There have been five great kisses since 1642 B.C., when Saul and Delilah Korn’s inadvertent discovery swept across Western civilization. (Before then couples hooked thumbs.) And the precise rating of kisses is a terribly difficult thing, often leading to great controversy, because although everyone agrees with the formula of affection times purity times intensity times duration, no one has ever been completely satisfied with how much weight each element should receive. But on any system, there are five that everyone agrees deserve full marks.
Well, this one left them all behind.
The first morning after Westley’s departure, Buttercup thought she was entitled to do nothing more than sit around moping and feeling sorry for herself. After all, the love of her life had fled, life had no meaning, how could you face the future, et cetera, et cetera.
But after about two seconds of that she realized that Westley was out in the world now, getting nearer and nearer to London, and what if a beautiful city girl caught his fancy while she was just back here moldering? Or, worse, what if he got to America and worked his jobs and built his farm and made their bed and sent for her and when she got there he would look at her and say, “I’m sending you back, the moping has destroyed your eyes, the self-pity has taken your skin; you’re a slobby-looking creature, I’m marrying an Indian girl who lives in a teepee nearby and is always in the peak of condition.”
Buttercup ran to her bedroom mirror. “Oh, Westley,” she said, “I must never disappoint you,” and she hurried downstairs to where her parents were squabbling. (Sixteen to thirteen, and not past breakfast yet.) “I need your advice,” she interrupted. “What can I do to improve my personal appearance.”
“Start by bathing,” her father said.
“And do something with your hair while you’re at it,” her mother said.
“Unearth the territory behind your ears.”
“Neglect not your knees.”
“That will do nicely for starters,” Buttercup said. She shook her head. “Gracious, but it isn’t easy being tidy.” Undaunted, she set to work.
Every morning she awoke, if possible by dawn, and got the farm chores finished immediately. There was much to be done now, with Westley gone, and more than that, ever since the Count had visited, everyone in the area had increased his milk order. So there was no time for self-improvement until well into the afternoon.
But then she really set to work. First a good cold bath. Then, while her hair was drying, she would slave after fixing her figure faults (one of her elbows was just too bony, the opposite wrist not bony enough). And exercise what remained of her baby fat (little left now; she was nearly eighteen). And brush and brush her hair.
Her hair was the color of autumn, and it had never been cut, so a thousand strokes took time, but she didn’t mind, because Westley had never seen it clean like this and wouldn’t he be surprised when she stepped off the boat in America. Her skin was the color of wintry cream, and she scrubbed her every inch well past glistening, and that wasn’t much fun really, but wouldn’t Westley be pleased with how clean she was as she stepped off the boat in America.
And very quickly now, her potential began to be realized. From twentieth, she jumped within two weeks to fifteenth, an unheard-of change in such a time. But three weeks after that she was already ninth and moving. The competition was tremendous now, but the day after she was ninth a three-page letter arrived from Westley in London and just reading it over put her up to eighth. That was really what was doing it for her more than anything— her love for Westley would not stop growing, and people were dazzled when she delivered milk in the morning. Some people were only able to gape at her, but many talked and those that did found her warmer and gentler than she had ever been before. Even the village girls would nod and smile now, and some of them would ask after Westley, which was a mistake unless you happened to have a lot of spare time, because when someone asked Buttercup how Westley was—well, she told them. He was supreme as usual; he was spectacular; he was singularly fabulous. Oh, she could go on for hours. Sometimes it got a little tough for the listeners to maintain strict attention, but they did their best, since Buttercup loved him so completely.
Which was why Westley’s death hit her the way it did.
He had written to her just before he sailed for America. TheQueen’s Pride was his ship, and he loved her. (That was the way his sentences always went: It is raining today and I love you. My cold is better and I love you. Say hello to Horse and I love you. Like that.)
Then there were no letters, but that was natural; he was at sea. Then she heard. She came home from delivering the milk and her parents were wooden. “Off the Carolina coast,” her father whispered.
Her mother whispered, “Without warning. At night.”
“What?” from Buttercup.
“Pirates,” said her father.
Buttercup thought she’d better sit down.
Quiet in the room.
“He’s been taken prisoner then?” Buttercup managed.
Her mother made a “no.”
“It was Roberts,” her father said. “The Dread Pirate Roberts.”
“Oh,” Buttercup said. “The one who never leaves survivors.”
“Yes,” her father said.
Quiet in the room.
Suddenly Buttercup was talking very fast: “Was he stabbed? . . . Did he drown? . . . Did they cut his throat asleep? . . . Did they wake him, do you suppose? . . . Perhaps they whipped him dead. . . .” She stood up then. “I’m getting silly, forgive me.” She shook her head. “As if the way they got him mattered. Excuse me, please.” With that she hurried to her room.
She stayed there many days. At first her parents tried to lure her, but she would not have it. They took to leaving food outside her room, and she took bits and shreds, enough to stay alive. There was never noise inside, no wailing, no bitter sounds.
And when she at last came out, her eyes were dry. Her parents stared up from their silent breakfast at her. They both started to rise but she put a hand out, stopped them. “I can care for myself, please,” and she set about getting some food. They watched her closely.
In point of fact, she had never looked as well. She had entered her room as just an impossibly lovely girl. The woman who emerged was a trifle thinner, a great deal wiser, an ocean sadder. This one understood the nature of pain, and beneath the glory of her features, there was character, and a sure knowledge of suffering.
She was eighteen. She was the most beautiful woman in a hundred years. She didn’t seem to care.
“You’re all right?” her mother asked.
Buttercup sipped her cocoa. “Fine,” she said.
“You’re sure?” her father wondered.
“Yes,” Buttercup replied. There was a very long pause. “But I must never love again.”
She never did.