Buffy opened the cover of the book to see an inscription, letters formed carefully and leaning slightly backwards.
To My Elizabeth - I feel certain that you and Miss Fuller will agree on a great many matters regarding a woman’s place. Her thoughts have enlightened the world, as you have illuminated mine. I will forever be yours, William.
She closed the book again and squinted at the cover. ‘Woman in the Nineteenth Century’ by Margaret Fuller. The title sounded like it would be a book of manners, which Buffy thought would be good for a laugh - something to pass the time anyway. But it was, alas, a book containing serious writing.
She sighed and flipped past the table of contents, determined to make headway into the thing.
An hour later, she placed the book face-down on the table, exhausted and defeated. Who could write a sentence one hundred and fifty words long? Margaret Fuller, was who. By the end of the sentences, she’d forgotten where the things had started out to begin with. She’d struggled up to page thirty-five, when the author was waxing on about ‘the beauty of Cordelia’ before giving up entirely.
Cordelia. The word assaulted her like a hand slap, making her recall her other self - the competent Slayer, not the wounded wife.
After she tucked the book away, she looked over to the bed, where William lay fast asleep. He’d stopped by the kitchen following George’s funeral and had gathered up some cheeses, meats and bread, which they’d eaten in their room, the only food they’d managed to eat that day. As soon as he returned the tray to the kitchen, he’d fallen into bed, still wearing his vest and trousers.
She was fascinated, watching him sleep. It was the only time she could really look at him. When he was awake he might catch her studying him — but when he was unaware she could look as long as she pleased. He really was a beautiful man.
Asleep he reminded her so much of Spike — but awake he seemed like a different man entirely. The way he spoke, moved, looked at her. Spike wore his sexuality like his duster - it surrounded him. William was different. He kept his sensuality beneath a cloak, only allowing her to see that side of him in the rarest moments.
His cheeks were covered in stubble. She’d never seen him look so rough, as William or as Spike. His lips were barely parted. She reached out her hand, placing it close enough to his face that she could feel the comfort of his warm breath.
His too-long lashes rested again his lower lids which was puffy and shadowed from lack of sleep. It dawned on her just then that this was the oldest William had ever been. As Spike, he’d been frozen in time — but this man could age, could be grievously wounded, would one day die.
She pulled her good hand back and looked at her other hand, the bandaged right one. He would die one day, perhaps that day would be soon, if she remained like this — a fragile human. She felt like she was losing herself, turning into ‘just a girl’ at long last. She couldn’t protect George, couldn’t protect William. Right now she couldn’t even make a fist. Or undress herself.
Buffy leaned back against the chair with a sigh. George’s funeral, her helplessness and her guilt all combined to exhaust her. Sleep would at least give her a break from her thoughts. She couldn’t bear to wake him though. He’d sat up all night, miserable and guilty over George’s ending, while she’d floated away on an opium cloud. If the price of letting him sleep was swallowing a bit of pride, she could willingly pay that. She slipped out the door and down the hall.
The Crowdners seemed surprised but pleased to find ‘Elizabeth’ at their door. When Buffy explained the situation, Jane Crowdner was all too happy to help, and followed Buffy back to her room.
Jane made easy, light conversation while she unhooked Buffy’s shoe buttons and unfastened her gown.
“I can get it from here,” Buffy said. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure,” Jane assured, but she didn’t move to exit the room.
Buffy looked at the older woman expectantly, and Jane responded with a nervous smile.
“Forgive me for prying, Elizabeth, but I wonder, do you still remember nothing of your life with William?”
Buffy shook her head no.
“I’m sorry. It must be terribly strange for you.”
“It’s a little weird, yeah,” Buffy nodded. Jane was so genuine that Buffy couldn’t resent her concern.
“I saw a little of you during those first days — before your memory loss. You were a very pleasant woman.” Jane caught herself. “I mean to say, you’re quite agreeable now as well, Elizabeth! It’s just that … you and William, you seemed very happy together.”
“I understand,” Buffy said.
“He loved you, loves you, a great deal. I know that you know that, and again, I do not intend to interfere. I just wanted you to know that you seemed to love him too. Very much. You were one of those couples that others can only marvel at.”
Buffy nodded, saying nothing as a pool of moisture suddenly flooded into her eyes. It had been a very long day.
Jane reached out and squeezed Buffy’s good hand reassuringly. “And I’ve gone and said too much. Charles is forever on me about that trait.” She smiled breezily. “But then, he loves me. And where there is love there’s always a path around obstacles.”
Jane patted Buffy’s hand once more. “Take good care of your hand; we’ll worry about that, you know. Perhaps you could write to us when you arrive safely in California. You can contact Charles through Saint Vincent’s Hospital here in New York City.”
“Sure. I’ll write a letter or something. And thank you, Jane. Tell Charlie I send my thanks as well.”
Jane laughed. “I shall tell him exactly that, Eliza …buffy. We’ll never forget you, either of you.”
The older woman gave Buffy a quick hug and let herself out of the room.
Buffy shrugged off the dress and draped it over a chair, as hanging the thing up would have required two hands. Once she was down to chemise and bloomers, she turned down the lamp, and climbed up into the bed, settling in the narrow spot between William and the wall. He immediately turned to her, nuzzling his bristly cheek against her bare shoulder. “Mmmezabeth…” he murmured.
That’s me - Mmmzabeth. The girl who used to be Buffy.
Holding her bruised hand close to her chest, she willed herself to sleep.
~*~
She woke to the sound of their cabin door opening and a clattering William, bearing a breakfast-laden tray.
“Good morning,” he said. He seemed distracted and distant and set about placing the tray on the table with no further conversation.
Now that he was clean-shaven, she found herself missing his scruffy, almost-a-pirate look. She climbed off the bed and joined him at the table.
“Oh!” William said, blushing slightly, “Would you like me to assist with your dressing gown?”
“I’m good,” she replied, covering a slice of toast with a thick coating of jam. She took a bite, careful not to spill anything on her chemise. “When do we land in NYC?”
He paused a moment, as if he were translating her words. “Recent events have delayed our scheduled morning arrival. It’s expected that we should arrive by mid afternoon.”
“And I’ll be home again. Well, not home-home, but America-home.”
He gave her a small smile, but his sadness over losing George covered him like a blanket. Even that small smile seemed a great effort.
“Lots to do today,” she added, in what felt like a lame attempt at conversation. “I’ll be pretty useless at packing, I think.”
“It’s no trouble.” He looked up at her then, his blue eyes slightly startled. “Forgive me! Do you need assistance with breakfast?”
“God, no.” She shook her head. “You cutting up my food for me is where I draw the line! I got this.”
He nodded awkwardly and returned to his breakfast. Between his sadness and her frustration, they settled into an uneasy silence for the rest of the meal.
~*~
New York Harbor was a cesspool. In her mind she’d conjured up a grand arrival with waving throngs. The landing of her imagination would have been fit for Jack and Rose if The Titanic had been a little luckier. Instead it was more like a scary documentary she used to doodle her way through in high school.
Barrels, crates, even dead animals covered the surface of the water near the pier. The stench of it was almost unbearable. To make matters worse, harbor traffic was a tangled mess. How the captain managed to steer past all the assorted schooners and barges was a mystery.
She’d been craving a look at land, at home, after so long at sea. But the NYC skyline of her time didn’t match this distant reality. The city seemed small and dirty. Worse, it felt foreign. She felt foreign.
William stood behind her, an arm about her waist - the pair of them solemn in the midst of the boisterous crowd lining the deck rail.
“Where’d the Statue of Liberty go?” She turned to William, puzzled.
William gave her a blank look before a light dawned. “Do you mean Bartholdi’s statue?”
“No idea.”
“Large statue of Lady Liberty? A gift from France?” He questioned.
“Yeah.”
“She’s being assembled as yet, love. It’s a fantastically large undertaking and I don’t believe they’ve acquired the funds yet.”
Figures. She couldn’t even score that bit of familiarity. Feeling covered with harbor-stench and disappointment, she turned to face him. “Can we just … go back to our cabin, William? I was looking forward to the end of this long, sad trip, but now I just feel kind of tired.”
He put his arm in hers wordlessly, and they returned to their cabin.
~*~
They waited until the ship had been docked for half an hour before venturing out of their room. The First Class crush had dissipated, and they didn’t need to wait for a porter.
As they made their way down the gangplank, she couldn’t help but notice the tightly packed section of the Third Class deck, which had been roped off.
Buffy turned to the porter. “When does the back of the ship get to deplane?”
“I beg your pardon ma’am?” the porter asked.
“The other passengers. When do they get off the ship?”
“Oh, we’ll need to dock at Castle Gardens for that. They need processing, ma’am.”
“Processing? Sounds like something you’d do to cows,” Buffy grumbled.
The porter seemed unsure of how to continue. “They’ll need a health inspection, customs paperwork, that sort of thing.”
“And we can just stroll on in? Don’t even need to say ‘ahh’?”
The porter looked at her, nonplussed.
The stepped onto the pier and Buffy felt a wave of disorientation wash over her. After so long at sea, she’d lost the feel of her land legs and gripped William’s arm a little tighter. She felt helpless enough without the indignity of crashing and burning the moment she stepped ashore.
“I shall need to hire a broom,” William said, eyeing a row of carriages lining the street. “I’ll be but a moment.”
William stepped to the not-quite-a-curb and spoke with one of the drivers, then returned to her side and nodded to the porter, who pushed their trunks to where the cab waited for them. After strapping their luggage to the roof of the carriage, the driver opened the door and William assisted Buffy into the cab.
“Excuse me a moment,” William said. He pulled the driver aside and had a brief conversation with the man. Then he thanked the porter and joined Buffy in the carriage.
They were underway immediately. Buffy could see the city through the small side windows and the larger window in front, but since the cab was enclosed it was terribly stuffy. She had no way of knowing the temperature, but ‘mid nineties’ seemed a safe guess. Now that she was on land, she missed how the ocean had cooled the normal August heat. Though the temperature was difficult to take, enduring it beneath layers of clothing brought it up to the level of torturous.
William craned his neck around to look out the window. “New York City — first city in America to reach one million inhabitants. Seems so strange, doesn’t it?”
She couldn’t understand why that would seem strange to him, or why a million would seem like such a great number, so she said nothing.
“Everything seems so new,” William carried on. “And large. The buildings are absolutely huge. Our hotel takes up an entire city block. It can shelter six hundred guests.”
Buffy offered him a weak smile. “It’s what America is good at. Bringing super-sizing to the world since 1880.”
They jostled along through the increasingly congested streets, each of them lost in their own thoughts. The heavy weight that William had been wearing since George’s death appeared to be lifting somewhat and she felt grateful for that at least.
After twenty minutes, the carriage came to a halt in front of what looked to be a city park. The driver climbed down from his box and opened William’s door.
“We’re here, sir. Madison Square Park,” the driver said.
“We’re at the hotel?” Buffy asked.
William blushed and graced her with a shy grin. “I’ve asked the driver to stop for something else. A surprise for you.”
He climbed out of the carriage, then assisted Buffy through the door. She looked up to see the strangest sight. She couldn’t miss it. Nobody within a three block radius could miss it. A large copper arm holding a torch rising up from a tent in the center of the park. An arm from the Statue of Liberty. Or what would one day be the statue.
Buffy was immediately reminded of a scene from ‘Planet of the Apes’ — not the Tim Burton remake, the really old one with Charlton Heston. At the end of the movie, Charlton had found Statue of Liberty sticking out of the ground and realized he’d been ‘home’ all along. He’d screamed in despair at the sight, yelling impotently and pulling up handfuls of dirt - kind of like Buffy felt like doing now.
Like Charlton Heston, she was in the right place and the wrong time. The large green arm sticking out of the ground only served to mock her. Instead of holding a torch, the statue might as well have been extending her middle finger.
“If you’d like, we can climb to the balcony in the torch,” William enthused. But then he looked to her face and his expression dimmed. “But perhaps you’re tired. It’s been a very long day, after all.”
“Thanks, though. That arm is really … something,” she said.
He tugged nervously on his hair and nodded before assisting her back into the carriage.
Since she’d served to kill what little buzz William had, they continued the trip to the hotel in silence. Though it took ten minutes, she would have been able to walk it in five. They were caught in was Gilded Age rush hour, and for sheer misery it kicked the crap out of L.A. traffic. For one thing, cars didn’t poop. The amount of manure in the streets was impressive enough, but was nothing compared to the stench that came with the summer heat.
The Metropolitan Hotel was a large brown building taking up a full block of Broadway. It had a lower floor, which Buffy assumed held shops and hotely kinds of things, and four stories of guest rooms. At least the windows were large, she thought hopefully, as she already knew that air conditioning was completely out of the picture.
William paid the driver and made quick arrangements with a hotel porter for their trunks before joining Buffy’s side.
“Shall we?” He gestured toward the door and gave her a tired smile.
The lobby of the hotel was as grand as it was hectic. It was absolutely packed with chairs, all of which seemed to be occupied. They threaded their way to the brightly lit mahogany paneled front desk. They were greeted by a thin man with dark, darting eyes. He reminded Buffy instantly of a rodent — twitchy and quick-tempered.
“Good afternoon,” William said. “I’ve a reservation for Mr. and Mrs. William Pratt.”
“Good evening,” corrected the desk clerk in a clipped tone. “Pratt, yes. Allow me a moment.”
The ferrety little man opened his registration book with a thud and scanned down a list of names.
“Yes, here you are. Room 308.” The clerk spun the registration book around so that it faced them and looked at William expectantly. “If you would register, Mr. Pratt? Sign your name?”
William blushed furiously and shook his head. “Yes, it’s been a … very long day.”
Rodent-man’s only response was a sniff.
Once William had signed the register, the clerk looked just behind them. “Fred, room 308.” He then turned to William and said in his best Kindergarten teacher voice, “Follow the porter to your room.”
William hesitated. “I beg your pardon, but could you direct me to the dining room?”
The desk clerk gave William a bored look.
“Where is the dining room?” William repeated.
“The final seating for dinner was at seven o’clock. It is now 7:10.” He turned his back to them without another word.
Buffy winced as she clenched her right fist. She normally had urges to limit punches to demons, but this week had found her wanting to punch humans at a pretty high frequency. The more she thought about it, the more it seemed that the desk clerk might be some kind of ferret-demon. She could always punch first, ask questions later.
“That will not do.” William’s tone was low, threatening even. She’d never heard him sound like that.
The desk clerk turned around.
“I was quite clear in my request. Where is the dining room?” William enunciated each word carefully.
“Large double doors, at the end of the lobby,” ferret-face mumbled.
“Thank you.” William gave the man a tight smile and turned to lead their party of three across the lobby.
Once they reached the dining room doors, William turned to her. “I’ll just be a moment,” he said, as he slipped inside the room. After a few moments, he emerged bearing two dinner plates and trailed by a very confused looking waiter.
William smiled calmly at Buffy before addressing the waiter. “Pratt, room 308. Fred can confirm that we are guests here. It is Fred, isn’t it?”
The porter bobbed a nod.
“Fred, if you’d just lead the way? My wife and I shall dine in our room this evening.”
Fred guided them to a large staircase, hoisting the luggage cart up the steps expertly.
“The desk clerk seemed rather rude, didn’t you think?” William leaned down to ask her conspiratorially.
Her shy husband seemed so pleased with himself, she couldn’t help but smile. “You’ve single-handedly invented room service, William.”
He returned her grin. “You and I have difficulty dining with others, it seems.”
When they finally arrived at room 308, poor Fred was sweating profusely. He tried to open the door with a flourish, but only managed a wheezy thud. The porter waited politely for the couple to enter the room before he brought the trunks inside.
To say the room was spartan would have been generous. It held a small bed, two chairs and an end table. An Econolodge in East Cowlick, Missouri would seem grand by its standard. So that William wouldn’t see her disappointment, she busied herself looking out the window while he saw Fred out.
She unfastened the latch and tugged the window up with her good hand. She could sense William standing just behind her, hovering, but he had the good sense to not try to assist her. She managed to work the sash open six inches before giving up. At least their room was high enough from ground level that the stench from the streets was lessened.
She turned to find him standing by the bed, awkwardly hold two plates in the middle of the sparsely furnished room.
“A picnic on the bed?” she suggested.
“That will do nicely.”
She sat down and he handed a plate to her before sitting beside her, removing two forks from his jacket pocket with a flourish.
“No knives, no butter…” he began.
“It’s perfect,” she corrected. Balancing her plate on her lap, she cautiously dug in.
As William had employed the ‘grab and dash’ method in acquiring their dinner, her meal consisted of the basics: several rolls, a few slices of roast beef and a cluster of grapes. She couldn’t help but notice that his dinner had even less variety, and she plopped half the grapes onto his plate.
Fortunately the roast was fork-tender, so she managed her meal one-handed. When they’d finished, William stacked their plates in the hall by the door and came back into the room, fidgeting with his pocket watch.
“It’s just going on eight o’clock. We could stroll through the hotel lounges, if you like. Or perhaps take a walk outside? The evening seems to be cooling a little,” he suggested.
“If its okay with you, I’d kind of like to crash.”
He blinked and tilted his head to the side.
“I’m feeling quite tired myself, William. I just want to go to bed. If you want to wander around, knock yourself out.”
“No,” he said. “I’d love to go to bed with you.” He stopped, horrified. “That is to say…”
She interrupted him with a laugh and held up her wrist. “Here. Can you help me with the buttons?”
He unbuttoned her wrists and then her waist, wordlessly. Once he’d unfastened her dress, he knelt down and unbuttoned her shoes.
“I’ve got it from here,” she murmured. He complied with a nod and went over to close the curtains before beginning his own undressing process.
She let her dress slide to the floor and draped it over the back of a chair as the room didn’t have a wardrobe.
Watching him unbutton his shirt, his back to her, she felt a strange tenderness, a familiarity that pulled at something in her chest. She may have been foreign to the time they were in, but he was foreign to the place. Yet he gamely carried on, caring for her, making their way through all of it.
He shrugged out of his shirt, then lifted his undershirt over his head. He really was a very beautiful man.
“Will you need any assistance with your trunk?” His eyes flickered to her quickly before he trained them on the floor, a slight blush staining his cheeks.
“It’s too hot for a nightgown,” she replied, stepping towards him.
He nodded curtly, his hands hovering over his trouser buttons.
“Do you need any help, William?” she asked.
“Well, no,” he stammered. “That is to say, it’s not the matter of your hand, love, but rather that… ehm. I’m quite fine, I assure you.”
“You do know that it’s only my hand that’s damaged, don’t you? The rest of me is fine. Good to go, really.”
He looked at her and nodded slowly, comprehension beginning to dawn behind his blue eyes.
She stopped in front of him and placed the palm of her hand on his chest, just above his heart in the gesture she’d seen him make when he didn’t think she was watching.
“We are married, William. There’d be nothing wrong with it. I’m willing and I’m pretty sure you’re willing.”
His adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.
“We could make love,” she said.
He exhaled a trembling breath and tilted his head at her questioningly. “You mean to say…?” But he could not finish. And so she finished for him, with words that would leave no doubt in his mind.
“I’d like to have sex with you, William. Now.”
---------------------------
Author's note: I pretty much had three choices here: (A) cram in a few quick paragraphs of sex, (B) leave this as a cliffhanger and devote the next chapter to sex or (C) some other alternative.
The illustration of NYC Harbor ran in the September 1879 issue of Harpers Weekly.
The photograph of Madison Square Park was taken in 1881, where the arm was on display from 1876 to 1882. It cost 50 cents to go onto the torch balcony. The ‘broom’ or technically ‘brougham’ carriage our couple rode in looks very much like the one parked here. Yes, I did do little spasms of joy when I found the photo. Go ahead, mock me!
A debt of thanks to “Hotel: An American History” by A.K. Sandoval-Strausz and “The Gilded Age” by O. Hoggenboom. “Woman in the Nineteenth Century” by Margaret Fuller was also a big help. It was considered the first book on feminism from the U.S. Margaret Fuller died in 1850 while returning to NYC when her ship, The Elizabeth, sank just fifty yards from the coast. Locals scavenged the shore instead of lifting a finger to help rescue passengers. Margaret, her husband and child (as well as many others) drowned. The captain of The Elizabeth was on one of the earlier life boats. Captain Parsell would never have done that.