Chapter 37

The restaurant was nearly bursting with a breakfast crowd, but Buffy spotted Oscar instantly.  He was wearing a blue and pink pin-striped frock coat which sported a green carnation in the lapel.  The other diners were primarily cowboys and kept a wary eye to the Englishman, as though his fashion sense might be contagious and possibly even airborne.

Her arm tucked within William’s, they made their way to join their dining companion.  Oscar didn’t look up.  His concentration was fully focused on a letter and his expression was grave, almost mournful.

“That’s not from the Council of Watchers, is it?” Buffy asked once they reached the table.

“This?  No!  Not at all.”  Oscar looked up with a start, then he folded the missive and tucked it into his breast pocket; a shadow of sorrow splayed across his face.

“Oscar, this dining establishment seems as fine as any in London,” William said, in an obvious effort to ease conversation toward something more comfortable.

“It does look rather promising, doesn’t it?”  Oscar said.  “It’s like I always say, ‘anyone willing to live within their means suffers from a lack of imagination.’ I’ve already ordered a pot of tea.  Earl Grey.  The young man seemed quite at ease with the concept.”  Oscar looked pleased, his earlier dark mood fading a bit around the edges.

“Your people hold tea in the same esteem that normal people hold for their children, or Christmas.”  Buffy said.

She felt the slight pressure of William’s fingertips, dancing along the small of her back and she couldn’t help but smile.

“Ah, the lovebirds are flying again.”  Oscar raised his eyebrows and tilted his head toward Elizabeth.

She grinned in response as William pulled the chair out for her.  Once she and William had been seated, a fresh-faced, blond waiter appeared at Oscar’s side.  “Good morning, sir, ma’am.  My name is Dorian Frasier and I shall be attending you for breakfast.  Would the lady and gentlemen be prepared to order?”

Oscar asked, “Full English breakfast for all?”

“I guess.  As long as it doesn’t have ‘mashed bangers’ or ‘blood and liver crumpets’ or any of that other nasty stuff you guys consider food,” Buffy groused.

“I believe an ‘English Breakfast’ would be quite similar to Mrs. MacLaughlin’s Sunday morning fare,” William murmured.  Despite their multiple rounds of love-making last night, the feel of his breath on her neck as he leaned over made something flutter inside her chest.

“Full English breakfast for all, then,” Buffy said, and the waiter departed with a bow.

 “So, Oscar.  You looked kinda bummed while reading that letter.  What’s the deal?  Who’s it from?”

Oscar glanced up at William and gave him a patient smile.  “Ah, Americans.”

“Oh yeah.  I know,” Buffy said.  “We yanks are a horribly nosy bunch.  However do you tolerate my cavewoman ways?  Still.  Who’s it from?”

“It is from an acquaintance of mine from Ireland who is currently also on a tour of America.  A young lady named Florence Balcombe.”

“Oh, do you plan on meeting up with her?”

“Not exactly.  That would be somewhat awkward, you see.  I courted her for a time, but it seems she has chosen to wed another.”

“Oh,” Buffy replied, feeling small and a little invasive.  “This whole watcher gig didn’t mess things up for you and Florence, did it?"

“Not at all.”  Oscar waved his hand.  “She’s quite well suited to the gentleman whom she favored.  He’s an acquaintance of mine, actually.  A student from Oxford.  We were in the same philosophical society.  A fellow Irishman named Bram Stoker.”

Buffy’s mouth fell open.  “You have got to be shitting me!”

A bark of laughter burst out of William, while Oscar choked on his water.

“I assure you,  I am not … shitting, you nor anyone.  Why do you react so?”

“I’ve heard of him.  He wrote a book, which I sort of read.  Well, I saw the Gary Oldman movie, so close enough.”

“I don’t believe he’s written a book, Buffy.”

“Oh, he will.  You’ll see.  It’s going to be huge.”

Oscar looked terribly confused. 

“Did you write to your ex-girlfriend about anything we’ve been up to?  About vampires maybe?”

“Well …”  Oscar traced his finger along his water goblet nervously.  “I may have written to her about some of the matters we’ve been dealing with, yes.  I know the council strictly forbids the act of divulging matters they’re engaged in, but I was planning a book of my own, you see, and wished to see what Florence thought of the endeavor.  I believe I can trust her to the strictest confidence.”

The waiter chose that moment to return, halting their conversation.  He bore a tray with teapot, cups, lemon slices, sugar and a creamer.

With its hand-painted pink roses and blue trim, the teapot was a dead ringer for the one at William’s mother’s house.  The teacups were the same too.  They were small and looked fragile enough to break if you sneezed in their direction.  Both Englishmen looked the waiter with something approaching adoration as he began to pour.

“Excellent, just superb my young man,” Oscar said.

After the pouring out, the waiter disappeared and Buffy patiently waited for the men to have a first sip and get over their impending tea-gasm.

Oscar sipped.  “Ahh.”

“As good as home?” William asked.

“I daresay, better.  It seems to me to be a blend.  Earl Grey, definitely, but I detect the slightest trace of Jasmine.  Would you agree?”

William gave a thoughtful taste before nodding in agreement.

“So, what’s your book about, Oscar?  I mean, I knew you wrote poems, but I can’t imagine you writing a book about vampires.”

“It’s not about vampires.  Well, not precisely.  I became fascinated by the sort of person that would never age, similar to a vampire, you see.  What problems would a man like that endure?  How would he treat others if he was given eternal youth?  I decided that time and beauty would be a rather corrupting influence on the fellow – but that there needed to be a device that would show the man’s true nature. A painting.  A portrait, to be precise.”

“Portrait?” William asked.

“After a fashion.  Though my character would remain eternally youthful, his portrait would show his true self.  It would age.  It would show the corruption of his cruel behavior to others.”

 “It sounds totally creepifying.  You must do it!”  Buffy enthused.

Oscar laughed and poured another cup of tea.

“I’m serious as a heart attack, Oscar.  You have to write this book.”

Holding his hands up in surrender, but wearing a very wide smile, Oscar capitulated.  “Very well, you win.  I shall write this book.  Good lord, William, but your wife is formidable!”

“You have no idea.  Still, I have to agree with her.  It sounds like a most promising tale.  Any idea what you’ll call it?”

“Only a vague one.  Truth be told, I haven’t even decided upon a name for my main character.  I seem to be a bit stuck where that is concerned.”

“How about ‘Earl Grey’?” Buffy suggested.  “The way you English lose your minds over tea, it would be an instant best-seller.”

Oscar laughed heartily.  “An interesting choice, Buffy.  But I think ‘Earl Grey’ might create confusion amongst my potential readers.”

The waiter chose that moment to return to their table, bearing plates laden with grilled tomatoes, sausage, ham, bacon and an assortment of breakfast breads.  It looked almost too good to eat – as though it was a spread for a photo shoot.

“This looks absolutely splendid.  Excellent food and attentive service, as well,” Oscar chuffed.

“Thank you, sir.  Please let me know if you require anything else.”  The waiter gave a brisk bow before retreating to the kitchen.

“Dorian’s nice,” Buffy said around a mouthful of bacon.

“Yes, our waiter seems a fine fellow,” William agreed.

“No, I mean as a name for Oscar’s story.  If he doesn’t like ‘Earl Grey,’ why not ‘Dorian Grey’?”

Oscar laughed.  “I surrender to your persistence, Bakguai.  ‘Dorian Grey’ it shall be.  ‘The Portrait of Dorian Grey.’  Holds promise, that does.”

“To your best-seller,” William said, raising his teacup in a toast.

“And to that title,” Buffy added, “which beats the hell out of ‘Stinky Stan’s Painting’.”

Their teacups clinked in a toast, causing some of the already suspicious cowboys to cast mistrustful glances toward the trio.

For the next few minutes, Buffy concentrated on her very substantial breakfast.  Once they’d finished their meals, Dorian returned to refill the teapot and take away their plates.  With the table cleared, Oscar reached into his satchel which he’d tucked under his chair.  He fished out a newspaper and placed it on the table midway between William and Buffy.

“Today’s paper.  I thought you might be interested,” Oscar said casually, but he flashed a look toward Buffy that held a layer of ‘something else’.

“What’s up, Oscar?  Something icky in the paper?  Something vampirey?”

“Rather, something hellmouthy.”  Oscar’s expression fell in an instant, and he looked terribly disappointed.  “Hellmouthy?  My god, Buffy’s corruption of my language has already begun.”

“Chin up, old man.  Roger a codger and all that rot,” Buffy said.  “What’s the deal with the newspaper and the Hellmouth?”

“There are some rather lurid accounts of racial unrest in Los Angeles.  It’s proximity to the Hellmouth and the similarity to the events in Rock Springs caused me no small amount of alarm.”

Buffy shot a glance at William, who remained stoic, but beneath the table, he reached out to hold her hand.

“The very topic we’d planned to talk about with you,” William said.  “The Hellmouth and our plans regarding it.”

Oscar leaned forward, interested.

“Oscar, we’ve been thinking about our future.”

“Yes?”

“The thing is,” Buffy picked up when William began to falter, “we’ve been thinking that this whole slayer gig really isn’t for us.  We’re going to give it a pass.”

“A pass?” Oscar looked to William for clarification.

“We’ve decided, together, that Buffy isn’t going to be the slayer.  She’s going to … decline.”

“Oh, dear,” Oscar said, frowning.

Buffy bit her lip and prepared for the onslaught.  For guilt and recriminations that he was sure to rain down upon their heads, in true watcher fashion.

“You can’t talk us out of it, Oscar.  We’ve seriously made up our minds about this.  I’m not going to be the slayer.”

“Oh, you’ll get no argument from me, Buffy.  I try to avoid all arguments outright.  They’re always vulgar and often convincing.  Besides, I wouldn’t presume to know what’s best for you.  I’m not young enough to know everything.  You and William’s destiny is yours to choose.”

“Why the ‘oh, dear’ then?” Buffy asked.

“Because I worry for you.  I feel it only fair to warn you that the Council of Watchers may be somewhat persistent about the matter.”

“Bring ‘em on,” Buffy muttered, and Oscar gave a bark of laughter.

“This rather changes things, doesn’t it?  I shall be able to resume my speaking tour and you two shall be able to get on at your winery.”

“That makes you happy?” Buffy asked.

“Indeed.  For all parties concerned.”

“I was worried that you were going to try to talk me out of it.”

“I’m afraid not.  I must make a terrible watcher,” Oscar said, and he grinned ruefully.  “By my thinking a man – or woman – ought to be free to live a life of their own choosing.  The council will likely talk to you of your duty.  They may even call you selfish.”

Buffy looked at him, feeling far more guilty than selfish.

“Remember Buffy, selfishness isn’t living as you wish to live.  It is asking others to live as you wish them to live.”

“When will you leave?”  William asked.  “Not that we’re in the least bit of a hurry to be without your company.  It’s been a most delightful experience.”

“I should like to leave as soon as possible, but I believe there is something of a wait for eastbound trains.  No more than three or four days, I should imagine.  I’ll need to send a wire to my booking agent, naturally.  My tour was interrupted while I was in Utah, so by the time I arrive back in the Midwest, he should have something arranged.”

“I’ll miss you, Oscar.  You’ve been great – as a friend and a watcher.”

“And I shall miss you too, my Bakguai.  Terribly.  It’s been a rather life changing experience, at least on my end.  At the very least, I shall never look at language the same way again, thanks to your charming ways.”

“I’m never sure if you’re complimenting me or insulting me, Obiwan.  Sometimes I think it’s both.”

Oscar chuckled, but didn’t deny it. 

William erupted into a series of coughs, and Buffy put a hand on his arm.  “You okay, honey?”  Her husband nodded in response.

Oscar said, “It does my heart good to see the pair of you.  When the storm came, you managed to rise above it, stronger, more united than ever.”

“It can happen for you too, Oscar,” Buffy said.  “I know that losing Florence has got to hit hard, but someone else is bound to come along.”

When Oscar smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkled.  “Ah yes.  Well I should consider myself fortunate indeed if I were to find a love as strong as yours.  A person who is worth gambling it all for.”

Buffy frowned.  “Be careful.”

“Careful?”

“It’s like that old saying, ‘Watch out about what you want, because you might end up with it.’  Or something like that.”

“Hmm, ‘Be careful what you wish for, you’re liable to get it’.  I like that, Buffy.  May I steal it?”

“Steal away!  Never thought I’d see the day that you quote me.  Sort of.  My corruption of you is now complete.”

They stood to leave and William insisted on paying for breakfast.  After he settled up the bill, they made their way out into the bright California sun.  The boardwalk was treeless and, though it was morning, the air was already thick with heat.

“Perhaps we could take a stroll along the Sacramento River after we visit the ticket office at the train station,” Oscar suggested.  “There are some lovely shaded areas along the river and I’ve got quite a few questions for you two.”

“What kind of questions?”  Buffy asked, nervously.

“Well, since you’ve already travelled through the wilds of the American Midwest, I should like to ask for advice on places to stay and where to dine.”

“I’ve actually got a splendid guidebook which I would be honored to give you,” William said, a look of delight in his blue eyes.

Buffy laughed.  “William giving up his beloved guidebook?  Oscar, you have no idea!  He loves that thing like … you people love to correct grammar!”

Oscar grinned and tipped his hat at William.  “Consider me humbled, then.  Thank you, William.  Let me just stop by my room at the hotel and drop off my satchel.  I also need to collect a hat.  Shall I meet you in the lobby?”

“Certainly,” William said.

Oscar nodded and strode off toward the hotel, leaving Buffy and William to continue at their ambling pace.

As soon as Oscar was out of earshot, Buffy asked, “Do you think he knew we were lying?”

“I don’t think so, love.”

“But you know we’re terrible liars – the both of us.”

William nodded.  “He must have wanted to believe in us desperately.  It confirms that we’re doing the right thing, that we should free him to continue his lecture tour.  Should Oscar join us at the Hellmouth and things were to go wrong, it would be a terrible disservice to our friendship.”

“And you still feel as sure about this as you felt last night?”

He squeezed her hand tightly.  “As sure as I am that I love you.  It’s what we want independently, but ever more importantly, it’s what we decided – together.”

She sighed, heavily.  “It’s just, if we’re going to make a decision like this, it impacts everything.  We need to see the Hellmouth with our own eyes, make our own decision.  No watchers, no interpreters, nobody giving us a spin.  Just us.”

“Yes, love.  Nothing has changed since last night.  And I need to see it for those reasons as well as those reasons of my own.  I want to see the place where you lived, where I lived, and died, as Spike.  We wouldn’t be able to rest in our life in Napa Valley until we’d settled this business at the Hellmouth on our own terms.”

“And Oscar?”  she asked.

“And Oscar goes on to live his fabulously witty life, I should imagine.  Perhaps he’ll take another tour of America in a few years and we can fill him in on what we did – and why.  But for now, keeping him in the dark is the best path for all concerned.”

“We’ll have to stay here in Sacramento until he leaves, you know.  He’d insist upon seeing us off and a train to Los Angeles would be kinda hard to explain.  Are you up for another four or five days at our hotel?”

“Our hotel room?”  William gave her a sensual look, his eyes half-lidded and his tongue curled behind his teeth in a way that made something in her core spiral deliciously.  It was an absolutely shocking sight at mid-morning on a Sacramento sidewalk and she stopped dead in her tracks.

“William!”

“I didn’t say anything salacious, love,” he protested.  But behind his eyes was an impish gleam that she hadn’t seen in a very long time.

She let out her breath and tucked in closely by his side.  They may be heading for the Hellmouth  in a matter of days, but feeling his warmth and walking arm in arm with him, she felt completely content with the world and her place in it.  And another few days in the hotel room with him sounded like heaven.

Author’s Note:

Florence Balcombe was known as one of the great beauties of her age.  She was also Oscar’s first love.  When she threw him over to marry Bram Stoker, he was wrecked for a few years and wrote a lot of poems to her.  Bram ended up being a pretty good friend to Oscar, however, and was one of the few to visit Oscar in France when he got out of prison.

I’ll miss Oscar.  He was a great man, ruined by a few poor choices.  I like to think in this alternate reality, he had a happier ending.

Do you remember Uncle Thomas from “Yours, William”?  He was a member of the very real group “Society for the Prevention of Vice” which worked to keep (anyone but upper class) students ignorant of biology and human anatomy.  Well, the real life Oscar Wilde formed a group in response:  The Society for the Prevention of Virtue.  His mom even joined.