Sunday.
Normally, he would have been sitting on a hard wooden pew listening to the vicar’s endless droning about light and darkness and the loving, dictatorial spirit of the Almighty. But not today. Today, he had lost track of time, forgotten about his spiritual duty entirely in a strange haze of dope and unaccountably high spirits. After breakfast he went upstairs without a second thought, completely unaware of the stunned glances he left in his wake. The carriage was waiting for him out front; the servants had naturally assumed he would be attending services.
Instead, he spent the morning cloistered in his library searching through what suddenly seemed to be a limitless collection of books. It took him until midmorning to find the one he was looking for, a battered secondhand memoir he had occasionally leafed through but never gotten around to reading in full.
Confessions of an English Opium-Eater, it was called, Being an Extract from the Life of a Scholar.
It sounded right, he thought. It sounded like him, like something that might help him understand what had happened the previous night. But it was disappointing. He was not certain what he had hoped to find in those yellow, dog-eared pages, but as he read, it became increasingly clear he would not be successful. Thomas De Quincey’s experiences were nothing like his own. Moreover, the rapturous way he described the drug made William feel distinctly uneasy. Could this be what lay ahead of him if he continued to pursue her? Was he destined to become a raving madman, a slave to a bottle?
Then again, would it even matter? After all, the ending would remain the same no matter what he did, and perhaps he hadn’t enough time left to become an addict.
He wanted to read the book all the way through; he wanted to know how it ended. Yet he was only a little more than halfway done when the footman knocked on the door to announce luncheon. William might have sent him away, but he knew if he was to avoid another meal then he must first deal with the servants—the feigned expressions of concern, the tiresome questions, the offers to send for the doctor, none of which he felt like parrying. It seemed like less work to just sit in the dining room and eat, and he did feel at least a little hungry.
It was not until he reached the dining room, however, that he recognized his earlier error. He gave the servants Sunday nights off in order to attend church services, and because of this, the evening meal was always something light and easy: sandwiches, salad, or cold tongue. It was really more a meat tea than a proper dinner, so the staff prepared a rather splendid lunch in order to make up for it. Not that William often paid proper tribute to the food—lately he had scarcely shown an interest at all—but it was tradition, the way things were done in a grand home, and the staff would never have considered altering their habits just because they were serving a single man instead of a large family. Therefore, when William saw a leg of lamb in the center of the table, he immediately knew what day it was.
The bloody Sabbath.
Ordinarily, he would have been annoyed with himself for forgetting, but presently all he could muster was an active sense of relief that it was now too late for him to attend services. He despised church, had despised it since the first time he walked into one thirty years before, although it was not until time afterward that he stopped believing in God. He never told anyone that, of course, not even his mother. Especially not his mother. It would have broken her heart had she known, her being so devout and all. A member of the Lady’s Aide Society, a soprano in the choir—or, at least, she had been these things until her illness stole her strength. She had often had the vicar and his wife over to dinner. Before she died, she had made him promise to keep his faith, (not realizing he no longer had any), and to continue attending worship services wherever he chose to live after her passing. She had asked him to pray for her soul. He had promised her, and he had done it. He had done all of it, albeit reluctantly, and with an ever-increasing sense of misery. Rituals and crowds were two things he could not abide, and they were the two things on which every church seemed to operate.
If he were well, skipping church that morning would have been not only unforgivable in the eyes of Westbury society, but also fruitless for there were services in the evening as well, and if his peers overlooked his absence from one, they certainly would not from the other. In fact, a healthy, independently wealthy person was required to attend both. However, no one could expect a man in William’s condition to set foot outside at night—everyone knew night air was the worst thing for consumptives—and he figured he could now avoid at least half his religious obligations without causing too much alarm amongst his peers, or breaking his promise to his mother. After all, allowances must be made for those in poor health.
This realization was strangely elating, and William applied himself to his meal with sudden good cheer. Not only would he be able to avoid a task he disliked, he found himself looking forward to an evening without the servants. Lonely as he was, their constant presence could be stifling, and they were completely useless in terms of company or conversation. Furthermore, he recognized that with them gone he could more easily indulge in his experiments with the laudanum. If he were fortunate, the girl would appear as easily as she had the night before, and if not, perhaps he could help matters along in some fashion. He was not entirely certain how he might do this, but the very notion of it—that he might have some control over her presence, over his own life—pleased him beyond measure, and he found himself speaking to the servants in such congenial tones they seemed almost alarmed as a result. Naturally, none of them spoke of it—not to him—but a whispered conference took place in the kitchen, and at the end of the meal, just as he was rising from his chair, Margaret suddenly appeared in the doorway of the dining room.
Ostensibly, she was there to oversee the removal of the china to the scullery for cleaning, but William could feel her watching him as he climbed to his feet. He could sense the strange, searching intensity of her gaze, and he ought to have upbraided her for it—he had every right—but instead he only smiled wryly and asked her what the matter was.
Thereby given permission to speak, Margaret denied anything was the matter. She said she was merely wondering how he was, if he felt some better after that morning’s bath and rest.
“Some better,” he agreed. Then, in order to ward off any further questions he added hastily, “Yet I think I shall spend the remainder of the day resting, and I shouldn’t like to be disturbed. See to it the others know this, Mrs. Hastings, and tell them they may take their leisure as soon as the afternoon chores are done; I won’t want anything else today.”
Margaret’s eyes widened slightly. There was nothing particularly strange about his canceling dinner; she would have been more surprised had his brief burst of appetite continued. However, it was very unusual for him to offer the servants extra leisure time. In fact, it was completely unheard of. The management of the household staff fell to herself and the butler, and they would only give an extra hour or two in the event of illness or great personal tragedy. She could not imagine what William’s motives might be.
Yet when she parted her lips to ask him, he raised his eyebrows pointedly, and Margaret realized she would be foolish to pursue the matter any further. He was, after all, the master of the house. His directives were beyond reproach, his motives entirely his own.
Of course, the staff could not just set out the moment he dismissed them. William felt foolish for not recognizing this earlier. He should have known they would not leave; they had nowhere else to go. Like any gentleman in his position, he had been very careful to choose servants whose families were not nearby—it discouraged gossip—and like all servants they lived in his house. Where had he thought they would go?
Still, at the very least his orders kept them from being directly underfoot. He took Confessions of an English Opium-Eater to his study, fastened the door behind him, and lay upon the divan to finish reading it in relative comfort.
He did not find any answers, of course, but then he had not really expected to. If anything, the final chapters left him with a smug sense of relief, for De Quincey seemed rather stupid, and he had been unquestionably gluttonous in regards to the opium. A thousand drops a day? No wonder the man had nightmares! William could not envision himself growing so careless, so insatiable, not even for—
Yet at twilight, when the servants had gone and the house was quiet, he drew the bottle from his jacket pocket and poured the liquid onto his tongue with neither a moment’s hesitation, nor the slightest consideration of the consequences. In the back of his mind he truly believed there could be no consequences. After all, he was a dying man. What could he possibly do that would hurt himself further?
The complete relaxation of body and mind was something he had almost forgotten from the previous night, and in the first few moments after swallowing, William found himself staggering about comically, wholly unprepared for the sudden weightlessness of his limbs. His vision swam—the windows looked enormous and the floor seemed very far away—but this did not worry him. Rather, he found himself chuckling in amusement at his own distorted perception, at the clumsiness that made him grab at the furniture to keep from falling. He opened the study door and made his way down the hallway to the landing. The stairs were more difficult to navigate than he expected—they seemed steep, endless, and the first time he stumbled, he almost felt fear. Yet he persevered. Somehow, he knew he must make his way out to the garden if he was to see her again. Vision or not, something told him she would not just appear before him no matter how much he might long for her to.
In the parlor he leaned against the French doors and panted, exhausted by the long passage. The glass was cool and slick against his skin, and his forehead left marks he knew would annoy the parlor maid the next day. He could not bring himself to care. It was his door, his glass, his maid—what reason had he to worry? None at all. For only the second time in his life he felt utterly tranquil.
Then he saw the blur of something white at the far end of the garden—he thought he might even be able to hear the soft thudding of shod hooves on grass—and panic came crashing back with a force that almost knocked him down. Had he missed her? Was he missing her? Stupid, bloody idiot, he raged at himself. Standing here, smiling moronically into the darkness, and all the while she was out there waiting for you.
He hated the idea of chasing after an apparition, of appearing so desperate, yet it seemed as though he had no choice. He had to see her, so he ran—thin arms and legs pumping, feet slipping on the dewy grass, tail of his frockcoat flapping out behind him. Graceless, maybe even pathetic, but determined—absolutely determined—that he should catch her.
And he caught her.
She did not laugh when she saw him, though he would not have blamed her if she had. He was breathless, trembling, rumpled, and sweaty—he must have looked a fright. Yet when he drew up behind her and called her name, she glanced over her shoulder at him with an expression of relief.
“Well, there you are,” she said. “I was beginning to wonder.”
William did not answer—he was struggling to catch his breath—but he watched her avidly as she turned her horse and approached him. She looked different tonight, though he did not immediately understand why. Yet she seemed softer, somehow, and more familiar. She looked more feminine—
That was it, he realized. That was what was different. She looked feminine tonight; she was wearing a dress.
It was not, of course, a dress in the fashion to which he was accustomed. Like the more masculine garb from the previous night, it was strangely cut and shockingly skimpy. Her arms, neck, and most of her shoulders were bare, and the hem of the thin, slightly flared skirt did not even reach her knees. He thought the frail white voile and low v-neck made the garment look more like a chemise than anything else, yet it was undeniably becoming on her. Though she was bronze as a ploughman, her bare skin was silky and flawless. Beautiful.
“You’re staring again,” she remarked. William startled a little at that; he blushed. Yet her tone was good-natured, and he knew better than to apologize. He forced his features into what he imagined must be a relaxed sort of smile.
“I could hardly do otherwise,” he said softly. “You look—”
“What?” she pressed, for he hesitated at the last. He swallowed and dropped his eyes to the ground.
“—lovely.”
“Oh…” Buffy Summers glanced down at herself, smiling. She asked him, “Do you like the dress, William? I wore it just for you.”
He looked up sharply.
“Did you?”
“Sure. You seemed a little baffled by last night’s ensemble, so I thought…”
William leaned slightly forward, but her voice trailed away before the sentence was complete. He could not imagine what she had meant to say, but he was glad she had worn the dress. Her slim calves and small ankles were lovelier than anything he had seen in photographs.
“Aren’t I a dashing equestrienne?” she asked suddenly, interrupting yet another guilty reverie. William dragged his gaze from her bare legs and fixed it upon her eyes, completely ignorant of the amusement twinkling back at him.
“I’m sorry?”
“Well, this is only the second time in my life I’ve ridden a horse, and I think I’m pretty damn good at it.”
Ordinarily, a lady using profanity would have shocked him, but Buffy Summers was a dream, and her vulgarity seemed little more than an extension of his own. William cocked his head at her.
“Did you jump the garden wall?” he asked.
“I did. Impressive, right?”
Not really. The stone wall was only three feet tall, and William had seen foxhunters—occasionally even ladies—sail over obstacles far higher than that. Even he, in his younger, healthier years, had been known to take his horse up to five feet.
Still, it was only her second time on a horse—surely that must count for something—and she was very attractive. He could not imagine it would be good manners to disagree with her.
“That’s quite remarkable,” he said instead. Then, “However—and most certainly if you are going to continue jumping—I’d say you might want to shorten your leathers.”
“Really?” She looked at her saddle in confusion. “How do I do that?”
And William might have told her. He might have demonstrated with gestures or asked her to dismount and done it himself. Instead, he stepped boldly up to the side of the horse and took her stirrup—as well as her small, sandal-shod foot—into the palm of his hand.
“I can do it for you, if you like. I can do it right now.”
Willingly, she slid her feet from the irons and let them dangle at the horse’s sides as he made his adjustments. Her leathers really were too long, especially for a novice. He took them up three holes on each side and then told her to put her feet back in and tell him if she could feel the difference.
“My legs feel scrunched up,” she said, frowning. “Are they supposed to feel scrunched up?”
“Well, no,” he admitted. “But you’re not really—that is, you want to hold yourself more like this—” He grasped her bare ankle gently, holding her lower leg steady as he used his free hand to pull her heel down to the correct angle.
She made a face then, an adorable sort of half-pout, and said it made her Achilles tendons feel very odd. But all William could think about was the smooth flesh beneath his fingers, the warmth and the softness, and the gently throbbing veins. She felt so alive, yet if she had been he knew he never could have touched her. He had never dared to touch any woman before, let alone so intimately.
“It’s uncomfortable because you’re not accustomed to it,” he told her hoarsely, hardly aware of what he was saying. “After a while, it will come naturally.”
He knew he ought to release his grip on her—hallucination or not, it was not right to take advantage—yet he could not quite bring himself to do it. Instead, he found himself sliding his fingers up even further, curving his palm along the downy flesh at the back of her knee.
“Bring it forward—”
“Like this?” she asked with apparent innocence, copying his adjustments with her other, unmolested limb. He nodded.
“But put your hands a little more toward his neck.” He demonstrated with a light grasp on her elbow. “You want a straight line from here—” leaning up to touch her earlobe “—to here” grazing her elbow again “—to here.” And with a final caress to the back of her heel, he finally stepped away.
Oddly, she seemed completely unperturbed by all his fondling. In fact, a quick glance upward left him wondering if she might even have enjoyed it, for she was smiling, though whether this was from amusement or some mysterious, womanly sense of satisfaction he had no way of knowing. All he knew was that he suddenly felt confused and embarrassed, even somewhat ashamed of himself. All this, even though she was not real and nothing he had done to her could be considered wrong.
“Hey,” she said softly, and there was a question in her voice. William cleared his throat gruffly, but he kept his eyes on the ground as he answered.
“Yes?”
There was the soft thumping sound of her dismount, followed by a slight rustling as she tied the horse to a nearby tree. Then, suddenly, he felt her hand on his arm, the press of her breast against his shoulder as she leaned up to speak directly into his ear.
“It’s all right, William,” she told him. “You can look at me.”
And because she said it so gently—because she was beautiful and unreal and nothing terrible could possibly come of it—he did.