A Hundred Visions and Revisions - Chapter Four
Four
Compared to the Chapman Institute, the Hartley house was like living in the lap of luxury. In fact, if Buffy had been a normal Victorian girl it would have been the very height of opulence and pleasure. The Hartleys were, among other things, very rich, and in keeping with the traditions of the day, they liked to invest their riches in expensive material possessions. Their home had every comfort imaginable: featherbeds, gaslights, iceboxes and (best of all, in Buffy’s opinion) daily baths. Real, all-over-the-body baths taken in a real bathtub complete with scented soap bought in a chemist's shop. True, the water still had to be heated on the stove and then hauled to the tub, but now there were servants to do this for her.
Buffy had learned to appreciate such things, but the new millennium was strong enough in her memory she was incapable of fully appreciating her situation. After all, no matter how wealthy the Hartleys might be, many modern conveniences were simply not accessible in 1879 because they had not been invented yet. Things like microwaves, hot running water, flushing toilets, television, tampons, and a thousand other things Buffy had once taken for granted. Her familiarity with such luxuries kept her from being truly satisfied in what was, for the Victorian age at least, an excellent house.
There was something else bothering her as well, a desire no modern convenience in the world could have satisfied: she wanted to go home. She wanted Giles and her friends. She wanted her sister. More than anything else, she wanted her sister.
She did not want slaying.
Buffy knew she ought to be ashamed of herself for that, but she couldn't help it. Years of her life had been spent in violence and uncertainty. Years of her life had not even been her own, but had been dedicated to a calling she would have avoided, if only she had been given that option. Heroism was a nice thing on paper, but in the real world, she was sick of it. What a relief it was to take a break from it now, to tell herself she needn't feel guilty for her languor. Slaying would alter this time, and as little as she understood the mysteries of time-travel, she knew altering the past too much would be a mistake. Much better that she keep a low profile in Anne's house than kill something that might not need killing and rip apart the fabric of time and space.
Anne Hartley. How wonderful she was, how incredibly kind. Kindness was something Buffy had come to treasure, not having found an overabundance of it since her arrival in London. If circumstances had been different, Buffy thought she might have been content to stay with Anne forever. Being with her was almost like having Buffy's own mother back. Technically, Buffy had been hired as a nurse, a servant. However, it became quite clear early on that a nurse was not what the lady of the house required. Anne was sick; there was no doubt about that. But she was an uncomplaining sort of patient, loath to lie abed and have others wait upon her. Most days she felt well enough to knit or work needlepoint, and sometimes she and Buffy even went out for the day, shopping and then to lunch at a restaurant. These outings had a heavy cost afterward, for Anne’s cough was very much aggravated by the cold air, but they were wonderful while they lasted and Anne swore they did her more good than harm.
Nights were more difficult because she often fell to fits of coughing when she lay down. The first time this happened Buffy went to pieces. She had never heard anyone cough so violently before; she had never seen someone spit up blood. It was frightening, but the doctor prescribed a syrup to help soothe the worst of it, and she would eventually learn to watch for the early symptoms of an attack so that she could catch it before it became too severe.
Although she was in no way clingy or needy, Anne was clearly a woman who enjoyed company, and Buffy’s main role was to supply her with the companionship she craved. Since she had become ill, the number of callers she received had dwindled to a paltry few, as did her invitations, and she was often not well enough to attend the dinners and parties to which she was invited. It was obvious that she was hungry for conversation, particularly female conversation, and right from the start Anne treated Buffy as a friend instead of a servant. She even wanted Buffy to eat with her in the beautiful dining room, not in the servants’ kitchen “down below,” which would have been her customary place. Buffy was too ignorant of the time to understand the significance of this, but it caused a great deal of gossip among the rest of the staff.
Anne never complained about her condition, or the inexorable fate that was cutting her life short in such a torturous way. Well and women did not, in that day and age, bore their friends with the paltry details of impending death. However, she did, just once and in a moment of great weakness, confide to Buffy that life had become a little tedious since her diagnoses. William was away much of the day, and he didn’t like to go out even when they could for fear she would be struck ill. On the few occasions he accompanied her to a concert or dinner, he worried about her too much for either of them really to enjoy it. It was a hard thing, getting used to a life of confinement when she had once been so active in society. It was, she admitted, more difficult even than the thought of dying.
But more than anything, she said she missed her house. Her true house, the house on the country estate. It was far more of a home to her than the London house, which before they had used only during the winter social season. The estate was beautiful, she assured her young nurse. Fields of golden wheat and long stretches of green pasture punctuated here and there by clumps of trees and shrubbery. The house was not quite as luxurious as this one, but it was comfortable amid the fresh air and quiet of the countryside. Had the doctor not been so insistent and had William not been so quick to obey him, Anne said she felt she would never have left.
“Why did you have to leave?” Buffy asked, thereby surprising Anne with the ignorance of her nurse.
“The southern end of the estate was a bog,” she explained, “and the night air that rose from the wetland aggravated my condition. The doctor said a warmer, drier climate would suit much better-he suggested we sell out and go to another country, of all things! However, that was out of the question. It is quite hard enough on poor William to leave the countryside and live in London, but to uproot him to a strange land! I should never allow that. Therefore, the doctor suggested we move to this house so we could be closer to the hospital and away from the marsh. It has been difficult for us both I’m afraid, but William is such a dear. He has never once repined.”
William. Anne talked a lot about him, the son Buffy had not yet met. It was obvious she was incredibly fond of him and they were very close, which begged the question: why had he left her here, all alone, to attend to business “back home” on the country estate? Buffy knew she would never have left Joyce alone while she was ill, not for that long. She certainly would not have put her mother under the care of a nurse she had never met. William had hired her, as Anne soon explained, but he had hired her through conversations with the vicar, a detailed explanation of what he wanted. He had never so much as asked to speak to her.
It seemed heartless, but Buffy didn’t say so. For as much as she missed him, Anne seemed relieved her son had gone to the country. It was the first time he had visited in several months, for he was so worried about her condition he was reluctant to go as often as he should. Had it not been for the problems on the estate, Anne said he would not have left this time. She seemed anxious about him, afraid that her illness was robbing him of his freedom, his youth. It seemed unfair that she spent such a great portion of her time worrying about him when she was the one who was dying.
Buffy felt very protective of Anne, although she had known her just a short time. But the lady's gentle disposition made it very easy to love her, to say nothing of her generosity. On Buffy’s third day at the house Anne called in a dressmaker to make new dresses for her nurse. Pretty dresses. Dresses that fit properly, unlike the ones given to her by the constable’s wife and taken out of the charity bin at Chapman. They would be ready in just a few weeks because Anne had ordered them to rush. Buffy was delighted by the prospect of new, better-fitting clothing, but she felt a little guilty that Anne was paying so much money for them. It seemed enough to be living here, eating her food and accepting wages for the small things she did to help. Twelve new dresses from a fashionable dressmaker seemed too much; it made her feel as though she were taking advantage of her new employer.
Anne brushed the concerns away with a wave of her thin hand. “Don’t be silly, Elizabeth. It is not as though I’m buying you silk ball gowns. A young lady should dress becomingly, particularly if she working in a home of this caliber. It is nothing, a trifle.”
But the other servants of the house all wore uniforms.
~*~ ~*~ ~*~
It was only a few days later that the telegraph came.
Buffy was in the middle of a dress fitting, an achingly long and surprisingly intimate procedure that left her to wonder if looking good was actually worth all the trouble. It didn’t help that the garments currently looked more like bed sheets held together with straight pins than real gowns. She fidgeted and sighed until the seamstress scolded her and hit her with the measuring tape.
“I can’t very well finish the dresses in such a short time if you don’t cooperate,” the seamstress complained. “Now, we’ve done with this one. Off with it and on with the next. There’re four more before we’re finished for the afternoon.”
Dutifully Buffy stripped off the makeshift dress, mindful of the pins around the hem, and reached for the next one. She was just pulling it over her head when Anne rushed in, a sheet of paper clutched in one pale hand.
“Look!” she said, waving the paper. Pink spots of excitement stained her cheeks. “I’ve had a telegraph from William today!”
William. The phantom son. Buffy was growing more comfortable with the idea of him: a man who existed and commanded his mother’s love, but seemed increasingly unlikely to make an appearance in the flesh. He did write faithfully, every day it seemed, for a letter arrived almost that frequently. Still, he had yet to name the date of his return, and Buffy was glad of that. She didn't want him to return.
Not that she said this to Anne. Whatever his shortcomings, it was obvious Mrs. Hartley adored her son and that he could do no wrong in her eyes. Buffy knew her employer would not thank her for any criticism regarding him, so she bit her tongue and smiled at Anne from the looking glass.
“A telegraph,” she said, trying to infuse some genuine interest into her tone. “Is everything all right?” Because she had been in London long enough to know that telegraphy was expensive and generally saved for important occasions.
“He is splendid, thank you for asking. He was simply afraid a letter by post might not reach us in time.”
“In time for what?”
“Why his arrival, of course.” Anne’s eyes were sparkling. "He is coming home, and in just two days’ time. We have so much to do to prepare! He is taking the train and shall arrive at Victoria Station at six o’clock if it isn’t late, just in time for a nice dinner. He writes that he wants to have dinner with us, Elizabeth. He wants to meet the young lady of whom I speak so highly. We must have beef Wellington, as it is his favorite. Oh, and I do wish your dresses could be done by then. Mrs. Simms, do you think, perhaps, you could complete just one-?”
Buffy's false smile felt like it was cracking her face. She didn’t want William to come home, beef Wellington or not. She had fallen into a comfortable routine here and a new person would spoil that. And she had been having such a good time with Anne. It had been almost like having her own mother back. She didn’t want some man she didn’t know to come in and insinuate himself between them. He would take up all of Anne’s time; there would be no more little outings into the city. Perhaps he would resent the money she had spent on Buffy’s new clothes. Worst of all, he was unmarried. Buffy had heard gruesome tales from the girls at Chapman about the things bachelor masters would try to force on their female servants. Even some of the married ones did the same. If this William came in expecting to use her for a playmate, he’d better think again.
The last thought made her blanch. The idea of him attempting to force himself on her was nothing; she could fight off any mortal man without so much as breaking a sweat. Far greater was the fear that he would resent her for denying him. Suppose he threw her out? He was the head of the house, after all. Anne said that much herself. Hiring her had been his decision, and if he became angry, or even if he simply didn’t like her, he had the power to make her leave. And if she left, where would she go? Would the job house take her back if she failed to make this situation work? Even if it did, there were no guarantees her next job would be different. London was probably filled with pathetic men using maids as concubines, and she had seen firsthand while running errands for Anne how cruelly some mistresses treated their servants. The last thing she wanted to do was slave after some horny old man and his bitchy wife.
As if reading her thoughts, Anne leaned up to touch Buffy’s arm, infuriating the seamstress, who was trying to pin that sleeve. She pulled back hastily, smiling an apology to Mrs. Simms while at the same time trying to reassure Buffy.
“Don’t look so fearful, Elizabeth. William will adore you, I am sure of it.” She leaned on her cane and smiled with some inner, secret pleasure, adding again, “He will just adore you.”
~*~ ~*~ ~*~
Buffy had heard the term “lord of the manor” before, but she had never fully understood it until now. It was obvious from everything she had seen so far that William Hartley was lord of the manor, the head of Hartley house, and a most important person. This had been suggested to her by Anne’s frequent mention of him and the painstaking preparations made for his arrival only drove the point home. Everything was done for his pleasure and everything must be perfect upon his return.
The first of Buffy’s dresses was hurriedly completed and delivered on Thursday morning, and Anne told Buffy, tactfully but in no uncertain terms, that she was to wear it that afternoon for William’s homecoming. She was told to “take extra special preparations in her toilette" as well, just as if she wasn’t always careful to look decent.
Still, Buffy had to admit the new dress was awfully nice. It was a silvery blue tabinet piped with navy. The collar was low enough to see the barest hint of her breast and the waist was tight, leading to a gathered skirt flounced with ribbons. Beneath it, she wore a small bustle, several layers of petticoats, and the ubiquitous whalebone corset. The layers of fabric were hot and the corset seemed a torture device designed specifically to prevent one from breathing, but despite this-and regardless of the nervous butterflies taking flight in her stomach-Buffy couldn’t help but feel pleased with the overall result. If she had to live in this God-forsaken place, at least she could look this nice.
Remembering Anne's instructions, she groomed herself carefully, using hot tongs to make ringlets around her face while she pulled the rest of her hair into a knot at the back of her head. Heavy cosmetics weren't permitted in Victorian high society (only whores and “loose” women wore it), but Buffy did put on a little violet-scented cologne and a touch of colored salve on her lips. By the time she finished, it was almost two o’clock and Anne was calling her.
They sat in the parlor, side by side on the divan, and waited for his arrival. Anne had been ill the night before and still looked very pale and drawn, yet her eyes betrayed no trace of weariness. Buffy noticed that her gaze kept shifting to the mantle clock, as if willing the minutes to pass. Her thin, cold hand grasped Buffy’s comfortingly.
“It’s all right, dear. Don’t be fearful.”
Buffy smiled back wanly, but in truth her uneasy shifting had less to do with nerves and more to do with the whalebone stay that was stabbing directly into the left side of her ribcage. Because her new dresses were fitted, she had to lace up her stays tighter with them than with the castoffs she had once worn, and after hours of not being able to draw a proper breath or breathe without excruciating pain, her delight in the new frocks was beginning to fade. She flopped back against the divan and sighed heavily, wishing for blue jeans and T-shirts.
At half-past six o'clock, a scuffling sound erupted in the foyer, followed quickly by the sound of male voices. Before Mr. Edward could even announce William’s arrival, Anne was out of her seat and rushing to meet her son. Buffy followed behind, somewhat less enthusiastically, and waited off to the side as Anne clasped the well dressed, not-too-tall man in her arms and welcomed him home.
“I missed you, too, Mother,” he said, hugging her lightly. “Has all been well while I was away?”
“Oh, lovely. Dr. Gull is most pleasantly surprised at how well I’m handling the cold season.” Anne drew away from him, turning slightly so she could motion Buffy forward. “Now, William, you must meet the most recent addition to our household: Miss Elizabeth Summers.”
The man, no longer blocked from view by his mother, offered Buffy a rather tentative smile. “Of course,” he said a trifle shyly. “My mother has been most complimentary of you in her letters. I am delighted to finally meet you.”
This was Buffy’s cue to incline her head with ladylike timidity and say something kind in return. Instead, she gave him a gaping and very unladylike stare. It took her brain a moment to process what she was seeing and when it did, she found herself completely devoid of speech. William Hartley-Lord of the Manor, King of the Castle, pride of his mother’s heart-was not the stranger she had expected him to be. He was more than familiar to her: he was the killer, the torturer, the bane of her existence.
He was Spike.
Previous Next