Part 3

When I open my eyes, I find that the artificial light of the hotel room has been replaced by a purer light from a large window. I glance around the room, surprised by the size and style of the furniture, and then become aware of the extreme softness of the bed. I start to sit up, and I'm immediately confronted by the face of a young girl, pale in her dark uniform, looking like a maid in a film about the past. She speaks so quickly, and in an accent so strong it initially takes me several moments to make sense of it.

"Oh, Miss, you're awake. The Master will be so relieved. He was worried that you were hurt, but the doctor said you weren't, but you didn't wake up. I'll just go and tell him. Is … is there anything I can get you?"

"Er, no." I manage at last. I take a look around the room, and glance under the covers at my clothes. I seem to be wearing an outlandishly complicated white cotton gown. "Where am I?" I ask.

"You're in the home of Mr. William Spencer. He found you by the side of the road last night, and brought you back here."

William Spencer. Spike. Can it really have worked?

"Can you tell me where my clothes are?"

"Oh, Miss. The, er, garments you were wearing were hardly suitable. The Master thought someone must have stolen your outer garments. And they were so muddy, well, the Mistress said to burn them. She said you can send for some of your own clothes as soon as you were able to."

"The Mistress?"

"Mrs. Spencer, Miss. Mr. Spencer's mother."

"Oh," I answer, desperately trying to work out what's happening.

The maid doesn't seem to notice my confusion, or if she does, doesn't react at all, but leaves the room quickly. I manage to pull myself up, stretching carefully and checking for any sign of injury. I find none, and sit back to try to work out what's going on.

As the memories of the hotel room return, realisation dawns. I'm asleep, and I'm dreaming. Suddenly thinking about the old adage of pinching yourself to make sure you're not dreaming, I pinch my arm. And immediately wince in pain. I look around the room again, and at the same time, take in the texture of the bed where I'm lying, the comparative coarseness of the sheets, the old-fashioned jug and bowl on a table opposite. I don't think I know enough about any historical period to put in this amount of detail.

But more than that, it's not like watching a film. I'm here – I'd swear to it. And the maid – if that's who she is – spoke to me, acknowledged my presence. Whatever happened, I get the impression it wasn't what Meena promised.

I'm interrupted from my thoughts by a knock at the door, and a woman enters. She smiles kindly at me, and approaches the bed. Her dress is more ornate than the girl's, but it looks as if it's seen better days.

"Oh, I'm so pleased you're awake. My son has been quite beside himself. Are you in any pain? The doctor said he could find no sign of injury, but there could be something …"

"No, I'm fine," I reply.

"Oh, good. Now, is there somewhere I can send to, someone who will be worried about you? And clothes. You'll need to have your own things. Of course, you're welcome to stay here until you are fully recovered, but you'll be much more comfortable with your own clothes."

I watch her face as she talks, barely listening to the words. It's a face I feel I already know, but different in some ways. Chestnut brown hair hidden under a lace cap, pale, creamy skin and a generous mouth. But it's the eyes and cheekbones that really draw my attention.

She's looking at me oddly, and I realise she's waiting for a response from me.

"Er, no. No one will be wondering, er, at least, I don't remember anything." I hastily change what I was going to say. A case of amnesia seems to be the safest course for now.

"You don't? Oh, I'm so sorry. You don't remember anything?"

"Well, my name is Buffy, but that's all."

"Buffy? No, surely not. Well, it could be a nickname, I suppose, but that hardly helps us to find your family. Don't worry, though. I'll get Ellen to bring you some things. Fortunately you're quite small, and my nightgown fitted you quite well, so some of my other things should suit for now. Do you feel able to dress? If you can come downstairs, my son would so much like to see for himself that you seem at least physically recovered. He has been so worried - he even thought to cancel his engagement for this evening."

"I'd be happy to get dressed," I reply, trying to grapple with the notion that her son couldn't see me dressed as I am. Despite the fact that it's obviously a night dress, it covers a good deal more of me than I'm used to.

As promised, Ellen comes in a while later, armed with a dress and assorted undergarments. I had already washed at the bowl, and she seems surprised that I did that much without help, and won't hear of me dressing myself.

By the time I'm dressed, I'm certain this isn't a dream. There's no way I'd make up the sheer discomfort of wearing the underwear I'm in. Not that it's tight or anything, in fact, given the lace-up style of much of it; it's pretty much a 'one size fits all' deal. It's just the sheer bulk. Even walking seems to require an effort compared to normal. Since my feet are apparently the one part of me that's bigger than my hostess', they are currently in some soft woollen socks, and Mrs. Spencer has apparently promised to obtain some shoes for me later today.

I make my way downstairs, taking in the surroundings as I go. It all seems grand but rather shabby. Sort of as if it had cost a great deal of money to put together, but then been neglected for many years.

Ellen escorts me into a living room that seems in keeping with the rest of the house. The furniture seems solid, but rather threadbare, as are the carpets on the floor. Mrs. Spencer dismisses Ellen with a request for tea, and takes my hands to lead me further into the room. She takes me towards the fireplace, seating me there before turning to the other person in the room and speaking.

"You see, William, I told you she was fine. Now, perhaps, you will believe me."

"I didn't disbelieve you, Mother," he replies. His voice is familiar, but much more cultured than I'm used to hearing. "I just wanted to see for myself."

He gets up from his seat and approaches me. His mother introduces us, and we shake hands.

"As you can see, Mr., er… Spencer," I reply, looking full at his face, "I'm fine."

"You're not from London, though," Mrs. Spencer comments. "In fact, I really can't place your mode of speech at all."

And that despite trying to speak more slowly and carefully. But that's not something I want to discuss just now, so I change the subject.

"What exactly happened? You found me? Was I alone?" I'm looking at William as I say it, studying his face, trying to see Spike amid the various distractions.

"I was returning home from an engagement," he says. "It was quite late, and raining heavily. My driver spotted someone by the side of the road and drew my attention to you. I got out of the carriage, saw you lying there, undressed, muddy. You were quite alone. I felt sure that you had been attacked in some way, so I got the driver to help me get you into the carriage. I brought you home, and my mother and Ellen got you cleaned up and put you to bed. Our physician was called, but he decreed that you were well. He had the audacity to suggest that you were merely drunk, and would waken in time, but I could smell no alcohol when I found you, and I most certainly would have."

It could have been my imagination, but I could have sworn that comment earned William a disapproving glance from his mother. However, no sooner had I seen it than it was over, and our conversation is interrupted by Mrs. Spencer beginning to cough. The cough seems weak, and William rushes to her side, pausing only long enough to ask me to pour some water from a jug on the table. I bring the glass to her, then resume my seat as William holds the glass for his mother to drink. There are some whispers between mother and son when she is able to speak again, and then she rises, with help, from her chair.

"I'm so sorry, Buffy. I'm afraid I'm feeling quite unwell. I will retire to my room. I'm sure William will be able to look after you."

William tries to accompany his mother out of the room, but she gestures him back towards me.

"Ellen can help. I'll be fine," she says softly to him.

"Your mother isn't well," I comment when he returns to his seat. His eyes are still on the door as I spoke, but he drags them back to look at me.

"No, she isn't. It's so unfair. At this time of her life, she should be able to relax and indulge herself a little. Yet every time she exerts herself at all, she has to take to her bed. I fear she has little time left."

"I'm sorry, William," I tell him. His eyes are moist, and it's obvious how much the thought has affected him. He makes an effort to sit up straighter, and speaks in a firmer voice.

"No, it is I who should be sorry. You are our guest, and I should not be troubling you with our problems when you have so many of your own."

"Really, it's alright. You and your mother have both been so kind to me."

William seems at a loss as to what to do, so I decide to take over a bit.

"So, what do you do?" I ask.

"Do?" he questions.

"Yes. How do you spend your time?"

"Oh, well, I have taken over a good deal of the running of the household. Of course, that isn't such a big job these days. There's just Mother and me, and Ellen and Albert the driver. He hardly qualifies anyway, as he's mainly employed by a friend of Mother's. It's barely enough help to maintain a veneer of respectability according to one of my acquaintances."

He looks at me in horror, as if he didn't mean to say what he did.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so. I'm just … preoccupied by what he said."

"But that's a horrible thing to say," I tell him.

"It doesn't matter to me, not really. And he was right, of course. Within society, it's only our family name and certain wealthier relatives that maintain our place. Not that I mind, as such. My needs are simple. But I shouldn't be telling you all this. Somehow, I feel I can talk to you. Please tell me I haven't offended you."

"Of course you haven't, W… Mr. Spencer. If it helps to talk, I'd very much like to listen."

He seems relieved at that.

"You see, there is no one I can really talk to. Such friends as I have consider the subject of money to be at the same time vitally important and totally unsuitable for conversation. Whatever money my father had was lost in some rather dubious business deals when I was a small child. He … became depressed by it all, and took to drinking heavily. He died when I was eight. My mother had to look after everything then. She even did without any help in the house for many years, until I came into some money from my grandparents on my twenty-first birthday. How she managed to keep this house … I really don't know. Of course, we had another house when my father was alive - in Hertfordshire. I hear it was a beautiful place but my memories are faint. It had to be sold to meet my father's debts. Still, I cannot really complain. As long as I have time to write, I am content."

"You're a writer?"

"Yes, well, no. I mean, yes, I'm a writer, but just for my own amusement. It's not serious."

"May I read something?"

"I would be too embarrassed, Miss Buffy. Really. I don't allow anyone to read it. Well, sometimes, I read for my mother, and she hears what I write with a mother's ear and loves it."

He pauses then, studying my face.

"And you remember nothing about yourself?" he asks.

"Nothing."

"And you are not terrified? I'm sure I would be."

"No. How could I be afraid when you and your mother have been so kind?"

"We have done nothing, really. And, despite being taken ill this afternoon, I think Mother has really enjoyed having someone else to worry about. I suspect mothers do like to worry, and apart from fretting about how I'll be when she's gone, I really give her very little cause."

It's there again, the sadness in his eyes.

"Why would she worry about you? You seem to be comfortable with your situation."

"I am. Well, I would like to think that I would find a suitable companion in time, but…"

He stops suddenly, and his face colours. I'm tempted to push the subject a little, but I suspect he'd run if I did, so I don't say anything.

"The truth is, that when I imagine one of the young ladies of my acquaintance sitting here with me as you are, I cannot but think that she would be regarding the room critically, seeing it as mean and shabby compared to her own home. In that respect, Miss Buffy, I believe you have already done me a favour which more than wipes out any debt you think you owe Mother and me."

"And how did I do that?" I ask, genuinely baffled.

"Because you, a complete stranger, have given me your attention, listened to what I've been saying, and generally made me feel that my opinion matters. You haven't been offended when I've spoken unwisely, and you haven't made me feel … unworthy. Now that I compare those few conversations I have had with … someone else, that is exactly how she made me feel. Unworthy. Yet she is not half the woman my mother is."

He sighs deeply.

"I think you misjudge your own worth."

"No, Miss Buffy. Perhaps, for the first time I actually understand my place."

Ellen comes in then with tea. She apologises for the delay, but William tells her he understands completely that his mother's need for her comes first. She curtseys and leaves the room.

We both drink our tea in silence. There are scones on a plate, and I take one, but William just drinks his tea. He seems almost to have forgotten my presence, so I take the opportunity to study him. The hair isn't white blonde, but then I was never under any illusion that that was natural. It's light brown, perhaps sandier than his mother's, and it's long and in soft curls around his face. He looks … much more vulnerable than Spike. No, that's not true. He seems more obviously vulnerable than Spike did. His eyes are less noticeable behind those glasses, but they're still the same vibrant blue. The longer hair serves to soften his face - the cheekbones are the same, they just seem gentler somehow. There's even a smattering of small freckles across his nose.

Ellen comes in again, this time approaching William directly. She speaks softly to him, but I still hear enough to know that she thinks the doctor should be called, but that Mrs. Spencer has said that they cannot afford another visit. He stands immediately.

"My mother has taken a turn for the worse," he explains. "I need to send for the physician, and then go to her."

"Of course. If there's anything I can do, please just ask."

"Thank you, Miss Buffy. I will remember that. Please, make yourself at home. Perhaps you'd like to see the library - Ellen will show you where it is."

He leaves the room then, and Ellen looks at me expectantly.

"Would you like to see the library, Miss?" she asks.

"Yes, that would be lovely," I reply.

I follow her from the room, and along a hallway to another door. This one has a feeling of warmth that has nothing to do with the actual temperature. There's a table in one corner, and, although everything is tidily arrayed, it has a sense of being regularly used. Three out of the four walls in the room are fitted with bookshelves, but there are gaps on the shelves. There are two large, comfortable chairs in the centre of the room.

"Can I get you anything, Miss?" Ellen asks. "It's just, I need to see to Mrs. Spencer."

"Oh, Ellen, of course you do. I'll be fine. Really."

She smiles, does a bob of a curtsey, and leaves the room.

I peruse the shelves, eventually picking up a book I know I tried to read before. Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen. I saw it on TV once, and it was pretty good, but I didn't get very far with the book. I pick it up, and sit in one of the chairs determined to do better this time.