"Were you born this big a pain in the ass?"
"What can I tell you baby? I've always been bad."
Bollocks, Spike thought, recalling the fateful night his un-life began, where can I start without sounding like a complete prat?
London, 1880
The bookish young man sat, writing on a loose piece of paper on top of a notebook on his lap, while quiet violin music played over the soft conversation in the background. His dark blonde hair flopped over his forehead as he bent and peered through his wire-rimmed glasses at the page. "Luminous," he said quietly to himself, his voice cultured and gentle. "Oh, no, no, no." He scratched out his last word with his fountain pen, looking up to stare across the room in search of a better one. "Ir- irradiant... that's better." He remained dubious and paused to think, sucking the end of his pen.
A waiter approached him, holding out a tray. "Care for an hors d'oeuvre, sir?"
Smiling softly, the young man looked up. "Oh, quickly! I'm the very spirit of vexation. What's another word for 'gleaming'?"
The waiter tilted his head back, his reddish mustache and muttonchops catching the light as he gazed in puzzlement at the seated gentleman. The young man continued, "It's a perfectly perfect word as many words go but the bother is nothing rhymes, you see." The waiter frowned briefly in seeming agreement, then smiled and nodded politely without speaking, turning to walk away and offer his tray to other guests.
The young man's face took on a look of wonder as his attention was caught by an elegant lady gliding down the staircase across the crowded room from him. Her pale cream evening dress sat low on her shoulders, trimmed with pleated, lilac ribbons and flowered accents. The swathed fabric hugged her curves, gathering to a small, fashionable bustle in back. He was entranced by this vision, unable to look away as she began to talk happily with a group of her acquaintances. "Cecily," he sighed. Inspired, he looked back down at his paper and wrote hurriedly, glancing back up at his muse as he wrote. He looked up and smiled in satisfaction, rising from the chair and walking over to the conversing group.
He paused behind a couple standing close together, listening as the woman declared, "I merely point out that it's something of a mystery and the police should keep an open mind."
A cravat-wearing gentleman standing opposite her acknowledged the young man, who came out from behind the couple and made his way to a gap in the standing circle of guests. "Ah, William!" the gentleman said, "Favor us with your opinion. What do you make of this rash of disappearances sweeping through our town? Animals or thieves?"
"I prefer not to think of such dark, ugly business at all. That's what the police are for." William nodded, primly. Glancing across the circle at Cecily, he became flustered for a moment, before continuing, "I prefer placing my energies into creating things of beauty." William gestured with his notebook as he spoke.
The gentleman stepped forward, snatching the paper from on top of it and walking on past. "I see. Well, don't withhold, William."
William looked down, his expression closing, as the man with his poem stepped up onto the bottom step and turned, preparing to read aloud to the group.
"Rescue us from a dreary topic," said the woman who had spoken earlier.
"Careful," said William, reaching out in hope of reclaiming his paper. The man jerked it further away, out of William's reach.
Making a final plea, William stuttered, softly, "The inks are still wet. Please, it's not finished."
"Don't be shy," the gentleman drawled, his face a mocking smirk. He began to read from the page, "My heart expands, 'tis grown a bulge in 't."
William glanced at Cecily, a faint, hopeful smile crossing his face as he watched her drop her eyes and sigh. The man continued reading, "Inspired by your beauty, effulgent." Looking at William in amused disbelief, the man repeated, "Effulgent?"
The group laughed mockingly, but William only had eyes for Cecily. She glanced at the others, then hurriedly left the room. Slowly coming back to himself, William frowned at the man who'd read his poem and snatched the page back from him, walking away from the cruel group to follow Cecily's path.
The woman's companion looked down at her in amusement, "And that's actually one of his better compositions."
She laughed, "Have you heard? They call him William the Bloody because of his bloody awful poetry!"
The first gentleman replied, "It suits him. I'd rather have a railroad spike through my head than listen to that awful stuff!"
Cecily perched sideways on a curved brocade settee, looking over her shoulder through a lace curtain and out into the night. Shyly, William spoke to her, "Cecily?"
She glanced at him, fanning herself before quickly looking back out the window. "Oh. Leave me alone."
William moved to sit next to her, his knees nearly touching hers. Mistaking the cause of her mood, he addressed the reaction of the other guests, "Oh, they're vulgarians. They're not like you and I."
Cecily lowered her fan and looked directly at William. She was bathed in the warm glow of the pink, flower-painted lamp globe behind her, making her even more beautiful to William's adoring eyes. Cecily repeated his last words, "You and I?" She paused, glancing down at her lap before she spoke again. "I'm going to ask you a very personal question and I demand an honest answer. Do you understand?"
William nodded eagerly, looking over the top of his glasses at her with devotion. His breath quickened, waiting for her to continue.
"Your poetry," Cecily began, hesitating as she asked the difficult question, "it's... they're... not written about me, are they?"
William looked at her, answering earnestly, "They're about how I feel."
Cecily frowned and nodded. "Yes, but are they about me?"
William paused, gathering fortitude. Finally he inhaled sharply and clenched his jaw before declaring, "Every syllable."
"Oh, God!" Cecily looked quickly away, clapping her hand to her brow before looking back at William. Pity lined her features.
William misread her show of emotion and carried on, "Oh, I know... it's sudden and... please, if they're no good, they're only words but... the feeling behind them... I love you, Cecily.
Cecily begged him, "Please stop!" She turned away, unable to look at his adoring face any longer.
Unable to stop his declaration now that he'd started, William pleaded, "I know I'm a bad poet but I'm a good man and all I ask is that... that you try to see me—"
Cecily turned to look at him over her shoulder, interrupting him, "I do see you. That's the problem." She paused with a sad frown before explaining, "You're nothing to me, William." She stood, looking down at him, before mixing soft eyes with hard words. "You're beneath me," she stated, looking at him a moment longer before turning and walking away.
William sat, alone. All hope left his face, and his brows drew together in pain, his eyes glinting. His lips parted several times and began to quiver as he took in his beloved's response to his offered heart. His hands clutched at the poems held in his lap as he sat, working them as he sniffed back the beginning of tears.
To be continued...