Chapter Text
“I do so wonder, Miss Woodhouse, that you should not be married, or going to be married! So charming as you are!”
Emma laughed, and replied,
“My being charming, Harriet, is not quite enough to induce me to marry; I must find other people charming--one other person at least…”
“Ah!--so you say; but I cannot believe it.”
“I must see somebody very superior to any one I have seen yet, to be tempted;... and I do not wish to see any such person. I would rather not be tempted.”
-Jane Austen, Emma (Vol 1 Ch. X)
______
***
No one could have been deemed mistaken in declaring the idyllic borough of Tadfield to be among the best and most picturesque in the kingdom. For though there could be a variety of notions on the matter, doubtlessly subject to one's individual preferences of what qualities may constitute a 'beauty', the perfection of Tadfield was unanimous. For where else could there be rolling hills that were neither too flat so as to fade lamely into the horizon, nor too steep so as to strain the most determined stallions and hinder ease of transport? Where else could there be pure streams, traversing meadows and clearings, through which rambunctious schoolchildren may explore to their heart's content? Where else could there be a community so in unison that hardly an aberration occurred in a year to bother the constables? And in addition, Tadfield united the best of these qualities under good weather - the kind that was, without fail, perfect for the time of year.
The ins and outs and all arounds of Tadfield thrummed with beauty, effectively stalling even the most ignorant of visitors. It could not be denied. But though the average outsider might think that the pinnacle of beauty in Tadfield prevailed in its vibrant foliage, or perhaps in the grand edifices of the neighbouring estates, those whose entire lives had been pinned to this little-known paradise were in agreement that such perfection could be found inside one of the cottages of Hog's Lane - that cottage which housed a charming old bookshop.
Only this small bookshop was not particularly very old. It had perhaps seen the passage of merely forty years, and in so existing had been passed down the hands of only two owners - a father and his son. These were, however, not the same owners that possessed the very land where it stood, which belonged to a Mr Sandalphon - and a long line of Mr Sandalphons before him. But a simple leasehold would not deter the villagers from readily agreeing that the charming old bookshop, whose facade had been always near-perfection, belonged to the equally charming and near-perfect Mr Aziraphale Fell.
Mr Fell was by no means a miracle-worker, and no one had ever laid him charge to be anything other than human. There was a certain enchantment about him, however, that lingered in the bookshop airs and remained still as a settled feeling in one's chest for around an hour after departing his premises. Many a time there was someone who got themselves into a scrape, varying in degree from trivial to most scrupulous, and a visit to the old bookshop had been all the fix that was needed. The enchantment, they believed, hung around Mr Fell's pleasing aura, in the minute furrow between his brows and the stretch of his lips into the widest of smiles, and that look sent towards a person's way would make all right as rain.
It was no wonder that he had gotten so many admirers all around. It was not just the enchantment about him which got everyone's attention, though certainly that played a large part. However unfairly it could be noted, Mr Fell was also a right stunner, with eyes bright as Tadfield's perfect summer skies and hair soft as its perfect winter's snow. His countenance was strong. He had a stable, stocky build blanketed by the comfortable, if a bit old-fashioned, textiles of his clothing. He could command a room and set it in a mood, and usually did so by easing the minds of all fretting worriers who entered his bookshop. His manners were always correct, and often above what was expected for a man of his working-class rank and occupation. In spite of this, he never sought to intimidate. He was a friend to all, and a proper challenge to his suitors, for despite his overly exerted kindness he had never seemed to take a special interest in anyone. A perfectly pleasing man, he was, though one who lived only with his mind in his books even when his hands were completely devoid of them.
But if there was to be one person whom Mr Fell seemed to regard above all others, it would have been the gentleman currently holding his attentions at the register, speaking coolly as he slid a crimson leather-bound book over to the owner. This special regard was not borne out of natural admiration, but out of the persistence of a two-year long consistent patronage which had fostered a sort of, for lack of a better word, friendship. Mr Fell certainly did not mind Mr Anthony Crowley's lingering presence, and if one were to catch him on a good day he might even consider him an agreeable friend. It was only that he had a few reservations about Mr Crowley's excessive lifestyle, though he owned he was in no position to moralize.
Mr Anthony Crowley was what the old-fashioned mothers would call a rake. The grandson of an earl, he was a man of genteel birth and respectable disposition, with considerable property to inherit upon the demise of his mother Lady Eliza Crowley. He led the life of a typical mollycoddled only child of fortune, hopping from one friend's estate to the other and getting about the wiliest of activities. On the few months that he was home in Tadfield, his main objective in venturing to Mr Fell's bookshop was to obtain a book that he may impart on his current flirt, and in a few week's time he would come back in request of another, for another flirt, and such was the foundation which built the transactions between Mr Crowley and Mr Fell.
"Would that be all, sir?" Aziraphale asked from across the register as he took the notes from his customer, heart partially sunk with having to part with his final copy of Sir Walter Scott's The Lay of the Last Minstrel. "Would you not wish to be presented with a few other options, just in case this one won't do?"
A lazy grin was what the customer answered with, and he took the book carefully in his smoothly gloved hands. "Not necessary. I have full confidence in your taste and judgement."
Aziraphale chuckled lightly at the praise, though his worry was not eased. "You must allow for failures in my judgement, dear boy. I have never met this paramour of yours and can be wrong in my assessment of what they might like."
"I assure you, it cannot be. You have never failed me before. In all your recommendations." At Aziraphale's disbelieving look, he added: "And if you mean to protest that, I prefer to halt you now, for I have better ways to occupy myself than arguing with a shopkeeper. You are perfect, Aziraphale."
"Then I suppose I had better not detain you," replied he with a polite air. "Where will you be off to now? With how you've been going around I can only assume tomorrow you'd be in Edinburgh, or perhaps on the far side of the Continent."
"Nothing so drastic. I'll be six weeks in Somerset, return straight here after, I imagine. Whatever comes after that, though, who knows?" With a tip of his hat and a parting glance, Mr Crowley took his leave, striding out the bookshop doors with a distinct saunter that would have betrayed his identity from over a ten-mile distance.
A beautiful dark-haired maiden walked up to take the place of Mr Crowley's vacated spot. She sent a cheeky smile down Aziraphale’s way, leaning over the counter. "Did you have to send him away so soon? I feel he might have made another purchase."
Miss Anathema Device had been Aziraphale's assistant for over six years, and during that time he had certainly come to rely on her. She was of humble birth, but alarmingly quick-witted, and with just enough flair for the odd and the occult that she could readily dismiss Aziraphale's different, though equally intense, oddities. She also had a penchant for getting into Aziraphale's personal affairs, though he did allow her to do so, and did not mind it most of the time, for she was above all a trustworthy character, and he knew that he could confide with her.
"Oh no, Anathema. Mr Crowley always looks as if he means to stay for longer than he should. He may be a loyal patron, but he does not come here to appreciate the books."
"Don't I know that already," muttered the assistant under her breath.
"He is the most peculiar coxcomb I have ever met. Though, I suppose, he is generally harmless."
"I think you are being too severe on him. He is generally liked in the village, and has never done anything to displease us. And you must own that his consistent patronage is very good business."
"Well of course it is good business, but at what cost? What he buys the books for weighs heavily on my conscience!"
Anathema threw him an arch, knowing look. "Because he purchases the books for others, rather than enjoying them himself?"
"Because he uses them as a tool for his... his seductive wiles! And I am an unwilling accomplice. I am aiding his designs on innocent souls," he trailed off glumly.
"Sir, I know you to be dense at times, but has it never occurred to you that the reason for his returning time and time again is that the object of his designs resides here?"
The preposterous remark had Aziraphale rooted to his spot, a furrow rapidly forming between his brows. At Anathema's prodding look, his frown gave way to a round of hearty laughter.
"However did you get this ridiculous notion in your head, my child?"
"It cannot be that ridiculous when all the other shopkeepers in the block have been saying the same thing."
A flush rose to Aziraphale's cheeks. Surely the other residents of Hog's Lane could not have come to the same conclusion? For though Aziraphale dearly loved them, he had never known them capable of agreeing on anything.
"You are only making your case less believable here."
"Just yesterday I heard Madame Tracy in raptures over 'charming and handsome Mr Anthony Crowley! No one with airs so pleasing and manners so refined. Only it is a pity he has been dangling after Mr Fell for over a year now'!"
"This is the first I've ever heard of this." Aziraphale spoke rationally, though his rapidly colouring face betrayed a level of fluster he would never own to. "I am not dangling Mr Crowley, and I am even more certain he does not mean to dangle after anyone. You do remember the books."
Anathema scoffed in reply. "I do, and to be honest, I would not be surprised to learn that he only means to obtain your recommendations as a guise to get to know you better. And the books remain kept in a private corner of his study where he looks upon them like the lovesick fool that he secretly is."
Aziraphale knew not what to make of this conjecture. For one thing, it was still too ridiculous for him to take seriously. Anthony Crowley to dangle after him? The idea was laughable. Many a beautiful rose and stunning bloke had already clung to his arm at one point or another, and his gallivanting across the country meant that he kept a company from which he may choose amongst the most eligible of partners. Aziraphale could think of no reason why he would take a keen interest in the local shopkeeper.
Anathema was only young and fanciful, and his responsibility as the senior between them called out to set her mind to rights.
"My child, it seems very unlikely that he should settle upon an attachment of that significance. And even if he were to do it, I should be the last person he would fix on." With a graver look, he added: "People who are as well-bred, fortunate, and handsome as Mr Anthony Crowley would prefer a partner who is younger, and perhaps a great deal nearer gentility."
"Younger?" Exclaimed Anathema, not at all sold on Aziraphale's attempt to set back her argument. "You are not eight months older than he is! Heck, you are not five years older than I am! Stop speaking to me as though you're some sort of aged dowager."
"I do no such thing," he replied meekly.
"And as for the other part, despite your occupation no one has ever questioned your genteel character. You dress and carry yourself far better than half the gentry. In fact, by looks alone there is not much disparity between you and Mr Crowley. Have you really not considered the match that all of Hog's Lane has been invested in for the past year?"
"I have not and that is only because the matter is not worth considering. Mr Crowley never showed any significant partiality for me and I do beg you all to quit the matter. Think how embarrassing it would be if he were to get wind of it!"
"You horrid man." Anathema laid an exaggerated hand to her forehead, crying dramatically. "Poor Mr Crowley, doomed to dangle for at least a year more!"
Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "That poor Mr Crowley you describe drove off the front pavement in a glossy perch-phaeton. I am sure he will make a sound recovery."
***
Everyone in Tadfield relied on some sort of routine, and however varied that may be from person to person, residents found a way still to mingle every so often. As the rolling hills of the neighbouring family estates were generally accessible only under certain occasions, it was to the cottage-shops of Hog's Lane where people of all backgrounds united. Aziraphale knew the cottages, the shopkeepers, and their families as though they were part and parcel of his body - just as they knew him. His own routine consisted of daily constitutionals around the block, checking in with his neighbours before heading off to the town market. After that, he would open his shop, welcome any person in its warm premises, and occupy himself with the daily affairs of running such a business.
That was the routine which held him steady over the passing of the next several weeks which were, he would own, dreadfully uneventful.
One sunny afternoon found him and Anathema over at Madame Tracy's haberdashery, a small place which everyone knew not to be limited to just selling ribbons. The shop also served as a linen drapery and, on certain days of the week, a mediocre-grade millinery. Once it had served as the town apothecary - until the constables were made aware that the coveted laudanum being sold from a discreet backroom contained nothing but brandy and some used tea leaves, by which time they were finally compelled to shut it down.
But Madame Tracy's shop served its main purpose on all days of the week - that of being the axle on which Tadfield's wheels of gossip spun about. The place was a hub for the diffusion of tales and rumours, and should people be disinclined to reveal any tales of value, Madame Tracy had her own way of eliciting them herself.
As such, Aziraphale should not have been surprised by her bold remark upon his approach to the register while he laid down his purchase of pale silk ribbons and a pair of cotton gloves.
"What a dreary business it is that your handsome beau should be gone for so long, Mr Fell! I hope that all is well on your end. It gets easier to reel them in once you've been married, trust me on that." She sent him a cheeky wink and a red-lipped smile.
Aziraphale's response was a long sigh. "Mr Crowley's affairs are none of my business, Madame. I hardly know what he gets up to when he is away, and indeed I have no right to know. You really must be rid of this bag of moonshine before it gets out of hand."
"Pity!" She frowned and looked pointedly at Anathema, who shot the same look back at her. Both looks which passed beneath Aziraphale's notice. "You would make such a handsome couple, you know."
Aziraphale flustered for a bit, then recollected himself. "I'm at a loss as to what gave you the idea that a man of Mr Crowley's station will regard me as anything other than the town bookseller."
"What a hoax you are, Mr Fell. Cheeky little hoax," replied Madame Tracy with a click of her tongue. "As if you are not aware of the long line of suitors you have propelled across the block, though to be sure you will not give your hand to anyone unless you give your heart along with it."
The declaration brought a smile to his face. "And for that reason I shall grow to be a spinster."
"But you must at least talk to Mr Crowley about this," she replied tenderly, imploring him to be serious. "He has been after you for quite some time. A clear answer is what he needs, so that he may be allowed to move on."
Aziraphale blushed fully. Was that really what Mr Crowley had been doing all this time? Aziraphale had no basis on which to form the answer, for though he had admirers, none had been so bold as to properly court him - he was usually wary of letting anyone get close. But Mr Crowley had crept his way into him slowly yet decisively, with his charming grins and odd requests, never settling for Anathema's assistance, insisting each time that Aziraphale would tend to him. Mr Crowley was clever and interesting, his wit at par with Aziraphale's, and they would spark the oddest arguments. He was mighty funny as well. Aziraphale had never laughed so much around the presence of anyone else.
And to be sure, Mr Crowley was also frighteningly handsome. A statuesque build of sharp shoulders and long, finely-shaped legs hugged by skintight pantaloons (because he would own that he had been looking). Aziraphale had had some time since his departure to Somerset to turn the matter over and over in his head and after much consideration, he had come to the conclusion that there might be some merit to the thought of Mr Crowley courting him, and if he were, found that he did not so much mind being the object of his attentions.
His train of thought was interrupted by the approach of a young man, his wide eyes resting solely on Anathema - the other 'beauty' of the village aside from himself. At Anathema's sharp, uninviting stare, he shook lightly and handed her an envelope, muttering a few weak phrases about how he had received Anathema's mail by mistake from the town inn and thought it incumbent upon him to deliver it personally. Anathema took the letter and promptly thanked him.
Without waiting a moment longer, Anathema tore off the seal and skimmed the contents. Aziraphale watched her eyes frantically scanning the parchment, her expression shifting wildly the longer she kept reading.
"Is everything all right, my child?"
Anathema pressed the letter to her chest, staring at him. "It is from my great-aunt Agnes in London."
"I trust all is well? Is she in bad health? Will you be needing to go to her yourself?" Aziraphale knew very little about this relation of Anathema's except that she was three-and-seventy, had the same proclivity for the occult as Anathema, and that she maintained her own collection at a bookshop in Soho.
"She tells me about the book."
Aziraphale's breathing stopped. "Surely you don't mean... the book?"
She nodded. "The sale did not push through. The buyer suffered an apoplexy before they could meet."
"Oh. I am sorry to hear it," he remarked in a strained tone.
"Mr Fell, did you not hear what I said? The book is still in her hands. You should offer for it!"
The idea had already crossed his mind - of course it had. Agnes Nutter's book was all Aziraphale had been thinking of since he had taken over his father's bookshop, only he hadn't had the means of offering a fair price for such a valuable item. But as soon as the idea came to him, he dismissed it readily. It was unlikely that he could negotiate for the book by written correspondence, and while he might now be able to offer a considerable sum for the book itself, the cost of traveling to and lodging in London for an indefinite length of time would quite put him out of his affairs. No. It did not matter how badly he wanted the book. Making an attempt to purchase it was, regrettably, still out of the question.
It was at this point that two newcomers entered the shop. Mrs Trent and Mrs Harley were two of Tadfield's renowned chattering mothers. Upon their entry, they hastily picked out some bonnet trimmings and headed straight over to Madame Tracy, making it clear which of her services they were really after.
"Madame!" exclaimed Mrs Harley. "I've just come into possession of the most shocking news!"
Madame Tracy kept her face level as she organised a few notes into her till. "Oh, bother. You say that at least once a sennight."
"But you will not believe it now! It is truly, truly shocking."
Aziraphale and Anathema were both considering whether they were needed for this conversation, and he was just about to suggest that they leave when Mrs Harley seized his wrist and said hurriedly: "You must stay for this. It is about Mr Crowley!"
Despite himself, his heartbeat picked up its pace. He did not want to be privy to dubious rumours about Mr Crowley's affairs, though to leave now when he had been personally implored to stay would be a great offence, however trivial was the reason for it. He stood his ground.
"Mrs Harley, before you share this with us, I do hope you have considered whether there is truth to it. It would not do to be spreading falsehoods against our neighbours."
"It is true, Mr Fell! You know my son. My son, Bartholomew, who is a footman at their estate. Apparently, Lady Eliza has put her foot down against Mr Crowley's fleeting dalliances, and had set a decree on him to marry - immediately!"
Madame Tracy's eyes flicked over to Aziraphale, briefly, before turning back to her. "Surely there must be a mistake."
"No, no. It is true. Lady Eliza will settle upon him half her property on the event of his marriage with an eligible parti, and he has set off to Somerset so that he may proceed with courtship and a proposal!"
"And he is returning now," piped in Mrs Trent, a look of despair over her face. "He will be here tomorrow. With his betrothed, we expect."
A sinking feeling formed in Aziraphale's gut. "And-and you are certain about this?"
The two chattering mothers turned to face him, burning with sympathy.
It was Mrs Harley who spoke consolingly. "Oh, Mr Fell. You must know, we had always wished it to be you. We were certain he meant to be pursuing you! We are so very sorry to be the bearers of this news."
For a moment, no one spoke. Aziraphale blinked rapidly and plastered a smile on his face.
"Surely it is of no consequence to me," he said lightly, edging his way towards the door and willing for Anathema to follow. "I did not hope, or at least I never presumed, that he would make me an offer. Please do not blame him for any of this. He never once made an advance towards me, and indeed he has no reason to."
Anathema's hand latched onto his elbow. "Mr Fell?"
Aziraphale patted her hand, securing it around his arm. "Shall we go, my child? The shop is waiting."
Madame Tracy regarded him with a fond, slightly sad look. "Do come by for lunch tomorrow, Mr Fell."
"Of course." With a smile now dimmer than it had been initially, he and Anathema exited the haberdashery. To Aziraphale's relief, neither of them made any attempt to talk until they reached the bookshop.
***