Chapter One
Ben: "All I'm saying is that your moral compass isn't pointing as straight as you think it is. Simply because you will not eat this goose because its neck was wrung in front of you, doesn't make you virtuous, Griff. If you ate it and didn't witness or commit its miserable demise- that just makes you morally ambiguous. You should endeavour to stop eating them altogether if you want your logic to be any less flawed."
Griff, after several moments of contemplation: "Perhaps I will."
(B & G conversation on the topic of morality 7 years prior)
Henivieve was out the coop again.
Amy knew this due to the frantic clucking and flapping of feathered wings originating below her bedroom window at whatever ungodly hour it was. Wearily, she cracked open an eye and glared at her the paned glass, tossing a silent and ineffective wish down to the hen, mentally willing it to settle. There was some small relief in the knowledge that she needn't rush out of her warm bed to corral the cantankerous poultry back into her hutch because Henivieve would be quite content to scratch up the newly planted bulbs and sprouts in the front garden for hours yet. Besides, for all her chicken-wrath and ostentation, she never dared stray far from the cottage.
"Damn it all, Henivieve!" a familiar male voice broke through a mad bout of clucking and Amy knew now the reason for the chicken's discontent and thus her rude awakening.
Henivieve was never a very docile hen but for whatever reason in her tiny little brain she seemed to be most inclined and hateful towards the opposite sex. Amy half suspected it had something to do with the rooster they had acquired at the same time as Henivieve and he had proven to be quite the unfaithful husband once more hens were added to the coop.
Pushing the thought of Henivieve's contempt from her mind, Amy rolled from bed and plodded to the window. Her room was small and compact yet comfortable, littered with a menagerie of personal affects that wrought fond memories or pleasant sensations. On the windowsill sat a vase of yellow daffodils which she deftly moved to the desk beside it before throwing the window open and peering down at the cause of the ruckus below.
Oliver Bennet Hollingsworth, the future Earl of Gravewood, had returned from London and was fighting off the enraged attentions of a Cornish hen, swearing up a storm under his breath as he leapt and hopped out the jumping, flapping bird's path.
"Upsetting all the chicks tonight, Ben?" Amy called out to him softly, wary even now that perhaps the sound would waken her aging mother on other side of the house. Even though Heather Griffiths was a sound sleeper, and more likely her resounding snores would drown out any noise before they reached her ears, one could never be too careful, especially in a small village like Haventry where gossip could spread like a swarm of locusts- faster and with disastrous results, though oft times the sleepy village hardly kicked up enough dirt to cause a sneeze.
Through the evening shadows, Oliver Hollingsworth craned his head back and grinned at her roguishly. "Listen, Griff, I'm in a bit of a-" Henivieve chose that moment to launch herself at his face, an explosive cloud of feathers and squawking following the interruption, and Oliver dashed madly out the way, hastily beginning to haul his form up the side of the cottage by means of lunging onto the sill of the window directly below her bedroom's, then leveraging the rest of his body up onto the narrow wooden awning of the front door of the cottage. Luckily, Oliver was sufficiently tall and lean to complete the manoeuvre with effortless precision and grace, finally hauling his length through her open window with nary a sweat beading his brow.
It was an execution they had completed since they were children and with less frequency as the years wore on, but it was simple enough for the man to recall it.
As Oliver dropped onto the floor of her room, compelling Amy to take a step back to accommodate him, Henivieve protested in a series of aggrieved clucks and coos. "Allow me to serve her for dinner at my table," Oliver remarked dryly, brushing a few lingering streaks of dirt from his white shirt. It was creased and untucked, implying that he had thrown it on in haste, and Amy realised what he was about even before the furious voice came from a distance outside.
"I'll kill him! That swine's son, that whore's bastard! Where is he?"
"What did you do?" she hissed, snatching the edges of the window and hastily forcing them shut. The voice was far away yet and originated from within the village, but if it was the irate husband she thought she knew it to be, he wouldn't let up any time soon, especially if he had been deep in his cups at the tavern beforehand. Amy turned back to Oliver, raised her brows, and plunked her hands on her hips. "Or should I say who?"
He had the decency to look sheepish at least. "Interesting story, that," Oliver began. "I am a perfectly innocent victim in all this, you see. Mary failed to mention that-"
"Mary?" Amy interrupted shrilly and then caught herself, lowering her voice to a whisper. "Mary Townsend?" Her assumptions were correct then and she gave him a sternly exasperated glare. "Of all the available and willing women, you decided Mary was the one for you?"
He rolled his eyes, the effect ruined by the pair of neat wire spectacles he had pushed up his long nose and folded his arms churlishly. "She is not the one for me."
"Ben!" The nickname only she used seemed to soften him slightly and the petulant stiffness of his shoulders slackened slightly.
"She made a very convincing proposition," Oliver supplied helplessly.
"And I suppose this is now my prob-" They winced simultaneously at the slurred hollering now decidedly closer and very much louder than before.
"Where is he? Where- hic- come out, you beard splitter! Cow- hic!- coward!"
Together, they dropped to wooden floors, thumping solidly against the boards. Amy sighed in resignation and sidled along until her back was pressed against the edge of her bed for support. She may as well settle in. Mary's husband, Lucas Townsend, was a terrible drunk and prone to bouts of amazing obstinance. He had once taken a spill and fallen down the village well and refused rescue for three hours, hollering and blustering for all his worth. Their only saving grace in this predicament was that Amy's cottage that she shared with her mother was just less than a mile away from Haventry and along the gravel road that would lead to the cider orchards. The vast expanse of pastoral farmlands and other homesteads would hopefully serve to at least help sober Lucas Townsend up while he ambled along and hollered his obscenities at being cuckolded, but until then Oliver would have to stay put.
"Does he know it was you?" Amy asked as she tucked her legs under her and smoothed her night gown over her knees.
"Lud, Griff. No idea. I should hope not considering everybody knows where I live."
"Did he see you?"
Oliver gave her a dry look before easing himself next to her, mimicking a similar position. He leaned his head back against her mattress and turned to her, the corner of his lip quirking. It would have been endearing and rather effective on any other woman- but Amy had known this particular wastrel of a man for nigh twenty years.
Oliver Bennet Hollingsworth was her best friend and a terrible flirt, though his charms had been acquired later on in his early adulthood. And in the village of Haventry there were plenty of lonely women who were very susceptible to his irresistibility and Amy had been subjected to many a, "He just has a look about him that makes me want to take care of him..." from her susceptible friends in Haventry. The men in the area were few and far between, either all married, decrepit or utilizing whatever means necessary to simply leave. As for a young lady hoping to make a suitable match... prospects were grim. If one couldn't afford a London season, such as Amy, one's prospects of ever finding a suitable man in Haventry were next to none.
Which is why, whenever Oliver returned from London or his travels abroad, the womenfolk were all a tither. Currently, there were only six available, suitable, and age-appropriate females in Haventry, and Amy was considered one of them, albeit reluctantly. She firmly considered herself on the shelf at seven and twenty. The thought of a husband had long since abandoned her and she rather enjoyed her small, idyllic existence in the quiet, pastoral village that skirted the Earl of Gravewood's massive estate.
Eventually Oliver shrugged with a weary little sigh. "I doubt it," he mumbled. "It was rather dark."
"Eh," Amy dismissed with a grin. "You could easily pay him off with eight pints of Haventry Cider and he would be happy enough. That is, of course, if he remembers the following the morning and concludes it was indeed you ploughing his wife."
He choked at that and looked at her with wide, jade-green eyes. There were a lot of qualities about Oliver Hollingsworth that made him desirable to the opposite sex, and Amy knew better than anyone that it hadn't always been that way, but his eyes held a discernible allure. Added to a mop of auburn hair that cowlicked favourably to the left and a mouth whose upper lip was curled in a perpetually taunting grin, it was no wonder that the fairer sex was at his beck and call. It hadn't always been like that and Amy allowed a small trigger of amusement to linger as she recalled the gangly, orange-haired youth she had befriended all those many years ago. They had both endured years of torment in their younger years, commiseration found willingly in the sharing of their miseries, so Amy was well aware of his insecurities inasmuch as he was of hers, which is why she no longer teased him about the spectacles he ought to be wearing all the time to compensate for his sadly deteriorating eyesight. Years of being plagued by one's appearance tended to ensure some confidences were never retained and Oliver never wore those spectacles unless in private or with Amy.
"I assure you, there was very little ploughing to be had unfortunately," Oliver said begrudgingly.
Amy poked his shoulder. "Which is a good thing. You should not be cavorting with a married woman, Benny."
"Ugh, do not call me that."
"Benny, Benny, Bennnnnnny!"
He glared at her and then nudged her shoulder, hard. "I will have you know," he explained, ignoring her jibe, "that Mary made some very convincing arguments. Mr Townsend is quite neglectful, it seems. His attention is devoted to nights at the Lucky Apple and a buxom wench-"
"That would be Mrs Lucy Smart," Amy supplied happily, "and she clearly is not a wench."
His face spoke volumes about what he thought about this information. "Is there anything you don't know, Griff?"
"About Haventry?" She gave him a lopsided smile. "Probably not. People enjoy talking. A lot. I suppose there is little else to do."
He made a disparaging sound at that and ran his fingers through the side of his hair. His jaw was in dire need of a shave and, with his profile angled towards her, she could discern the very subtle hook of his long nose. "How long until it is safe for me to make my escape?"
"You may be quite safe now, seeing as we have not heard Mr Townsend in some time," Amy said thoughtfully. "Though you can never be too certain with him. He could be passed out in a hedgerow and awaken as you pass."
A few years ago, Amy had worked later than normal in the one and only bookshop in the village. As she had walked home, she had stumbled across Mr Townsend on the dark and quiet road, sprawled out on the gravel like a flayed fish. She had worked herself into a right fret thinking he surely must be dead and when she had urged closer to prod him, he had lurched upright with the vehemence of an outraged bull, charged her with a slew of profanities, and then skipped his way home, but not before fishing out the skin of wine or cider he had dropped in the grass.
It had shaved off a few years of her life, that experience.
Presently, Oliver gave her an imploring look.
"No," she snapped firmly. "No, not again-"
"Ah, Griff," he pleaded, blinking with wide-eyed adoration, "take pity on your poor, best friend in the whole wide world?"
"Clearly, I need to make new friends."
"Just tonight," he begged, "the last time?"
She sighed, relenting. It wasn't as if they had never done this before, sleeping in the same vicinity. Lord, one night she had awoken nestled against a root of an apple tree with naught by Oliver to assure her of the evening's events. However, the more years that passed, the more inappropriate it had seemed. And now, because she simply did not see him as often as she used to, it seemed all the more wrong. Amy made sure he knew her feelings of the matter by bestowing a scowl of malcontent on her brow and then threw her hands up. "Fine!"
"You're the best, Griff." He threw an arm around her shoulders and yanked her to his side, dropping a quick, chaste kiss to her temple. "Truly, I owe you."
"Again," she grumbled testily, digging her elbow into his ribs so that he yelped and lurched his side away from her. "I still need to begin claiming all your other debts."
"Anything," he vowed, rubbing his side. "Name it."
The idea popped into her head so suddenly she couldn't help the sly grin that crept up her lips at the thought. However, Oliver was clambering onto the bed, toeing off his muddy boots, so he didn't catch the outward display of cunning that was skittering through her mind. "You are going to accompany mother and I to the Sunday service this week," she told him, climbing onto the mattress and forcibly nudging him over.
With a look of horror, Oliver complied and held the coverlet back for her to slip inside. "I beg your pardon," he said, irked.
Amy found a loose decorative cushion she had tossed on the floor earlier and stuffed it between their bodies before tossing him one of her spare pillows and fluffing up her own. "Consider it all debts paid if you accept."
"Truly, you must think me an imbecile."
"I think you many a thing."
If an act of placing one's head on a frilly white pillow could be completed in a manner that was decidedly put out, Oliver managed it successfully. "That vicar harps on for three hours," he protested. "And the pews are remarkably uncomfortable. My arse takes days to find feeling again."
Amy settled on her own pillow and turned towards him, grinning widely. "I think it's high time you conversed with God," she said pointedly. "It is quite clear that you need some divine guidance."
"Yes, surely, but not three hours worth."
"It clocks in at about four hours now. Mr Bickens tends to pontificate in his old age."
Oliver groaned loud and long.
"It is truly not as bad as you think." She was lying, it was terrible. "But I am making a few loaves of bread-"
"The rosemary one?"
Her smile deepened when she caught the way his dark eyes sparked with interest, even in the gloom. "Yes, among some other, I'll be baking tomorrow and sure to save a few loaves for you-"
"Fine, fine, I'll come."
Oliver had a soft spot for freshly prepared food, especially a loaf of seasoned bread just out from the oven with a resoundingly pleasing crispness to the crust and a satisfyingly moist fluffy interior that butter melted into with effortless and sinful ease. Unfortunately for Amy's waistline and Oliver's capacity to be easily breaded into submission, she was adept in the kitchen and particularly enjoyed whiling away some her free hours attempting recipes with fresh ingredients she could grow and find in the weekly costermonger's market.
"Good, that's settled then," Amy said, already conjuring images and yearnings of her next bake.
"Does Mr Bickens still not know it was you who stole all the wine from the rectory all those years ago?"
She groaned then and clapped her hands to her face. "You promised never to bring that up again!" Spreading the fingers of one hand, she attempted to give him an irked looked. "And if I recall, it was at your insistence."
"I hardly forced you to drink it though, did I?"
Amy couldn't help but smile at the memory. Oliver had finished his final year at Oxford and had returned to Haventry for a short week before he intended to travel the Continent to continue some of his studies and to simply enjoy life. In celebration, she -they- had procured the wine used for that Sunday's Eucharist and imbibed the entire contents together under an apple tree in one of the nearby orchards. She had woken with a resounding ache in her skull and the Good Lord had punished her well and truly by making her endure a lengthy sermon by Mr Bickens that dragged on for even longer than normal to compensate for his missing wine. Unfortunately, as Amy was well invested with the ongoing practices within the Parish, her active role had gained her access to the rectory and the church itself, the only other person that held those privileges were Mr Bickens himself and... Mrs Mary Townsend. When fingers had started to point, Amy had offered up the reasoning that perhaps it was Mr Townsend who had stolen the wine... and nobody seemed disinclined to disbelieve her considering the man's proclivity to it. And for his part, he shrugged and said, "Could very well 'ave been me. Can't recall what the deuce I did las' night anyways."
"You are the devil on my shoulder," Amy said to Oliver, lowering her hands and tucking them under the coverlet. There was a faint chill in the September air, with fall emerging more steadily around the corner of summer now. "How long are you gracing us with your presence this time? Long enough to partake in the festival, I hope?"
"Will there be a kissing booth again?"
"Most certainly. Hamletta is primed and ready." Hamletta was the town's prized potbelly pig, who would be groomed and ribboned and sure to cause a right stir once enough locally produced cider had been imbibed. "A halfpenny will grant you three kisses."
"The anticipation is killing."
She tucked her head in the crook of her arm and stared at him through the shadows. It was so dark she could hardly discern his features but she could tell his eyes were open and he was amused by the conversation. "I am sure Hamletta hardly compares to some of the company you have been keeping-"
"And that means?"
"Well, she is pork-based, firstly-"
Oliver coughed with laughter. "Pork- Griff, kindly desist with your comparison and the company I keep. You will find the ladies are quite lovely and for the most part accomplished women."
"Oh, indeed, I know!" she amended hastily. "I am well-acquainted with Mary at least and she is the embodiment of kindness, I was merely trying to imply that our trivial little festival would dull in comparison to what you are used to... in my roundabout way of things, as usual."
He was chuckling quietly to himself. "Go to sleep, Griff. You have a lot of baking to do tomorrow."
"I am going to assume that means you will be joining us for the Harvest Festival as well, then."
A cushion was lobbed at her face. "Naturally, I am unable to resist Hamletta's charms."
Amy grinned and tossed the cushion to the floor. "Goodnight, Benny."
"Goodnight, Griff."