Chapter Twenty-Seven
Griff: "You are lying, Oliver Hollingsworth, and I shall tell your mother on you! There is no monster in your lake and it does not only eat girls!"
Ben: "Oh, really? Explain then, when was the last time you saw Miss Belinda Holt?"
(B & G conversation on the employment and dismissal of Miss Holt, a Gravewood scullery maid, 19 years prior)
"When was the last time that vessel was considered seaworthy?" Amy wondered aloud with a very evident note of dryness to her tone.
From where he was bent over the decrepit, wooden rowboat that was half-banked on the grassy slope on the opposite side of the Gravewood lake, Oliver twisted his head to give her a lopsided grin. "Firstly, this is not the ocean," he said cheerfully. "Secondly, this vessel is in pristine condition, renowned throughout England for its... floatiness."
Amy considered the rotting contraption sceptically. It appeared to be moulding and splintered in places, and what was once white paint peeled from its sides like flaky greying parchment. The last time they had bothered to row about the small and unassuming pond that was the Gravewood lake had been years ago, so brisk in length that it hardly warranted their time or appealed to any worthwhile shenanigans in their youth. Now, however, and for whatever reason, Oliver felt compelled to drag her across it in some lavish gesture of courtship.
It was endearingly sweet and he had gone to great lengths to prepare a romantic setup that was sure to take place within the boat if the large picnic hamper sitting on the grass beside him was any indication. There should have been more people in attendance, though it appeared Oliver's friends were in poor spirits after a night of indulgence with poorly made Haventry cider and had opted to remain contained within the manor until dinner later that evening. Perhaps it was his own immunity to the ill effects of the cider that made Oliver sturdier in the aftermaths of consumption, but he appeared in high spirits as he set about swiping the interior of the rowboat and clearing it as best he could from rotting leaves and other unknown debris that had accumulating over years of neglect.
"We could always enjoy the picnic from the shore," Amy suggested hopefully, secretly admiring the strength and length of his thighs as he squatted to one side of the boat. He had shucked his coat and dumped it over her shoulders when a stiff, cold breeze had picked up and caused her to outwardly shiver, and presently she huddled deeper into the warmth it provided, encased in his pleasant cologne. "It is dry and considerably less mouldy."
"You doubt my ability to keep us afloat. I am wounded." Oliver stood, his legs unfolding sensuously as he dusted off his hands on his thighs. Then he planted them on his hips and turned to her, his face beaming with boyish eagerness and delight. Her heart melted. "Your water chariot awaits, madam."
Lord, she was going to meet a watery end purely because she could not resist a face like that. Tentatively, she leaned forward and peered over at the inside of the raft, and his coat's inner pockets crinkled with whatever he had wedged in them. There was a soft, fleecy throw that he had folded neatly and placed atop each of the two benches that intersected the boat, but a shallow layer of effluent-looking water coated the bottom, mulch and brown leaves littering the surface. It was passable, but only just, and she was grateful that on her feet were sturdy, aged boots rather than some of the newer and finer slippers she had purchased from her sojourn in London. Amy straightened, his pockets crinkled loudly once more, and she wondered absently what he had stuffed them with to make them so encumbered and pinned him with a resolute smile.
When she took a step towards him, Oliver extended his hand and assisted her tenderly inside the rickety boat. It lurched awkwardly to one side with her added weight and Amy squeaked in fright, his other arm snaking about her waist to stabilise her, and then she lowered herself with a surge of trepidation to one of the benches that faced the others. She wondered if it was only a matter of time before the entire thing curved in on itself and sank them both to the bottom of the pond, though she refrained from voicing her thoughts aloud. He seemed pleased and energetic by his efforts, almost bristling with anticipatory energy Amy could hardly fail to notice.
"I hope you are aware of the esteem I hold you in considering how averse I am to feeling cold and wet by willingly stepping onto this boat when the weather bodes ominously indeed," Amy pointed out, hugging his coat tighter about her shoulders as he stepped inside the raft. Using a splintering oar, Oliver propelled the rowboat the rest of the way into the murky water of the lake, and they skirted away from the shore, rocking from side to side.
"You are certainly petulant today," Oliver muttered, settling himself as gently as he could on the bench opposite her. Locating the other oar from beneath their feet, he positioned them in the water. "I have never known you to shy away from a bit of an inconvenience before."
Eyeing the sludge that rippled over the toes of her boots, Amy raised her brows. "You have forgotten the picnic basket," she teased. "And perhaps it is about time I make you well aware of any inconveniences I feel personally affected by. Lest I remind you a dry set of clothing lies a few miles away from here."
Oliver jerked his head to the shore, frowning. "Oh, blast. Shall I return for it? It was part of the plan, after all."
"Perhaps it would be better to partake of the food ashore." Was there more water than before gathering at the bottom of the boat?
"I suppose that is fine," Oliver remarked, turning back to her with a grin that creased his swarthy cheeks and reached the depths of his eyes. "I can woo you well enough without strawberries and wine."
Something was definitely causing the murky water by her toes to ripple. Wondering briefly what poor creature had joined them on their adventure, Amy crooked her lips into a smile at the man opposite her. Their legs were close together and his arms and shoulders moved with smooth grace and strength as he propelled the oars, slicing the water with broad strokes that skimmed the rowboat swiftly to the centre of the lake. "Whatever do you need to woo me for?"
The expression that crossed his face was decidedly wolfish then. "If you would let me, I'd spend the entirety of our lives finding different ways to woo you. However, today I deduced something special would need to be contrived considering the contents you will find in the pocket-"
His words caught as both their eyes dropped to the faint splash originating from between Amy's ankles. There was definitely some small creature swimming about, and it made its presence known in the next moment when a pointed greenish snout and a pair of liquid eyes blinked up at her.
Oliver made a strangled sound.
"Oh, it's just a little frog," Amy chided. She bent over, well aware of the man's distress at the harmless creature, and intended to scoop it out and toss it into the lake, but the amphibian darted from the reach of her fingers and disappeared under the bench she was sitting upon.
"Amy, don't-"
But she had stood already, twisting around to locate the frog that had swum behind her. The boat dipped and veered dangerously to each side and Amy teetered, slanting backwards. A cold, wet something suddenly clung to her ankle and she yelped, her fright reeling her backwards and her legs caught on the bench. Wheeling her arms, she collapsed with her bottom in the water on the other side of the bench, her legs dangling over the wood, boat tilting wildly from side to side.
It was then that a tiny little frog decided to render the most damage that day as it leapt out from within her petticoats and skirts and landed itself firmly on Oliver's horrified face.
His yell reverberated across the trees and off the stone walls of the house. Frantic, the oars were tossed aside, landing with a splash into the water on either side of the boat as they jerked haphazardly from side to side, sloshing icy cold water over them both. "Ben!" Amy hollered, her fingers tightening on the sides of the raft as they tippled closer and closer to capsizing, but Oliver was beyond hearing, especially when the little frog hopped over his nose, its sticky toes clinging to the lenses of his spectacles, and then it leapt into a lock of his auburn hair.
It was possibly what caused him to lurch to his feet, swearing and yelling indignantly, and with the momentum of the boat and the sudden shift of his weight to one side, they overturned together with a resounding splash.
For brief moments, Amy's world was dark as the water churned and bubbled about her, and then the sheer coldness of the lake careened through her with all the force of a boulder. She kicked her legs, desperate to emerge and locate a source of warmth for the cold made her limbs stiffen and her chest begin to ache. She broke the surface gasping and splashing, her teeth chattering loudly. Oliver soon followed, swearing profusely, his hair draped and tangled over his brows.
"Jesus, that's cold!" He ploughed towards her, his own jaw trembling, and then his face dropped. "Amy, the coat, the pockets-" He groaned as if in pain.
"I h-have your d-d-damn coat!"
Reaching her, Oliver drew her against him and despite the frigid water, his body's warmth touched her in the places they pressed together. "It's not the coat I'm concerned about, love," he said, a shiver undulating through him, and he began to swim her towards the shore, "it's the title deed in the pocket that is undoubtedly ruined." He swiped jerkily at his hair, pushing it back over his forehead, and a little green frog hopped into the water with a splash and an indignant croak before swimming away from the rude humans who had accosted its home.
"Title deed?" But another tremor ran through her and Amy could only focus on her own need to get dry and warm before she perished from the cold, and it seemed that it was Oliver's intent as well.
Once ashore, he peeled the coat from her shoulders and searched the pockets frantically, finally withdrawing a sodden, bedraggled parchment that was beyond saving. A pained look crossed his face and then one of resignation.
Hugging her waist, Amy's chin trembled as water pooled about them on the grass. "I am s-s-sorry," she managed to grit out between her clenched teeth. When his gaze riveted on her, there was nothing but concern on his features and he shook remnant drops of water from the parchment before wrapping his arms around her waist and tucking her to his side.
"You have nothing to be sorry for," he told her, tugging her along towards the manor house. He tossed his coat to the ground and enveloped her with his other arm to gather as much warmth as possible against her frigid skin. "I am the fool who brought an important document on a boat."
"A title d-deed? Have you acquired property?"
They were manoeuvring quickly up the stone steps towards the terrace of the house and she wanted to huddle closer into his side. How was it, she thought, he could emanate such heat while she felt positively frozen in comparison? "Not I," Oliver murmured, his hand rubbing up and down the top of her arm soothingly, "the deed is for you. Mr Coppinger sold his bookshop and transferred the ownership in your name-"
"What!" She stopped dead at that and he was forced to stagger to a halt on the step above her. Amy stared up at him in disbelief, half inclined to stamp her foot with the anger she felt rippling through her and half inclined to throw her arms around his neck in affection with the gesture. "Oliver, I told you I wanted to purchase the shop at my own means on my own terms."
"I know." The softness of his tone almost withered her resolve and he drew her against his chest as a shiver went through him and subsequently her. A gentle breeze stirred the air around them and for its bracing effect it had on them it made as well had been an arctic breeze. "Allow me to assuage your concerns from within the house, Griff, perhaps after a hot bath and a change into drier attire."
She shook her head stubbornly even as her chin wobbled most pathetically, contradicting the indignant haughtiness she hoped to transfer. Damn it all, she doubted she made any impact in her bedraggled state and she felt the heavy material of her skirts cling persistently to her stomach and thighs. She must look a sight, indeed. "A-s-s-suage me now," she protested.
An exasperated smile twitched his lips. "Griff, upon my honour, with this deed there was also another document, an agreement of sorts, which stated your intention to repay the amount owed for the deed, with interest, and every bit of legality to satisfy your honourable appetites. Now please may we continue this from within Gravewood manor, preferably in front of a lit hearth and a pot of tea?"
He had a point, and she relented with a small jerk of her quivering chin. Oliver continued to hold her close as they shuffled inside the house, slipping across the parquet flooring as water dripped from their clothing in rivulets. In no time, Amy was ushered away from Oliver's side and into her own private chambers where a steaming bath was soon administered.
Since her clothes were ruined, Oliver had mentioned before she was pried from him that he would send a man to collect garments from her cottage in Haventry, but in the interim she had been given a thick wool gown in a deep forest green that tied about her waist. She knew it belonged to Oliver and burrowed into it with a smile, despite the lingering unease at her discovery that he had bought Mr Coppinger's shop without consulting her first.
She wanted to lambast him for his impudence, though she was finding it difficult to fault him entirely. Oliver held only the best intentions where she was concerned, and Mr Coppinger was hardly bestowing her all the time in the world to find another solution. The barrister in him had ensured that she would be appeased by taking every measure to ensure that the deed was not a gift, but a loan, and that possibly meant more to her. Oliver knew her so well as to have the foresight to contrive such a loan contract and she suspected that he had intended to introduce her to it today prior to the exposing the deed.
Now that both documents were ruined, however, she had to wonder at it. Oliver was the expert at such things and no doubt any answers she needed would be best delivered by him. The warmth from the hearth in her chambers helped to alleviate most of her annoyance and after reflecting on the matter for some time – Oliver would point out that she was overthinking matters entirely – she rather warmed to the idea, liked that he had taken on the responsibility of tending to her own interests and needs in a way that was sensitive and thoughtful and so very pragmatic.
She had hardly come to the decision to seek him out in his chambers when she had exited her own, an unconscious smile on her lips as her bare feet skirted against the cool tiles of hallway outside her room. It was easy to locate Oliver's quarters having visited them frequently in her youth and being in relatively close proximity to her own within the east wing of the house, and she found his door ajar when she happened upon it, though as she entered she found the chamber quiet and empty.
His heavy drapes were drawn from the windows that ran from floor to ceiling, soft grey light from the overcast day illuminating his room with a dimness that was relieved only slightly from the fire lit behind the grate of the hearth against one wall. His bedroom was large, dominated by a luxuriously huge bed against the opposite wall, thick coverlets of green slightly unkempt which suggested of his presence there recently.
There were shelves near to a desk against the panelled wall beside the hearth, containing tomes of literature and prose that Amy knew Oliver held a particular fondness for. It was his private collection that was constantly added to, kept with innate and methodical orderliness, and then there was his writing desk. And it was an utter disaster.
She knew he had his own study within the manor, but Oliver tended to enjoy whiling away his time in this room, hence the mess prevalent on the shelf above his desk and on the surface as well. It had been years since she had found herself within his room and Amy had forgotten how marvellously comforting it was. The furnishings were bold and masculine, though infinitely comfortable, testament to the plush armchairs positioned before a thick rug against the hearth.
Her feet moved further into his chambers, and she was suffused by the strong scents of him, his cologne lingering in the warm air, a heady tingling of aroma that had always been part of Oliver though she hadn't paid much heed to it before. Now, however, the smells were comforting, arousing, toying with memories that were hovering on the peripherals of her mind that were always associated with it.
There was no noise save for the faint, calming crackle of the fire and Amy found her feet carrying her lightly towards his unruly desk. Once she was upon it, she found the sodden parchments from earlier spread wide, each page separated from the next and left to dry though the ink had run and it was very clearly ruined beyond repair. Remorse ran through her as she thought of his efforts to procure such correspondence and with a level of slyness that had eluded her. They had spent most of their time together since they had returned to Haventry- Oliver evidently worked quicky and efficiently. She ran her eyes over the rest of his desk, eyeing the inkpot that had been left uncapped and the pen that was allowed to pool and smear against the wood of the desk. It was when her gaze trailed to the shelf above his desk that her heart stopped beating entirely.
The discovery left her breathless and the meaning made her blood churn anew, her heart restarting with almost a painful eloquence.
If Oliver had kept this before and she had simply overseen it, she couldn't be sure, but Amy felt as if she had found a shrine to their friendship.
Memorabilia from as early as she could remember lined that shelf. It seemed that Oliver had kept everything, no matter how insignificant or flippant or worthless it may be, that she had ever given him, and she had given him a lot of inane rubbish over the years. Some of the tokens had been meaningful and the fact that he harboured them, displayed them with evident appreciation, made her chest positively ache with the realisation. There was a small wooden container with no lid and within it was stacked and folded pieces of parchment. When she extracted one, she found a note she had sent him when she was but eight years of age.
yoo are a Troll it read simply with little else to embellish the context of the prose and Amy repressed smile, wondering what Oliver had done to warrant such a childish slur on his good name. There were other notes of similar content, and others simply requesting his presence somewhere, or others enquiring after his adventures in London, or abroad- no matter, he had kept them all it seemed.
Next to the box, there were 'gifts' she had given him, each with a memory, though some were more heart-rendering than others- a button, a tired-looking crow's feather, a piece of lace, the handkerchief with her name on it in one corner placed there recently, a stick she had tied a ribbon to one end, a shard of porcelain from a vase she had once thrown at his head, their courtship contract- folded and tucked under a flat rock she had gifted him as the perfect skipping stone many years ago, and so much more.
"Griff?"
Amy turned, startled at the sound of his voice so mired in her own poignancy she had forgotten why she had entered the room in the first place. She wasn't aware that her eyes were shining with tears she refused to let fall over her cheeks, her chest constricting as her lungs struggled to draw in a decent breath.
Oliver stood on the threshold of his chambers, his head cocked as he considered her with mild curiosity and then concern. He wore only a dry set of trousers and a loose linen shirt, untucked, hung open over his neck and chest. His hair was dark and damp, curling with an air of unruliness against his brow, ever favouring the left side.
And Amy knew right then that she had waited too long.
He had been right in front of her nose all this time and she had not been able to see it.
She should have married him years ago.