Chapter Eight

Buffy didn't want to like him. William. Aside from the fact that he would eventually become a creature she loathed—and there was absolutely nothing she could to do prevent that— he was also very odd. He made her uneasy with his silences, with the way his eyes sometimes followed her as she crossed a room. The way they fixed upon her mouth with a slightly dazed expression as she ate her dinner. He was attracted to her; she could see it in his face, could almost feel it like heat coming off his skin. And the realization of it troubled her. She didn't want to put herself in a position that might compromise her return to the future; she didn't want to alter her future so that she returned to a place different from the one she had left. And she knew that the more time she spent with him—the longer she was stuck in this era—then the harder it was going to be to prevent things from changing. She tried to avoid him, but, even as large as the house was, that was impossible. It was her job to stay with Anne, to see to her needs; and since his arrival home, William had spent most of his free time with his mother. Of course, that meant he spent most of his free time with Buffy as well.

By now, she knew that he was, for the most part, just what Anne had claimed: a gentleman who cared for his family, was good to his servants, and worked steadily at the business left to him by his father. He was so shy that he could hardly speak to her without blushing, and she knew he would not try to take advantage of her the way so many men did with their hired help. The other servants spoke highly of him, because he treated them kindly. But she knew that his attraction for her couldn't end well for either of them. Who knew what Spike might remember once he was vamped? And if she changed even that one thing about his future, she might change it all.

But he was handsome.

She tried not to notice it in the days that followed, but good God, how could she not? Every time she turned around, there he was. And it wasn't even that he looked like Spike. Although their appearances were naturally very similar, there were dozens of subtle differences as well. The contours of William's face seemed softer, although this might have been due, in part, to his expression. Most of the time, Spike looked self-assured and—even when not in his game face—almost predatory. But there was a vulnerability to William that she had never noticed in Spike, an innocence that made him appear very young at times. Boyish and utterly defenseless in the face of disapproval. Other times, he seemed old and weary, as if the weight of his responsibilities was dragging him down. He rarely smiled, but when he did, it was slow and sweet. Charming. Very hard to resist.

She had to resist.

Anyway, who was to say that he actually liked her? He never talked to her, although it often seemed that he was listening intently when she spoke to Anne. That expression might look like longing, but it was probably just lust. After all, the place wasn't exactly hopping with single women, and she was convenient to look at. She was pretty. Of course, he would find himself attracted to her. And despite the uncomfortable feelings she had to the contrary, Buffy tried to convince herself that physical attraction couldn't mean a lot in the great scheme of things. Not for either of them.



Don't look at her.

Sitting in the parlor after dinner that night, he tried not to. But as usual, his eyes stubbornly refused to obey his brain. Slowly, they drifted over to where she sat before the parlor window, staring out the glass with an unhappy expression. Despite his best efforts—and his mother's—Miss Summers often seemed discontented. He had thought that a nice home and pretty clothes…a bit of pocket money…would make her happy. He wanted her to be happy; he wanted to please her. Because, although he had tried to tell himself otherwise, he knew she was not a mere servant. The peculiar set of circumstances that had brought her here proved it. There was something about her, something special. Something that brought him to his knees the moment he had first laid eyes on her. And he wanted, so badly, to have—

Her.

He toyed with the book in his hands, nervously flipping pages until he finally gave himself a paper cut. Were his affections that fickle…that meaningless? He had convinced himself of his love for Cecily, had carried his torch and laid flowers at her altar for months now. How could all of that affection shift so quickly? How could it disappear the moment his eyes rested upon the little American with odd manners and even odder ways of speech? Yet the more he tried to deny his feelings, the stronger they became.

She was so full of life. He wondered if it was a trait of all Americans or if it was merely another sign of her individuality. The ladies of London were soft-spoken and, for the most part, sedate. Oh, they would giggle and tease, sometimes flirt with the gentlemen with whom they were best acquainted. But rarely did they show the boundless energy that Miss Summers possessed. She liked to be outside, although, of course, she was not allowed to venture very far by herself. Once, he had seen her in the back garden alone, running and leaping, holding a trowel and using it to make strange jabbing motions at one of the statuaries. It seemed like play, and he had stood at the window and watched in fascination until she was finished. Another time, he had been walking from the carriage block when he found her standing on the brick path before the house. The day was very cold, and the bricks were glazed and frozen. She was sliding along them like an ice dancer without skates, beautiful and graceful in the fading twilight. In neither of these instances did she appear particularly happy; she never appeared wholly content. But there was so much life in them…and in her. It was a delight just to observe her. He only wished that he could bring light back into that life…that he could make up for whatever wrongs life had done her.

What was she thinking, as she stared out upon the frozen landscape that afternoon? Was it the memory of her deceased loved ones? Was it grief that so often clouded those unfathomable green eyes? He shouldn't wonder. That first morning home, when she had followed him into the library to talk, she had looked so miserable when she spoke of her mother's passing. She hadn't mentioned her father. He must have been longer gone, her sorrow for him assuaged by time. Both of them dead…and she had been left with no one.

His heart cramped a little at that, because it was a feeling he knew only too well. To be alone. He had his mother, of course. But no one else. Not a sibling or a cousin, not a father or a friend. His mother's passing would leave him in utter solitude, and he dreaded that almost as much as her death itself. To have no one to talk to…no one to care. It was almost too dreadful to contemplate.

He'd long dreamed of having a wife. A wife and a little child. Both of them would be small and soft and deliciously his. They would love him and need him. He would take care of them. He wanted someone to take care of, to protect. He'd spent the greater part of his life doing that for his mother, and it had made him a nurturer both by inclination and by necessity. Perhaps that, as much as anything, had drawn him to Miss Summers. She was so young, so diminutive, so lost. And he wanted to cradle her, to shelter her from the harshness of the world, and to remove the terrible look of sadness and desperation that sometimes darkened her features.

Of course, he knew that she could never return his admiration. Women were never interested in him, although he did not know why. He had always done his best…always dressed well and used good manners. He tried to make himself attractive to them. Yet, it seemed that whenever he gathered the courage to speak with one, she always deterred him with poorly concealed scorn. With pretty eyes that never focused on him, but instead seemed to be searching for an escape, a way to leave his company. It hurt to think that he should try so hard and never succeed, and he could not understand it. Finally, he decided he must be very plain. That he was so undesirable that, aside from his wealth, there was nothing to recommend him. And he knew without being told that Miss Summers would not be interested in his wealth. She wouldn't be interested in him at all. He thought that if he had one ounce of sense, then he would push the very notion of it from his mind.

But he couldn't.

Even with the depressing certainty that she disliked him, he could not stop fantasizing about her; and as he sat in the room with her now, he could not bring himself to look away. Her head was turned a little to the side; she didn't see him. And for once, he was able to look at her to his heart's content, his lonely gaze following the slender line of her neck, the curve of her jaw…her beautiful long hair. She always kept her hair pinned up, as a lady should, and he couldn't help but wonder what it would look like if it were loose and flowing. He wanted to stroke it, to feel the silky strands slip through his fingers. The sudden desire made him blush, and he turned back to his book with a guilty determination not to look at her again.

It was no good. A moment later, his raised his eyes once more. He could feel his mother looking at him, no doubt wondering why he was so slow to make conversation; but he couldn't drag his gaze away from Miss Summers.

He didn't want to.



Technically, Buffy wasn't supposed to leave the house without a chaperone. Although, of course, married women would travel with their husbands, unmarried Victorian ladies were always supposed to be in the company of an older female relative, often a mother or an aunt. Since Buffy had neither, she usually took Mrs. Fitzpatrick with her when she ventured out into the city. It wasn't a perfect arrangement, in the eyes of society, but it was the best they could do. And since one of Buffy's duties included running errands for Anne, it was unavoidable. She didn't mind Mrs. Fitzpatrick's company. Though stern, the housekeeper was very kind. Almost motherly. And her knowledge of the city made the tasks go much more smoothly. Still, Buffy was hoping for a day when she could explore London on her own.

A couple of weeks after William's return, Mrs. Fitzpatrick contacted the grippe. Half of London had it that winter, and it seemed almost unavoidable. At first, Buffy couldn't understand why everyone seemed so worried. It was just the flu. But everyone took such painstaking precautions to prevent it from spreading. The housekeeper was confined to her room downstairs and one of the lower maids assigned to care for her. The maid was ordered never to come upstairs, nor to wash Mrs. Fitzpatrick's clothes and bedding with the other servants'. No one else was allowed into the sick room, and when the doctor left it, he had to leave quickly by the servants' door.

It was in listening to the doctor's instructions one evening, that Buffy finally found out why everyone was so anxious. The flu was fatal here.

As concerned as she was for the housekeeper's health—and of course, for Anne's, because if she contracted the disease she was as good as dead—Buffy couldn't help feeling relieved when she left the house, alone, a few days later. She supposed to have Livvy accompany her; Anne ordered it. But Buffy never even mentioned it to the young maid. This was her chance, and she was going to take it.

She went on foot, because she knew that the coachman wouldn't drive her without a chaperone. But that was okay. Weeks of relative inactivity had made her ready for some real exercise, and her legs ate up miles of London streets swiftly as she walked to the apothecary to buy Anne's medicine. It wasn't their usual apothecary, the one just two streets away from the house. This one was some distance to the north of them, desirable for its close proximity to an occult shop Buffy had taken note of while on an errand some weeks before. Then, she had been with Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and they were on their way to a dry-goods shop; Buffy could do little more than glance at the sign as they passed it. But now that she was alone, she determined to venture inside to see if she could find some way of getting herself home.

The occult shop was nothing more than a tiny rented space in a rundown building that housed many businesses of the same sort. By Victorian standards, all of them were disreputable. There was a fortune-teller to the left of the shop and to the right of it, what was rumored to be a small brothel. For a moment, she hesitated at the door, not at all certain that she wanted to enter the crumbling building and spill her secrets to some grimy stranger. But what were her other options?

However, in the end it was no good. Just a big, frustrating waste of time. The owner of the shop was a very old woman who smelled of cabbage and tobacco smoke. Most of her business was in trade, and most of her goods consisted of potions that promised wealth, or love, or long life. Had her clientele but known it, these concoctions consisted of nothing more than hearth ashes and grain alcohol, with a few harmless herbs added to give them flavor. When Buffy asked her about time travel, the shopkeeper first looked at her as if she were joking, and when it became apparent that she wasn't, finally suggested the name of a fine sanatorium that specialized in delusions of the mind.

Needless to say, the whole experience did nothing to raise Buffy's hopes. She walked back to the Hartleys that evening with a heavy heart, and when she arrived, she told them that the tearstains on her face were from the rain.

And although she did not know it, William spent most of that night pacing the library floor.