I have died everyday waiting for you
Darling don't be afraid I have loved you
For a thousand years
I'll love you for a thousand more – Christina Perri

Chapter 21

William’s Wooing:  Day Three

Holding her in his arms at the start of the day.  Was there a time when he wouldn’t wake stunned by the wonder of her?  The curtains were parted enough to let in a finger of light which played across her hair in the most enticing way.

Her lashes remained closed, but he could see her eyes moving beneath her lids.  What did she dream of?  Him?  Spike?  Her former life?  Did she still wake with dread, finding herself in this time, with him? 

She stirred slightly, mumbling “mmm,” giving nothing away. 

Since it was summer, she wore nothing to bed but a chemise and bloomers.  Though she’d grumbled about it being too restrictive, he would beg to differ with that opinion.  The ivory silk molded perfectly to her breasts, jutting out where her nipples poked at the fabric.

He knew better than to slip out of bed until she was awake.  He would luxuriate in this moment as long as possible, soaking up the presence of his wife, with all her defenses down, wrapped in his arms.

It wasn’t until someone slammed a door down the hall that her lashes fluttered.  She stretched her toes out, running them down the length of his calf, creating a lovely tingling sensation that went straight to his groin.  He turned his hip slightly to the side so the morning tent he’d erected wasn’t so obvious to her.

“Good morning, love.”  He kissed her forehead.

“Morning, Will … oh, your arms!”

She gingerly touched his sun-reddened forearm, her fingers soothing and cool.

“Pretty nasty burn you’ve got there, beach-boy.  We should put something on it.”

She climbed over him and opened her trunk.  After rustling inside for a bit, she grasped a small object before returning to the bed, where she perched on the edge.  She held a small bottle of lotion - the same lotion she’d applied to his penis that night not so long ago when she’d found him locked inside the chastity device. 

His morning erection pounced on this information with an almost painful enthusiasm.

“Take your nightshirt off.  This lotion should at least cool you off.”  He complied, sitting on the edge of the bed and bunching the covers around his waist in an attempt to make Mount Erection virtually undetectable.  She poured a small dollop into the center of her hand and began to dab it on his shoulder.   The scent of the lotion flooded him with erotic memories of her touching his cock, the look in her eyes as she brought him to completion.  Each time her fingertips moved against his skin, his cock throbbed – a steady heartbeat of lust.  He let out a shuddering sigh.

“Wow, it’s really that sore, huh?  I wouldn’t be surprised if you peeled.  Don’t your people have sunscreen?”

He couldn’t help but laugh.  “You keep referring to everyone as ‘my people.’”

“I guess because they don’t feel much like my people.”  As she scooted over to apply lotion to his other shoulder and he closed his eyes, relishing the sensation.  When she finished with his arms, she surprised him by promptly sitting on the floor.

“Legs?” she asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your legs are probably sunburned, too.”

He tugged the covers up, exposing his calves to her.  The image of her sitting between his knees, the air scented sensually, and the smooth slide of her fingertips up his legs was almost too much to withstand.

When she was finished, she screwed the cap on and popped up to put the lotion away in her trunk.  The back of her bloomers molded to the curve of her bottom in the most enchanting manner. 

“Hungry?” she asked without turning around.

“Insatiable,” he groaned.

Her back still to him, she slipped into a petticoat and a light blue gown, then began to button up the sleeves.

Desperate to bring his erection to manageable levels before unbunching the covers, he began to list a litany of unpleasant things:  Rubbish bins, fruit cake, rice pudding, his uncle’s sermons.  That last one seemed to do the trick, and he could feel his need abating, if only slightly.  He slid his nightshirt over his tender shoulders and exited the bed to begin his own dressing regimen.

He dressed long before she was finished and said, “I shall need to acquire a shave prior to breakfast.  Would you like me to return for you or …?”

“I’ll meet you down there, William.”  She sat on the edge of the bed with a mirror and began to style her hair simply.  Her injured hand appeared to give her no problems with the task.  She graced him with a bright smile, and he felt his breath catch for a moment.  Even in the simplest gesture, she would shine through and touch some spark in his core, stoking it to a flame.

“I’ll see you down there then, love,” he murmured as he left the room. 

Though the lobby’s barber shop was hectic, it was well staffed, and the barber had nearly finished shaving William when he saw Buffy. She stood near the window at the entrance, peeking around until she spotted him.  He couldn’t help but smile widely, causing the thin, mustached barber to look around.

“My wife.” William explained his oddly timed grin.

“Understandable, sir.  Would you like a haircut as well?  Ladies appreciate a well groomed man, and it wouldn’t take but a few moments.” 

“We’ve not breakfasted yet.”  William hesitated.  “But just a few moments, you say?”

“No more than that, sir.”

The barber retrieved his scissors from his leather apron and stretched out one of William’s curls.  “Perhaps if I were to take off just an …”

“Hold it right there.”  Buffy’s voice was firm and surprisingly … close.  The murmurings and rattling of newspapers in the barbershop cut off instantly – as though he’d just gone suddenly deaf.  All pairs of very shocked eyes were on them.  On her.  The woman in the barber shop.

“Hands off the curls,” Buffy said in a tone that was very like a growl.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am.”  The barber looked at William, helplessly.

Recovering quickly, William said, “I don’t have a strong preference for a haircut one way or the other, but as I believe my wife might, I shall decline.  Thank you all the same.”

“Well, I… she…  I cannot …” The barber began.

William chuckled. “Precisely.  You’ve no idea how often I find myself saying the very same thing.”

He paid the barber ten cents and escorted his wife from the presence of the shocked barber shop denizens.

He should have felt embarrassed.  He knew it.  But he couldn’t quite manage that emotion because there was another one flooding his senses - the stunning delight of knowing that she was fond of his curls.

“Shall we arrange something regarding your hair, Buffy?” he inquired as they stepped out of the barber shop doorway.

“Um, I’m not sure how unisex that joint is, to be honest with you.  I got the distinct impression that it was an all boys club.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of something at the hair dressers.”  He gestured toward the much smaller, but more lavishly decorated shop next door.  “We have tickets to the theater tonight, and it might be pleasant to have something special done.”

She hesitated.

“Also, it’s expected to rain shortly.  I thought it might be prudent to take care of some banking business today, and we could send our clothes out for cleaning and mending before we begin our rail journey west.  We’ll be leaving in just a few days and absolutely be out of reach of these kinds of services for some time.”

“Okay,” she capitulated, stepping into the shop to make an appointment for later that morning before rejoining him and going to the dining hall for breakfast.

~*~

Rain began shortly after lunch, falling down in angry sheets and filling the stale city air with the scent of new earth.  The streets were slickened with mud and horse dung, making travel only bearable in dire necessity.

William and Buffy holed up in their room, passing the time by playing whist while the rain kept a tapping accompaniment on their window.  It reminded him of all those hours they’d spent hidden away in cabin seventeen aboard The Adriatic, hidden away in their private retreat.

When Buffy grew bored with cards, they passed the remainder of the afternoon by reading.  She rapidly became absorbed in ‘The Woman’s Journal,’ a magazine that she’d been given by the woman who’d styled her hair – described by Buffy as a ‘Sagittarius.’  William suspected the woman was actually a suffragette, as the majority of articles in the magazine were about voting rights and not star signs.

They took an early dinner before dressing for their evening out.  William took an especially long bath, realizing it was yet another luxury that would be abandoned on their long train journey west.  Each time they indulged in a small activity such as this, his mind would turn toward their future and how Buffy might take to their new accommodations.  She’d already given up so much.  She was a tree in the breeze, bowing to the winds constantly.  How much more could she bend before snapping?

The weather had worn itself out by the time they dressed for the theater.  They’d dressed slowly, each taking turns while the other was in the bathing room.  William put on his finest evening wear, which consisted of grey and black striped trousers, a white shirt with black cravat, a black vest and charcoal frock coat.

When he returned from the bath, he found her ready for their evening, splendid in a silk, moss-green gown, which was adorned with a series of intricate pleats.  She’d completed her attire with a small hat and simple white silk gloves.  As awkward as she’d been in dressing in this manner only two weeks prior, she’d adapted remarkably well.  His willow in the wind. 

“You look stunning, love,” he said.  It was a partial lie.  She looked like a goddess, and he found it difficult to inhale.  She’d worn this gown twice now, and both occasions stood out in his mind as if they were tintypes – so burned were the images upon his mind.

She gave him a bright smile.  “Thanks!  You look pretty swell yourself.  I like this grey suit on you.  Looks good with your eyes.” 

She leaned up and touched his hair, just for an instant, tugging a curl out of his carefully crafted coif.  He willed his hands not to smooth his hair down and returned her smile with one of his own.

“We ready, Freddy?”

He nodded and extended his arm to her.

The hansom cab was waiting for them; arranging transport ahead of time had at least given him something to do during their long, rain-soaked afternoon.  They arrived at the Fifth Avenue Theater, finding their way inside rather quickly due to the thin crowds.

Once they took their seats, Buffy looked excitedly around at the lush, gilded interior.  Though it was fantastically ornate, it was an extremely small theater, especially when compared to the stages of London.

“I confess, I arranged to attend this play more for the theater than the nature of the play,” William said.

“What do you mean?”

“The Fifth Avenue Theater is exquisitely ornate, but even better, it’s terrifically modern.  It has a cooling system – large fans which push air over large blocks of ice.”

“Sounds nifty.  What about the play?”

“It’s called ‘Ah Sin.’  A murder-mystery, as I understand, and it was co-written by Bret Harte and Mark Twain.”

“Hey!  That last guy I’ve heard of!”  She seemed delighted with herself.  “The first guy sounds a little familiar too.”

When the lights dimmed, their conversation was cut short, so they turned their attention to the spectacle.  Though the play was well acted, it had a predictable plot which centered around a cunning Chinaman, Ah Sin, who consistently outwitted the characters who were trying to frame one another for a murder. 

The refrain kept repeating through the cautionary tale:  Which is why I remark, and my language is plain.  That for ways that are dark, and for tricks that are vain, the heathen Chinee is peculiar.

Though William found it amusing, he noticed Buffy didn’t share his enjoyment.  She sat in a peculiar, stony silence, and a spider of fear spun a thread up his spine.

Remembering their last outing at a play, and how she’d been so ill with pneumonia afterwards, he began to grow concerned that the past might echo back to them.  The air really was terribly damp and chill.  He leaned down, whispering in her ear, “Are you alright, dear?”

“Fine,” she responded curtly, before turning her attention back to the play.

Surreptitiously, he brushed his hand against her forearm to check for a fever, but her skin was cool.  It eased his worry, but only a little.

She remained quiet, preoccupied through the duration of the play. When it ended, she did not clap.  Though she didn’t seem ill, she seemed so terribly distant that it unnerved him.  Unsure of how to approach her sudden shift of mood, he escorted her to the hansom cab and endured the short ride back to the hotel in silence.  She didn’t seem angry as much as hurt, and he couldn’t for the life of him determine what would have given her cause.

By the time they entered their room the chill between them was beginning to frighten him.  She ripped her gloves off her hands, wincing slightly as she was a little too rough with her right.

“Darling, what is it?  Have I done something?”

“God, no.  It’s not you.”  She tore her hat off her head and dropped it into her trunk.

“Was it … the play?”

“Hell, yes, it was the racist play.”

She sat down on the bed almost violently, her skirts settling in flutters around her fury.

“I’m sorry, Buffy.  I don’t know what you mean by ‘racist’.”

“The way they portrayed the Chinese man as this thieving, cunning … what was the word they used?  Heathen?  What a horrible stereotype.”

“Ah, bigoted.”

“Yes, bigoted asshats.  They didn’t even have a Chinese person play the part – just some white dude who squinted a lot.”

“Well, they couldn’t have used a Chinaman on stage, love.”

“Why not?”  She glared at him.

“Ehm.  Well, that is a valid question, isn’t it?  There’s not a fair reason for that, I suppose.  These are different times to your own, I’m afraid.” 

“Yeah, I know about different.  All afternoon I read about these charmingly sexist times – women can’t even vote!  Now this wacky racist shit just is a whole ‘nother bag of ugly, and I’m just … fed up with it.”

He retrieved his whiskey flask from his trunk and poured himself a small measure into the small travelling tumbler and began to sip. 

“Pour me one of those, okay?” she asked.

William almost choked on his drink.  Buffy rarely drank and when she did indulge, it had always been wine.

“Certainly,” he replied, finishing his drink and pouring a small measure into the tumbler for her.  She downed it in one go, shuddering and making a “gah” sound before handing the glass back to him.

He pursed his lips and paused before pouring himself another drink.  Well this was interesting.  Life with her was certainly never predictable.

He sipped his whiskey this time, savoring it slowly, hoping to forestall her thirst.  It did not work.  As soon as he finished his drink and began to tuck it away, she stopped him, placing a firm hand on his forearm.

“I’d like another one.  And can you fill it up this time?”

The second drink took her a little longer; she was clearly unaccustomed to hard liquor, making little grimaces as she swallowed.

He was quite at a loss for what to do.  She was like a sparking bolt of electric energy and would not be ready to retire for the night for some time.

“Would you like to play cards, perhaps?”  he suggested pathetically.

She sighed and took another deep sip of whiskey, shuddering and grimacing. 

“I think I’ve been whisted-out.  Could we play something else, maybe?  Crazy-eights or … poker?”  Her cheeks had taken on a bright flush, brought on by the whiskey, no doubt.  Her eyes also glittered with the bright glow brought on by drink. 

“Certainly.  I’ll play any game you like, love.”  He retrieved the deck of cards and sat next to her on the bed.

“You know how to play poker?  Five card draw?” she asked.

 “Of course,” he replied. 

 Having drained the glass, she handed it back to him.  When he made no move to refill it, she retrieved the flask from his trunk herself, and filled the tumbler to the brim.  She handed it to him, sloshing a little down the side.

"Your turn,” she said simply.  He sipped as slowly as he’d ever imbibed in his life.

“’Kay, the game I’m thinking of is basically five card draw.”  She reached out and plucked the drink from his hand, draining the glass with a “gah” and a grimace. 

“It’s just that instead of betting with money, we bet with clothes.  Probably another foreign thing to your people, but you never know.  We’re going to play strip poker.”

 ----------------

Dora’s Corollary:

When writing historical fiction, it is acceptable to shift certain events and characters by a few years – no more than five.  It is considered polite for the author to point out this fact in her footnotes when she does so.

1. It is possible that Dora is the name of my golden retriever and I just pulled this whole corollary thing out of my ass.
2. Dora’s Corollary still applies. 

“Ah Sin” did play at the Fifth Avenue Theater, but in 1877.  They often did short revivals of plays, and since I couldn’t get an accurate listing of which plays were there in 1880, I decided they’d dusted off “Ah Sin” for another run.  Also, I adore Mark Twain and though you and I would find the play racist, he was a progressive in his own time.  He made Ah Sin the hero of the play, and to a degree mocked the racist mobs that had falsely accused him.  Everything else about the play and the theater is entirely accurate. 

Words!

William uses the word “Chinaman” instead of “asian” or “Chinese.”  Though today we’d consider it offensive, I’m pretty sure William’s actions and thoughts will let you know he’s no racist.  Which reminds me … “racism” wasn’t used until the 1930s, which was why William was nonplussed when he heard the term, in case you were wondering what the hell that was about.  :)