Forward to Time Past

Chapter Five


Some time in the next twelve months, he would be a killer. In a hundred and twenty some odd years he would be compact and muscular; bleached and scarred. Clad in black leather. Snarky. In love with her.

Right now he was none of those things.

Buffy’s eyes darted from the locks of light brown hair which tumbled over his forehead to his wire-rimmed spectacles, his high-collared shirt and neat three-piece suit. His skin glowed with good health if not a good tan, and there were no dark circles beneath his eyes. He was thinner than his vampire counterpart, too, and he carried himself with far less confidence. More than anything it was this last that threw her. Spike was so arrogant—he moved with the easy, dangerous grace of a cat on the hunt. He did not draw his shoulders up against his neck and avoid eye contact. This man was light years away from his punk-goth vampire counterpart. He was so different, in fact, that she almost felt another twinge of uncertainty that this could actually be the same person.

But behind the glare of his glasses, William’s eyes were a deep, cloudy blue—almond-shaped and long-lashed. And there was just no mistaking those cheekbones.

Anne elbowed Buffy sharply in the ribs—an indication she was not pleased with the cool reception the new servant was giving her beloved son. Buffy quickly pulled herself out of her reverie and made an attempt to rectify matters.

“Sorry,” she told William. “I’m just a little wacked, don’t mind me. I’m really pleased to meet you. Your mother talks about you a lot.”

William looked at his mother, silently asking the question. Wacked?

Anne shrugged helplessly.

Flushing slightly under her intense stare, William struggled to find some response to Buffy’s bizarre comments. “Ah, yes—ah, yes. Very pleased to meet you also. I trust you’ve been comfortable…?”

Wiggling away from Anne’s bony elbow, Buffy babbled a confused response. “Oh, yeah—way comfortable. You’ve got a great house—”

Unsure of what else to do, she stuck out her hand for him to shake. But evidently this was the wrong thing because he glanced anxiously at his mother and then sidestepped, clumsily avoiding the proffered appendage.

“Yes—quite,” he said shortly. He turned to Anne. “I feel rather tired after the train journey, Mother. I shall retire to my room until dinner. See to it James brings in the luggage, will you?”

“Of course, dear.” Though Anne’s lips were in a straight line Buffy thought she could see a hint of amusement in the older woman’s eyes. Though what in God’s name Anne would be amused about was beyond her.

With a stiff smile and a slight nod to Buffy—who was still staring at her extended hand in bewilderment—William retreated to the stairway. He took the steps two at a time, presumably to put distance between himself and his new acquaintance all the more quickly.

Buffy watched his departure with bemusement, finally dropping her hand when he disappeared around corner of the landing.

“Okay, well, obviously I repulse him.”

“Nonsense,” Anne laughed. “He’s merely too much of a gentleman to take such liberties when he doesn’t know you.”

“Liberties?” Buffy echoed blankly.

“Taking your hand. I was quite surprised that you would offer it.” Anne looked puzzled. “Is it customary in America?”

“Yeah. Shaking a person’s hand isn’t exactly a—a liberty in America. More like a hello-type polite greeting thing.”

“I have heard that young people are quite forward there,” Anne said. She sighed as though this were a pity and then, just as suddenly, brightened again. “But William did like you a great deal,” she added. “I could tell.”

“I’m glad someone could,” Buffy muttered.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

He was staring at her.

Buffy tried to keep her attention on the beef Wellington but it wasn’t easy with him staring at her like that. He’d been staring all through dinner. Well, not exactly staring. More like glancing. Frequently. She could feel his eyes on her but when she turned to catch him in the act he was always looking at his plate or in the middle of a conversation with his mother. It was unnerving.

To be perfectly fair Buffy was doing her fair share of glancing, too. She considered it more justifiable, however, based on the fact that although he didn’t have the slightest idea who she was, she knew him. Spike, of course she knew him. Hell, he’d chained her to a wall to declare his love for her just a couple of months before. Threatened to let Dru kill her if she didn’t give him love in return. The bastard.

Now he was sitting across Anne’s oblong cherry wood dining table, picking at his dinner and watching her furtively.

God help her, how did she end up in this mess? It was bad enough to be stuck in the 19th century with no discernable way home. But to be stuck with someone who may or may not be psychotic and who was definitely teetering on the brink of vampirism? That was a whole new level of badness. Of course badness wasn’t exactly an alien concept when Spike was involved.

She kept thinking of him leaning back in his chair at the Bronze, grinning at her in that cocky, wicked way.

What can I tell you, baby? I’ve always been bad.

And then there was Giles, reading Spike’s history from some moldy old book—way back when Spike was enough of a threat for them to care about his history.

He’s known as William the Bloody. He earned his nickname by torturing his victims with railroad spikes.

Ugh. Did that mean that he was William the Bloody before he was the railroad-spike-torturing vampire? And if so, where on earth did he pick up that nickname? Sounded like something a pirate or a Jack-the-ripper type Victorian serial killer would be called. Not the type of moniker given to a proper gentleman of that era by his friends. And Buffy doubted Anne would come up with something like that as a pet name for her dear boy. Which meant there was probably something up with sweet William. Or would be very soon.

And he was signing her paycheck. Great.

Buffy speared a piece of beef angrily, shooting another glance across the table at him. He didn’t look all that full of badness like Spike had insinuated. Quite the opposite, actually. With his glasses and tightly buttoned-up suit he actually reminded her of Giles. Bookish and awkward. But that might just be an act put on for Mummy’s benefit. And, hey, Jeffrey Dahmer didn’t exactly look like the Predator either. Sometimes it was the geeky ones you really had to look out for.

They didn’t get much geekier than William. When she got home she was totally going to make fun of Spike for that hair.

If she got home.

The tines of Buffy’s fork screeched against the plate as she dropped the implement and picked up her napkin. She couldn’t eat like this—not with him looking. Not to mention the fact that Anne was gushing on about how lucky they were that William was able to come home now. (It’s just five days’ until Christmas, after all.) Which reminded Buffy of exactly long she had been stuck in London, and in all that time there had been no word—no sign at all—to show that she was any closer to getting home now than on the day she arrived. The thought made her feel suddenly ill with panic.

“May I be excused?”

Anne looked at her anxiously. “Well, of course you may be, dear. But I’ve ordered a lovely chocolate mousse for dessert…”

“Thank you, but I’m not very hungry.” She just wanted to get away.

“Aren’t you well?” Anne pressed. “Should I send for Dr. Gull—?”

“I’m fine—”

“Perhaps it’s a headache from the weather?” William suggested suddenly, his eyes still on his plate. “I’ve a bit of one myself. The cold rains…”

“That’s it,” Buffy said, eagerly. “Just a headache. Once I rest in the dark for a bit I’m sure it will be fine.”

“Oh.” Anne looked disappointed. “Well, do rest for a bit then. I hope you feel better shortly—and let the servants know if there is anything you need.”

“I will. Thank you.”

Buffy rose from the table. On her way out of the room she threw William a small smile, feeling both grateful for his assistance and a bit confused by what it meant. But he didn’t return the gesture. He wasn’t looking at her at all.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Later, as she was stretched out in bed, staring at the ceiling, Buffy chanced to overhear them talking. They were down the hallway a bit and probably didn’t realize how their voices would carry—not that they were saying anything particularly offensive. But they were talking about her. Buffy sat up in the dark and strained her ears to better catch every word.

“…seems to getting on then?” William’s voice asked faintly.

“Oh, yes.” Anne’s words were clearer, more distinct, than her son’s. “She’s an angel, a real help to me. I must remember to recommend the Institute to anyone looking for a fine girl servant.”

“She dresses very well for a servant.” And Buffy clutched the sheet in the dark. Damn, she knew he’d be pissed off about the clothes.

But Anne didn’t seem concerned.

“She was dressed like the ragman’s daughter, dear. Said all of her own clothes had been stolen from her and all she had was what they gave her at Chapman’s. I couldn’t have her in the house looking a waif, could I?”

To Buffy’s surprise William chuckled. “Of course not, Mother.”

There was a long pause and she knew that he was hugging her, maybe a careless, one-armed hug like she had once given her own mother. Whatever else he might be—or would be, in the future—it was obvious William did have a great deal of love for his mum. Buffy hugged herself in the dark and felt a sharp dart of jealousy. Because Spike had still had his mom when he was—what? Twenty-five? Thirty?—and hers was dead. Yet he was the one who’d end up a psychopath.

There was no sense to life.

When Anne spoke again her voice was closer; it startled Buffy.

“But you do like her, don’t you, dear? You do think she’s…” Her voice trailed away, leaving Buffy to wonder what they thought she was.

William’s voice was closer too, but still farther away than Anne’s. He sounded like he was turning off somewhere, maybe about to go into a room. The library, perhaps. It was close by.

“Of course, I like her, Mother,” he said. His voice had a catch in it, something shy and almost sad—and certainly not in keeping with her image of Spike.

But then this wasn’t Spike. Was it?

She expected them to say more, but instead there was the soft click of a door closing and then Anne’s footsteps began padding softly closer. A moment later she was knocking on Buffy’s bedroom door.

Buffy threw her wrap around her shoulders (she was learning) before calling, “Come in.”

Anne barely cracked the door, peeping her head in through the opening almost tentatively. “Are you still feeling ill, Elizabeth?”

“No. I’m much better, thank you.” Buffy glanced at the clock and saw with a shock that it was almost ten. No wonder then that Anne was looking so worn.

“And you?” she asked her employer. “How do you feel? Do you need anything—?”

“Oh, no. I feel well, thank you. I was just wondering if perhaps you would like me to tell Lila to bring you a cup of tea with milk in it. William often has one before he retires; it’s very good for helping one sleep.”

“Sure—I mean, yes. Thanks.”

But she couldn’t help wondering why it was that William was having a hard time going to sleep.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~