Apologies for staggered updates. I appear to be in a flux of some kind of existential dread with the imminent promise of returning to work next week.
Chapter Twenty
Ben: "By not letting me eat Henevieve, your action of goodwill is entirely self-motivated and only produces your own happiness and satisfaction with little regard for the overall good of society. Therefore, your ideologies are deontological in theory, as specified by Immanuel Kant. However-"
Griff, groaning: "I have not yet had my morning coffee. It is too early for discussions on morality when all I can think about doing is smothering you with a pillow."
(B & G conversation on morality several hours earlier)
"I say, Amy, have you heard a word I have said?" Heather reprimanded lightly from where she stood on the other side of the counter in Mr Coppinger's bookshop.
Amy frowned and cleared her gaze, a heated blush scraping up the back of her neck. She had indeed not been paying one iota of attention to her mother who was currently chewing her ear off about something or the other to do with the event in two days' time. Heather plunked her hands on her hips and cocked her head to the side, the little lace bonnet atop her greying curls bobbing precariously to one side. "Eh?"
"Not 'eh', you must say 'I beg your pardon'," Heather sighed and shook her head. "Who raised you?"
"You did," Amy pointed out dryly, and shifted slightly off the high stool she had been sitting on and apparently gazing into the void of nothingness for the last several minutes.
Damn Oliver.
The wooden countertop was tall, almost as high as her waist, and spread across its surface was the various bottles and jars she had been studiously completing in preparation to sell. In the hollow space underneath the counter was yet more little containers stacked neatly in boxes. Between Heather and herself, they had collected a rather large bounty of glass vestibules over the last year or so in anticipation for the event, insomuch as even roping Oliver in to securing every pot of jam or honey his household used on a regular basis.
Heather brushed her off dismissively and pointed to the jars before her. "I told you to set aside some of those for the apple jam," she said with great import. "Imagine my surprise this morning when I was unable to find any in the cottage."
Heather had been boiling and stewing apples for the last three days. As a result, the cottage reeked of honeyed, sickly sweetness to the extent that it was almost impossible to endure for long periods of time. Oliver, who had spent the last two nights in her bed, had even felt compelled to leave earlier than he normally would, but not before plastering her with kisses, pinning her wrists above her head and pressing her into the downy softness of her pillows, working her nightgown over her waist-
Drat.
Amy blinked owlishly at Heather. "Uh," she began, "I will bring however many you require when I am finished at the shop, mother."
"That simply will not do," she argued. "I need them quite urgently."
Amy gave her a small frown. "Did you bring Chomper with you today? If you did-"
"Heaven's no. You know I am unable to manage all that with these old bones and useless fingers of mine."
With a patient sigh, Amy leaned her elbows on the countertop and considered her mother thoughtfully a moment in hopes a solution would materialise out of thin air. Heather had obviously walked the mile into the village from the cottage purely to lambast her, though it could be said her boredom and inability to actively embody commitment to doing nothing in her days drove her to make the journey so that she could converse, haggle, and sometimes downright harass, other villagers. "I believe Mr Coppinger is making a route today. When he returns shortly, I will enlist his aid to return you to the cottage along with as many jars you can manage."
"I suppose that will have to do," Heather grumbled and then her face brightened entirely.
The reason for the change in her mother's countenance was caused by Oliver's entrance as he strode into the shop with his hands behind his back, a complacent grin on his face. "My two favourite girls," he said smoothly, dipping over Heather to press a kiss to her cheek.
Her mother practically gushed at the attention. It did not help one bit that only this morning had she discovered that he was courting her daughter, stumbling upon the news when she had made a rare appearance upstairs and located the two red roses atop Amy's table. A rather astute and leading interrogation had ensued and Amy had confessed, not that she ever kept anything from her mother anyway. However, she had been enjoying the anonymity of Oliver's attentions the last two days without any of Haventry's interference. Now that Heather knew and had quite clearly been making her rounds of the village that morning, she was sure to be bombarded with inquisitive gossips in no time at all.
Heather patted Oliver's cheek affectionately, outright gushing now. "Always wanted you for a son-in-law, my boy," she told him and Amy rolled her eyes. Magic how quickly her mother was able to shift from berating a daughter to fawning over another.
"We are courting, mother," she told her pointedly, "not engaged."
Oliver straightened and gave her a wolfish grin. "For another twenty days yet," he said, smoothly depositing his third rose on her countertop along with a steaming cup of-
"Coffee," Amy sighed in pleasure, snatching the cup and ignoring the rose, holding it to her nose in appreciation.
"I deduced that you may need the sustenance," Oliver insinuated and earned him a sharp look over the rim of a mug. Luckily for him, she was too busy enjoying the liquid respite to do anything more than that.
"Twenty days?" Heather demanded of Amy indignantly. "Darling, you have nigh been courting the boy for twenty years. Cruel, do you not think, to keep him waiting yet another twenty days?"
"Mmm." Amy had just taken her first sip and couldn't really be bothered to formulate a response.
"My sentiments exactly," Oliver intoned in agreement. "However, you have raised a remarkably headstrong and stubborn woman. One would fare better moving a mule than your daughter."
Amy swallowed, raising her brow. "Are you comparing me to an ass?"
"Of course not, dear." His grin was entirely too magnanimous for her liking. "A mule has better temperament."
There was nothing that wouldn't break in her reachable vicinity to lob at his head so Amy settled a firm glower of malcontent on her brow and nestled her nose back into her cup of coffee.
When Mr Coppinger hobbled downstairs from his offices and residence above, her attention was diverted by conversing briefly with the aged man to ensure the safe transporting of her mother and her vials to the cottage. Knowing that he was paying a visit to his son who lived in a town a few miles outside Haventry, Amy was certain that Mr Coppinger would not hesitate at offering her mother assistance. He was a genial man, respectful and endlessly kind, especially where Amy was concerned. She rather thought he had taken a special liking to her because of her own lack of paternal figure in her life, therefore he had readily enlisted her help in the store even though business never picked up and help was surely unnecessary for such a small venture. And when he had wanted to sell the shop years ago, he had promised Amy to wait until she had the means with which to purchase it. She wondered if his patience would wear thin, though if her projections of accumulated savings were accurate, he would not need wait more than one more year further.
Oliver stepped out with a large carton of glass vials to assist Heather, leaving Mr Coppinger and Amy alone momentarily within the cluttered confines of the store.
"Ah, I have been meaning to speak with you," he said once the other occupants were well out of earshot.
Noting this, Amy straightened and pinned a politely curious expression on her face. Matters pertaining to business were always discussed privately between them. "Is it about the revenue we made from the papers-"
"No, dear." He sighed heavily and appeared rather downtrodden at that, folding his hands together before him and coming to place them on the countertop near to her. "Reggie is adamant I am to reside with him," he explained, referring to his son who lived with his wife and three children. Reginald was the only family Mr Coppinger had and for as long as Amy could remember had been insisting that his father reside with him to be with his family and grandchildren, especially as he was advancing in years. "At the end of the month, I am to do so. I will be leaving Haventry and need to sell."
A month? She felt her hopes splinter and fizzle out pathetically. At the obviously crestfallen expression on her face, Mr Coppinger was quick to add, "I can wait a few more weeks, but you must know how sorry I am. I know that the shop is dear to you, and-"
She shook her head quickly and schooled her features into a quivering smile, though she was feeling anything but pleased. "You have been kind and very patient with me for so many years," she said earnestly. "I could never expect you to wait longer than you have already."
His gaze hastened to where Oliver was returning and his smile was soft, sympathetic, as he took her fingers and gave her a gentle squeeze. "Let us talk of this later. You have time yet, dear." Then he nodded to Oliver on his way out the shop, leaving Amy with the sudden urge to drop her face into her hands in despair.
It was a marvellous ache- the shattering of a harboured dream for several long years- but she endeavoured to stoically remain unperturbed for the handsome man who loped casually into her midst and leaned his elbows opposite hers. "Your mother tried to enforce my aid, wanting me to stir her large pot of jam," he remarked teasingly, then his face straightened suddenly. "What is the matter?"
She should have known better. It was nigh impossible to hide her true feelings from Oliver. He was well-versed at reading every nuance of emotion that fluctuated through her expression. It would be easy for him to identify her worry.
Regardless, it was sore point for her. Oliver knew of her desire better than anyone to purchase the property, even though he considered it a faulty investment. Confiding in him now that the decision may be taken away from her entirely wasn't sitting right.
"Mr Coppinger is selling the shop," she admitted. "He is unable to prolong the sale to accommodate me."
"Oh." His face was sincerely contrite as he took her fingers in his own. "And presently you do not have the means, I suppose."
"Not for another year, at least," she admitted, then sighed and forced a sunny smile to her face. "I should not allow it to bother me as much, perhaps I may convince him yet to allow me to pay the balance of the sale within the next year."
His frown spoke volumes about what he thought of that idea. "Griff, allow me-"
She shook her head quickly, knowing full well what he was about before he even completed the sentence. He had offered to loan her the funds before, but she would not. She was proud of her ability to plan and save, an initiative in independence if ever there was one, and she was averse to allow herself to rely on him now. "You know I cannot."
"You mean, you will not."
"Oliver," she said sternly, causing him to release her fingers and walk around the other end of the counter so that he stood closer to her. "You do not believe in this venture. It would be absurdly wrong of me to loan money from an investor who does not think his product will flourish."
"I believe in you," he said quietly. "And I know that this is not merely a bookshop to you. You have ideas to implement and develop, and I believe in those."
It was true and once she had confided them to him years ago, he had stopped voicing his protests at the absurdity of her plan. The store served only as a front but it was vastly more than that to her. The basement held archives of literature and dusty, neglected papers, but the space was promising. Amy longed to clear it and transform it, converting some of the aging furniture into a comfy sitting room to gather clientele in readings and discussion- for a small, monthly fee of course. Haventry's elderly and lonely were particularly keen on this idea, to have a small community with which to interact, partake in a tea, and simply share knowledge. There were also promising initiatives to develop literacy, and within the storefront space alone she longed to make it more habitable than it currently was with its looming tall, full-to-bursting shelves and not much else.
"Still, I would rather do this myself." Amy nudged him with half-hearted playfulness. "I shan't be a burden to you, I hope you know that."
"I admire your steadfastness, I do," he murmured, caging her against the counter by pressing his hands to either side of her waist. "I would happily buy you ten bookshops, each with varying degrees of disrepair, and I would never perceive you a burden." His head bent closer to hers, brushing against her lips in a gentle caress.
"Oliver, anyone could see," she murmured, her breath catching at that all-too familiar arc of need that sped through her at any of his touches, no matter how brief or innocent. Though they were hardly ever innocent anymore.
"Indeed. Suppose I should take care then and conceal myself." With that, he dropped to his knees before her, his hands skimming her waist and hips, shifting her so that he was against the counter and she was facing him.
Amy gasped, legs unsteady with the abrupt change. "Are you mad?" But her voice stalled, his hands skimming lower over her thighs, and even through the material of her skirts she almost whimpered with the contact. "Oliver, someone could enter the shop!"
His fingers were at her ankles as he grinned up at her, a look of such wayward roguishness on his face and lighting his eyes she could have swooned for it.
"Best you come quick, then."