Two full days without her.
Forty-eight hours.
Two thousand, eight hundred and eighty minutes.
One hundred seventy-two thousand, eight hundred seconds.
Should he have known that? He probably shouldn't have known that. It was obsessive and more than a little bit pathetic to break his loneliness down into increments, to catalogue each one as it passed. Even knowing this, he could not bring himself to stop. The propensity for mindless infatuation being, of course, very much a part of his nature. What was the old adage about what was bred in the bone coming out in the flesh? Well, all one had to do was look at his own family history to see where that bit of eccentricity originated.
He wondered if she thought of him while they were apart.
She would not miss him, of course. He could never have hoped for that. But did she consider him at all during that seemingly endless absence? Did she wonder if he was reading her books and was she curious about his reaction to them? With characteristic pessimism, he doubted he entered into her thoughts at all. He was an amusement for her, a curiosity, but interesting only so long as he was standing before her. If she truly had any depth of feeling for him, she would not have insisted on a separation. She would not have been able to bear the thought of one.
William bore it with very poor grace indeed.
It rained on Wednesday, confining him to the house when he would have preferred to sit in the garden, the orchard. All day long, the servants hovered over him. They annoyed him with their questions, their constant offers of assistance. He knew they were merely concerned, but the intrusive, noisy presence made his head ache. He gathered his laudanum bottle and the bag containing Buffy's books and shut himself in the study. He wanted to be alone, to be quiet, but all afternoon they knocked on the door, calling through it to ask him if there was anything he needed.
He was needful.
Was that not what Walter Rathbone once said? A late June evening in Hampstead, the air dense and heavy in the face of an impending storm. Allan Priest was having his annual Midsummer Night party, a ludicrously pagan affair involving bonfires, fancy dress, and inordinate quantities of champagne. Cecily was in attendance, of course, as ladylike as ever but a little silly with the general merriment of the occasion. She wore a jeweled tiara and a mask made of dark blue silk; her gown had silver stars embroidered about the hem. He had wanted to talk about poetry, to ask her if she enjoyed the book he lent her the week before, but she brushed him off. Not cruelly, but in an offhanded way, as though he were an interfering child or an annoying dog. He stood on the edge of the croquet field, dejected and confused, and watched her go.
He certainly looks intent upon it, an unfamiliar voice said from somewhere in the game behind him.
Well, she won't have him and that's a mercy for her, Walter had answered. God help the woman who does take William Pratt, a man so needful he requires his mother's care at the age of thirty.
The two men laughed and said even more as they played through, but that was the word that stuck in his mind: needful. Requiring a mother's care even at the age of thirty.
Damn them. Did they really think he had chosen the life he led? He loved his mother, but he had not wanted to remain with her forever, a perpetual child. She needed him. That was the thing no one understood, the credit he never received. He was taking care of her. She had clung to him after his father died. He didn't blame her for it; he was all she had left. It was not so terrible when he was young and most of his days were spent locked in the hell that was Eton and, later, Christ Church. Back then, it was a relief to escape into a mother's loving arms. It was only later, when he was full grown and desirous of his own identity that those embraces became confining. By then her illness was apparent and she needed him more than ever. What choice did he have but to care for her? Did they expect him to abandon her in a sanatorium or leave her to the tender mercies of some half-witted home nurse? He could not do that. She was his mother and he loved her. Was it wrong for him to do his duty uncomplainingly and free of resentment toward her?
Two years later, he still found himself clenching his jaw, furious with the injustice of it. Yet he could not help but wonder how Buffy Summers might perceive those actions. Would she consider him loyal and loving, the ideal son? Or, would she see it as his own peers had, as a sign of weakness and effeminacy? How did men behave in her place and time? What was expected of them?
William looked for answers in the books she had given him, but he did not find them. The newer volumes seemed more focused on technology than anything, except for perhaps sex. Good God, with all the premarital, extramarital, and post marital relations going on it was a wonder they had time for anything else. War, for instance. There was a lot of that as well. Her world seemed to him a very violent place, and he could not help but wonder if this might be why she visited him. How strange it was to consider that his life—his narrow, suffocating, unhappy little world—might actually seem like an escape to someone like her.
He browsed through every volume, but he could not bring himself to finish even one. The events they relayed were too disheartening, the photographs and descriptions sickeningly graphic. Even the first volume, the one about his present time, seemed filled with nothing but horror stories. One chapter, cheerfully entitled "England's White Death," talked about consumption. William didn't realize it at first, for the author called it something else, but midway through he caught on. He would have liked to finish it, to see how it all turned out, but he was too afraid of the ending to do so. He was afraid of where it would lead him.
Shaken, he set the history books aside and took up the poetry instead. Here was something that would not worry him, he thought. Here was something recognizable. True, some of the verses were candid to the point of vulgarity, but they still felt safe. They still described emotions with which he was familiar. More importantly, she had read this collection. She had liked it, carried it with her for an entire semester at University. Her name was inscribed on the inside cover in blue ink and her fingertips had smudged some of the pages. It was hers, and that fact alone made it worthy of his attention.
He read her favorite poem until he had it memorized, until he could lay the open book across his chest and recite it with his eyes closed. He did that, and imagined what it might be like to whisper the verses into her ear, her hair, her skin. For two long days, he did nothing else. It was raining out, and the extra measure of laudanum he took to calm his nerves left him feeling sluggish and ill. She would not visit him. No one would. What else had he to do but dream?
She was, of course, terribly put out by his lack of progress with the books.
He had expected this, so it came as no surprise when she reproached him. After all, she would not have given them to him if she did not intend for him to read. What stung was that she made this the sole focus of her visit. They hadn't seen each other for two days (which might as well have been an eternity, if you wanted to know his opinion on the matter), and now all she could talk about was his laziness, his poor attitude, and his lack of intellectual curiosity. He had known all along his fantasies about their reunion were outlandish, and he had not actually expected her to embrace him or tell him she missed him. But would it have been too much to ask her to show a little enthusiasm? Could she not take a single moment to greet him properly before turning her attention to those damnable books?
"I'm afraid I didn't realize the matter was of such importance," he said stiffly, once she finally stopped to take a breath. "I suppose from now on I should follow your syllabus to the exclusion of everything else in my life."
Like the business of dying. He did not say this aloud, but the thought was there.
Of course, Buffy didn't know he was dying; she did not even know he was ill. To her, his moodiness seemed like little more than an exercise in self-indulgence, and she rolled her eyes at him as though he were a five-year-old in the middle of a tantrum.
"I thought you wanted to know everything about me," she said.
"Yes. About you. Those books are not about you." He favored her with a sullen glance. "You refuse to tell me anything at all about your life, including your reasons for coming here. I know nothing of who you are or what you do."
Buffy could hardly argue with him on that point. Still, she seemed eager to justify her actions. She swore she would tell him everything he wanted to know; she just needed to be certain he was ready first. That was why the books were so necessary. They were meant to prepare him, to help him understand.
"And did you finish even one of them?" she demanded, returning to her original train of thought. "Did you try—?"
"I finished the poetry." Normally, William would not have been so rude as to interrupt, but he suddenly felt too tired to listen to further diatribes. He sat down on the ground at her feet and rested his aching head against his hand.
"I'm not so lazy as you think," he muttered into his palm. "I did try reading the others. I started them all. It was just a lot to take in, particularly over two days' time. "
She softened a bit at that. "You're right. It is a lot to take in. I shouldn't have asked you to..."
"Pray don't," he said. "It's all right." But it wasn't, not really, and Buffy must have known that. She dropped down onto the grass beside him.
"Well, at least tell me what you thought of the poetry."
He answered without lifting his head, without even glancing over at her. "It was terribly vulgar in places."
"Only in places?"
William heard the amusement in her tone and he resented it, but he struggled to be just when he answered. "Only in places. Some of it was rather beautiful."
He could feel her watching him, studying his face with an intensity that made him uncomfortable. Cool as the night air was, his cheeks were fever-flushed and his forehead glazed with a thin sheen of sweat. His skin felt hot, yet he shivered inside his woolen coat. He wondered if there was any possibility she might fail to notice this. His illness was a secret he did not care to share, not with her. Not just yet.
"I think 'in time of daffodils' was my favorite," he said, partly to distract her and partly because it was true.
"Oh, yeah?" She shifted a little nearer to him, her elbow coming to rest in the crook of his own. "Why is that?"
"Because you said it was your favorite, and I like being reminded of you."
"Oh, William..." The raw tone of her voice startled him and he lifted his head to look at her. At that moment, her affection seemed a tangible thing. He felt as if he could have reached out and stroked it; he felt as if he could have cradled it against his heart. Yet she looked sad, too, and full of a terrible sense of indecision.
"What is—" he began. She interrupted him before he could finish.
"I guess you'll be going to London soon."
"London?" he echoed in surprise.
"You have a house there, don't you? In Kensington?"
Now, how would she know that?
"I did own a house in Kensington at one time, but not any longer."
"You sold it?"
He nodded. "After my mother died. I didn't want to live there anymore."
"Oh, I don't blame you for that," she told him. "I wouldn't have either."
She thought he meant he did not want to live where his mother had died, William realized. He didn't attempt to disabuse her of the notion. Instead, he focused on fielding her next question.
"But you go back sometimes, right? Even just to visit?"
"I shall never go back." His vehemence appeared to startle her, and he took care to lower his voice a few decibels before adding, "I despise London."
"Why?" Buffy asked. He lifted his eyebrows and she laughed, taking his point. "Okay...okay...you're right. It isn't fair for me to ask questions when I won't answer them. How about we trade?"
"Trade?"
"Trade questions," she explained. "You can tell me why you hate London and then I'll tell you something about myself. How does that sound?"
It sounded rather ridiculous to him, but William knew nothing could be gained from telling her so. He said instead, "The people in London...they aren't people with whom I care to socialize. They aren't...kind."
"Someone was being unkind to you there?" He opened his mouth to protest and she added hastily, "It's all part of the same question."
"All right, if you insist on knowing. Yes. Someone was unkind to me. Several someones, actually, and on a fairly regular basis."
"Women?"
"One woman. And that makes three."
"Three parts," she argued. "Not three separate questions."
"Still..." He reached beneath his spectacles to rub his eyes.
"Fine. You can ask me something similarly involved and then we'll call it even."
"All right." He shot out the question almost before he knew what he wanted to ask. "The—version—of me you say you knew before, what was the nature of your relationship with him?"
"We were...friends."
"Only friends? Yet, you come to me because—"
"Not this," she broke in quickly. "We can't talk about this. Not yet."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want to!"
That struck him as rather unfair, but no argument in the world would change her mind now. He knew; he tried. "Just pick another topic," she insisted. And, because her stamina for debate greatly exceeded his own, he eventually did.
"Very well. Tell me something of your life."
"Like what?" she asked.
He gave a lofty shrug. "I scarcely feel equal to choosing. After all, I know absolutely nothing about you."
"Well, try."
If she were any other woman, he might have commented on her disagreeable tone; but Buffy looked well capable of striking out, and it seemed impolitic to provoke her further. Far better he should ask his question while he had the chance than waste time testing her patience.
He gave the matter some consideration. Then, "You said you are employed in a trade of some type. It was why you were unable to visit last night. What do you do?"
"Oh..." Buffy bit her lip, clearly not liking this line of inquiry much better than the first one. "Actually, it really isn't a trade so much as a calling."
"Like motherhood," he suggested.
Buffy shot him an annoyed glance. "God, no. Not even a little bit."
"What then? What is it you actually do?"
"I protect people," she said. "I make the world a better place..."
"Go on." For she had hesitated, and he sensed her courage might be about to fail.
"I do it by killing vampires."
Clearly, she expected this revelation to result in some kind of extreme reaction on his part, but the only thing William could think to say was, "Oh."
"Seriously?" She looked incredulous. "I tell you I'm a vampire slayer and that is your response?"
He thought about it for a moment. "I suppose I do have one more question, if I may."
"By all means."
"No doubt you will think me very foolish for asking," he said. "But what exactly is a vampire?"