Author: avidrosette
Email: avidrosette@yahoo.com
Pairing/characters: William/Buffy, Anne, Giles
Setting/spoilers: London, 1880/summer after "Chosen"
Summary: A little Gothic tale, William/Buffy from William's mother Anne's point of view
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: The characters belong to Joss. I'm just playing with them.
Author's notes: Heartfelt thanks to my talented betas Bogwitch, Sharmor, and Mr. rosette. All errors and infelicities are mine.
Chapter 2
"You look very smart in your dress suit, my dear," said Anne, attempting to straighten the bow in his white tie and smooth his lapel just so. And if only she could neaten those stray curls just a bit...
"Now, Mother," William said, disentangling himself from her ministrations, "I am not thirteen any longer, you know."
"Of course I know that, dear," she said, tweaking at one last sandy curl before he could succeed in ducking away fully. "Will we meet many of our acquaintance at the Travers's tonight, do you think?"
"I think it likely, Mother. Aside from museum colleagues, others of our mutual acquaintance will undoubtedly be invited as well--the Angletons, the Hoskinses, perhaps the...er...Underwoods." William suddenly seemed to find his cuffs in need of serious attention.
"Ah, the Underwoods," said Anne. "And their beautiful daughters."
A gust of chill autumn air entered the foyer as the coachman came in from outside. "The coach is ready, madam, sir."
"Thank you, Johnson," said William, with evident relief. He offered Anne his arm. "Shall we, Mother?"
Together, they stepped out into the night.
The Travers's gathering was large and elegant. Anne spied many familiar faces as well as many new ones. A trio of musicians played a stately melody as the guests mingled and chatted. Servants circulated amongst the guests, offering delicate hors d'oevres and glasses of wine.
Mrs. Amelia Travers greeted Anne and William kindly, and apologized for Mr. Travers, who was engaged in conversation with a gentleman from America.
"But of course," said Anne, firmly ignoring the twinkle in William's eye. "We would not wish to disturb him."
"May I present you to the elder Mrs. Travers, Mr. Travers's mother?" asked Mrs. Travers.
"We should be delighted," said Anne.
"Indeed," said William.
Mrs. Travers led them to a large brocade chair seated with throne-like honor before the fire. An ancient, shrunken lady, bundled so completely in shawls and rugs that only her face was visible, held court from its depths. She regarded Anne and William with sharp, cold eyes as Mrs. Travers made the presentations.
"So this is Mr. William Ashford," she said in a voice barely above a whisper. She fixed her withering gaze on William, and Anne could feel him shift uncomfortably next to her.
Although she appeared to address her comment to her daughter-in-law, William responded with a polite, "At your service, madam."
She replied with an incredulous grunt, as if a rare and disgusting insect specimen had suddenly presumed to address her, and continued to stare.
Anne began to feel uneasy. If Mr. Travers ever regarded William with a fraction of such coldness, she could easily understand why he took pains to avoid Mr. Travers's eye. She glanced over at William to see if there was anything obviously amiss, but his black coat and trousers were actually quite presentable--hardly rumpled at all. True, his curls tended toward the unruly, but she thought that it was not merely maternal fondness that made her feel that his lovely chiseled features and intelligent blue eyes--though hidden behind spectacles--were far beyond reproach. William looked back at her with a wordless question, but she was at a loss for an answer.
She was beginning to cast about for a way to break the strange deadlock, when finally the younger Mrs. Travers suggested that Anne and her son might wish to partake of some refreshments arrayed on a sideboard on the opposite side of the room. As Anne thanked her, she studied her face for any clue as to how to interpret the elder Mrs. Travers's disconcerting demeanor, but Mrs. Amelia Travers wore an expression of blank mildness.
Their audience with the Travers matriarch concluded, Anne and William gratefully moved on to a more congenial part of the room. When the pair had reached a safe distance, William gave Anne a sidelong glance and the hint of a theatrical shudder. She patted his arm.
The evening then took a turn for the better, at least if Anne were to judge from William's heightened countenance. Following his gaze, Anne saw a circle of their acquaintance, a number of whose members were William's age. Several Angletons were present, as well as a Miss Underwood and a few others. If truth were told, Anne found Mrs. Angleton a bit of a trial, but it was one she had borne many times, and she prepared herself to do so again.
"My dear Mrs. Ashford," greeted Mrs. Angleton, upon sighting her.
"How delightful to see you here, Mrs. Angleton," said Anne, taking the seat that William placed nearby for her.
With his back to Mrs. Angleton, William gave Anne a wry smile before abandoning her to join a group of his young acquaintances.
"My dear," began Mrs. Angleton, in a tone of great portent, "You cannot imagine what I have heard regarding the exploits of the Lightfoot's youngest."
"Indeed I cannot." With an internal sigh, Anne composed her features into an attitude of attention.
Mrs. Angleton proceeded to relate a tale of grave trespass of some sort or other, but Anne found her eyes involuntarily fixating on her companion's long, bony arms, which gestured quite expressively. As Mrs. Angleton narrowly missed piercing an unwary servant with one sharp elbow, Anne found herself wishing, as she had on more than one occasion, that Mrs. Angleton would at last discover the innovation of long sleeves.
Wrenching her eyes from those offending elbows, Anne let her observation drift to William and his circle of friends, who had moved a couple of paces toward the center of the room, while she continued to murmur vague words of reply, at what she hoped were appropriate intervals, to Mrs. Angleton's lengthy story.
"What think you about Gladstone's return?" asked Sir Edmond Bancroft's eldest son, of the group surrounding him. At least that is what Anne thought he said. Young Mr. Bancroft had a habit of barely moving his lips when he spoke.
"I suppose we shall now have to hear more about his bloody bleeding heart for the Irish," drawled Mr. Harry Angleton, with characteristic profanity.
"Harry, dear, do mind your language," said his sister, Sophronia. "There are ladies present who are not your sisters, you know."
"How do you expect Gladstone to proceed with the Afghan war, Mr. Bancroft?" asked Miss Cecily Underwood.
William gazed at her with evident admiration. "I salute your interest in world affairs, Miss Underwood."
She tossed her head, showing off her long neck.
"At least he has not withdrawn our troops from Afghanistan yet," said Mr. Bancroft. "I presume his ranting on the subject was mere campaign blather."
"You would be in a position to know best, Mr. Bancroft," said Miss Underwood.
Mr. Bancroft bowed.
"Bismark is likely to get hungry now that Disraeli is not around to check him," said Mr. Angleton. "He appeared to grow quite fond of 'the old Jew' back in Berlin."
"Quite so," mumbled Mr. Bancroft.
"Well, I for one shall miss reading of Dizzy driving Gladstone into a frenzy with a few choice words," said William, warming to the subject. "His trenchant humor was such an antidote to Gladstone's pious humbug. However, maybe now Disraeli will have more time to write novels. His plots are not particularly memorable, of course, but his portraits of the poor are so moving, and of the rich so witty, that one quite forgives the weak story line. Why, in Sybil, he actually takes us into the frightful squalor of the cottages--a place to which we Londoners would have no reason to venture and so would remain sadly ignorant of if not for his writing. Except of course for those like you, Mr. Bancroft, who are come to town from a country estate and therefore must have such cottages upon their own property."
A general pause followed, with several pairs of eyes swiveling worriedly toward Mr. Bancroft.
"Yes. Quite," said Mr. Bancroft.
Anne fanned herself. Ah, well, she thought. At least we do not depend on the Bancrofts for any sort of patronage.
"Do you not agree, Mrs. Ashford?" said Mrs. Angleton, with the insistent tone of one who has asked a question more than once.
"Oh yes, of course, Mrs. Angleton. Just so." Anne just hoped she was not agreeing to anything too egregious.
"William, my dear," said Anne, when he had brought her tea, "I do not see young Mr. George Cane anywhere. I was most eager to inquire after his mother's health."
William looked down at his feet. "He was not invited, Mother."
"Why, he is your close colleague. How could Mr. Travers justify inviting the one and not the other?"
"Mother, you know how it is."
"What," said Anne in a low but vehement tone. "George is good enough to engage in scholarly research at The British Museum, just as Mr. Travers does, but he is not good enough to be invited to a party?"
"He is good enough to translate archaic works from the Hebrew and Aramaic, and to assist scholars in navigation of the same. However, this very skill at the same time appears quite to disqualify him, in the eyes of certain enlightened individuals, from inclusion in lofty social events like this one."
For a moment, Anne was too angry to trust herself to speak. She did know how it was, and that did not make her feel the least bit better.
"Dear Mother," said William, with a gentle caress of his knuckle on her cheek, "It may ease your feelings somewhat to know that in this one instance at least, George confessed to me that he was genuinely glad of the snub. With a few shining exceptions, the company is hardly scintillating, and, knowing him, he would have spent most of the evening worried Mr. Travers--or perhaps his mother, now I've met her--would suddenly appear behind him with a scalpel and specimen bag and say 'Boo!'"
Anne did not reply, but as she and William took a turn about the room, her mind traveled to some uncomfortable and rarely visited places. Her own family circumstances had been a source of embarrassment to her late husband. He felt degraded by the match and found a thousand little ways to share the sensation with his wife. Of course, he liked her family's money well enough, she thought with a touch of bitterness. Anne dearly loved her mother and father, but the honor in which she held their memory was tainted with reproach at their having colluded with the Ashfords to engineer a marriage of Wealth and Blood without consulting the likely happiness of either intended party.
Anne's grip tightened on William's arm as the memories passed through her mind.
Dear little William had been most protective of her through the endless onslaught of her husband's recriminations, though he had but an imperfect understanding of the nature of his mother's supposed guilt. Perhaps the worst of the punishments Mr. Ashford visited upon her was his resolute view of William as hopelessly tainted by her inferior blood. She grieved for her earnest, sensitive son, who wanted only to please.
Anne and William paused to exchange brief greetings with Mr. and Mrs. Hoskins, and then resumed their perambulations.
In retrospect, Anne wondered at her husband's blindness to the steel beneath William's shy exterior. She shuddered as she recalled the numerous whippings her husband ordered for him in an attempt to rid the boy of such grievous faults as soft-heartedness, a preference for reading over sports, and above all, a devotion to herself. Yet much as he would have liked to please his father, William remained stubbornly himself, steadfastly refusing to transform into the bluff, thoughtless lad his father desired. When his father took him shooting in the country, young William mourned over the downed pheasants. He soberly informed his father and his father's noble companions that pheasants mated for life, and that the reason they often got two at once was because the pheasant's mate refused to leave the vicinity of her fallen spouse. This cast a bit of a pall over the shooting party, and William was thereafter left behind with the ladies during hunting forays.
Anne's steps slowed as gloom overtook her. Since her husband's death, she occasionally felt the lack of a father figure in William's life. Yet on balance she wondered if the absence of a father was not a lesser evil than the presence of one who was determined to find his son wanting.
Sensitive to her moods as always, William stopped and examined her face searchingly. "Let us sit down, Mother," he said gently, leading her to a relatively secluded alcove.
They sat upon a settee, and Anne looked down at her hands.
William studied her for a moment with a tilted head and a serious expression.
"My dear Mother," he said softly, placing his hand over hers.
"Dear William," was at first all she trusted herself to say. "I fear that my background may prove an impediment to you, particularly in your choice of wife."
"Mother, I pray you will not fret about such things. I would rather be aligned with you than have all the grandees in the kingdom offer up their daughters to me in marriage." William paused and his eyes acquired a faraway look, as if an idea had entered his head that was not wholly objectionable.
Anne raised an eyebrow.
William shook off the fantasy with a chuckle, and Anne felt her mood lighten a bit in response.
"If certain puffed-up families cannot stomach association with our supposedly inferior blood, surely we are none the worse for the lack of their company?" William continued. "We walk as if in a daydream, Mother. All our conventions, fine distinctions of rank and privilege, mere mutually agreed upon illusions (although of a surety buttressed by law in many cases). The only true difference between them and us is that we know it to be illusion. We who study history know that the conditions of the moment are as fleeting as dreams, that what we view today as fixed and solid will tomorrow be a fading memory of a quixotic and faintly ridiculous past."
"You take the long view, my dear, as befits your scholarly frame of mind. But can your potential wife be expected to do the same?"
"A fair question, Mother, and one that perhaps must be answered in the negative for those ambitious young ladies whose primary care in marrying is wealth and distinction. But I cannot believe that a lady of true discernment, of fine understanding and benevolent disposition, such as I would wish to marry, would place the situation of my grandparent's family above character and present circumstances."
"I hope you are right, my dear," said Anne, but she remained troubled. She did not wish to see William in an unequal marriage such as she had had. Where one party thought themselves above the other, however real or illusory that belief, no happiness could result.
William offered Anne his arm, and together they joined the stream of guests moving across the room. "Look, Mother, they are opening the pianoforte. I believe Miss Underwood may play or sing."
Miss Underwood did indeed play: a complex and really quite gorgeous Beethoven concerto. Anne had to admit that Miss Underwood had skill. Her rendition was quite exacting in its technical execution. And yet, watching her, Anne could not help but feel that beneath the emotion inherent in the music, Miss Underwood herself was rather cold.
But where Anne saw hauteur and disdain in Miss Underwood's habitual reserve of manner, she rather feared William saw an admirable absence of frivolity, filled perhaps instead with deep thoughts and finer sensibilities than the average. Anne glanced at William, who appeared quite enraptured with Miss Underwood's performance, and felt a twinge of concern.
"Mother," William asked, leaning close to her ear, "What rhymes with Beethoven?"
Anne thought for a moment. "We shall go no more a-rovin'? We'd best hope her foot's not cloven? 'Twas a creaky coach we drove in?"
William gave a silent snort. "Nice meter, Mother."
Anne smiled. Maybe she ought not to worry so much about her only child. Despite his poetic flights of fancy, he seemed to have his feet firmly planted on the earth.
It now seemed inevitable that the event, which William would have preferred to avoid, would soon come to pass. Anne saw Mr. Travers approaching them. He was accompanied by a distinguished looking gentleman, whom she did not recognize, and a diminutive young lady, who clutched rather tightly to the gentleman's arm. The young lady had an arresting look that caught Anne's eye: a hard set to her face, which contrasted oddly with a pair of tragic eyes, as if she had seen more pain and suffering than one would expect in one so young.
William was facing in the opposite direction cleaning his spectacles, and did not notice their approach. He turned abruptly just as they arrived--as if he had sensed the presence of a threat in the form of Mr. Travers, Anne thought with amusement--and unfortunately collided with the young lady, whose arm sent his spectacles flying.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, stooping to pick them up.
"Not at all," said William, also crouching to reach them. "Allow me to retrieve them; you mustn't trouble yourself."
The young lady, being rather quicker, reached the spectacles first, and as she began to hand them to him, looked into his face for the first time. Anne was startled to see her turn deathly pale. Staring transfixed at William's face, the young lady uttered a single word that sounded like, "Spike."
"Miss?" said William uncertainly. He offered his hand to help her to stand.
She allowed him to assist her to rise, but then turned her head sharply away from him and covered her eyes with her hand.
The gentleman accompanying her regarded her with concern, and attempted to comfort her with a hand on her shoulder.
Mr. Travers cleared his throat rather severely, and proceeded with the introductions. "Mr. Giles and Miss Summers, may I present Mrs. Anne Ashford and Mr. William Ashford. Mrs. Ashford and Mr. Ashford, Mr. Rupert Giles and Miss Buffy Summers, from America."
"How do you do," murmured Anne, William, and Mr. Giles.
"I can't do this, Giles," said Miss Summers.
"Buffy--" said Mr. Giles, but she pulled away from him and headed for the door. He looked after her for a moment, and then addressed Anne and William. "I'm terribly sorry. Please excuse Miss Summers. She has experienced a great deal of loss recently. Excuse me." And he too took his leave.
Anne and William stood staring dumbstruck in the direction the two had fled, and even Mr. Travers appeared quite nonplussed.
The grating voice of Mr. Harry Angleton broke the stunned silence. "Look at that William. You've driven the girl to tears and you haven't even read her one of your poems yet."
Anne saw the muscles in William's jaw tighten, but he did not reply. Instead he looked to Anne in helpless bewilderment. Anne cast him a sympathetic look. She had no more idea than he what had just transpired.