to stay outside any longer. They tiptoed through the darkened corridor of the servants’ quarters, up the stairs, and into the main level of the house. Buffy lit the kerosene table lamp in the hallway, and almost immediately, William started to draw away, sidling slightly to the right in the direction of the staircase.

“Where are you going?” she whispered. He paused, his face bathed in shadows.

“Why, I—I felt—it—it is so late—”

“I know it is. I won’t keep you long. I just…Can I…?”

She reached out to him then, a subtle, almost imperceptible, gesture of want, but William saw it and understood. He took a step forward, and Buffy got a brief flash of deep blue eyes and glinting spectacles. Then, his arms went around her, pulling her close against his chest, drawing her head against his shoulder. The cold from outdoors was still on his clothes; it seeped through the wool of Buffy’s coat and the thin fabric of her nightdress, but she hardly noticed it. After almost two weeks, his arms were around her again, and that was all that mattered.

He pressed his mouth into the top of her head, whispered into her hair. “My sweetheart, please forgive me for leaving you. I missed you so—”

“Nothing to forgive,” she answered. “I missed you, too. I was so worried—”

Now, why did he suddenly flinch at that?

Buffy felt the smallest recoil from him, all his muscles suddenly tense and drawn. She drew back just slightly, just enough so that she might see him. He had his head turned a little to one side, but the angle seemed wrong, contrived. As if he were posing for a photograph. She reached up and rested an index finger against his chin, pressing gently to make him face her. He did not resist her, only drew a little sigh. He did not quite meet her eyes as he said, “Well…”

Her heart jumped as she saw his face clearly for the first time that night. Her hand dropped away.

“Oh, William—”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~