Forward to Time Past

Chapter Seven

It was a clear but very cold evening, and Buffy shivered inside her cloak as she assisted Anne to the carriage block. For that lady’s sake Buffy was glad that the clouds had dispersed long before afternoon; had there even been the slightest chance of rain William would have canceled their outing. As it was he was quietly fretting over the temperature, asking his mother over and over if she was quite sure she was warm enough and assuring her that if she did not feel up to the excursion then the loss of the ticket price was nothing at all.

Anne squeezed Buffy’s arm as they settled into the plush bench carriage seat. William sat opposite them. “Don’t vex yourself darling,” she admonished her son. “It’s a lovely night. Cold, but I’m well bundled. And there isn’t the slightest hint of dampness, is there Elizabeth?”

Buffy shoved her numb hands deeper into her muff and tried to answer without her teeth chattering. “The weather seems fine to me.”

“I’m sure it will be fine,” William replied, sounding as though he thought anything but. He was staring out the carriage’s small window, though how he could see anything beyond the inky blackness of the night was a mystery. His right knee was twitching and Buffy just knew he was dying to ask his mother if she was warm enough yet again. To his credit he did manage to hold back this time.

Buffy had to admit he looked kind of handsome—if somber—in a dark grey suit and long black overcoat. And gloves, of course. A gentleman wouldn’t be seen on the street without his kind of dark, expensive-looking gloves. His only concession to color was a dark green waistcoat which was sprinkled with little red flowers and it was this—and only this—that kept his attire from looking completely funereal. Again he was immaculately groomed, even down to his fingernails. Yet somehow the overall effect was not dandifying; Buffy just figured this was how men in 1879 presented themselves. It was weird but kind of nice.

“So tell me about the play,” Buffy said, struggling to break the awkward silence that had fallen. “Is it any good?”

“Haven’t you read any Shakespeare, dear?” Anne was surprised.

“Yes—well, some. In school. But that was Hamlet and Macbeth and the sonnets. I never read A Summertime Dream before or seen the play. What’s it about?”

A hint of a smile played around William’s lips as Anne answered Buffy’s question.

“It’s called A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Elizabeth, and it’s rather like a fantasy.”

“And a romance,” added William. Buffy looked over at him, but he was still staring out the window.

“Yes, it is a romance,” Anne agreed. “And it is a comedy as well. But there are delightful creatures like fairies and nymphs and a faun; it’s really very colorful. Oh, I can’t describe it. You will have to see it for yourself to appreciate—and the St. James’ players are top-rate. It should be wonderful.”

Buffy just hoped it would be warmer.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~


As it turned out, St. James’ Theatre was quite warm and comfortable. It was a beautiful building, not large but elegantly decorated. Though available for concerts and plays of all kinds, it catered mainly to the opera and was quite popular in the “season” which did not commence for some four months yet. Since it was wintertime and quite cold, all of the tickets for this performance were not sold, though there were probably more than three-quarters of the seats filled. The Hartley’s had arranged a “private box” which meant that even though they arrived a bit late—right before curtain call—they did not have to worry about tripping over the legs of other patrons while reaching their seats.

Buffy was so busy studying the details of that beautifully-decorated large room that she didn’t realize she was falling behind until suddenly she felt a hand on her arm. Victorian England was a very no-touch establishment, so she was startled when William took her by the elbow and assisted her into the box beside his mother. Not that she needed assistance, but she figured it was some kind of social rule that the man has to help the delicate little woman find her seat. So she let him do it. But it was a strange feeling: Spike’s fingers lightly closed over her elbow, gently guiding her into her seat. He sat down on the opposite side of the box, so that Anne was between them. They both sat up so straight that Buffy felt like a slob and immediately adjusted her own position.

The gaslights dimmed and the velvet curtains opened to reveal a brightly lit stage with colorful, hand-painted scenery. Buffy leaned forward in her plush seat hopefully, because it did look kind of promising so far. The male actor was handsome and richly costumed and if his gestures and facial expressions were a little over-the-top, well that was all part of the Victorian era wasn’t it? Everything was over the top.

“Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour
Draws on apace—”

At this first bit of dialogue Buffy sat back, disappointed. She remembered suddenly why Shakespeare had always seemed so appallingly boring to her: she couldn’t understand a single word he’d written. Apparently, hearing the language spoken aloud wasn’t a whole lot more clear than reading it on a page. In fact, if anything, it was even more difficult to decipher, because the actors all had very thick Cambridge-type accents and no sound equipment to help their voices carry across the room.

Buffy amused herself by gazing around the room at the other patrons. She tried not to gawk rudely and embarrass Anne (who was watching the stage raptly, as though in the presence of something grand) but it was difficult not to stare. Most of the people in the theatre were clearly members of the upper-class and they were turned out well in keeping with their social status. For a moment Buffy felt almost embarrassed of her own attire, for while the cream-colored dress was pretty it was far simpler than the rich evening gowns worn by the other women. Evening gowns which were every color (darker colors seemed “in” for evening wear, and Buffy saw a lot of scarlet and deep green and midnight blue). The fancy lace and silk trimmings alone probably cost as much as her whole dress. And the jewelry! Victorian women sure did know how to accessorize. Gorgeous jewels in heavy gold settings were clasped around almost every woman’s neck and hung from every small feminine ear.

It had been a long time since Buffy seriously cared about fashion. In Sunnydale, she always wore the latest styles and clothes that look well on her—but in the back of her mind was always the thought of practicality. She couldn’t very well go slaying in fancy dresses and a lot of heavy jewelry would just give a vampire or demon some to grab hold of and hurt her with. So the sudden, sharp dart of envy at these elegantly-dressed women was something she had not felt in a very long time, something almost alien. And immediately afterward she was guilty. After all, she was a Slayer. She had more important things to think about. Like how to get back home.

She did not allow herself to think about how long it had been since she had actually slain anything. Not since Glory, therefore not since her arrival in London. Whenever shame pricked at her late at night she told herself that there had been no opportunities for such activity, that she had seen no vampires in London and perhaps there weren’t any here at all. But she knew that wasn’t true. The real reason was that she was tired of the game, tired of hunting and killing and worrying about the end of the world. There was already a Slayer in 1879—there must be one. And Armageddon was not at hand because she knew the world had survived far longer than that. So was it her responsibility to prowl the streets, destroying demons? Of course not; let the current Slayer handle it. Buffy was too busy for that kind of thing now. And she was having a hard enough time fitting in, without having Anne walk in on her stabbing somebody with a wooden stake.

She pushed the thought out of her mind as the first act ended and the curtains pulled closed for a scenery change. As they waited the audience milled about, greeting people they knew and discussing the virtues of the play. The room was soon filled with a low hum of voices.

William did not leave his seat, nor did he acknowledge that he knew any of the well-dressed men and women who passed by their box. Buffy couldn’t help but wonder at this. He’d been in London long enough; surely he’d made some friends? And according to Anne they had used the London house for several weeks during the “social season” every year, so it would seem they must know many of the people of London high society. Yet he didn’t seem inclined to approach any of his acquaintances, though some of them did glance at him as they went by, suggesting some kind of familiarity. Even during the longer break of Intermission he remained in his seat, silent and thoughtful, talking only when his mother prodded him into conversation. Buffy guessed he was probably about as popular and socially adept as his vampire equivalent.

Intermission ended shortly and then the second half of the play commenced. And as boring as the story was to Buffy, the time went by fairly quickly and before she knew it the play was finished. The Hartley’s remained seated until most of the audience had dispersed for fear that Anne might be jostled or injured by the crowd hurrying to the exits. When it was time to leave William stood up first and helped his mother into the aisle. Then he extended his hand to Buffy, who was well on her way out of the box but took his hand anyway so she wouldn’t look impolite. His hand was surprisingly hot; Buffy thought it trembled slightly as he assisted her over the small step up into the aisle. But when she looked at his face his expression was very composed, almost detached. He released her the moment she cleared the step, as was proper, and did not look or speak to her again. Not even on the ride home.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

In spite of all the care taken beforehand to keep her warm and safe in the dreaded “night air” their outing to the theater was not without its consequences. Late that night Anne had another coughing fit; her worst yet. Buffy tried everything she knew to ease the awful dry hacking but nothing worked. Anne was gasping for air but each breath brought a new attack on her diseased lungs and Buffy was frightened, uncertain as to what she should do. William was apparently asleep—or at least, he was still in his private rooms at the other end of the house. Knowing he would be angry to find Anne’s condition worsening (after all this was just what he had predicted) Buffy didn’t dare disturb him until she had to. Instead she sent one of the maids for the doctor and then ran downstairs for the medicine. It hadn’t been long enough since the last dose, but she didn’t know what else to do.

The cough medicine had been left sitting on the small table in the parlor, Buffy remembered. She ran to check, praying that the maids hadn’t moved it to some out-of-the-way place where she would never find it. They hadn’t. She grabbed it up with relief—and such haste that the bottle slipped out of her sweaty grasp. The container crashed against the hardwood flooring, only barely cushioned by the rug. Brown glass splintered, scattering shards all over the place while the thick yellowish syrup oozed into the soft nap of the Oriental.

“Oh, damn it!” she swore in frustration. She started picking at the broken bottle; the bottom had remained relatively intact and she thought maybe there would be enough medicine left in it to give to Anne. No sooner did she try to find out, however, that she cut her finger on one sharp edge.

“What is the matter?”

Buffy looked up sharply, suddenly oblivious to the blood streaming from her right thumb. William was standing in the doorway, surveying the mess.

Mistaking his bewilderment for anger, she began to stammer nervously. “Your mother is coughing pretty badly. I was just getting her some medicine and I—I dropped the bottle.”

She flinched inwardly even as she spoke. As if it weren’t already bad enough that Anne was coughing as a result of something she had convinced him to let her do now she’d also wasted the medicine which was needed to help her. She knew the syrup was expensive and now more than half a bottle of it was soaking into the parlor rug—which, incidentally, was also expensive. She figured if ever there was a moment when William would chuck her out, this would be it. He certainly had enough of a reason to be angry. And if he threw her out where would she go?

His eyes flicked down to her hand but the glare of lamplight on his spectacles kept her from reading his expression. His voice was strange and tight when he noted: “You’re bleeding.”

She looked down. The three inch gash on her hand was still bleeding freely, blood flowing steadily from her thumb onto the already-stained wool of the carpet. She covered the wound quickly with her other hand.

“I—I’m sorry. I’ll pay for it—and for cleaning the carpet, too. I’ll pay you back for all of it—”

“SARAH!”

He bellowed it so loudly Buffy cringed, but his voice regained its even tone once the elderly housekeeper appeared.

“Go to the pantry and get the other bottle of Mother’s medicine,” he ordered, ignoring her curtsy. “Then go upstairs and give Mother one spoonful—and do it quickly. Then sit with her until I arrive.”

He glanced back at Buffy. “Did you send for the doctor?”

She nodded. “Ten minutes ago—Livvy went. She should be back soon.”

“Good.” He seemed almost as anxious Buffy was. When Mrs. Fitzpatrick did not immediately depart he snapped at her, “Well and what are you waiting for? GO!”

Buffy shrank back into the floor, trying to simultaneously pick up broken glass and nurse her bleeding hand. She’d never heard him yell before and something about it frightened her. Although she had not been certain about what kind of person he was, he was at least soft-spoken and polite. She figured if she’d driven him to screaming like a banshee then her butt was as good as gone from this house. She ducked her head and waited for the charge.

But instead of ordering her out, William knelt on the floor next to Buffy.

“Your hand—?”

“It’ll be okay. I just—”

“You misunderstand. What I meant to say was: may I look at your hand?”

She shut up and let him take her right hand in his own. He turned it palm-up and studied the cut for a moment, then reached into his pocket for a handkerchief.

“I shall ask the doctor to examine this after he tends to Mother,” he said—so softly she could barely hear him. “It’s quite deep.”

Buffy hardly felt it as he placed the handkerchief against her wound, applying pressure to stem the bleeding. What she noticed was that his hands were shaking as they tended to her own. His voice was shaky, too. “It’s not that bad,” she told him, puzzled by his behavior. The cut was bleeding freely, but it wasn’t anything serious. No stitches required or anything. Why was he acting so weird? Was it just the blood that had him freaked out?

She looked up to see if he appeared faint or sickened by the sight, but the expression in his blue eyes was one of concern. Tenderness. And there was something else. Something she couldn’t quite comprehend. Something that definitely was not the anger she had anticipated.

She lowered her head and babbled stupidly. “I’m sorry about the medicine. I know it’s really expensive and I will replace it.”

“Don’t be absurd,” he said hoarsely. He was still holding her hand, even though the handkerchief-bandage had successfully stopped the bleeding. And again she became aware of how hot his skin was, almost feverish. When she chanced to glance up he looked quickly down, dropping her hand and avoiding her gaze.

“You’re all right now?”

“I—I’m fine,” she stammered. “Thank you—”

She reached out to touch his arm but he stumbled backward, quickly rising to his feet.

“I—I must tend to Mother. Leave the mess and take care of your hand; I shall tell one of the maids to see to the carpet.”

And before she could say anything in reply he started away, his hands thrust deep in his trouser pockets and his shoulders hunched up. Even from the back she could see that his ears and neck were scarlet.

Buffy sat back on her heels as one of the under maids rushed in and began picking up the bits of broken glass. She felt strange, somehow. Almost as if she wanted to go after him.

But of course, that was unthinkable.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~