CHAPTER 4 - WILLIAM CHANCE TOWE
LONDON, ENGLAND
DECEMBER 20, 2003
2:00PM
William Chance Towe, Buffy repeated to herself. William, meaning protector. Chance, meaning, inveterate gambler, someone who has survived by good luck, and Towe, meaning, vigorous, steadfast, stubborn. Suited him, she thought.
It had been surprisingly easy to find out Spike's name, once she'd found the Watcher's Diaries and did a little cross referencing.
William Chance Towe. Born August 15, 1852 to Anne Blakinship Chance and Henry William Towe. Educated at Oxford, graduated, 1874. Studied Classical Literature and Languages. Disappeared and presumed dead 1880. Never married. No children.
The story picks up, of course, when Spike, travelling with Angelus, Drusilla, and Darla makes his not-so-subtle presence known across Europe in the late 1800's and into the early 1900's, after which, they go on to America.
Buffy took down an address and closed the books, returning them to their places on Giles' shelves.
The next day, Buffy transferred to her second bus, getting off at Bartholomew Street, near the Health Center and walked for the next couple of blocks until she came to the street whose name she'd copied down.
From Giles' house, she could have almost walked, being that it was only a couple of miles, but it also intersected some major thoroughfares, so she'd opted for public transportation. Buffy now stood in front of the house at 22 Patshull Road. It was a medium to largish sized red brick house, on a street of similarly sized homes. It had at least 2 stories, maybe a third. Buffy wasn't sure it was a third story or the attic, or both. There was a garden in the front, along with some shade trees, enclosed by a short 3' redwood stained fence and gate.
There seemed to be a small stone crest of arms set into the brick above the window, though she couldn't see it's design from across the street, but she'd seen similar since coming to London. The heavy wooden door was painted a pale shade of green, contrasting with the brick, and there was some Victorian-looking scrollwork along the sides of it, matching those of the porch's wooden rails.
Buffy squinted at something in the yard; it appeared to be some sort of sign. She crossed the street to get a better glance at it.
It read:
Room for rent, please inquire inside. It also gave a phone number.
Buffy continued to stare at the house for a while longer. She was just about to walk off, when the door opened and a woman appeared in it, startling Buffy.
"Miss? Are you interested in seeing the room we have?" she asked. "If you are hurry and come on in, I have to leave in a few minutes.
Buffy swallowed, "Um...yes, I am...thanks," she said, as she opened the gate and walked up the sidewalk.
"Name's McTavish, Margaret."
"Um...Winters, Anne," Buffy said.
"So, you're American then, eh? Are you over here to work or go to school?"
"Work mostly, though my sister is also in school."
"Well, this room is only for one person..."
"Oh, that's alright, she's staying with relatives. I just thought maybe I'd like to get out on my own."
"This seems to be quite an old house," Buffy commented, looking around appreciatively at the beautifully done interior, the wine red carpet and cream and wine chairs and settee, "I mean that in a good way," she added quickly.
"That it is," Margaret McTavish agreed, as she walked her through the drawing room, dining area, and out to the kitchen.
"I'm sort of a history buff," she said, winging it as she went on, "I'm doing my thesis on the Victorian Era."
"I thought you said you worked?" she asked worried. Last thing she needed was a poor student who couldn't pay.
"Yes, well...I work, but I'm also working on my thesis, but I've got over a year to finish it, as the professor is doing a sabbatical abroad at the moment. So, yep, mostly working right now," she lied, grateful that she'd picked up all the lingo of academia from Willow and Giles.
Margaret sighed in relief.
"You wouldn't happen to know the history of this place, would you? Or of any of the previous occupants?"
Margaret looked at her and brightened, "As a matter of fact, what you're seeing here is about what this house looked like originally. A couple of years ago we had the interior all stripped down to its Victorian Era splendor. You wouldn't believe the layers of paint and wallpaper that lay...well, nevermind that. Let's just say it cost a pretty penny and an ungodly amount of time."
"I can imagine," Buffy said, and she could.
"Problem is my husband has taken ill for the past couple of years and hasn't been able to work, that's why I'm advertising for boarders. In fact, that's where I'm heading when you're done looking; over to the convalescent home to visit him."
Buffy looked at Margaret McTavish. She couldn't have been much more than 40 years old, much too young to have a husband in a convalescent home.
"I'm sorry," she said, "how long has he been there?"
"A couple of months," Margaret said, "they might let me bring him home for Christmas though. Even if it's only for a couple of days, I think it will help cheer him up," she added.
Margaret went back to her role as tour guide, and Buffy dropped the subject.
"Do you happen to know the history of this place? Of the former occupants, by any chance?"
"Well, it just so happens, that my husband's mother was related to the very early owners, so when this place came up for sale, my husband and I grabbed it up. Their name was Towe. Anne and Henry, had a son named William. Not much known about them and what is known is pretty sad. Father died while William was a boy, he went missing when he was about 28, and his mother died right afterwards. At least, that's what is presumed, as neither the son, nor the mother's bodies were ever found. Still, there's a grave marker next to the father's for them in the cemetery.
Buffy's heart was pounding. She was actually taking to a relative of Spike's.
"What cemetery?"
"Ack! I forget the name, but I'll think of it in a few minutes. Would you like to see that room now?"
"Oh, yeah. Sure," Buffy said, following Margaret up a narrow staircase to the second floor.
"This is the room," Margaret said, opening the door to a small room, probably no larger than 10 x 10 feet. It had one small wardrobe in it, a narrow twin bed, although slightly wider and longer than the usual twins she'd known, yet smaller than a double, there was also a small bureau and dresser, and one Victorian looking chair off in the corner.
"So, what do you think Miss Winters? It's not much, but it's comfortable. The loo is down the hall. There's a shower and bath in there, also. Long as you don't need it from 6:30am -7:00am, then we'll get on fine together."
"Um, I'll have to let you know, Margaret. It's very nice, but I had a couple of more rooms to look at today."
"I understand. Just let me know, alright."
"I will. By the way, this room...do you know whose room this was?"
"Yes, this was the son, William's room."
"Are you sure?"
"Well, if the little drawing in the family bible doesn't lie, then I do believe that would be correct. Plus, the larger one down the hall, would probably have been the parents, and the other one, by the way it was designed, was probably for servants, presuming they had them, which I am."
"This bed, is it...?"
"Good eye, Miss Winters. Yes, it is original, though not the bedding, of course, it's been redone."
Buffy sat on the edge of it, sinking into the feather like softness, and ran her hand over the wooden headboard; imagining Spike laying here as a boy, dreaming of things, reciting schoolwork passages to himself...
"Um, Miss Winters? Would you like to see the attic? I haven't been up there in ages, but I do believe that there are a few things up there that belonged to the original owners."
Buffy nodded, trying not to seem too enthusiastic.
Margaret grabbed a couple of torches and they went up the stairs. The attic was large, covered in the usual spider webs and dust that attics invariably were covered in. Margaret walked ahead to the far right corner of the attic.
"This is where some of the older stuff is," Margaret said, pointing to a trunk, "I'm not sure whose stuff this really was, as this house has had a lot of owners in the past 150 years. I have to make a phone call to let the home know I'm going to be a bit late. Just come on down when you're done, okay?"
"Thanks, I won't be long," Buffy said, kneeling down.
Buffy set the torch down, it's light pointing up, and with both hands, she pulled the lid up. The first thing she came to was an old quilt. Underneath it were clothes, both men's and women's. She handled them carefully, taking in the intricate designs of the dresses, as well as the tiny, tiny waists. Even as small as she was, she was pretty sure that she would be terribly uncomfortable having to be drawn and quartered into a corset in order to wear them. Next she looked at the men's clothing, wondering if it was the father's or William's. She ran her fingers down the sleeves of one of the shirts and brought it to her nose, inhaling deeply. She smiled when she got a faint scent of something that seemed to register inside her mind as Spike, though she suspected that it was as much her imagination as anything. Obviously, no smoke, whiskey, or leather smells, just a faint something else.
She lay the clothes on the inside of the opened lid, which was propped up against some boxes, to keep them from getting dirty, and looked further at the rest of the contents of the trunk.
There were various trinkets, a bit of jewelry, a ring, and then at the very bottom she found some old notebooks, on top which was written, Property of William C. Towe, in Spike's familiarly peculiar handwriting. Her hands shook as she lifted them out.
She opened the first book and read the inscription. William ChanceTowe, 9 August 1875.
She started reading:
I've been out of school now almost a full year, and still have not found any work related to that which I studied for. It's all very discouraging, yet I soldier on.
It is the same on the social front. Almost all of my mates from school have now married or are engaged and it seems only I and one other, Percy haven't as of yet. Though as for Percy, I'm not sure he even like women, so then it's just me.
I have however recently seen a sister of a friend of mine who has taken my breath away, oh that she would notice me, the lovely Cecily Adams.
Buffy wondered if that was the same woman, who 6 years later told William that he was beneath her, causing him to run out to a fate which he didn't know awaited him in the shadows.
She wanted to read more of his journals, but she knew that Margaret was waiting for her to leave so that she could go visit her husband. Quickly her mind went over her options. Slip the journals into her purse, ask to borrow them, or ask to come again. She opted for the latter. Sighing, she replaced the journals and then the clothes on top. She was just about to close the lid, when she saw there was a compartment between the lid and its shiny lining, much like the top of a suitcase. She pulled the lining a little, and the metal rivets creaked and flexed. She reached in and there were about two dozen photographs and letters. She quickly put aside the letters, which from what she could tell, were between Henry and Anne and looked at the photos. There was one of a chubby faced baby. She smiled, when upon closer examination, she saw the telltale distinctive little round chin of his, the broad forehead and straight nose. She turned the card over and it said, 1853, making him about 1 year old at the time. His round, almost cherubic face was graced with the fullest set of brown curls she'd ever seen. She giggled, looking at the dressing gown he was in. He almost looked like a little girl. God, Spike would have been so embarrassed and she, Buffy Summers, would have so enjoyed it. Suddenly she stopped giggling and she found that her eyes had filled with tears.
"Damnit! I wish you were here to be embarrassed you stupid vampire!"
There were some other pictures of him as a boy, lots of his parents; his mother's features most like his, from what she could tell of the old daguerreotypes.
Then right before she put them back, she finally saw one of William as a young man. Her heart sped up, as this was undeniably the face of Spike, albeit, with a more gentle look than Spike usually wore, and with period style clothes and hair. But still...it was his face, his eyes, his cheeks, his lips...
Buffy's breath hitched in her chest as she fought for control.
This picture, his baby picture, and one of him and his parents, she slipped into her purse.
She finished putting everything else away and made her way downstairs, after once more looking into William's old bedroom. She thanked Margaret, said she'd let her know about renting the room, and asked permission to come and look in the attic again.
"Sure, why not. Just call first, alright?"
"Thank you, I will."
END CHAPTER 4
LONDON, ENGLAND
DECEMBER 20, 2003
2:00PM
William Chance Towe, Buffy repeated to herself. William, meaning protector. Chance, meaning, inveterate gambler, someone who has survived by good luck, and Towe, meaning, vigorous, steadfast, stubborn. Suited him, she thought.
It had been surprisingly easy to find out Spike's name, once she'd found the Watcher's Diaries and did a little cross referencing.
William Chance Towe. Born August 15, 1852 to Anne Blakinship Chance and Henry William Towe. Educated at Oxford, graduated, 1874. Studied Classical Literature and Languages. Disappeared and presumed dead 1880. Never married. No children.
The story picks up, of course, when Spike, travelling with Angelus, Drusilla, and Darla makes his not-so-subtle presence known across Europe in the late 1800's and into the early 1900's, after which, they go on to America.
Buffy took down an address and closed the books, returning them to their places on Giles' shelves.
The next day, Buffy transferred to her second bus, getting off at Bartholomew Street, near the Health Center and walked for the next couple of blocks until she came to the street whose name she'd copied down.
From Giles' house, she could have almost walked, being that it was only a couple of miles, but it also intersected some major thoroughfares, so she'd opted for public transportation. Buffy now stood in front of the house at 22 Patshull Road. It was a medium to largish sized red brick house, on a street of similarly sized homes. It had at least 2 stories, maybe a third. Buffy wasn't sure it was a third story or the attic, or both. There was a garden in the front, along with some shade trees, enclosed by a short 3' redwood stained fence and gate.
There seemed to be a small stone crest of arms set into the brick above the window, though she couldn't see it's design from across the street, but she'd seen similar since coming to London. The heavy wooden door was painted a pale shade of green, contrasting with the brick, and there was some Victorian-looking scrollwork along the sides of it, matching those of the porch's wooden rails.
Buffy squinted at something in the yard; it appeared to be some sort of sign. She crossed the street to get a better glance at it.
It read:
Room for rent, please inquire inside. It also gave a phone number.
Buffy continued to stare at the house for a while longer. She was just about to walk off, when the door opened and a woman appeared in it, startling Buffy.
"Miss? Are you interested in seeing the room we have?" she asked. "If you are hurry and come on in, I have to leave in a few minutes.
Buffy swallowed, "Um...yes, I am...thanks," she said, as she opened the gate and walked up the sidewalk.
"Name's McTavish, Margaret."
"Um...Winters, Anne," Buffy said.
"So, you're American then, eh? Are you over here to work or go to school?"
"Work mostly, though my sister is also in school."
"Well, this room is only for one person..."
"Oh, that's alright, she's staying with relatives. I just thought maybe I'd like to get out on my own."
"This seems to be quite an old house," Buffy commented, looking around appreciatively at the beautifully done interior, the wine red carpet and cream and wine chairs and settee, "I mean that in a good way," she added quickly.
"That it is," Margaret McTavish agreed, as she walked her through the drawing room, dining area, and out to the kitchen.
"I'm sort of a history buff," she said, winging it as she went on, "I'm doing my thesis on the Victorian Era."
"I thought you said you worked?" she asked worried. Last thing she needed was a poor student who couldn't pay.
"Yes, well...I work, but I'm also working on my thesis, but I've got over a year to finish it, as the professor is doing a sabbatical abroad at the moment. So, yep, mostly working right now," she lied, grateful that she'd picked up all the lingo of academia from Willow and Giles.
Margaret sighed in relief.
"You wouldn't happen to know the history of this place, would you? Or of any of the previous occupants?"
Margaret looked at her and brightened, "As a matter of fact, what you're seeing here is about what this house looked like originally. A couple of years ago we had the interior all stripped down to its Victorian Era splendor. You wouldn't believe the layers of paint and wallpaper that lay...well, nevermind that. Let's just say it cost a pretty penny and an ungodly amount of time."
"I can imagine," Buffy said, and she could.
"Problem is my husband has taken ill for the past couple of years and hasn't been able to work, that's why I'm advertising for boarders. In fact, that's where I'm heading when you're done looking; over to the convalescent home to visit him."
Buffy looked at Margaret McTavish. She couldn't have been much more than 40 years old, much too young to have a husband in a convalescent home.
"I'm sorry," she said, "how long has he been there?"
"A couple of months," Margaret said, "they might let me bring him home for Christmas though. Even if it's only for a couple of days, I think it will help cheer him up," she added.
Margaret went back to her role as tour guide, and Buffy dropped the subject.
"Do you happen to know the history of this place? Of the former occupants, by any chance?"
"Well, it just so happens, that my husband's mother was related to the very early owners, so when this place came up for sale, my husband and I grabbed it up. Their name was Towe. Anne and Henry, had a son named William. Not much known about them and what is known is pretty sad. Father died while William was a boy, he went missing when he was about 28, and his mother died right afterwards. At least, that's what is presumed, as neither the son, nor the mother's bodies were ever found. Still, there's a grave marker next to the father's for them in the cemetery.
Buffy's heart was pounding. She was actually taking to a relative of Spike's.
"What cemetery?"
"Ack! I forget the name, but I'll think of it in a few minutes. Would you like to see that room now?"
"Oh, yeah. Sure," Buffy said, following Margaret up a narrow staircase to the second floor.
"This is the room," Margaret said, opening the door to a small room, probably no larger than 10 x 10 feet. It had one small wardrobe in it, a narrow twin bed, although slightly wider and longer than the usual twins she'd known, yet smaller than a double, there was also a small bureau and dresser, and one Victorian looking chair off in the corner.
"So, what do you think Miss Winters? It's not much, but it's comfortable. The loo is down the hall. There's a shower and bath in there, also. Long as you don't need it from 6:30am -7:00am, then we'll get on fine together."
"Um, I'll have to let you know, Margaret. It's very nice, but I had a couple of more rooms to look at today."
"I understand. Just let me know, alright."
"I will. By the way, this room...do you know whose room this was?"
"Yes, this was the son, William's room."
"Are you sure?"
"Well, if the little drawing in the family bible doesn't lie, then I do believe that would be correct. Plus, the larger one down the hall, would probably have been the parents, and the other one, by the way it was designed, was probably for servants, presuming they had them, which I am."
"This bed, is it...?"
"Good eye, Miss Winters. Yes, it is original, though not the bedding, of course, it's been redone."
Buffy sat on the edge of it, sinking into the feather like softness, and ran her hand over the wooden headboard; imagining Spike laying here as a boy, dreaming of things, reciting schoolwork passages to himself...
"Um, Miss Winters? Would you like to see the attic? I haven't been up there in ages, but I do believe that there are a few things up there that belonged to the original owners."
Buffy nodded, trying not to seem too enthusiastic.
Margaret grabbed a couple of torches and they went up the stairs. The attic was large, covered in the usual spider webs and dust that attics invariably were covered in. Margaret walked ahead to the far right corner of the attic.
"This is where some of the older stuff is," Margaret said, pointing to a trunk, "I'm not sure whose stuff this really was, as this house has had a lot of owners in the past 150 years. I have to make a phone call to let the home know I'm going to be a bit late. Just come on down when you're done, okay?"
"Thanks, I won't be long," Buffy said, kneeling down.
Buffy set the torch down, it's light pointing up, and with both hands, she pulled the lid up. The first thing she came to was an old quilt. Underneath it were clothes, both men's and women's. She handled them carefully, taking in the intricate designs of the dresses, as well as the tiny, tiny waists. Even as small as she was, she was pretty sure that she would be terribly uncomfortable having to be drawn and quartered into a corset in order to wear them. Next she looked at the men's clothing, wondering if it was the father's or William's. She ran her fingers down the sleeves of one of the shirts and brought it to her nose, inhaling deeply. She smiled when she got a faint scent of something that seemed to register inside her mind as Spike, though she suspected that it was as much her imagination as anything. Obviously, no smoke, whiskey, or leather smells, just a faint something else.
She lay the clothes on the inside of the opened lid, which was propped up against some boxes, to keep them from getting dirty, and looked further at the rest of the contents of the trunk.
There were various trinkets, a bit of jewelry, a ring, and then at the very bottom she found some old notebooks, on top which was written, Property of William C. Towe, in Spike's familiarly peculiar handwriting. Her hands shook as she lifted them out.
She opened the first book and read the inscription. William ChanceTowe, 9 August 1875.
She started reading:
I've been out of school now almost a full year, and still have not found any work related to that which I studied for. It's all very discouraging, yet I soldier on.
It is the same on the social front. Almost all of my mates from school have now married or are engaged and it seems only I and one other, Percy haven't as of yet. Though as for Percy, I'm not sure he even like women, so then it's just me.
I have however recently seen a sister of a friend of mine who has taken my breath away, oh that she would notice me, the lovely Cecily Adams.
Buffy wondered if that was the same woman, who 6 years later told William that he was beneath her, causing him to run out to a fate which he didn't know awaited him in the shadows.
She wanted to read more of his journals, but she knew that Margaret was waiting for her to leave so that she could go visit her husband. Quickly her mind went over her options. Slip the journals into her purse, ask to borrow them, or ask to come again. She opted for the latter. Sighing, she replaced the journals and then the clothes on top. She was just about to close the lid, when she saw there was a compartment between the lid and its shiny lining, much like the top of a suitcase. She pulled the lining a little, and the metal rivets creaked and flexed. She reached in and there were about two dozen photographs and letters. She quickly put aside the letters, which from what she could tell, were between Henry and Anne and looked at the photos. There was one of a chubby faced baby. She smiled, when upon closer examination, she saw the telltale distinctive little round chin of his, the broad forehead and straight nose. She turned the card over and it said, 1853, making him about 1 year old at the time. His round, almost cherubic face was graced with the fullest set of brown curls she'd ever seen. She giggled, looking at the dressing gown he was in. He almost looked like a little girl. God, Spike would have been so embarrassed and she, Buffy Summers, would have so enjoyed it. Suddenly she stopped giggling and she found that her eyes had filled with tears.
"Damnit! I wish you were here to be embarrassed you stupid vampire!"
There were some other pictures of him as a boy, lots of his parents; his mother's features most like his, from what she could tell of the old daguerreotypes.
Then right before she put them back, she finally saw one of William as a young man. Her heart sped up, as this was undeniably the face of Spike, albeit, with a more gentle look than Spike usually wore, and with period style clothes and hair. But still...it was his face, his eyes, his cheeks, his lips...
Buffy's breath hitched in her chest as she fought for control.
This picture, his baby picture, and one of him and his parents, she slipped into her purse.
She finished putting everything else away and made her way downstairs, after once more looking into William's old bedroom. She thanked Margaret, said she'd let her know about renting the room, and asked permission to come and look in the attic again.
"Sure, why not. Just call first, alright?"
"Thank you, I will."
END CHAPTER 4
