The Mistletoe Kiss

Chapter 1-2

Christy stood back and admired the display in the window. It was a lovely bay window with individual, oblong panels, and customers could stop to look in and see the wares. It wasn’t a fancy window or a large window, it was small, cosy, and inviting. Just like the bookshop. It wasn’t in the fanciest part of London, not in the way the big bookshops like Hatchard’s on Piccadilly were, but Christy felt that the shop was in a perfect spot. Close to the hustle and bustle of Covent Garden down towards the Strand on Southampton Street and near Mr. Bell’s Weekly Messenger. It was well enough away from Seven Dials and St Giles which were now so run down and overcrowded, they were filled with cutthroats and vagabonds. Christy knew all about those people, considering he lived amongst them.

Along the street was the apothecary, the baker and a shoemaker, and several engravers and artists. One of Christy’s favourite shops was Lacy’s, a haberdasher’s shop that sold just about everything that a person could need. Recently, a pie seller had pitched his stall at the top of the road on the corner of Henrietta Street, and very often Mr. Fenton would purchase them warm meat pies for luncheon.

“Not bad. Tasteful,” Mr. Fenton said, looking over his shoulder at the display.

Christy grinned and looked up. Mr. Fenton was a little taller than him. “Do you think so? I did try to keep it restrained, although I saw some really charming little angels in Lacy’s…if you felt it needed more?” The boughs of holly, resplendent with red berries, adorned the bottom edge of the window, and red and gold ribbons purchased from Lacy’s made jolly, festive bows around some of the books and the stands.

Mr. Fenton laid a hand briefly on his shoulder as he leaned over to look, and Christy held his breath at the warm weight. He wanted to lean back into him, but he remained still. Mr. Fenton had never touched him before. Ever. The doorbell tinkled, and Mr. Fenton moved away.

The next couple of hours passed pleasantly enough and Christy was kept busy with customers. Mrs. Anderton, a regular to the shop, came in and bought a packet of writing paper tied with a huge red bow.

“What a lovely idea,” she said to Mr. Fenton. “A perfect gift for my niece.” Mrs. Anderton spent a lot of time in the shop, often browsing and chatting and sometimes buying. Christy was fond of her. Probably in her seventies by now, she was sharp, funny, and observant. He passed some time with her, talking about her family, and when she left, he went and tied some more papers with bows and put them in the window.

Over the course of the day, Christy was pleased to see that several people made purchases. People loved to come and browse in the shop, but didn’t always buy. Christy had suggested that Mr. Fenton stock other things that people often needed like paper, quills, nibs, sand, things like that. It had taken a little while to persuade him, but Christy now had a small section of the bookshop that he had stocked with a variety of letter writing equipment, and he had bundled some of the items with decorative bows and placed them in the window to suggest that they might make pretty gifts. They were selling well, and the notebooks that Mr. Fenton had bought incredibly cheaply, when tied in a bow, looked extremely handsome and they too were selling well.

Mr. Fenton had offered him a job in the bookshop after Christy had haunted it for several weeks earlier in the year, not long after it had opened. His love of books drew him in, the warmth and respectability of the shop held him. It reminded him that once, he and his family had been respectable. Mr. Fenton had eventually asked him if he would be interested in a position in the shop. He said he couldn’t pay much, just enough for Christy to do a few hours a week, and Christy had jumped at the chance, almost incoherent with delight. Spending his days amongst books was his idea of absolute heaven, particularly as Mr. Fenton allowed him to read them. His mother had taught him to read when he was little. When his father had been alive and before their circumstances had become so…straightened. The fact that he found Mr. Fenton to be the most handsome, interesting man once he’d found a way through the somewhat prickly exterior he showed to the world, simply added to Christy’s joy. He’d started with a couple of hours each day, and this had gradually become all day, and then beyond. Mr. Fenton had increased his wages a little, but also offered things like breakfast and lunch in return for his labours. When Christy sometimes saved part of his lunch to take to his mother, Mr. Fenton never commented, but it seemed his portions grew ever larger.

Mr. Fenton found it difficult to navigate the ladders that reached to the highest bookshelves, so Christy was always careful to listen to what the customers were asking for and made sure that he was on hand to climb up to retrieve just the right book to ensure Mr. Fenton was not embarrassed.

By lunchtime, the shop had quieted and Christy returned to his most favourite task, putting the books in order. It seemed that he and Mr. Fenton shared a passion for order and neatness. He regularly took the books from the shelves, dusted and polished both the leather volumes and the furniture, and then made sure that they were in just the right place. People had a habit of taking a book from the shelf, toying with it, and then returning it to the wrong place. He was working to a system which took him around the entire shop. Once he reached the end, he would be able to begin again. He banked the fire and headed for the poetry shelves, which was next on his list, when Mr. Fenton interrupted him.

“Mr. Shaw, could I ask your opinion on something?”

Christy looked up and smiled. “Of course.”

Mr. Fenton was frowning. “First editions,” he said, running a hand over his jaw. “Do you think we are too far out of the way of things to attract buyers who might want to invest in first editions rather than just buy books?”

Christy loved nothing more than Mr. Fenton asking his opinion, so he gave his question serious thought. “I think that should the bookshop acquire a reputation for trading in first editions, then people who would be interested might seek us, I mean you, out. He quickly corrected himself. It was easy to think of them as partnership, but Mr. Fenton didn’t appear to notice his slip. “I suspect buying books as an investment rather than just for pleasure will attract a different clientele?”

“Very true. Very true.” He rubbed his mouth again. “I have the opportunity to acquire a collection of first editions, but it is quite a significant investment on my part.”

“For the right books, it seems that people will always be willing to travel.”

The side of Mr. Fenton’s mouth quirked in the tiniest smile that set Christy’s heart fluttering. “You are, as always, most observant and correct,” he said.

Christy knew that his cheeks must be bright red. He could feel himself blushing over his entire body and with his pale skin it would be painfully obvious.

“As you know, I am quite new to the book world,” Mr. Fenton went on. “I don’t know what I would have done without you these last months.”

Christy was astounded. “But, I know very little…”

“Yet we have muddled through together and now business is brisk enough for me to consider extending the stock. I have you to thank for your part in that.”

“Th..thank you.” Christy swallowed.

The doorbell tinkled and Mr. Fenton walked away as though he hadn’t just handed Christy the most beautiful, precious gift. Heart swelling with pride, he tackled the bookshelves and made sure that everything was just so and hoped that they might be able to eat lunch together uninterrupted by customers.