The Girl with Flaxen Hair - Chapter Seven
As he succumbs to the illness that robbed him of his family, a lonely man finds solace in a dream...
VII
“Sir, are you quite sure you are all right?”
William cocked his head slightly, blinking and regarding the housekeeper with a puzzled expression. “Why wouldn’t I be?” he asked her.
“Well, it’s only that-I thought-that is, you seem-” His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, and Margaret, knowing him as well she did, flushed darkly and immediately abandoned that line of inquiry. “I was just wondering if you needed anything,” she finished lamely, half a minute too late. He thought for a moment.
“I want a bath,” he told her, “and a clean suit of clothes. A pot of coffee. And-”
“Sir,” she said, slightly questioning. He had stopped sharply in the middle of his sentence.
“Nothing. There is nothing else I want. You may go.”
He waited until the housekeeper had shut the door behind her, and then he climbed from the bed. His limbs felt stiff and sluggish in the cool dampness of the morning, and he paused for a moment and leaned against the wall, breathing heavily and trying not to tremble. His left hand still lay locked into a fist at his side. Presently, he loosened his grip, unfolding his fingers from the small, tangled heap of leather and cheap metal that was her necklace.
“Buffy Summers,” he whispered, staring at it. The name sounded even more absurd now that he knew it belonged to a real person. A real, flesh-and-blood woman who rode her horse astride, who rode abroad alone and late into the night. A woman dressed in clothing which barely covered her and who approached strange men in the moonlight. Worse still, she was a woman who allowed those strange men to touch her in all manner of inappropriate ways.
William scowled at the necklace. Oh, what a fool he had been! His stomach writhed at the mere thought of it. He had been worse than foolish. He had been purely irrational-a madman-to assume she was some sort of specter, a hallucination caused by the opium, when even the blindest of idiots could have seen she was real.
Real but certainly not a lady. Not with behavior like that, not dressed in such scanty attire.
Then she must be a toffer, he decided bitterly. Because what other plausible explanation could there possibly be for her vulgar attire and bizarre behavior?
Still, it seemed odd that she had never tried to occupy him. William mulled over it as he went into the dressing room to have his bath, struggling to recall some hint, some insinuation of sex on her part. If she were a prostitute, surely she would have broached the subject at some point. Of course, his experience with such creatures was obviously very limited, but he had spent a substantial portion of his life in London, and God knew there were whores aplenty in that city; a gentleman could scarcely walk through certain sections of it without some unfortunate female propositioning him, and such women were hardly delicate in their approach. More than once, he had found himself faced with the excruciatingly awkward task of refusing such a proposal. The only wonder was that Buffy Summers had not done the same. Yet he could not recall her uttering a single suggestive remark, not even when the smooth skin of her calf lay warm beneath his palm. And why not? If she wanted his money surely that would have been the most opportune moment to ask for it.
Unless she was looking for a greater sum than a single tup would bring. He had a good deal in the way of money-everyone in the area must know it-and he was not skilled with women. He was ill and he was alone. In a way, he was quite vulnerable. Perhaps she was a swindler instead of a prostitute. Somehow, this notion was even more disturbing than the other, but he could not deny it as a possibility. That knowing look of hers, those shrewd observations about his life. She must have heard gossip about him in the town and thought him an easy mark. Perhaps those nightly visits were to garner his trust so that she could later rob him. Such things might not be as common in Wiltshire as they were in London, but they were not completely unheard of either.
She means to trick you, he told himself as he stepped out of the bath, probing at his wounded ego as if it were a sore tooth and finding an odd sort of comfort in the pain. She means to make you care for her so that you cannot deny her when she asks for money-
And he did care for her; that was the truly terrible thing. He cared for her yet, longed for her yet. The notion of her being a fraud was awful, yet it was still more awful to realize he must never see her again. Somehow, in just two brief visits, she had managed to worm herself into his affections, and now he found he could not easily cast her out.
He dressed and went down the hall to the study. Although he had not asked them for it, the staff had been considerate enough to prepare a breakfast for him. Toast, eggs, fruit, and coffee, all carefully arranged on a card table near the fire. He carried the plates to an open window and tipped the food into the hedge below, but he drank the coffee in grateful swallows. It was scalding hot and so black it was bitter, just the way he liked it; anything heavier in his stomach would have been sure to make him ill.
Liar. Thief. Harlot.
He tried the words in his head, one by one, but none of them seemed to fit her any better than his sense of betrayal fit him. He even found himself inventing reasons for why he must see her again. Only just the one time, he told himself, but he must do it. He must confront her about her disingenuousness; he must show her he was not a man so easily duped by a pretty face. Even more absurdly, it occurred to him that he had to return her necklace, because keeping it would make him a thief. So, he had to meet her just once more. He really had no choice in the matter.
He told himself that, and he believed it.
~*~ ~*~ ~*~
Of course, there was no longer any need for the laudanum. Now that he accepted her reality, he also realized she would appear to him just as well without the help of a hallucinogen. Yet as the shadows lengthened over the baseboards, he felt his heart begin to beat faint and quick, a certain familiar queasiness tightening in the pit of his stomach. He was not comfortable with women. He had never felt at ease in their presence and had become far less so after the incident with Miss Underwood in London. And Buffy Summers…How could he be expected to confront her, to say all the harsh, unkind things he must say to show her he was a man and not a willing victim? If he were to talk to her honestly, he felt he must have the laudanum. His nerves would be the end of him if he did not.
After dinner (barley soup and toast, which was all he could stomach) he returned to the study, and he took the laudanum with him. This time when he uncorked the bottle, he did not even attempt to count the drops as he tipped them onto his tongue. He felt as though he did not care if he killed himself. He thought it might even have been a relief to do so. Life was, after all, such a tiresome thing.
Perhaps it was only his frame of mind, but the opium caused no euphoria this time, no dreaminess, no giddy laughter-nothing, except the sudden sense of being detached, of drifting away, accompanied by a certain sullen sleepiness. It was not particularly pleasant, but he felt no anxiety and that was a mercy. He replaced the cork and pocketed the bottle, and then he began his slow, stumbling journey out to meet her for the last time.
She was a long time in coming. So long, in fact, that he began to wonder if he had come too early, if his timing was poor. He had not thought to consult his pocket watch beforehand; perhaps the shadows had not been as deep as they first appeared. Was this the long summer twilight instead of night? For the life of him, he could not tell the difference.
He watched the sky and walked a restless lap around the garden. He thought he was being careful, but the earth suddenly swelled in a wave beneath him, and it sent him reeling. Falling took a year; once it was over, he found himself lying on his stomach on the ground, blood trickling from a cut on his temple where his head had struck a stone. He felt dazed and sick, and more than a little sorry he had come. A smear of dirt on the lens of his spectacles obscured the vision in his left eye. He stared at the smear intently, and it took on the shape of a rabbit.
He thought of sitting up, but somehow it seemed an impossible feat and he did not attempt it. Instead, he lay with his cheek pillowed against the damp grass, listening to the strange rattling sound that was his own breathing. He watched the rabbit and wondered how long she would be in coming. He waited.
When she arrived, it was with dreamlike abruptness, as if she had just appeared out thin air, mid-jump, on the other side of the garden wall. When it cleared the wall, her horse landed so close to William he could smell the sharp scent of its sweat and see the faint gray stripes on its otherwise pink hooves. In fact, he was in some danger of having his head crushed by those powerful, metal-shod feet, but he did not think to move away.
Buffy Summers was blinking rapidly, as if her eyes had not yet adjusted to the dim light, and it took her several seconds to notice him lying on the ground in front of her. When she did, she gave a sharp gasp.
“William!” she exclaimed, dismounting quickly. “Are you all right?”
William didn’t have a clue how to answer that. He tried not to let her fool him with her soft voice, with the note of concern that couldn’t possibly be real. He kept his eye fixed upon the rabbit and waited.
She knelt beside him, knees in the dirt, and began to gently probe at the knot on his temple, checking its severity. “Did I run you over? God, I ran you over. That damn horse has no brakes at all-”
Her hands were soft and smelled like lavender, and the tenderness of her touch seemed genuine. A drop of water suddenly splashed onto the tarnished spectacle lens-the rabbit hopped away-and William screwed his eyes shut before he answered her.
“No. I think…I think I must have fallen.”
“Well, are you okay? You’re bleeding...” She dabbed at the side of his head with something soft, something she had taken from her pocket, carefully cleaning away the blood. Although he did not open his eyes, William could feel the warmth of her breath against his forehead as she leaned over him; he could smell the mild, sweet scent of her perfume. He wondered what it would feel like to kiss her-he wondered if she would let him-and then he immediately felt ashamed. After all, he was supposed to be sending her away, not negotiating some sordid arrangement.
“I think I died,” he said confusedly and sat up.
“I don’t think you died.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re still breathing, and that’s usually a pretty good indication of being not dead.” She brushed his hair back from his forehead, stroked his cheek with the very tips of her fingers. “William…”
“What?” The word came out strained; he felt as if he could not breathe.
“Open your eyes.”
Though they felt leaden, he forced his eyelids apart, startled to find when he did that her face was just inches from his own. Her green eyes narrowed, scrutinizing his face in a way that was not particularly pleasant.
“Your pupils look all drawn up,” she said, frowning.
“Meaning…?”
“You tell me. It’s dark out; they should be dilated. Maybe you have brain damage.”
“Brain damage?”
“From your fall. You hit your head, after all.” She combed her fingers through his hair, probing his crown and the base of his skull in search of additional injuries, and although he knew it was a pointless undertaking, William didn’t bother trying to stop her. He liked the feeling of her fingernails trailing along his scalp, and he liked the note of concern in her voice; he was intent upon enjoying it for as long as possible.
Something in his expression made her smile, though her voice was solemn when she said, “William, each night you claim you’re not drunk, and I really want to believe you. But it’s becoming increasingly obvious something is going on. Are you on some kind of drug?”
“Are you a prostitute?”
Hardly a polite rejoinder, but her question had caught him off guard. Fortunately, she seemed more amused than offended, and she answered him with a wry, “Why? Are you in need of one?”
“Then you are!” Horrified, he launched himself off the grass, but she grabbed the tail of his coat before he could flee altogether. She dragged him back down with the kind of force one simply did not expect from a woman, and then she said,
“For God’s sake, sit down! I am not a prostitute.”
“Then why did you say you were?”
“I didn’t. You said I was one, and to tell you the truth I’m more than a little offended by it. Why would you think I’m a prostitute?”
“Because you appear out of seemingly nowhere, and you only come at night; your clothes are scarcely adequate, and you’re always-” He hesitated.
“I’m always what?”
“-touching me.”
“I’ve only ever touched you above the waist,” she pointed out, “and I don’t think I’m going too far out on a limb when I say that makes all the difference.”
“Well, I’m not going to give you any money. You might as well accept that and be on your way.” Yet his tone was hardly definite. If she had chosen that moment to leave him, he knew he would have chased after her. He would have showered her with coppers-he would have pitched pound notes into the air-just to entice her to stay.
But she didn’t leave; she did not even attempt it. Instead, she released her grip on his jacket and sat back on her heels, looking for all the world as though he had struck her.
“Okay, now you’re just being a prick,” she said in an injured tone. William felt his face heat beneath that reproachful gaze, and he scrambled to justify what was, after all, very ungentlemanly conduct.
“I’m not a prig! I’m-I’m merely trying to properly define the boundaries-”
“The boundaries of what, exactly?”
“Of what is there.”
She considered this, and for a moment, it actually seemed as though she might follow him down that tangent. Then she thought the better of it and returned to the matter at hand.
“Have I ever once asked you for money, William?”
Of course, she had not. However, William could not help but think this meant very little. It might have been that she was hoping he would offer it; or perhaps she had been waiting for a more opportune time to ask. Either way, she must want money. There was no other explanation for her interest in him.
When he pointed this out, she looked at him almost pityingly, as though he had said something profoundly sad.
“I’m here for you, you goddamn moron,” she told him. “I’m here because I like you.”
This was an alien thought, and it would have struck him dumb even if her profanity had not. When he finally spoke, all he could think to say was, “Why in heaven's name would you like me?”
“I’m beginning to wonder that myself!” But she was smiling now, no longer angry. She leaned over, nudging his shoulder with the edge of her own. “You really are kind of an ass, you know.”
“But you like me?” He wanted to hear her say it again; it had such a pleasant sound. No woman had ever said such a thing to him before.
“I like you. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
“Do you travel a long way to come here?” he asked. She tilted her head back and laughed into the dark.
“You have no idea.”
She did have the look of a faraway place, William thought. Yet he could not imagine she came from such a very long distance, not every night. Not on horseback.
“I was wondering-” he began. But before he could get further than that, Buffy Summers jumped to her feet.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go for a walk.”
A walk to where? William wondered but did not ask. He did favor her horse with an uneasy glance, however. She had tethered the animal to a low hedge, and it was eating some of the flowers within its reach.
“I could call a groom,” he suggested, climbing to his feet. “We could put your horse into the stable.”
“He’ll be fine.” She started away at a brisk pace, stopped a moment later when she realized William was not following her. He was still standing some distance away, meticulously brushing bits of ground debris from the back of his trousers.
“Are you kidding me?”
Startled, he looked up from his task. “Do you mean about stabling the horse?” he asked confusedly. For a second, she only looked at him blankly. Then:
“We aren't headed to a garden party, you know. There’s no need to go all Martha Stewart about a little dead grass on your clothing.”
“I do apologize,” he began sheepishly. “You must think I’m an awful-what on earth are you doing?”
The answer to this question was simple enough to see; she was climbing the garden wall. What he could not fathom was why. She scaled the stones with ease, calling to him from the opposite side, “There’s no point in walking all the way to the gate. It’d take too long, and I’m too lazy. Come on.”
With a small sigh, he moved toward the wall. It was low, of course, and presented no great difficulty as an obstacle. Still, it would have been nice to clear it with a catlike leap as she had done, instead of lumbering across it in the manner of an anesthetized bovine. His own descent was reminiscent of a controlled fall, and it was all he could do to land upright and not in an ungainly heap at her feet.
Then he coughed quite hard and the force of it caused him to stumble, and he collapsed at her feet anyway. Lovely.
“My God. Are you okay?” Her voice was quivering as if she were trying not to laugh.
William looked up at her, and as he struggled to catch his breath, he debated with himself whether he was scandalized by the shortness of her skirt, or gratified by it.
“William-?”
Gratified. Definitely gratified.
“I’m fine,” he told her, standing. “It is only a cough.”
“It sounds awful.”
“It is.” He looked around, but saw nothing noteworthy about the neat rows of apple trees in which they stood. The orchard belonged to him, and while the trees were not bearing fruit this time of year, in every other respect they looked no different now than they always did. “What is it you wanted to show me?”
“You have to promise me you won’t freak out,” she said, taking hold of his hand.
“Freak out?” he echoed. “What does that even mean?” But he followed her willingly when she pulled at his arm, leading him further down the dark row.
“You know…become…worried. Or scared. There’s nothing to worry about, okay? And there’s no reason to be afraid.”
“Afraid!” Outwardly, he scoffed at the idea, but deep down William felt a flutter of uncertainty. Suppose she was a thief, after all? Suppose this was some sort of trap? It was dark and secluded here. No one knew where he had gone...
I really ought to let go of her hand, he thought, just to be prudent.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he followed her as docilely as a pet dog on a leash, stopping only when she motioned for him to do so some two hundred yards on.
“Well,” she said unceremoniously, “there it is.”
“There what is?” he asked in bewilderment. There was nothing around them but more trees and a tangled expanse of weeds and thorns that marked the property line on that side. Buffy nodded to the bit of wasteland.
“That right there,” she told him matter-of-factly. “That’s where I’m from.”
William followed her gaze, squinting slightly as if that would allow him to see something other than what was there. What was there being, of course, nothing at all.
After a long, fruitless moment, he finally turned his eyes back to her. She was looking at him expectantly, a hint of wry humor in her eyes. Yet the subsequent smile was neither mocking nor mad; anyone could see that. So then what…?
He asked her, but the answer was less than satisfactory. Of course she didn’t mean she lived in that neglected field, she said. It was a shortcut from somewhere else, somewhere farther away.
“But it isn’t,” he insisted. “That field connects to David Temple’s property; beyond that there’s the church, the town. Nothing exotic. And it's a roundabout way to go at that, certainly not a shortcut…”
She listened patiently and without one iota of interest. Once his argument wound down, she said only, “I can show you.”
And he answered with a somewhat condescending smile, “By all means do.”
“But you promised not to freak out,” she reminded him, releasing his hand, “and I’m holding you to that.”
William nodded and shrugged, playing along even though he was beginning to tire of the game. He stood where she told him to stand and watched her as she directed him to do. She set off at a sprint, leaving him for the patch of barren earth that belonged to David Temple. Weeds parted and leaves crunched beneath her feet, and then-
And then she was gone. As abruptly absent from the landscape as though she had stepped through a door, or hidden herself behind a tree. Except there was no door; there was no tree. There was only a flat bit of scrubby pastureland and the clear night air. Only this-and yet somehow she had managed to vanish into it.
Drawing a deep breath, William traced her path through the brambles, making a careful orbit around the spot where he had last seen her. Yet even after the second loop around-even after the third-he found no clue as to how it happened. Once again, he began to entertain the notion that he had gone mad.
When she returned, it was just as unexpected. After completing his fourth unsuccessful journey through the briars, he had paused, stooping down in order to examine some impressions in the earth. Hoof prints, as it turned out. Nothing strange about that, except for the fact they began out of nowhere, as if a horse had just come into being, fully grown, on that very spot. Maybe it had. After all, if a woman could just disappear-
But William never finished that thought, for it was at that very moment that she reappeared, stepping through whatever mysterious portal had borne her away and materializing in the very spot where the hoof prints were. It was then-and regardless of his very sincere promise to her that he would not-that William freaked out. He didn’t intend to do so, of course. It just happened. He couldn't help himself.
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VII
“Sir, are you quite sure you are all right?”
William cocked his head slightly, blinking and regarding the housekeeper with a puzzled expression. “Why wouldn’t I be?” he asked her.
“Well, it’s only that-I thought-that is, you seem-” His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, and Margaret, knowing him as well she did, flushed darkly and immediately abandoned that line of inquiry. “I was just wondering if you needed anything,” she finished lamely, half a minute too late. He thought for a moment.
“I want a bath,” he told her, “and a clean suit of clothes. A pot of coffee. And-”
“Sir,” she said, slightly questioning. He had stopped sharply in the middle of his sentence.
“Nothing. There is nothing else I want. You may go.”
He waited until the housekeeper had shut the door behind her, and then he climbed from the bed. His limbs felt stiff and sluggish in the cool dampness of the morning, and he paused for a moment and leaned against the wall, breathing heavily and trying not to tremble. His left hand still lay locked into a fist at his side. Presently, he loosened his grip, unfolding his fingers from the small, tangled heap of leather and cheap metal that was her necklace.
“Buffy Summers,” he whispered, staring at it. The name sounded even more absurd now that he knew it belonged to a real person. A real, flesh-and-blood woman who rode her horse astride, who rode abroad alone and late into the night. A woman dressed in clothing which barely covered her and who approached strange men in the moonlight. Worse still, she was a woman who allowed those strange men to touch her in all manner of inappropriate ways.
William scowled at the necklace. Oh, what a fool he had been! His stomach writhed at the mere thought of it. He had been worse than foolish. He had been purely irrational-a madman-to assume she was some sort of specter, a hallucination caused by the opium, when even the blindest of idiots could have seen she was real.
Real but certainly not a lady. Not with behavior like that, not dressed in such scanty attire.
Then she must be a toffer, he decided bitterly. Because what other plausible explanation could there possibly be for her vulgar attire and bizarre behavior?
Still, it seemed odd that she had never tried to occupy him. William mulled over it as he went into the dressing room to have his bath, struggling to recall some hint, some insinuation of sex on her part. If she were a prostitute, surely she would have broached the subject at some point. Of course, his experience with such creatures was obviously very limited, but he had spent a substantial portion of his life in London, and God knew there were whores aplenty in that city; a gentleman could scarcely walk through certain sections of it without some unfortunate female propositioning him, and such women were hardly delicate in their approach. More than once, he had found himself faced with the excruciatingly awkward task of refusing such a proposal. The only wonder was that Buffy Summers had not done the same. Yet he could not recall her uttering a single suggestive remark, not even when the smooth skin of her calf lay warm beneath his palm. And why not? If she wanted his money surely that would have been the most opportune moment to ask for it.
Unless she was looking for a greater sum than a single tup would bring. He had a good deal in the way of money-everyone in the area must know it-and he was not skilled with women. He was ill and he was alone. In a way, he was quite vulnerable. Perhaps she was a swindler instead of a prostitute. Somehow, this notion was even more disturbing than the other, but he could not deny it as a possibility. That knowing look of hers, those shrewd observations about his life. She must have heard gossip about him in the town and thought him an easy mark. Perhaps those nightly visits were to garner his trust so that she could later rob him. Such things might not be as common in Wiltshire as they were in London, but they were not completely unheard of either.
She means to trick you, he told himself as he stepped out of the bath, probing at his wounded ego as if it were a sore tooth and finding an odd sort of comfort in the pain. She means to make you care for her so that you cannot deny her when she asks for money-
And he did care for her; that was the truly terrible thing. He cared for her yet, longed for her yet. The notion of her being a fraud was awful, yet it was still more awful to realize he must never see her again. Somehow, in just two brief visits, she had managed to worm herself into his affections, and now he found he could not easily cast her out.
He dressed and went down the hall to the study. Although he had not asked them for it, the staff had been considerate enough to prepare a breakfast for him. Toast, eggs, fruit, and coffee, all carefully arranged on a card table near the fire. He carried the plates to an open window and tipped the food into the hedge below, but he drank the coffee in grateful swallows. It was scalding hot and so black it was bitter, just the way he liked it; anything heavier in his stomach would have been sure to make him ill.
Liar. Thief. Harlot.
He tried the words in his head, one by one, but none of them seemed to fit her any better than his sense of betrayal fit him. He even found himself inventing reasons for why he must see her again. Only just the one time, he told himself, but he must do it. He must confront her about her disingenuousness; he must show her he was not a man so easily duped by a pretty face. Even more absurdly, it occurred to him that he had to return her necklace, because keeping it would make him a thief. So, he had to meet her just once more. He really had no choice in the matter.
He told himself that, and he believed it.
~*~ ~*~ ~*~
Of course, there was no longer any need for the laudanum. Now that he accepted her reality, he also realized she would appear to him just as well without the help of a hallucinogen. Yet as the shadows lengthened over the baseboards, he felt his heart begin to beat faint and quick, a certain familiar queasiness tightening in the pit of his stomach. He was not comfortable with women. He had never felt at ease in their presence and had become far less so after the incident with Miss Underwood in London. And Buffy Summers…How could he be expected to confront her, to say all the harsh, unkind things he must say to show her he was a man and not a willing victim? If he were to talk to her honestly, he felt he must have the laudanum. His nerves would be the end of him if he did not.
After dinner (barley soup and toast, which was all he could stomach) he returned to the study, and he took the laudanum with him. This time when he uncorked the bottle, he did not even attempt to count the drops as he tipped them onto his tongue. He felt as though he did not care if he killed himself. He thought it might even have been a relief to do so. Life was, after all, such a tiresome thing.
Perhaps it was only his frame of mind, but the opium caused no euphoria this time, no dreaminess, no giddy laughter-nothing, except the sudden sense of being detached, of drifting away, accompanied by a certain sullen sleepiness. It was not particularly pleasant, but he felt no anxiety and that was a mercy. He replaced the cork and pocketed the bottle, and then he began his slow, stumbling journey out to meet her for the last time.
She was a long time in coming. So long, in fact, that he began to wonder if he had come too early, if his timing was poor. He had not thought to consult his pocket watch beforehand; perhaps the shadows had not been as deep as they first appeared. Was this the long summer twilight instead of night? For the life of him, he could not tell the difference.
He watched the sky and walked a restless lap around the garden. He thought he was being careful, but the earth suddenly swelled in a wave beneath him, and it sent him reeling. Falling took a year; once it was over, he found himself lying on his stomach on the ground, blood trickling from a cut on his temple where his head had struck a stone. He felt dazed and sick, and more than a little sorry he had come. A smear of dirt on the lens of his spectacles obscured the vision in his left eye. He stared at the smear intently, and it took on the shape of a rabbit.
He thought of sitting up, but somehow it seemed an impossible feat and he did not attempt it. Instead, he lay with his cheek pillowed against the damp grass, listening to the strange rattling sound that was his own breathing. He watched the rabbit and wondered how long she would be in coming. He waited.
When she arrived, it was with dreamlike abruptness, as if she had just appeared out thin air, mid-jump, on the other side of the garden wall. When it cleared the wall, her horse landed so close to William he could smell the sharp scent of its sweat and see the faint gray stripes on its otherwise pink hooves. In fact, he was in some danger of having his head crushed by those powerful, metal-shod feet, but he did not think to move away.
Buffy Summers was blinking rapidly, as if her eyes had not yet adjusted to the dim light, and it took her several seconds to notice him lying on the ground in front of her. When she did, she gave a sharp gasp.
“William!” she exclaimed, dismounting quickly. “Are you all right?”
William didn’t have a clue how to answer that. He tried not to let her fool him with her soft voice, with the note of concern that couldn’t possibly be real. He kept his eye fixed upon the rabbit and waited.
She knelt beside him, knees in the dirt, and began to gently probe at the knot on his temple, checking its severity. “Did I run you over? God, I ran you over. That damn horse has no brakes at all-”
Her hands were soft and smelled like lavender, and the tenderness of her touch seemed genuine. A drop of water suddenly splashed onto the tarnished spectacle lens-the rabbit hopped away-and William screwed his eyes shut before he answered her.
“No. I think…I think I must have fallen.”
“Well, are you okay? You’re bleeding...” She dabbed at the side of his head with something soft, something she had taken from her pocket, carefully cleaning away the blood. Although he did not open his eyes, William could feel the warmth of her breath against his forehead as she leaned over him; he could smell the mild, sweet scent of her perfume. He wondered what it would feel like to kiss her-he wondered if she would let him-and then he immediately felt ashamed. After all, he was supposed to be sending her away, not negotiating some sordid arrangement.
“I think I died,” he said confusedly and sat up.
“I don’t think you died.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re still breathing, and that’s usually a pretty good indication of being not dead.” She brushed his hair back from his forehead, stroked his cheek with the very tips of her fingers. “William…”
“What?” The word came out strained; he felt as if he could not breathe.
“Open your eyes.”
Though they felt leaden, he forced his eyelids apart, startled to find when he did that her face was just inches from his own. Her green eyes narrowed, scrutinizing his face in a way that was not particularly pleasant.
“Your pupils look all drawn up,” she said, frowning.
“Meaning…?”
“You tell me. It’s dark out; they should be dilated. Maybe you have brain damage.”
“Brain damage?”
“From your fall. You hit your head, after all.” She combed her fingers through his hair, probing his crown and the base of his skull in search of additional injuries, and although he knew it was a pointless undertaking, William didn’t bother trying to stop her. He liked the feeling of her fingernails trailing along his scalp, and he liked the note of concern in her voice; he was intent upon enjoying it for as long as possible.
Something in his expression made her smile, though her voice was solemn when she said, “William, each night you claim you’re not drunk, and I really want to believe you. But it’s becoming increasingly obvious something is going on. Are you on some kind of drug?”
“Are you a prostitute?”
Hardly a polite rejoinder, but her question had caught him off guard. Fortunately, she seemed more amused than offended, and she answered him with a wry, “Why? Are you in need of one?”
“Then you are!” Horrified, he launched himself off the grass, but she grabbed the tail of his coat before he could flee altogether. She dragged him back down with the kind of force one simply did not expect from a woman, and then she said,
“For God’s sake, sit down! I am not a prostitute.”
“Then why did you say you were?”
“I didn’t. You said I was one, and to tell you the truth I’m more than a little offended by it. Why would you think I’m a prostitute?”
“Because you appear out of seemingly nowhere, and you only come at night; your clothes are scarcely adequate, and you’re always-” He hesitated.
“I’m always what?”
“-touching me.”
“I’ve only ever touched you above the waist,” she pointed out, “and I don’t think I’m going too far out on a limb when I say that makes all the difference.”
“Well, I’m not going to give you any money. You might as well accept that and be on your way.” Yet his tone was hardly definite. If she had chosen that moment to leave him, he knew he would have chased after her. He would have showered her with coppers-he would have pitched pound notes into the air-just to entice her to stay.
But she didn’t leave; she did not even attempt it. Instead, she released her grip on his jacket and sat back on her heels, looking for all the world as though he had struck her.
“Okay, now you’re just being a prick,” she said in an injured tone. William felt his face heat beneath that reproachful gaze, and he scrambled to justify what was, after all, very ungentlemanly conduct.
“I’m not a prig! I’m-I’m merely trying to properly define the boundaries-”
“The boundaries of what, exactly?”
“Of what is there.”
She considered this, and for a moment, it actually seemed as though she might follow him down that tangent. Then she thought the better of it and returned to the matter at hand.
“Have I ever once asked you for money, William?”
Of course, she had not. However, William could not help but think this meant very little. It might have been that she was hoping he would offer it; or perhaps she had been waiting for a more opportune time to ask. Either way, she must want money. There was no other explanation for her interest in him.
When he pointed this out, she looked at him almost pityingly, as though he had said something profoundly sad.
“I’m here for you, you goddamn moron,” she told him. “I’m here because I like you.”
This was an alien thought, and it would have struck him dumb even if her profanity had not. When he finally spoke, all he could think to say was, “Why in heaven's name would you like me?”
“I’m beginning to wonder that myself!” But she was smiling now, no longer angry. She leaned over, nudging his shoulder with the edge of her own. “You really are kind of an ass, you know.”
“But you like me?” He wanted to hear her say it again; it had such a pleasant sound. No woman had ever said such a thing to him before.
“I like you. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
“Do you travel a long way to come here?” he asked. She tilted her head back and laughed into the dark.
“You have no idea.”
She did have the look of a faraway place, William thought. Yet he could not imagine she came from such a very long distance, not every night. Not on horseback.
“I was wondering-” he began. But before he could get further than that, Buffy Summers jumped to her feet.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go for a walk.”
A walk to where? William wondered but did not ask. He did favor her horse with an uneasy glance, however. She had tethered the animal to a low hedge, and it was eating some of the flowers within its reach.
“I could call a groom,” he suggested, climbing to his feet. “We could put your horse into the stable.”
“He’ll be fine.” She started away at a brisk pace, stopped a moment later when she realized William was not following her. He was still standing some distance away, meticulously brushing bits of ground debris from the back of his trousers.
“Are you kidding me?”
Startled, he looked up from his task. “Do you mean about stabling the horse?” he asked confusedly. For a second, she only looked at him blankly. Then:
“We aren't headed to a garden party, you know. There’s no need to go all Martha Stewart about a little dead grass on your clothing.”
“I do apologize,” he began sheepishly. “You must think I’m an awful-what on earth are you doing?”
The answer to this question was simple enough to see; she was climbing the garden wall. What he could not fathom was why. She scaled the stones with ease, calling to him from the opposite side, “There’s no point in walking all the way to the gate. It’d take too long, and I’m too lazy. Come on.”
With a small sigh, he moved toward the wall. It was low, of course, and presented no great difficulty as an obstacle. Still, it would have been nice to clear it with a catlike leap as she had done, instead of lumbering across it in the manner of an anesthetized bovine. His own descent was reminiscent of a controlled fall, and it was all he could do to land upright and not in an ungainly heap at her feet.
Then he coughed quite hard and the force of it caused him to stumble, and he collapsed at her feet anyway. Lovely.
“My God. Are you okay?” Her voice was quivering as if she were trying not to laugh.
William looked up at her, and as he struggled to catch his breath, he debated with himself whether he was scandalized by the shortness of her skirt, or gratified by it.
“William-?”
Gratified. Definitely gratified.
“I’m fine,” he told her, standing. “It is only a cough.”
“It sounds awful.”
“It is.” He looked around, but saw nothing noteworthy about the neat rows of apple trees in which they stood. The orchard belonged to him, and while the trees were not bearing fruit this time of year, in every other respect they looked no different now than they always did. “What is it you wanted to show me?”
“You have to promise me you won’t freak out,” she said, taking hold of his hand.
“Freak out?” he echoed. “What does that even mean?” But he followed her willingly when she pulled at his arm, leading him further down the dark row.
“You know…become…worried. Or scared. There’s nothing to worry about, okay? And there’s no reason to be afraid.”
“Afraid!” Outwardly, he scoffed at the idea, but deep down William felt a flutter of uncertainty. Suppose she was a thief, after all? Suppose this was some sort of trap? It was dark and secluded here. No one knew where he had gone...
I really ought to let go of her hand, he thought, just to be prudent.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he followed her as docilely as a pet dog on a leash, stopping only when she motioned for him to do so some two hundred yards on.
“Well,” she said unceremoniously, “there it is.”
“There what is?” he asked in bewilderment. There was nothing around them but more trees and a tangled expanse of weeds and thorns that marked the property line on that side. Buffy nodded to the bit of wasteland.
“That right there,” she told him matter-of-factly. “That’s where I’m from.”
William followed her gaze, squinting slightly as if that would allow him to see something other than what was there. What was there being, of course, nothing at all.
After a long, fruitless moment, he finally turned his eyes back to her. She was looking at him expectantly, a hint of wry humor in her eyes. Yet the subsequent smile was neither mocking nor mad; anyone could see that. So then what…?
He asked her, but the answer was less than satisfactory. Of course she didn’t mean she lived in that neglected field, she said. It was a shortcut from somewhere else, somewhere farther away.
“But it isn’t,” he insisted. “That field connects to David Temple’s property; beyond that there’s the church, the town. Nothing exotic. And it's a roundabout way to go at that, certainly not a shortcut…”
She listened patiently and without one iota of interest. Once his argument wound down, she said only, “I can show you.”
And he answered with a somewhat condescending smile, “By all means do.”
“But you promised not to freak out,” she reminded him, releasing his hand, “and I’m holding you to that.”
William nodded and shrugged, playing along even though he was beginning to tire of the game. He stood where she told him to stand and watched her as she directed him to do. She set off at a sprint, leaving him for the patch of barren earth that belonged to David Temple. Weeds parted and leaves crunched beneath her feet, and then-
And then she was gone. As abruptly absent from the landscape as though she had stepped through a door, or hidden herself behind a tree. Except there was no door; there was no tree. There was only a flat bit of scrubby pastureland and the clear night air. Only this-and yet somehow she had managed to vanish into it.
Drawing a deep breath, William traced her path through the brambles, making a careful orbit around the spot where he had last seen her. Yet even after the second loop around-even after the third-he found no clue as to how it happened. Once again, he began to entertain the notion that he had gone mad.
When she returned, it was just as unexpected. After completing his fourth unsuccessful journey through the briars, he had paused, stooping down in order to examine some impressions in the earth. Hoof prints, as it turned out. Nothing strange about that, except for the fact they began out of nowhere, as if a horse had just come into being, fully grown, on that very spot. Maybe it had. After all, if a woman could just disappear-
But William never finished that thought, for it was at that very moment that she reappeared, stepping through whatever mysterious portal had borne her away and materializing in the very spot where the hoof prints were. It was then-and regardless of his very sincere promise to her that he would not-that William freaked out. He didn’t intend to do so, of course. It just happened. He couldn't help himself.
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