Pairing/characters: William/Buffy, Anne, Giles
Setting: London, 1880/summer after "Chosen"
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: The characters belong to Joss. I'm just playing with them.
Written for: William ficathon, organized by eurydice72. This story is for kallysten, who requested William/Buffy, romance, a poem by Buffy, and an orchid. It's coming, Kallysten; it's all coming.
Heartfelt thanks to my talented betas bogwitch, Sharmor, and Mr. rosette. All errors and infelicities are mine.




Down Where the Woodbines Creep
by avidrosette


Sleep baby sleep
Down where the woodbines creep
Be always like the lamb so mild
A kind and sweet and gentle child
Sleep baby sleep


Chapter 1


Did she love the night or did she fear it? Anne Ashford contemplated the question as she sat at her writing desk watching the gray-white day yield to the dusky indigos of evening. An unfinished letter to her nieces in the north lay waiting on the desk in front of her, but this time of day always pulled at her emotions. That indefinable moment when day became night--who could say exactly where one left off and the other began--filled her at the same time with melancholy and a longing for things she could not name.

"My dearest Sarah and Emily," she began. "I hope this letter finds you in earnest anticipation of a ball, party, or other event of the sort that quickens the hearts of young ladies everywhere."

She paused to watch the gaslamps flicker on one by one. It was odd, she thought, the dull yellow pools of light they cast made the surrounding gloom seem darker--as if there were a fixed sum of darkness in the world, and banishing it in one place merely intensified it in another.

"I know that whatever the event, my two lovely nieces will light up the room with their incandescent charm and kindness."

Her mind wandered to her own youth in the north. There, the night was pure and black as velvet, the dips and hollows in the hills as fathomless in their darkness as holes in the earth. Here in London, night had varying shades, muddy yellow near the gas lamps, soot black in the alleys, blue violet behind the building spires, oozing silver-black where the Thames ran fast beneath the bridges.

"As for your attire, I imagine you decked in yards of such fine lace and delicately colored silks that the other guests will find themselves--quite unaccountably--thinking of summer fairs and frothy confections."

Anne glanced up at the window again. The darkness had encroached even further; soon there would be nothing left of day. An anxious sense of things irreparably left behind, of time flowing like water forever and always downstream, nagged at her. With part of her mind, she felt a stab of fear and cast about for ways to clutch at what was being lost.

Yet if she listened closely, another small voice within her--which she quite distrusted--whispered that she wanted nothing more than to give in to the flow, to delight in the sensation of sweeping past the static banks, and to turn her head away uncaring from the other flotsam tossing and bobbing in the current alongside her.

She pushed aside the letter and let her strange thoughts wash over her while she waited for her son to come home from work.

The servants' "good evenings" at the front door jarred her back to herself with a guilty start. She gratefully turned from the darkening vista, and left the room to greet William.

"Good evening, Johnson. Good evening, Rose. Ah, Mother." William's habitual expression of mild defensiveness softened as his mother appeared from the drawing room.

"William, dear," said Anne, presenting each of her cheeks to be kissed. "I am so glad you are home."

"How was your day, Mother?"

"Frightfully dull and tedious, dear." She took his arm as they walked down the passageway. "Let me call for dinner, and then you can reanimate my mind with some of your outrageous tales from the museum."

"Your wish is my command, Mother."

"Of course it is," she said with a smile.


 

*

Dinner was a formal affair, much as it had been in the time of the late Mr. Ashford. Anne's one small rebellion was to have herself and William seated directly across from each other, rather than at opposite poles of the long table. Unlike her late husband, she actually enjoyed dinnertime conversation.

As the servant brought in the first course, Anne idly surveyed the dining room. For the thousandth time, her eye tripped on the heavy pieces of antique furniture that loomed with self-important heft at intervals throughout the room. Mr. Ashford's mother had chosen it years before, and it was not to be altered during her marriage. New styles of furnishings danced before her mind's eye. Some actually had a light, spare, Oriental air about them that she found intriguing. One of these days she would certainly redecorate.

Looking across at William's welcoming face, with the candlelight playing off the golden glints in his hair, Anne smiled. Furniture seemed a very small matter indeed compared to the blessing of a charming son who quite doted on her. As the servant ladled soup into Anne's favorite bowls with the small rose pattern, she wondered what diverting stories William had encountered today in his course of cataloging classical texts.

"Well, my dear," said Anne, waving a dismissal to the servant, "How did Mr. Anaxagoras get on today?"

"Ah, Mr. Anaxagoras of Eleusis. You remembered him, did you?"

Anne serenely ignored his teasing tone, and took a spoon of soup.

"Yes, well... I'm afraid Mr. Anaxagoras was up to a great deal of no good today, Mother."

"Indeed?"

William nodded. "In a typically Greek quest for perfection of physical form, he paid a visit to the city gymnasium thinking to take some exercise. So far, so commendable. However, rather than taking, he was instead taken in by the physical perfections of one Mr. Arsenios, whose charms, if we are to believe the besotted encomiums of Mr. Anaxagoras, rivaled those of young Antinoos himself. Of whom Mr. Anaxagoras of course knew nothing, having preceded him on this earth by several hundred years."

"You digress, my dear."

"Thank you, Mother. Suffice to say, Mr. Anaxagoras made a number of indecent suggestions to Mr. Arsenios, not sparing certain representations as to how he lived up to his name as an, ahem, master orator."

"William! Really!"

"Begging your pardon, Mother. Alas, Mr. Arsenios was hardly proof against such inducements as these. I am sorry to report that he was soon industriously engaged in such vigorous activities with Mr. Anaxagoras as would render his abandoned gymnasium exercises entirely superfluous. And here perhaps we had best draw a veil over the conduct of our protagonists lest we bring a blush to the bronze cheeks of the very statue of Achilles himself."

Feeling a blush upon her own cheek, Anne tried to look stern, but felt perhaps her performance was less than perfect.

"Ah, I see from your expression that you fear for the immortal souls of our two beloved heroes. Very correct of you. Yet, before you despair, consider that their...exchange of ideas led to a highly edifying discourse on the philosophical nature of love in all of its many forms. Why, it ultimately produced a ranking of sorts--"

"Gracious! Let me guess: with their own unique expression of love at the top?"

"Just so, Mother. One would think you had been studying the classics all your life."

"With you as my son, that is quite close to the truth."

William chuckled and continued. "Having originated this ranking, Anaxagoras and Arsenios then proceeded to the logical next step--logic being, as you know, exceedingly dear to the Greek disposition: they determined to test their philosophy upon the relatively blank slate, so to speak, of the young Master Tryphon of Pallene."

Anne clapped a napkin over her mouth to avoid losing, in a most undignified manner, the soup she had just imbibed.

"You appear to be in difficulties, Mother. Perhaps I ought to suspend the relation of this scholarly tale?"

"Incorrigible child," said Anne, the emergency passed. "Pray continue."

"As you wish, Mother. In the event, Master Tryphon proved rather indisposed to accept a position as test subject in Anaxagoras and Arsenios's bold experiment."

"Most proper of him to decline," Anne said primly.

William merely smiled. "Yet the scientific pair's setback was the reader's gain, for Master Tryphon's reluctance spurred a torrent of persuasive eloquence in which all the elements of rhetoric were displayed with such force and purity as even the most resolute soul could hardly have withstood. Heaven knows Master Tryphon did not withstand it. Scarce halfway through this potent argument, he was seen to recline quite at his ease upon some couches which the scientific duo had had the foresight to provide ready at hand."

Anne cleared her throat. "And your synopsis, William? How exactly did you summarize these dubious events?"

"Funny you should ask, Mother," he said, as he extracted a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. "Let me see. I mentioned the author's literary skill in making Anaxagoras's theories appear to arise naturally from simple daily activities. I commented on how a soldier's well-knit body and reputation for manly deeds of courage can accord so harmoniously with an exquisite correctness of spirit as to suggest an entire philosophy to those sensitive enough to perceive it. I noted how wonderful it is that brisk bodily exercise will often provide a stimulant to the mind. I admired the power of the author's mythos in ascribing different metals to each sex and observing the relative purities of their admixture. I made various comments on the flowers of rhetoric and the charm of fair curls, an innocent gaze, and a country freshness of complexion. I then recounted Anaxagoras's arguments on the need to relish life to its fullest, partaking without reserve of the delicacies of its intercourse. On the need to plant one's seed in the proper soil, in which it will grow to yield fruit of the finest, rather than that of inferior quality or perhaps even to blast before fully formed. On the need to avoid an existence at once of such public distinction and yet such private emptiness, by striving for the ideal of organic unity with one's self, body and soul. There is one reference to the fact that the Greeks of the time took their exercise in the nude, but that is widely understood."

"But, William," said Anne, after she had finished laughing, "Will not the poor scholar who actually reads the text be in for a terrible shock?"

"My dear mother, I guarantee that any scholar learned enough in the classics to be researching this text will understand precisely what this synopsis dares not name. Indeed, my mind envisions some scholar of the future shaking his head over my hopeless euphemisms and saying to himself, 'My, what sad innocents those fellows were in days gone by.'"

Anne was quiet as she pictured a future without her or William in it. It would be a place with a bit less imagination, she thought.


 

*

Later that evening, Anne and William sat relaxing in the drawing room. The fire crackled and threw fanciful shapes on the walls. Anne reached for her workbasket, and William moved a lamp nearer to her seat as she sorted through a stack of oddly shaped velvets, silks, taffetas, and linens. Each piece was cut from a well-worn and now-retired garment, to whose former wearer Anne, now stroking the fabrics, felt extraordinarily close. She selected a sapphire taffeta from an old ball gown of hers and a scrap of amber velvet from one of William's infant coverings and began to stitch the two together.

"I received an unusual invitation at the museum today, Mother," said William.

"Indeed? From whom?"

"It came from my colleague Mr. Fitzhugh Travers, a gentleman who until yesterday had favored me at most with a nod and then only when it was unavoidable. Yet, yesterday, he paid us the compliment of an invitation to a supper at his house one week hence."

"Mr. Travers. Is he not that chilly gentleman who works in anthropology or some such department?"

"Yes, with an emphasis on the 'or some such.' No one is quite sure exactly what His Dour-ness studies, and he is not forthcoming on the subject."

"And what response did you make?" asked Anne.

"I told him that I would consult your convenience and health and give him an answer promptly."

"Really, William, I would quite despair if my health no longer permitted me to attend evening outings. You cannot have an idea of the tedium of daily calls and household business within these four walls."

"Of course, Mother," said William quickly, "I quite understand. I merely put it forth as a potential excuse should we choose not to attend. I take it you would like me to accept the invitation, then?"

"Do you hesitate to do so, my dear?"

"I confess, Mother, your description of Mr. Travers as 'chilly' quite understates my reaction to him. When he enters the room, I feel an almost creeping sensation on the back of my neck. My colleague Mr. George Cane--"

"Ah, dear George. Do invite him by one day soon, William."

"Certainly, Mother. George said one day, after Mr. Travers had spent an undue amount of time in the library with us, that whenever Travers turned his eye upon him he was overcome with the awful sensation that he was sizing him up for dissection and display at his specimen table. And speaking candidly, I must admit to some feelings of protectiveness for my own various body parts when Mr. Travers looks in my direction."

"But surely Mr. Travers is perfectly respectable, my dear, despite his forbidding manner? If I recall correctly, he comes from a highly respected family. I believe I have met his wife, and she seemed amiable enough, though somewhat more passive than the norm, considering her station in life."

"Yes, Mother, no doubt you are right. Buried as George and I are amongst the words of ancient authors, we are perhaps under prepared for interaction with actual, living human beings. Doubtless our fancy runs away with us. In Mr. Travers's favor, I know that he has invited several others among the museum staff, and certainly many among his and his amiable but passive wife's acquaintance will be present as well. Shall I accept the invitation, then?"

"Yes, do, William. We shall look upon it as a little adventure."

"I like your spirit, Mother. And now, should you like to see how the spirited Gwendolen Grandcourt is faring in her adventures?"

"That would be lovely, dear."

Anne took up her quilting as William read aloud to her in his deep, caramel tones. She was soon happily lost in the story.





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.