The following day William slept until noon, delaying the midday meal by almost an hour, for he refused to rush his toilet just for the convenience of the servants. When he finally sat down at the table, he grimaced wryly at what they placed before him: oxtail consommé and eggs in aspic, blancmange and tea so hot with ginger it scalded one’s throat, going down. Not that he had any particular aversion for such things, but the cook’s intentions were all too clear. Kitchen physics was what they were, foods full of substance and easy to stomach—in other words, perfect to tempt the appetite and foster the strength of the infirm. And he was infirm, wasn’t he? Dr. Long had applied the label when he gave William his death warrant, and it would follow him until the day they carried his wasted corpse to the churchyard. No doubt, the servants knew this and discussed it amongst themselves, and it would seem they had decided the best course of action would be to feed him well and keep him comfortable. After all, their prospects remained closely tied to his wellbeing. If he were to die—
Well, he would die. There was no question of that. The object of the game was to keep him animate—and in England—for as long as possible. It saved his staff the tedious task of finding new employment.
On the periphery of a dozen whispered conversations to that effect, William felt as though he should upbraid them. His health was none of the servants’ concern, and they were being downright insolent to speak of it. However, admonishing their gossip, their pity, would first mean acknowledging he had noticed it, and that was beneath him. Moreover, he was finding it difficult to muster any genuine interest in the matter. Hopeless as his situation was, that morning he felt too consumed by pleasant subjects to trouble with the unpleasant ones. Pleasant subjects, of course, being all those concerning Buffy Summers.
Her necklace was in his watch pocket, just below his heart. Every so often, he put his hand to it just to reassure himself that it was real.
He did not feel hungry, but that was hardly surprising. The laudanum would have curbed his appetite even if his illness had not. Nevertheless, he forced himself to eat, swallowing the food whole and without really tasting it. He knew he would grow weaker if he did not take better care to nourish himself, and the thought of it suddenly frightened him. She was not a dream, and that meant he needed his strength in order to meet with her. That night and the following night and every single night afterward he must meet her; he refused to allow a small matter like his own terminal illness to thwart him in this endeavor.
How different things seemed today! If her reality did not give him a reason to live, at the very least it offered him a reason not to die, and he felt his spirits shift accordingly. He was happy—undeniably so—yet also restless and keen, not like himself at all. He felt captive in his impatience to see her again. He felt like a rabbit in a snare—like a dog fighting against a tether—and it left him irritable and quick to snap at those beneath him. The staff, not wanting to provoke him, determined to keep well away until he called for them.
But he didn’t call for them.
In the afternoon, he took to the gardens and the orchard, annoying the gardeners, who of course must stop what they were doing and bow whenever he passed them. He ignored them entirely, focusing instead on the hoof prints in the grass, the small, shallow indentations where her feet had trod. Part of him thought if he just paced long enough she would come to him in spite of the early hour. She had never done such a thing before, but her necklace lay secreted in his waistcoat pocket yet, and if any man was capable of bringing a woman into being through sheer force of will, he would have surely managed it.
Of course, he did not manage it because it was not possible, but it took him a while to accept that fact.
After dinner (bread-and-butter and beef tea, which he insisted upon eating in the garden) he sat in the sun-warm grass at the base of the wall to brood. Why, he wondered, did she insist upon only visiting him in the night? Was there some unnamed difficulty keeping her away? Would she come right now, if only she were able to do so? He knew she could not care for him in any romantic sense, but was she fond enough of him to miss him when they were apart? Was she thinking of him now, just as he was thinking of her, and wishing for darkness to fall so they could meet?
He laughed a little at the last, and then gave a beleaguered groan. For he knew full well she could not be possessed of the same single-minded devotion he himself felt. No woman could. Not for him.
She comes and goes just as she pleases, and I must wait for her. All my day, I am waiting. I couldn’t call my soul my own at this point—
Yet, on further reflection, he couldn’t say he minded. His soul was something he did not value very highly and it was nice, in a way, to have her so entrammel it. He had never completely belonged to anyone before.
Well, no. That was not strictly true. There had been another. Just the one and it had not lasted very long, but it had been no less genuine because it was ill fated. Much as he might like to, he could not deny its existence.
This fancy felt different somehow, more consuming, but he could not imagine it ending any better than its predecessor. He might have been foolish, but he was not a glutton for punishment, and previous experience had taught him well. Never again would he attempt to make a woman love him; never again would he hope for it. Buffy Summers hadn’t any idea how he felt about her, and he was glad of that. He would be clever this time around, and give the object of his ardor no indication of his real feelings, no ammunition with which to hurt him. He would be strong.
Nevertheless—
Oh, why did she keep coming here? If only he knew the reason, he was sure it would not be so difficult to keep his emotions in check. He could not believe her motives were as simple as she claimed. Surely, a woman would not make such an effort as to travel across the decades just to spend time with—what was it she had called him?—a different version of a man she once knew.
And what is the meaning of that, anyway? How could she have known any version of me? Even the healthiest of men could not live a hundred and fifty-five years. Yet she could not have meant she knew some strange reborn likeness, some transmigration of my soul, for she knows too many details about me, and my current life. Surely, that must indicate—
What, precisely? He hadn’t a clue, and as he sat trying to work it out, a young woman suddenly appeared on the garden path before him.
William startled and for a moment his heart beat fast, but the sun-backed apparition wasn’t Buffy. It was one of the under maids, and clutched in her hand were two oblongs of stiff paper—calling cards, of course.
Now, William rarely had callers. He climbed to his feet, trying to mask his surprise as he asked the girl, “What is it?”
“Sir,” she answered timidly, dropping a curtsy. “I’m terrible sorry to disturb you, but there’s some people wish to—”
“Your manner of speech is atrocious,” he interrupted. Rather unkindly, but it was a pet peeve of his and he was annoyed by the intrusion. When she offered no response, he snapped his fingers and held out his hand.
The top card was white and plain, with nothing but the name, The Reverend Samuel Pleasance, inscribed in stark black ink. William shifted it to the bottom with little more than a cursory glance. The other card was larger than the first, pale yellow, and ornamented by any number of vibrant chromo flowers. The printed text was elaborate: a feminine script with so many swirls and curlicues deciphering the name was almost impossible. Yet William did not have to read it to know its owner must be Isabelle Pleasance. The unmarried sister of the equally unmarried clergyman, Isabelle lived with Samuel and kept his house. As part of this role, she often accompanied him on his missions of mercy about the village.
William assumed that was what brought them here this evening: a mission of mercy, two pious neighbors hoping to offer a bit of comfort to a dying man. Undoubtedly, they would be the first in a long line of altruistic well-wishers. He hadn’t attended services the previous Sunday, and news traveled quickly in a small place such as this. The whole village probably knew of his condition by now, and they would all come by to catch a glimpse of him as he rotted.
He shoved the cards back at the maid with a sour expression.
“You may tell them I’m not in,” he said.
The girl bobbed a quick curtsy. “Yes sir. Only—” she hesitated.
“Well, what?”
“If it makes a difference to you, it’s just Miss Pleasance and her girl servant. The vicar ain’t with them.”
That gave him pause. The vicar remained single for a myriad of reasons, not the least of which being his corpulent physique and hideous countenance; Isabelle, however, was rather good-looking. Not altogether beautiful, perhaps, and she was getting on. But even at twenty-nine, she was lissome and pretty, with dark hair and bright blue eyes. She had always seemed kind enough, and there were times in church when the vicar’s words had bored him and his eyes had sought her out, just to have something to look at. Perhaps, she’d done the same and found him pleasing? There were Sundays when she had smiled at him very warmly.
The thought made him flush, but only for a moment. He was being absurd. She had most likely heard of his illness from the doctor’s wife and, being a dutiful Christian, decided to visit the poor invalid as an act of charity. Well, he didn’t need her charity, or her pity. He didn’t want it. He had—
Buffy
—himself.
He glared at the maid. “Did I not tell you to say I’m gone?”
“You did, sir.”
“Then leave me and do so!”
She fled and he dropped back onto the grass, feeling oddly satisfied with himself. All he had ever wanted in London was to belong, for polite society to hold him in high regard, and he had worked tirelessly to that end. Yet in spite of his most strenuous efforts—in spite of his money and his reputation and his fine family name—something had always held him apart from his peers. Long before he realized the extent of their ridicule, he had known they didn’t admire him. It had been a terribly painful thing to acknowledge back then, but now he found he did not care if Westbury society admired him. In a perverse fashion, he almost felt he would rather they did not. What good was it for them to be friendly to him now, when there could be no future in it?
A quarter of an hour passed and then the maid returned, this time with a short, handwritten note from Miss Pleasance. In it, she expressed her sympathy for him in his illness and her desire to help him in any way he might deem possible. She begged him to call on her or send for her whenever he felt it prudent to do so. It was an amiable and very sincere little missive, full of tender overtures for friendship from one lonely soul to another. In another lifetime, William might have been touched. He might even have found the courage to respond.
In this lifetime, he uncorked his laudanum and only skimmed the letter before crumpling it in his hand. The sun was low on the horizon, and she would be here soon. He had neither the time nor the inclination to consider lesser idols. His heart was full.
Eyes closed, he lifted the bottle to his lips and drank.